Opening Day 2012

"Great is baseball, the national tonic, the revival of hope, the restorer of confidence."

- The Sporting News, c. 1930's


Well Timberwolves, it's been a fun winter. I'll catch you again in the fall, ACL's all healed, energy back up, the anticipation higher still, floppy haired Spaniards a'leaping and my BFF hitting the treys. Looking forward to my new perch in section 236, row K.

Wild - sorry, I just don't care, but do me a favor - try not to depress my girlfriend so much next year.

Vikings - yeah, I really don't care.

When you're a baseball fan, the seasons don't transition from summer to fall, winter to spring. They go from your team playing its last game, a period of anticipation, the first spring workout, and then tomorrow - opening day. It would be cliche to reference the old adage - this is our year, we're going to win the pennant for sure - but it's too accurate to pass up. Even for those teams with no hope of championship glory (quite realistically the 2012 Twins), opening day always references renewal.

No other sport, nay, no other social institution, embraces opening day with such conviction and meaning as baseball. Perhaps it is because, over the course of 162 games and over a century of tradition, baseball is woven into the fabric of our consciousness. For a baseball fan, opening day is more than a holiday, it's one of the best days of the year.

I find that the baseball fan, as pessimistic as one can be crunching sabermetrics or critiquing why the manager didn't put pull the starter in the 7th, the baseball fan is at heart an optimist. We always want to believe that the odds can be broken, that our team can put together a streak and do something special. And why not? There's no clock to inhibit the game, theoretically, if not for an arbitrarily fixed fence, the playing field goes on an infinite distance. Baseball lends itself to romanticism, to romantics.



Unquestionably, the best thing to do in Minneapolis in the summer is spend an afternoon or evening at Target Field, hotdog in one hand, beer in the other - even better now that the Twins have Surly and Fulton.... After all, as Humphrey Bogart wisely observed, a hot dog at the ballpark beats roast beef at the Ritz. I wholeheartedly agree. Sure, the modern ballpark has many wiles to distract you from the game (exhibit a - that acid trippy monstrosity in Miami and the electric green outfield walls), but the game never loses its fascination.

It may very well be a rough year - our pitching is terrifying, one of our two best players has been concussed for a year and a half - but that doesn't matter now. Right now, we're winning the World Series.

Hope

People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring. - Rogers Hornsby

I concur. In the gloriously short span of 4 days, pitchers and catchers report to Fort Myers, and life will again be in equilibrium. The thing about baseball, the Minnesota Twins in particular, is that after 4 months of frigid temperatures, dome-busting blizzards, and slippery roads, we're all in the mood for a carefree, warm afternoon day in the sun.

From my perspective, as much as I love winter, it is to a certain extent, an endurance contest. One wonders how masochistic he must be to live in Minnesota in January. We escape the cold by streaming through a maze of skyways, skittering like rodents in a blind search for food pellets; we try to convince ourselves it's no big deal; we (I) ache from shoveling sidewalks and driveways. Undoubtedly, there must be some degree of collective insanity to subject oneself to such harsh elements, year after year. It's really quite incredible this entire state hasn't become delusional.

However friends, there is hope. It arrives with the anticipation of a 3-2 count, the crack of a bat, the collective attempt of 40,000 people trying to will a ball within the foul pole. The oft-ridiculed pride at seeing a St. Paul boy play for the hometown nine. It arrives with the patience of nine innings, preferably aided by a Summit and a polish. It arrives with sun - sometimes rain, but that's okay too. It arrives with family, friends, and memories, some that even span lifetimes. Most importantly, it arrives with the simple belief that no matter how tough the Yankees are, this is definitely going to be our year.

Yes friends, spring training can't come soon enough.

Not Blogging

Folks, I started a new job today. A new legal job. That's right, for the first time ever, I'm being effectively paid to do the sorts of things that people in law school expect to be effectively paid for. It was an illuminating experience. Definitely need to stake a claim on my shared desk with a Michael Cuddyer bobblehead.

Unfortunately, literally per the terms of my employment, I'm prohibited from doing any "blogging" about my job. I wish I could say it's because I'm a BFD, but I think it's moreso just the nature of public employment. Which is a shame, because I foresee my particular division as being incredibly ripe for blogging adventure. But, nary a word shall you see. . . I don't want to get fired.

Anyways, yeah, it should be a good time.

Speaking of the opposite of good times... oh Twins. I read somewhere that you really have to man up in order to be a baseball fan, because there are 162+ opportunities for utter devastation and heartbreak. Given the travesty that unfolded before my eyes the past weekend, I'm pretty sure I subscribe to that.

Oh yeah, and should anyone have any procedural questions about an arbitral tribunal's authority to issue ex parte interim relief, feel free to shoot me an email.

Open Letter

Dear Twins,

Now, I can hardly be considered a fair-weather fan, and am naturally optimistic by nature.

But this inability to beat the Yankees, is getting pretty tiresome.

