A Personal History of Baseball, or R.I.P. KP
Those that know me, know that I am a Yankees fan. I go to Yankee Stadium many times in the year to catch the day's game, and I will pay top dollar for the cheap ass swill that they call "beer." I go to bars that have TVs that I know will be showing the game [Lighthouse Tavern in Brooklyn is my favorite (Cousins II was, but apparently it is closed); I have yet to find a consistent bar in Manhattan or close to my place in the Bronx; I don't like GYM in Chelsea, because the layout is poor, and the bars by my house are… nasty. Either I will be doing a tour of Manhattan sports bars this summer or I will be moving to Park Slope]. I will stay at home just to watch the last inning before going out for the evening. I will watch the YES network often, starting next month, only taking breaks for tennis and shitty reality shows until October. I will bitch about the weekend's games to co-workers on Mondays, who will look at me as if I am crazy. A majority of my friends will start avoiding me after games, or will compile a list of topics to change to when I start bitching about some aspect of the most recent game. I do have a few friends that I can bitch about the season with or share in the fruits of victory (J, Sars, and DEv). I don't watch all of the games though, probably once or twice a week, and I don't memorize the statistics and histories. I'm not a Superfan by any means.
I didn’t always like baseball though. Perhaps this started when I was playing T-Ball as a youth. This was a problem though, as I was not very athletic, and therefore not really interested in being the loser on the team who would stand in the outfield looking for dandelions or wasn’t able to bring his hand/eye coordination enough to hit the goddamn ball off the motherfucking tee. I would rather lose myself in a book. You see, I was a nerd. It’s tough to be in elementary school and a nerd, and being forced to humiliate yourself by whiffing on the ball that just sat there on a fucking stand. My father desperately wanted me to love baseball. At that age he was intent on bonding with me, and this was the method to get to me. So, because of my love for T-Ball, he took me to Major League games.
I grew up in Minnesota, in a nice suburb outside of Minneapolis. Good school system, nice homes and a very decent baseball team, the Minnesota Twins. I remember those years fondly. My dad took me to the H.H. Metrodome many times. In 1986, we went to the game where the dome teared slightly and water poured down onto the fans below. In 1987, Minnesotans watched in amazement as our decent team turned into a World Series Champion team. The team consisted of Kent Hrbek, Gary Gaetti, Frank Viola, Dan Gladden and, of course, Kirby Puckett, all lead by Tom Kelly. This season was called “Magic” by just about everyone in Minnesota. The Twins had yet to win a World Series, and at the beginning of the season, they weren’t expected to even get to the division series. But they played good ball, and with their new manager, Kelly, were able to take the division, as the fans counted down to the “magic” number. Homer Hankies were printed up for the first time, and the horrible song that accompanied them was introduced. The Twins went into the ALCS with no one expecting them to win. The Tigers fell 4-1, and the Twins went on to win the World Series against the Indians. Kirby had always been the favorite of the hometown crowd, and this year was no exception. He got the credit that he deserved and the ring to back it up. He became a hero of sorts to me. Probably because I knew he’d be able to hit the fucking ball off the goddamn tee. I generally don’t regard sports stars and movie stars as heroes. I usually go for politicians and activists who work to change the world for the better, but I was 9 years old, and Kirby was god.
Four years later, he proved that he was God-like. It was 1991, Knobby’s rookie year, and the Twins had ended the previous season in the basement. The denizens of the upper-Midwest did not expect anything in 1991. Our “Magic” had come and gone. Eventually, the Twins actually started to win games… a lot of games. The Twins somehow took the division and moved onto the ALCS to beat the Blue Jays. The Homer Hankies had been printed and we were ready for another “Magic” post-season: The Homer Hankies vs. the Tomahawk Chops. Fast-forward to the famous Game 6 at the HH Metrodome. The Twins were down to the Braves 3-2 in the series, and were fighting for their lives. The score was tied and in the 11th inning, Kirby came up to bat, and hit a homerun to keep the Twins in the series, which they took in Game 7. It was one of those “I can’t believe I’m seeing this” moments, and proved that Kirby was in fact a God.
Kirby played for another 4 seasons. He started his MLB career in 1984 and played through the 1995 season, every season with the Minnesota Twins. He was slated for the 1996 season, but woke up one morning to blurred vision, and found out that he had Glaucoma. His number, 34, was retired. Although he was no longer playing, he continued to be active in the organization and his popularity continued. He was inducted into the Hall of Fame his first year of eligibility in 2001, and was the third youngest person to be inducted.
The man changed my mind about baseball. I have him to credit for this mild obsession that I have on what, quite frankly, is generally a boring game. But it is the 2 minutes, hopefully longer, each inning where something happens: a bat comes alive, one of the outfielders makes a daring dive to catch a ball just out of reach, the pitcher beans the batter in the head with a wild pitch, an infielder makes an amazing catch to start a double play… that is what I love about the game. That is when the beer (“beer”) is forgotten and my eyes are riveted. Although he never played for the Yankees, he is the man that introduced me (actually it was Knobby, but… I met Knobby through Kirby) to Jeter, Paulie, Tino, Bernie, Jorge, Moose and Joe.
Thanks for the memories Puck, and R.I.P.
Baseball is My Drug.
I didn’t always like baseball though. Perhaps this started when I was playing T-Ball as a youth. This was a problem though, as I was not very athletic, and therefore not really interested in being the loser on the team who would stand in the outfield looking for dandelions or wasn’t able to bring his hand/eye coordination enough to hit the goddamn ball off the motherfucking tee. I would rather lose myself in a book. You see, I was a nerd. It’s tough to be in elementary school and a nerd, and being forced to humiliate yourself by whiffing on the ball that just sat there on a fucking stand. My father desperately wanted me to love baseball. At that age he was intent on bonding with me, and this was the method to get to me. So, because of my love for T-Ball, he took me to Major League games.
I grew up in Minnesota, in a nice suburb outside of Minneapolis. Good school system, nice homes and a very decent baseball team, the Minnesota Twins. I remember those years fondly. My dad took me to the H.H. Metrodome many times. In 1986, we went to the game where the dome teared slightly and water poured down onto the fans below. In 1987, Minnesotans watched in amazement as our decent team turned into a World Series Champion team. The team consisted of Kent Hrbek, Gary Gaetti, Frank Viola, Dan Gladden and, of course, Kirby Puckett, all lead by Tom Kelly. This season was called “Magic” by just about everyone in Minnesota. The Twins had yet to win a World Series, and at the beginning of the season, they weren’t expected to even get to the division series. But they played good ball, and with their new manager, Kelly, were able to take the division, as the fans counted down to the “magic” number. Homer Hankies were printed up for the first time, and the horrible song that accompanied them was introduced. The Twins went into the ALCS with no one expecting them to win. The Tigers fell 4-1, and the Twins went on to win the World Series against the Indians. Kirby had always been the favorite of the hometown crowd, and this year was no exception. He got the credit that he deserved and the ring to back it up. He became a hero of sorts to me. Probably because I knew he’d be able to hit the fucking ball off the goddamn tee. I generally don’t regard sports stars and movie stars as heroes. I usually go for politicians and activists who work to change the world for the better, but I was 9 years old, and Kirby was god.
Four years later, he proved that he was God-like. It was 1991, Knobby’s rookie year, and the Twins had ended the previous season in the basement. The denizens of the upper-Midwest did not expect anything in 1991. Our “Magic” had come and gone. Eventually, the Twins actually started to win games… a lot of games. The Twins somehow took the division and moved onto the ALCS to beat the Blue Jays. The Homer Hankies had been printed and we were ready for another “Magic” post-season: The Homer Hankies vs. the Tomahawk Chops. Fast-forward to the famous Game 6 at the HH Metrodome. The Twins were down to the Braves 3-2 in the series, and were fighting for their lives. The score was tied and in the 11th inning, Kirby came up to bat, and hit a homerun to keep the Twins in the series, which they took in Game 7. It was one of those “I can’t believe I’m seeing this” moments, and proved that Kirby was in fact a God.
Kirby played for another 4 seasons. He started his MLB career in 1984 and played through the 1995 season, every season with the Minnesota Twins. He was slated for the 1996 season, but woke up one morning to blurred vision, and found out that he had Glaucoma. His number, 34, was retired. Although he was no longer playing, he continued to be active in the organization and his popularity continued. He was inducted into the Hall of Fame his first year of eligibility in 2001, and was the third youngest person to be inducted.
The man changed my mind about baseball. I have him to credit for this mild obsession that I have on what, quite frankly, is generally a boring game. But it is the 2 minutes, hopefully longer, each inning where something happens: a bat comes alive, one of the outfielders makes a daring dive to catch a ball just out of reach, the pitcher beans the batter in the head with a wild pitch, an infielder makes an amazing catch to start a double play… that is what I love about the game. That is when the beer (“beer”) is forgotten and my eyes are riveted. Although he never played for the Yankees, he is the man that introduced me (actually it was Knobby, but… I met Knobby through Kirby) to Jeter, Paulie, Tino, Bernie, Jorge, Moose and Joe.
Thanks for the memories Puck, and R.I.P.
Baseball is My Drug.
posted by trog at 10:56 AM
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