Leaving to come home

Sports are meant to be entertaining in the same way that monster truck rallies, the opera, political debates, sitcoms, novels, the newspaper, and movies are entertaining. These are things to pass time that is moving too slowly. But only sports can have the opposite effect of it’s original goal. Sports are meant to entertain but they can absolutely demoralize and crush the soul (I guess that newspapers can have that affect too, and certain episodes of The Wire).

Every fan of the Twins should have known how real the chance was for the Twins to absolutely crush their emotional well-being in the last week of the season. I knew it, and I took the Tuesday loss in stride and here’s why: The 2008 Minnesota Twins decided to play like the 2008 Minnesota Twins last week and they gave us what we should have expected as fans.

The Twins this season were not average, they were great, they were terrible, they were never average. They were not average last weekend either.

Not to be selfish but let me explain a few things about how I experienced the Twins last week:

Tuesday: Alternated between packing and running around my living room while Twins demolished White Soxingame one, told myself, ‘Great, but it doesn’t mean anything.’

Wednesday: Early in the day bought XM Radio for Minnesota-Iowa-Nebraska-Colorado trip (I call it the ‘Arm-pit of America trip,’ ‘Twinscast, doin’ me’ songwriter and Colorado/Minnesota native Seth calls it ’The Grundel of America’). Left work at 7 pm exactly, listened to game from 7-10, tapped foot so incessantly on plastic partition near my breaks that my passenger thought we had a flat tire. Called Bryant in roaming to say: ‘Are they seriously bringing in Mijares?’ They were, he pitched amazingly. Nathan battled, told myself, ‘Great, but it doesn’t mean anything.’

Thursday: In Colorado with my uncle the day before the rehearsal wedding. He has MLB package on DirecTV, which I will buy when I have any money - just an amazing package. Twins fall behind 6-1 on fluke errors and shoddy play. I am pissed. He says, ‘They will win in the ninth.’ Says it over and over throughout the night.

Gomez falls behind 0-2 to Jenks in the ninth, uncle says, ‘he’s trying to push it to right,’ next pitch, he pushes it to right.

All I remember about the Span triple is nearly hitting my head on the ceiling as I bounced around the living room, just ecstatic, ecstatic, ecstatic. I remember thinking, ‘Sweet Holy Fuc-ing Jesus, this is u-n-b-e-l-i-e-v-a-b-l-e!’

Become increasingly pissed after Twins don’t get Span in.

Leap again with Casilla, told myself, ‘Now we’ve got it.’

Friday: Rehearsal dinner mixed with enormous family get together that night before Saturday wedding. Turn on TV Twins are down early, Twins fall and fall further, constantly check scores of that and Chicago throughout the night. Tell myself, ‘We’ve still got it.’

Saturday: Wedding, check score constantly on cell phone, have Bryant sending me updates all night. Notice, though drunk, that the Twins are constantly grounding into double-plays. Don’t really have any comprehension of how bad Justin Morneau is doing because I have no box-score, just a little screen on the phone telling me things like: Justin Morneau grounds into double-play, inning over. Or, Joe Mauer grounds into double-play, inning over. Constantly check scores of that and Chicago/Indians throughout the night. Tell myself, ‘We’ve still got it, but we’re letting it go.’

Sunday: Gift-opening, uncle has game on, his fiance is pissed and mutters things under her breath how inappropriate this is. Whenever Twins score we have to augment our cheering with statements like, ‘Oh YEAHHHHHH! What a great linen set!’ Or, ‘Fuc——- yes! That is amazing cutlery!’ Constantly follow that and Chicago/Cleveland game throughout the day. Tell myself, ‘We’ve got a chance.’

Sunday night, drive high into the mountains.

Monday: Estes Park, Sox/Tigers in constant rain-delay, calling Bryant every 15 minutes to see if the game is starting. Find a family member with a Blackberry, follow game closely on that. Watch the first three innings at a house in the mountains, then descend to Denver for the night. Listen to the game, Detroit spoiling chances are high because Garcia is dealing and has vengeance in his blood. Garcia gets hurt, Bryant calls me in roaming, says, ‘It’s over.’ I agree. Tell myself, ‘Well, we’ve got a shot.’

Tuesday: Nervous all day, try to distract myself with aversions in this order: 1. Denver Art Museum 11-1; 2. Lunch at a Japanese dive restaurant 1-2; 3. Drive to Coors Brewery for tour, brewery is closed for tours on Tuesday, this is an omen, 2-3; 4. Boulder, CO bar called Half-Time Subs, numerous pitchers of Long Islands 3-5:30.

Watched the game at a brewery, a nice place with friendly waiters who tell us to just not curse loudly, and seemingly no White Sox fans anywhere. Twins don’t look good, but Blackburn certainly does. Denks never looked nervous or out of control, I remember saying that the game would probably come down to one single play. I just felt it early. When Thome hit the home run I knew, repeat: KNEW, the game was over. I walked outside and just stood there. I wasn’t pissed, and I was pretty blank the rest of the game. I just sat there and accepted it. When that little pygmy made that diving catch though something happened, cheers erupted in little corners of the bar.

That incensed me so much that I can’t really describe it.

Where did these people come from? Had they been there all night, watching in stone-silence waiting for the end of the game? Were they really White Sox fans or just border fans who kind of like the Sox because of Ozzie Guillen? Or were they anti-Twins fans? Did they even care?

There was a man sitting directly behind me who started cheering, I looked at his face and he smiled.

I stood in the street and talked to my father, Bryant, and my uncle. I was with about five friends who told me, ‘It’s just a game.’ And it was. And I understood that. I wasn’t even angry like I thought I would be. I said platitudes like, ‘Well they’ve got a great future.’ But I really don’t even know how much I really believe that. It was just crushing in a sad way. It was the fact that I loved this team, that’s all. They battled and lost and battled again. Within seven days they had given me some of the highest moments in my entire life as a fan. That triple by Span was absolutely unbelievable. It was like Jacy Holloway hitting a three against Kansas in 1996 to win the Big 8 title, it split my mind open and made me so happy that I am a sports fan.

But Friday, Saturday and Monday were like fights with someone you love, you saw all of their faults but you loved them still. You wanted them to be better and they just couldn’t.

I remember saying something to Bryant about the coin-toss, even though it didn’t matter. I wanted the team to have an excuse because they were so easy to believe in. Baseball is so easy to believe in.  

I traveled in my car for 16 hours on Wednesday, a lot of those hours alone. I didn’t listen to a single baseball game. I didn’t listen to a single sports station. I cancelled that XM package. I was alone for most of the trip, just looking off into the flattest parts of Nebraska and seeing the cows move around one another, searching for water, searching for shade, trying to find a more suitable place to spend their time.

Buffalo Bill’s home is out on that highway near North Platte, so is an original stop of the Pony Express and John Wayne’s home town in Winterset, and the Bob Feller Museum is out there too, it’s in Van Meter. I went to a Bob Feller camp once when I was a kid. It started in the early, early morning and I fell asleep in the bleachers waiting for the camp to start. I remember someone waking me up and everything seemed hazy. I was in a gym, there were basketball hoops everywhere, the backboards were a shadowy black, and the gym had slanted light coming in from high windows above the bleachers that made the dust glisten.

I remember straddling down the bleachers to get Bob Feller’s autograph.

I remember wandering outside to catch fly-balls.