I've spent a good chunk of my disposable income at your ballpark. I've worn my victory socks, drank my Grain Belt, and sat in even-numbered seats all season long. Hell, last night, I even sat in Seat 12.

As a result of these and innumerable other sacrifices, I don't think I ask so much. Just win three effing games. I'd be much happier if you'd oblige.

Very truly yours,




The Author

L'Octobre

I'm quite excited. Tomorrow night, for the first time since 2002, I'm going to go watch the Twins in playoff baseball. Sure, I'd be lying if I didn't say there was some element of dread to it; after all, we are playing the Yankees, who have had our number for quite some time. But that's the beauty of this game - hope always springs eternal.

After all, after you get knocked down or out so many times, your luck is bound to turn around, right? We've all had bad things happen to us, and sometimes, it feels like we'll never recover. But eventually, we do. I have the same hopes for the local nine tomorrow night. I'll expect mediocrity, but I'm going to dream for greatness.

In any event, it's going to be a great night in a gorgeous ballpark.

My victory socks are ready to go, I have plenty of warm weather Twins gear, my hat bill is curved just right, and homer hanky is at the ready. So tomorrow night, I'll sit down with a hot dog along the third-base line, raise a Summit to Joe Mauer, Michael Cuddyer, and the rest of the gang, and hope for a charmed Minnesota fall.

Win Twins!


P.S. Craig Finn of the Hold Steady, and noted Twins fan, penned this recent song to help our boys to the World Series. For a baseball song, it is quite fantastic.

Talking Dinosaurs + Twins Baseball = Good

Baseball

Strange things happen in baseball. The Twins win when an otherwise inocuous pop fly ends up hitting a catwalk and careening back into fair territory. There's a mysterious thing called the infield fly rule that has its own law review article. And then there's this...

Opening Day 2010

One last post. I was there!



Harmon Killebrew, still swinging for the fences



Can't get enough of this pedestrian plaza/green space (Target Plaza). Really cool place to check out, even when the Twins aren't playing.



Center field gate (appropriately named). Also, can't get enough of this Piece of Public Art that covers the ugly-ass parking garage.



View approaching the first baseline entrance



First regular season Kramarczuk's polish outside - ever.



Somewhere, a Perkins is wondering where their flag went.



Highway to the danger zone, anyone? Maverick? Iceman?



Doesn't even seem real. Is this Minneapolis?



Organist sitting in a bar. Great idea, or a terrible idea...



If you look real close, you can see my new glasses. Damn sun; wait, what's the sun?

The National Game March, or how I learned to throw all self-dignity away and make an ass out of myself

I've gotten a few unexpected facebook messages the past few days, from unexpected sources. Apparently, the fine folks down in the Luther College Concert Band have been playing a certain John Philip Sousa march by the name of "The National Game." And apparently, I seem to be inextricably and forever more attached to that march.

I suppose the story is well known by the, oh, 3 people who loyally read this blog. Through some strange turn of events (namely me blabbing off a bunch of shit that I had no expectation would ever be taken seriously), I ended up ditching my trombone for a baseball bat and running around the CFL while masquerading as a ballplayer who just hit a game-winning home run. I really wish there was video evidence that it actually happened, because I think I did my best Kirby Puckett/Game 6 impression, and most people who I tell this story to don't believe that I did it. Let their heads remain buried in the sand.

I maintain that the most hilarious part was when I had to explain to the Luther baseball coach why I needed to borrow the uniform...

But anyways folks, let me tell you from experience, if you're ever looking for a great way to spend your evening, try wearing 3 or 4 layers of polyester and then sitting down under a blazing spotlight for an hour. It is absolutely fantastic - easiest way in the world to look classy while simultaneously shedding 30 pounds.

I don't mean to wallow in self-glory, if that is even applicable to this ridiculous event. It was just nice to know people remembered it, and it brought back a lot of good memories. Truth be told, given the relatively low profile I tend to keep, and kept at Luther, I remain very surprised when people continue to mention it. But it's always pleasant to be remembered, even if its for a dumbass stunt that pretty much sapped an otherwise respectable concert of any musical integrity whatsoever.

Everyone has memories of college, of the "good old days." I suppose I'm becoming of that age where they do start to become "old days." But there's a perfectly good reason why such memories stick around, and why friends remain. Sure, we can't go back to how things were, but it's so nice to laugh and remember, and then go out and make something new.




P.S. - Benjamin, I still can't get over how good we look in that low brass photo... hard bodies

Simple Pleasures

Folks, I've had very few things to say lately. It's just been a black hole of a week, or two weeks, for blogging and otherwise intelligent writing. Spring break will do that to you - destroy any ounce of motivation to do anything.

My lack of blogging shouldn't indicate that I haven't been thinking about interesting things. I have - all manner of interesting things, actually. Just, for the life of me, I haven't quite been able to put them down into words. I had a very eye-opening bike ride into suburban blight, aka my boyhood neighborhood, the other day. The whole time, I just kept thinking about what a great blog entry it would make, but alas, the aforementioned black hole.

I've even had a new album of the week fermenting about in my brain - multiple ones, in fact. But again, it's like someone uncorked something in the back of my head, and all those brilliant ideas came gushing out, never to be read again.

Dead before even getting a chance to realize their potential - that's always the saddest sort of end. It's always a lot better to tolerate failure, to tolerate disappointment, if there's an explicit basis for said failure. You can point to something and say, "Look, that didn't work!" But alas, when there is nothing to point to, 'tis a bitter pill to swallow.

In any event, why the sad mood? Well, of course you know the reason. Some things just seem to take a lot of time.

However, such things shouldn't stand in the way of all that is good. I witnessed with my own eyes last night, the first professional outdoor ballgame I've ever seen here in the great state of Minnesota. Sure, the Twins lost, but who the hell cares? It was just so pleasant to be outside, to be in a real ballpark. I can't believe it's for us. Everything seems so superlative as to almost be a mirage.

It's pleasant to be able to wear shorts and moccasins again; it's pleasant to roll down the windows and pop the sunroof. I've been on a Phoenix rampage the past month or so, and it's nice to play "Liztomania" at a high volume whilst speeding down the freeway. It's nice to have it be Easter, and to be able to eat chocolate rabbits without concern for one's well-being. It's pleasant to listen to the intelligentsia at Minnesota Public Radio, in their attempt to connect with the common folk through their coverage of Target Field's opening, try and pronounce "Cuddyer." Yes folks, simple pleasures are the greatest pleasures.



Like I said, simple pleasures.

Anticipation

Anticipation, my friends, can be a dangerous thing. When you anticipate something, I feel there's a tendency to build up unrealistic expectations; ones that cannot possibly be met. Now, some of you may know that I'm a bit of a baseball fan, and consequently, I have been eagerly anticipating this season's opening of Target Field. For someone who has grown up watching my favourite team play in a concrete bunker with a garbage bag for an outfield fence, the prospect of afternoons and evenings spent under the summer Minnesota sky is superlatively tantalizing.

Anyways, the weather has been unseasonably gorgeous here in the Twin Cities as of late. No need for a coat!

With the aforementioned beautiful weather, I couldn't resist but to leave my clerkship at the federal courthouse today just a titch early, and take a stroll across downtown to examine the new ballpark. Just last week, the pedestrian plaza which connects the ballpark to the rest of downtown was opened, so you can now walk right up to the gates and peer inside at the field. Also, the ticket offices are open, and the team store.


I've been lucky enough to see a few other major league ballparks, other than the dearly departed H.H.H. Metrodome. Safeco Field in Seattle probably tops my list, followed by Miller Park in Milwaukee, and then U.S. Cellular in Chicago. I can only vaguely remember the place where the Florida Marlins play, but it changes names every other week anyways. But folks, believe me when I say this, even with my bias and my rudimentary inspection, Target Field in Minneapolis is truly a baseball cathedral of the highest circle. I daresay, the highest circle.

What I think is best about the new park, at least from outward appearances, is it recognizes the fact that Minnesotans are an incredibly nativist people, and seizes upon it with force. Admittedly, most of us are convinced of our own superiority, from our ability to survive the harshest of winters to the number of theatre seats per capita; the quiet self-confidence of our Scandinavian heritage to our lake dabbled northwoods.

So it only makes sense that the Twins, who arguably are the state's most beloved sports team, would seek to sheathe their new home in limestone quarried from Mankato, and have native fir trees in the batter's eye. The handles on the gates are shaped in the outline of the state, and giant "TC" emblems are fixated above them. One of the restaurants is named after Bloomington's own Kent Hrbek, and apparently, inside the bowels of the upper levels, there is an immense wooden mural of Kirby Puckett. I'm sure that inside, there have to be countless odes to our current heroic figure, that being a certain Joseph Patrick Mauer. And even to capture the inherent pretentious side of our state, there is this absolutely stunning piece of public art, that takes up an entire side of a parking garage on the plaza. It's a "wind veil," and it's comprised of thousands of little hinged pieces of metal, which shimmer and sway (with utter silence) whenever the wind hits them. It was absolutely transfixing.

Anyways, point being, I walked around the whole damn thing, standing on my tippy toes at every window, trying to stick my head inside every gate, and otherwise doing nearly everything I could to catch glimpses of the field, short of committing a misdemeanor. I stood outside of the right field gate, and I even pinpointed the location of my season ticket seats, way, way up in the upper deck along the third baseline. The field, just recently cleared of snow, is a glorious, vibrant, shocking hue of green. The permanency of the whole structure is what took the most adjustment. At the Metrodome, since it was shared by so many teams and groups, everything was artificial. All the decorations and banners were temporary, so they could be moved. Now, everything is opposite. There are Twins logos etched in stone, there are metal banners commemorating every season of the team's history, and apparently, in the near future, there are going to be bronze statues of the team's greatest players. All in all, there's a much more regal element to the whole experience, like something important and institutional is afoot.






I'm going to get to go inside said ballpark this coming Sunday. I'll try to get some good shots.

Metrodome Memories

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.