Twins great Harmon Killebrew was one of the defining people of my childhood, my love of baseball, and my Minnesota Twins. I offer this memory in honor of his passing.
1966. I am 10 years old and my Dad and I are on our way to a Twins game at the Met. My favorite games to go to are the evening double headers, called twi-night double headers.
I love the black summer sky against the huge, blazing lights that ring the upper deck of the stadium. I love the insect dance around the lights, the color of the grass under fake night light, frosty malts, Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Bob Allison, Rod Carew, and the dream of catching a pop fly with my mitt. I love the organ and the seventh inning stretch and the cracking sound of wood meeting rawhide. I love looking through the binoculars and watching pitchers spit chewing tobacco. I love watching bat boys at the dug out, wondering how anyone could be so lucky to have such a job. I am a die-hard fan.
My mom makes me wear a dress to the game, which I hate. She means well, but does not support my tomboy tendencies as they are to her, unladylike. But I am indeed a tomboy and serious about catching a fly ball. I am a girl in a boys world. I want to fit in, to wear my jeans, Converse All Stars, Twins t-shirt and ball cap. The dress is messing with my groove, and possibly my catching abilities. But I do as I am told, wear the dress, and keep my well worn, well oiled mitt on my right hand, lefty that I am, and hope for the best.
I do not get bored, ever, even deep into the second game. I yell loudly for my team. Sometimes the guys in the stands turn around to see who is doing all that screaming. My Dad always says people give him dirty looks, thinking he’s keeping this poor kid up way too late at night, making me sit through two games. Truth is, I am the one making him sit through the games. I am the biggest Twins fan in the family. That my Dad takes me to see eighteen innings of baseball is my surest sign he really loves me.
The second game is the magic game for me. The deep night of summer, the lights, the endless feeling of it all. And then there’s this, what we all are waiting for: Harmon Killebrew up to bat, two out, players on first and third, bottom of the eighth. The mighty Killebrew takes a hard swing and crack, the ball flies up and in a long, slow arch, begins its descent out over the backfield fence and into the dark night. The fans go wild, and we cheer the runners home. One, two, three. Revelry, wonder. My own field of dreams.
I still have the mitt.
Thanks for the memories, Harmon Killebrew.
This post was written by Ann Freeman and originally published on Upside My Head (Pay Attention Now). Follow Ann on Twitter: @dancingdiva
Thanks Ann. Last summer my 12-year-old grandson, his uncle and I made the trek to Cooperstown for the Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Harmon was one of the 47 Hall of Famers on stage. Both boys insisted on having their picture taken by Harmon’s gold plaque, faces glowing. Thanks Harmon. You’ll never know all the smiles you brought. Play ball.