My childhood is full of memories, some warm and touching, some weird and awkward, some happy and peaceful, some turbulent and confusing and a lot decaying and untranslatable. One memory continuously made itself present in my conscious train of thought while digging through the bin of past experiences: a vacation to Minneapolis for a Twins game with my father and my sister. Who can forget their first Major League Baseball game? Not me apparently. Nine innings of father-son bonding over America’s favorite past time, truly a time-tested institution in the American Dream.
The year was 1996. It was the dead of summer and time for our annual vacation with my father. My parents were divorced when I was very young, around age five, but I still spent time with my father. The visits were mainly Sundays with some full weekends and other events, but rarely did we ever leave town on an expedition. The relationship with my father wasn’t flawless; we had different interests for the most part, but shared some common grounds as well as common DNA. My father is a sportsman, very active and well known amongst the hunters and fisherman of Eastern South Dakota. He fits the look of an outdoorsman too: tall, strong, stern face and a look of man who has had to work hard his entire life. He never graduated from High School, but has an understanding of the workings of life to brave hard times and propel himself back to a comfortable state for him and those around him. He always keeps him senses about him in, rarely loses his good nature and is someone who I would consider a role model.
The past few summers he had taken my sister and I to the Black Hills for tours of all the landmarks including Mount Rushmore, Wall Drug, Reptile Gardens, Historic Deadwood and a few museums along the way as well. One year, our trip conveniently aligned with the motorcycle rally in Sturgis, which is definitely a must for an eight year old child. My dad’s brother, Randy, lived in Rapid City and we typically stayed at his house with air conditioning or no cable television. The heat was bad, but the boredom of four channels was nearly intolerable. Besides nearly choking to death on a slice of cheeseburger pizza, much of the time was spent enjoying the endless bliss of a summer vacation.
This year we decided to go east instead. It was my first time spending any time in Minneapolis, so there was a strong excitement for what may come. The itinerary included a Major League Baseball game, Valley Fair and the Minnesota Zoo. We left very early on a Friday morning. I cannot recall the exact time, but it was earlier than the 1:00 p.m. mornings I was used to during that summer. My mother wanted to us to be entertained on the car ride, so she packed my sister and I all sorts of goodies like crosswords, word searches and other mildly entertaining novelties of the sorts. There was also plenty of candy in the kit, most likely to keep us children sugared up so we could entertain our father the whole way there.
The three of us piled our belongings in the trunk of Dad’s Cutlass and I took my designated spot in the back seat. Dad dropped his visor down to shield his eyes from the mornings’ rising sun as we rolled east on Highway 212 towards Minnesota. The vacation officially began when we got about ten miles out of town and I felt it was time to begin keeping tabs on our progress.
“Are we there yet?” I asked
“Nope” replied my father calmly, knowing this was just the beginning of the annoyances to come from the back seat.
“How much farther?” I retaliated.
“Along way” he said with a tone of detachment.
Soon enough, the “Along way” turned into “About halfway” before becoming “Just about there” and finally “We’re here.” The long car ride was over, we were drenched with sweat from the summer heat and in desperate need of exercise or something to appease our aching legs after the voyage.
The first stop was Valley Fair. It should be every child’s paradise with all kinds of roller coasters, Ferris wheels, log rides and everything else that seemed intimidating to a fat little nine year old who was scared of his own shadow. My sister, a few years older than I, wasn’t much more of an adrenaline junkie that I was, so we stuck to the rides like bumper cars and had a good time doing it. My sister eventually convinced me to take the Ferris wheel for a spin. Reluctantly I agreed, and despite a small episode of acrophobia, I began longing to make my way back to the top of the wheel. The scene was like nothing I had ever seen before. Acres and acres of amusement park all settled under me while I looked down upon it like a giant on the masses. That ride highlighted the Valley Fair experience and we, now exhausted from heavy play, made our way back to the Cutlass and towards our next destination: The Minnesota Zoo.
I was thrilled making the trip to the zoo and actually had some aspiration to become a zoologist at the time. Dad pulled the Cutlass into the parking lot and found a spot amongst the sea of cars. We made our way to the gates with a swarm of other patrons, slightly confused as Dad frantically tried to keep tabs on us among the crowd. The place was busy. At the gate, we found we had actually chosen Free Zoo Day for our first visit to the establishment. It had its pros and cons, but mainly cons. My dad saved Twenty dollars, or whatever it may have cost to enter, but we had to fight congestion no matter where we went. There was no time to stop and enjoy the exhibits without being overrun by flocks of aggressive patrons and pushed on without remorse. My father, my sister and I like our space, which was impossible to come by, so our tour around the place was abbreviated.
