Among the heroes at the Metrodome ~ June 25, 1987

David Heiller

Two years ago I went to the Metrodome to do an interview with Kent Hrbek. His parents are from Willow River, and his grandmother, Evelyn Kiminski, still lives west of Rutledge. The local angle looked good for a write-up in the American.

But Kent had other things on his mind as he sat in the dugout before that 1985 game. He grunted at me, in Clan of the Cave Bear dialogue. I didn’t understand it, but wrote it up anyway.

So I tried again last Sunday, with the help of a press pass from the Twins. My brother, Glenn, came along to take pictures. We arrived about an hour before game time, so we would have plenty of time for an interview and pictures. First we went into the press box, where I said hello to Charlie Crepeau, an old Twins fan from Finlayson who I interviewed last year.

“Hello Charlie, remember me, I’m David Heiller, Askov American.”

“Who?” He looked at me blankly.

“David Heiller, Askov American. I did a story on you last year.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, remember, I sent you a copy.”

Charlie’s eyes finally lit up, and he reached to shake my hand. “Oh, yeah, thank you, very nice, very nice.”

We stood in the press box, looking over the long tables of newspaper writers. A man from Chicago was typing on a portable computer. Other men from papers like the St. Paul Pioneer Press and Minneapolis Star sat in front of their nameplates, talking.

“Where’s the spot for the Askov American?” my brother asked. Luckily no one heard him.

Delicious smells filled the press box too, from a rotisserie that held a couple dozen hot dogs and bratwursts. We filled a couple glasses with pop, grabbed some hotdogs, then headed down to the field.

Our hero, Kent Hrbek, stood at the side of the artificial turf, casting a fishing plug as part of a Berkely fishing promotion. He and Tim Laudner and Ron Schara from the Minneapolis paper were having a contest to see who could cast their plug into an oil pan 50 feet away the most times.

Above us, leaning over the railing, stood about a dozen kids, holding balls and gloves. “Kent, how about an autograph.” “Kent, sign my glove.” “Hey Kent, hit one out today.” The kids chattered non-stop. Tony Oliva sat in a chair off to one side and looked a little disappointed. When I was those kids’ age, we asked for Tony’s autograph, or Harmon Killebrew’s. Now, Kent is the hero.

Kent glanced at me, then suddenly broke away from his group and walked ward me. I froze.

“Can I borrow your pen?” he asked.

“Sure, no problem, I answered with relief. I thought maybe he remembered the last column I wrote about him.

He signed a baseball and tossed it up to a kid. He handled back the pen. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I answered.

That was the end of the interview, I thought. What the heck, he spoke to me this time. Last time all I got was spit on my shoe.

Still we stood around; while Kent, Tim, and Ron tossed their plugs. Laudner lost out first, then Ron beat our hero two throws to one in the oil pan. I was glad to see Schara win, because I figured Kent could beat him in a home run contest.

After they shook hands and the crowd cheered, Kent pulled up a chair by the dugout. He sat out of sight of the crowd of kids, whose voices seemed to follow him everywhere. “Hey Kent, sign my glove.” “Kent, Kent, look up so I can take your picture.”

I walked up to Kent and introduced myself, showing him my business card. I didn’t think the Askov American would be weekly reading for him.

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen your paper,” he said. I held my breath. He didn’t mention that last column.

“Do you get up to Willow River much to fish?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. “Hunting, if I do anything. Cut wood.”

“Did you fish there as a kid?” I asked.

“My summers, I spent a lot of summers up there, helping Grandpa with hay and stuff,” he answered.

Mike Smithson turned his tall frame around in his chair ahead of us and looked at Kent with a smile that said, “Exciting interview, huh?” Gary Gaetti walked out of the clubhouse. “How’d you do in the fishing thing?” he asked.

“Schara beat me two to one,” Kent answered.

“Two to one?” Gaetti asked in mock disbelief.

I stood there, a mere mortal among giants and heroes. I tried to think of another dumb question that had something to do with Willow River and fishing. My mind drew a blank.

“Well, thanks a lot, Kent,” I said.

“Sure,” he answered.

My brother and I walked back upstairs, through the press box to our seats. “I saw you talking with Hrbek,” he said. “Did you have a good interview?”

“Yeah, real good,” I said, and smiled. Then we settled into our seats and watched the Twins win another one.

A little interview with the Big Guy, Kent Hrbek ~ August 1, 1985

David Heiller

I went to a Minnesota Twins game last week, with the help of the power of the press, which got me and photographer David Landwehr into the press gate for free. My goal was twofold: 1. Get an interview with local-boy-made-good Kent Hrbek. 2. Enjoy the game.

David wrote: "Ace Reporter met Ace Baseball Star 
for a brief interview at the Dome last week. 
Mr. Reporter wanted to ask Mr. Baseball Star some 
Willow River-type questions, but infield practice got in the way."

One out of two wasn’t bad. Interviewing Kent Hrbek didn’t go so well. Dave and I got onto the field at 6:40 p.m. after showing our press passes to three ushers and two policemen in the press box and bowels of the Metrodome. We walked over to the Twins’ dugout. Some of the players were tossing the ball in front of the dugout, others were just standing around talking, waiting to take their infield practice. I recognized some of the players, but couldn’t see Kent. A big guy with short, dark hair came out of the clubhouse, walking past me.

“Kent,” I said in a loud voice.

He turned to me. It was Dave Engle. “Nope, not me. Try the clubhouse.”

I figured Kent would be coming out any second, so I waited, trying to build up my confidence after Blunder Number One. “There^’s Kirby Puckett,” I said to Dave, trying to remind myself that I was an avid Twins fan. “And that’s Roy Smalley, Ron Washington, he’s that short guy next to Puckett.”

I glanced at the bench in the dugout. Hrbek had snuck out of the clubhouse and slouched there, next to John Butcher and Gary Gaetti.

“Hey, Kent,” I said in a loud voice, walking up to him. He was sprawled on the bench, trying to relax.

Our conversation went something like this: “Kent, I’m Dave Heiller. I work for the Askov American would you mind if I asked you a few questions.” I said it so fast, there were no pauses in the sentence.

Kent rolled his eyes at Gaetti, then up at me. I could tell he didn’t subscribe to the Askov American. He spit on the floor of the dugout.

“No, not now, I don’t have time right now.” His voice was rough, like a Kennedy transmission that hadn’t been repaired.

“This will just take a couple minutes,” I persisted.

Kent spit again, a white glob. No tobacco chewing for our hero. “No, I got infield practice in a second.”

He was looking at the field.

“I cover the Willow River area quite a bit in the American,” I kept on. “In fact, I did a story on your grandma last year.” (Mrs. Evelyn Kiminski, rural Rutledge was featured in the September 13, 1984 American. Kent’s mother, Tina (Kiminski) and his father, Ed, also grew up in Willow River.)

Kent’s eyes lift off the field, looked at me again. Was there a flicker of recognition, of friendliness? “Oh yeah.” He spit. “My grandma.” “Come on Kent, let’s throw the ball around,” Gaetti said from the end of the bench. The tone of his voice said, “Let’s clear out from this Podunk reporter.”

Kent stood up. “I’ll talk to you after infield practice,” he said.

Dave and I relaxed on the bench, sitting next to John Butcher. He stuck his hand out, introduced himself. Tony Oliva took a seat next to him, nodded and waved at us. This big-league reporting was all right. “Well, we’ll talk to Kent in a minute,” I said confidently to Dave.

Then a large guy dressed in street clothes approached us. “Sorry, you guys have to leave the dugout,” he said.

“No, we’re waiting for Kent,” I said. “He said we could talk to him after infield.”

“Sorry, rules say all press leaves after infield practice starts.” He stood over us, looking more like a football player than a baseball player.

We stood up and left the dugout, walking past manager Ray Miller. He looked at us like, “Boy, Kent sure snuck one by you guys.”

We went back upstairs, through a door by_, the Tiger dugout, past the two policemen and three ushers in red jackets As we left the pressbox, an older usher pulled me aside. He was dressed in a red blazer, with a name tag: Charlie Crepeau.

“You’re from Askov,” he said, pointing to my press card. “Is Hjalmar Petersen still alive?”

I looked at him in amazement. “No, he died about 20 years ago.”

“I used to work in the printing plate business,” he explained. “I knew Hjalmar quite well. In fact, I lived in Finlayson for a while, from 1920 to 1927. I wonder if anyone in Finlayson still remembers me?” I told him I’d ask.

The game began, and we enjoyed it from the fifth row above the Twins’ dugout. The Twins lost 7-2, but how can two country hicks not enjoy a trip to the Dome? So goal number two was met.

Next time though, I think I’ll do a story on Mr. Crepeau, and leave the Big Guy to the Big Time.