It's not really common knowledge, but as it turns out, I am actually quite the fan of my hometown Minnesota Twins baseball team. And for as long as I can remember, nay, the entirety of the 23 years which I've walked this earth, I've been watching my beloved Twins play underneath the teflon sky of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome.
Of course, I knew the demise of the Metrodome has been coming. In fact, I've been cheerleading it, ever since the construction of a new outdoor ballpark became reality in 2006. I've been poring over photos of the rapidly rising Target Field almost daily for at least two years now, and awaiting with bated breath for that "countdown to outdoor baseball" sign in left field to reach zero. I can count on one hand the number of outdoor major league baseball games I've seen, but I don't think you need any special gnosis to know that baseball isn't meant to be played in a concrete warehouse with plastic grass, a garbage bag for an outfield wall, and a dull roof that looks kind of like something I pulled out of my grandma's basement.
But now, shockingly, against all odds, it's here. Barring a miracle, there are only two more games of Twins baseball to be played inside the dome. I'm happy to say that I'm attending the final regular season game on Sunday afternoon. I can only hope that the Twins are still playing for something, but even if they aren't, something good is going to happen.
In my retrospection, I've been reading a lot of these "farewell to the Metrodome" articles, where these out of town sportswriters wax eloquent about the quirky playing atmosphere, the jet-engine decibel crowds, and the beautiful moments that were had. Which is all well and good, but it all seems somewhat prosaic to me. Everyone knows about the '91 World Series, the ball that never came down, the superball bounces, etc. But there are some things that are unknowable to the average person, because they run much deeper.
Next year, sitting outside at Target Field, I don't think I'll give much of a second thought to the Metrodome as a field, as the mundane fusion of astroturf and dirt into a diamond shape. But what I will think of are the games my parents took me to as a kid, always preceded by a visit to Matt's for a jucy lucy. I'll think about wanting nothing else in the world but to see Kirby Puckett hit a home run, and then screaming wildly as he made a young boy's wish come true. I'll think about having a Dome Dog, and trying to convince my dad that I really needed the pop in the souvenir cup. I'll remember waiting in line with my mom for two hours in order to be one of the 15,000 people to get the autographed Kirby Puckett retirement card (yes, he actually signed 15,000). I'll remember when my letter of encouragement was posted in the Twins' locker room. I was pretty young, but I can remember watching the 1991 World Series on TV, and seeing the sea of typically mundane midwesterners going euphoric with Homer Hankies. In my more recent years, I'll remember stretching out in the cheap seats with a Summit, squinting to see the field while still watching out for beach balls. I'll remember going to the 2004 ALCS. Who can forget the trough, or getting blasted out of the Dome by the air pressure? And surely, I'll remember the Hormel Row of Fame song.
Musical Interlude: Now that you are at the game, are you in Hormel's Row of Fame? If you're in a lucky seat, you'll win a Hormel hot dog treat! Great for lunch, great for dinner, you will be a wiener winner in the Hormel Rowwwwww offff Faaaaaammmmmmeeeee!
Now, I can only hope to everything that is good on this earth that the Hormel Row of Fame will be transplanted out under the sun. I can only hope that the Twins play with as much joy as they have (at times) in the Dome. I'm a believer though, I know they will.
But as I've intimated, what I will miss about the Metrodome, is the connection it gives me to myself. For an entire generation of people like me, watching the Twins has meant going to the Dome. We don't know anything else. But, I suppose, why should we, when it's been such a ride? To paraphrase Torii Hunter, it wasn't a great place to play baseball, but there sure was some great baseball played there.
So Metrodome, it's been fun, and I really do mean that. Your passing is going to be bittersweet. It's always hard to say goodbye to an old friend, maybe even harder when they're the kind that no one else appreciates.
Hell, let's go win the division. I think the Metrodome deserves it.
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