On Baseball
It’s well past bedtime, but I’m wide awake in the dark. I’ve got my hand cupped over my ear where there’s a cheap plastic earbud tucked. The wire rests on my cheek and winds its way down to a battery-powered radio I’ve got gripped in my hand. It’s tuned to the AM station 830 WCCO. John Gordon’s voice crackles over the airwaves, and the Minnesota Twins are playing ball at the Dome. In my mind, I can see the team lined up in the dugout, their white pinstriped uniforms glowing and their cheeks lumpy with tobacco. The white roof stretches across the sky. Around the field, a blue wave of seats crawls up steep concrete banks. In the centerfield nosebleeds, giant portraits of the great ones look down upon the next generation. It’s the summer of 1997 and the Twins are in the midst of a meager 68-win season. But as a ten-year-old, I stayed up listening to every last pitch.
“Cordova hits a blast to left!” Gordon’s voice rises. My eyes widen, as if I might catch sight of the streaking ball. “It’s way back…” I hold my breath. “…and gone! Touch ‘em all, Marty!” The cheers of the crowd come through the speaker in a swell of static. I yell silently into the dark.
Summer 1999
The uniform was not quite a custom fit.