One animal exhibit sticks out in my mind. The previous spring at school I had selected the Malaysian tapir to write a report on. The tapir is a peculiar pig-like creature with coloring like a panda bear. It was probably not the most popular animal in the zoo, but I certainly had a special appreciation for it having a vast knowledge of the creature. We probably spent more time at that exhibit than any other while I fed my family useless knowledge of the over-sized rat. When claustrophobia had thoroughly consumed each of us, we fought our way to the exit and called it a day as the sun began to sink towards the horizon. We set out to find our motel and get a nights rest before the game the next afternoon.
It was game day now, the Minnesota Twins hosting the New York Yankees at the Metrodome. I would not have considered myself a baseball fan. I have never really appreciated the game of baseball, a slow paced game where they actually play the sport for about 20 minutes and stand around waiting to play the other two hours and 40 minutes. I did not have a great respect for many sports at that time. I preferred the fast action game of hockey and the excitement auto racing and had really not paid too much attention to anything. I wasn’t the bright eyed little boy in the Twins hat and the glove giddy to be at his first major league game, nor was I in awe at the heroes on the field. I was, however, in awe at the spectacle itself that was a professional sporting event. The crowds, the noise and the energy impressed me more than anything during the whole vacation.
We met up with my Uncle Bob at the motel and collected for breakfast before we left. Bob had come from Sioux Falls to take in the game with us. My Uncle Bob is an eccentric man, which is probably why I like him. He is a tall, lanky Norwegian with a good sense of humor, an infectious smile and amusing expressions. He looks like a fleshed version Ned Flanders of the Simpsons, and acts somewhat the same way minus the strong religiousness and the “how-didly-do’s”. He is good friends with my father, even though they were only bound by the in-law title. He lives in Sioux Falls, but spends a lot of time riding his Honda Gold Wing around the country in a gang of geriatric motorcycle enthusiasts. None the less, he is a fan of America’s pastime and was ready to watch the Twins play ball.
I can’t tell you who won the game, but there were plenty of other tidbits that embedded themselves in my memory. We got there early enough to watch the players warm up from the front row. After that we found our seats midway up just slightly to the right of home base. The seats were good enough to see all the action, even though I always lost the ball against the white roof of the Metrodome. Uncle Bob bought a round of ice cream cones which may have been the highlight of the game for me.
There was one play from the game that thrilled me, the kind of play that makes sport what it is. It could have been the play that turned me on to baseball for the rest of my life had my mind been a little more open. The legendary Kirby Puckett knocked a double into the outfield and rounded first towards second. He then executed an epic slide, losing his batting helmet in the process and narrowly making it to the base before the ball arrived. It wasn’t a home run, there was no run batted in, but it still stuck with me more so than anything else from the game. It was the play that I emulated at home after the game, tossing my Toronto Blue Jays plastic batting helmet off as I slid awkwardly on the grass.
Kirby Puckett was my hero for about a week after the game. It was too bad his legend had worn off me before he and a few other Twins visited my high school a number of years later and told our class to not do drugs and stay in school.
The game marked the finale end of trip. We said goodbye to Uncle Bob and went back to our motel for supper and a nice swim before we turned in for the night. The next morning we loaded our bags back into the Cutlass and drove back down Highway 212 to South Dakota. The ride back home had a different atmosphere than the ride to Minnesota. The tone changed from excitement to more of a somber mood. We were all silent for most of the trip, letting the radio play and we sorted out memories of the weekend. We made it to Watertown with the sun shining its lasts beams of light over the horizon. Dad pulled into the driveway and my mother came out of the door, making sure we were alive or at least breathing. The parents discussed the trip while my sister and I hauled our luggage and souvenirs into the house. We said goodbye to Dad and stormed Mom with our versions of the weekend.
I considered it a successful vacation. There was learning, excitement and adventure and no serious injuries. There were also some lasting memories to recall in a fit of nostalgia years later while writing, say, maybe a paper due for class.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment