My Jersey-Chasing Rant

            People always give me weird looks when I start talking sports, my family included.  I’m not sure really sure why.  Maybe it’s simply because I’m a girl.  Or maybe it’s because I’m usually rocking heels and pageant hair—you know, the quintessential girlie-girl—when I start spouting of Twins history at the bar.  But stereotypes aside, I’m getting beyond frustrated at the idea that a girl can’t possibly know sports.

            It happened again today.  I was at the chiropractor nursing an injury I aggravated during my half-marathon last weekend.  My doctor and I started talking Twins baseball—how great the new stadium is, how we actually have a team that could take us pretty far this year if everyone stays healthy.  We joked about how signing Jacque was a smart move because most of our players are capable of backing up a different position so we could throw him anywhere in the outfield and be okay.  I commented that we would be in picture-perfect shape if we could convince Ramos to try-out third base, our seemingly only weak spot this year.  My doctor sighed and said that it was a real disappointment that we couldn’t get Crede off the DL—he had the potential to be a good player for us.

            But Crede isn’t on the DL.  He’s not even a Twin anymore.  As I explained what had happened to the former White Sox, I saw the look.  It wasn’t just from my doctor.  It was from the other patients in the rehab room as well.  I continued on about what had happened in the off-season, where he was now, etc. etc.—the whole time knowing full well that everyone in the room was listening to me.

            I know sports—more importantly, Twins baseball—and I’ve been called a jersey chaser more times than I’d like to count because of it.  To me, it’s probably the biggest insult I could get.  Criticize my hair or my outfit but call me a jersey chaser and you’re likely to make it on my shit list right away.  For people that know me, they know it’s the farthest thing from the truth.  Did I get excited when I saw Dan Gladden in the elevator in Kansas City?  Heck, yes.  That will never change.  But does that make me a jersey chaser?  Not a bit.  I’ll always be a girlie-girl and I’ll always know more about sports than most guys—it’s just who I am.  But watch it.  If you call me a jersey chaser, I may just have to embarrass you by proving how little you actually know about the Twins.  It’s happened before.

Returning the Favor

            Everything I know and love about baseball I learned from my dad.  A farm boy who grew up playing in the fields of southern Minnesota, my dad spent his adolescence hitting home runs and winning batting championships for the Waterville Buccaneers.  When I was a child he tried his hand at coaching, spending countless hours teaching me how to play the game in the shade of our backyard.  He showed me how to catch the ball, field a grounder, follow through on my swing, the same skills his father had taught to him years before on their family farm. 

            Baseball became our sport.  The youngest of four daughters, I was his last chance at having someone to share his passion with.  My older sisters had already turned him down and in a way I became the son he never had.  He truly loved everything about America’s pastime and he made sure that I loved it, too.  As I grew up, my Barbie dolls were slowly moved off their shelves in favor of Homer Hankies and autographed baseballs, my storybooks replaced by a baseball card collection.  Even through my teenage angst when my dad just seemed to be an embarrassment in my life, baseball was the one thing that kept us connected.

            Baseball is where my heart is.  As a Minnesota Twins fan, there was nothing better than the enchantment of the 1991 World Series, watching Kirby Puckett hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the 11^th to send the series to seven games.  The next night getting to see Jack Morris—quite possibly one of the best acquisitions Minnesota has ever made—throw a shut-out in Game 7 to help the Twins win their second world championship in five years.

            Of course being a fan comes with its share of disappointments.  This past season I watched in disbelief as umpire Phil Cuzzi stole an important hit from Joe Mauer during Game 2 of the ALDS, only to have Joe Nathan blow the save in the top of the ninth with a two-run homer by Alex Rodriguez.  It was a painful loss, ending the season with a sweep by the Yankees.  But it still had been a great year for the Twins, one of those keep-you-on-the-edge-of-your-seat seasons that every fan—and sportswriter—lives for.

            Retiring the Metrodome and moving outside to beautiful Target Field definitely helped ease the pain from last season’s early exit.  Today I got to take my dad to his first game at the new ballpark, something I’ve been waiting to do since the season opened on April 12^th.  See, everything that my dad loves about baseball he learned from his dad.  They used to make the two-hour drive up to the cities a couple times a summer to watch the Minneapolis Miller play at Nicollet Park, the same field my grandpa played on during the high school state championships.  When the Millers moved down to Metropolitan Field, my grandpa and my dad followed—welcoming the Minnesota Twins with open arms the day Calvin Griffith announced he was moving the team to the cities.  My grandpa only made it through a few years at the Metrodome before he passed away in 1986.  As I walked my dad around the stadium today, it made me realize how lucky I was to be able to share that moment with him.

            To be honest, I think he was most impressed by the limestone—I could barely get him inside the gate, he was so mesmerized.  We walked around the outside of the ballpark for a while so he get a good look at the construction—I’m pretty sure he was hoping to run into someone who knew how they had gotten the stone textured.  That’s just how my dad is.  As we were exploring, we passed a wall displaying the baseball cards of all the players past and present.  He knew everyone, every detail.  This guy had a no-hitter, this guy died of cancer.  It was like walking back in time throughout my dad’s entire life, the whole thing on display right in front of him. 

            The Twins ended up beating the White Sox 3-2.  It wasn’t the most exciting game—Alex Rios stole a homerun from Michael Cuddyer and Denard Span had some good at bats.  Typical day in baseball.  Luckily for me, none of that mattered.  I had gotten to take my dad to his first game at Target Field, keeping it all in the family.  Because if you hadn’t guessed, my dad was the one who took me to my first game at the Metrodome.  It was time for me to return the favor.