Let’s just start by saying this. One of those games, Mike and I, in right field, made the jumbotron. Allegedly-this is mostly Mike’s recollection, but his mentioning it brings it back to me. I recall the empty seats around us when he brings it up. A “Pointless Game” for all intents (probably should have been at night class) and purposes (thank you) but, regardless, Mike and I were on the Jumbotron. There are no pointless games for a true baseball fan.
Short story idea. My life on the jumbotron. Maybe a better Haiku.
I was there on the screen
Big and shiny
Kiss cam, no.
I am part of the largest regular season record attendance at the H.H.H Metrodome tonight. Fifty four thousand zero eighty eight. It is now the bottom of the 8th inning-Delmon Young up to bat. We are sitting in section 204, row 3. Rally caps are on-- Magglio Ordonez flys out into a double play. (The Crowd goes wild).
[Keep you eye on the ball if you want to miss the game.]
Span/Cabrera/Mauer are up. Bottom of 11-Don’t Stop Believing on the PA system. “Oh, I won’t.”
Twins storm the field. Places go crazy. A tour of the stadium. Hugs and Destiny to them. Incredible emotions, and everyone can feel it.
MUST FIND PEOPLE TO “INTERVIEW.”
Could this be it I ask. “Maybe,” Mike responds- “No,” the man behind me. The person next to him. “Absolutely yes.” TC continues to ride around on the fourwheeler. They took away the Dodge truck a while ago? (Mike’s observation).
Does this game rival the Santana vs. Schilling game that I was at with Mike? An orange paper airplane has landed on the field. Normally this causes a TV timeout. Right now in the midst of the post game celebration it could be a spec of Astroturf. Not many pay it any attention.
6 fans line up to take a picture, some of those include the people sitting behind us. [Capture the moment, people.] Here’s all one really needs to know about the game: 6 runs, 12 hits, 0 errors. 4 hrs 37 minutes and an attendance record of 54088.
Traffic jams have begun. “Yankees suck!” Do they mean that? Girls are streaming by, tears (or the smudged evidence) on their faces as we exit the concourse through Gate A. A human traffic jam. Most are happy. The few Tigers fans that were there really can’t say much, and nobody really seems to hassle the one sitting next to us. We had our fun making fun of the Badger fans on Saturday, only to be laughed back at in the final minutes of the game, but revenge was ours on Monday.
I try interviewing a baby. Small steps. Babies are hard to interview, they don’t say much. The child’s mother seemed to grow suspicious of my intentions. We file past. Mike comments whimsically, “That baby had optimism in the eyes.”
“I’m not odd…” a man says ask I ask him for a game experience quote, but I miss the rest. No need to go back as another who heard me pose the question interjects with a quote he’s probably already heard before. “You can’t put a price on the love of the Twins.”
Is that so? We are winning the World Series with optimism like that.
Milling people now in the plaza outside the Metrodome. “Sucks to be them,” I think to myself, passing a group of Tigers fans. “This is sweet.” A young girl holds up an AM 1500 Joe Mauer “M-V-P” sign. Shameless, KSTP. But the sea of chants that echoed in the dome were hard to deny. How could you not feel super human with 54,000 people chanting MVP as loud as the dome allows it?
An excited older fan walks by, remnants of his mullet parting the crowd and making a sound of enthusiasm somewhere in his throat. Some cast him a glance. Another guy pipes in that there is “no age limit about being jacked for being division champions,” and I agree. “Casilla coming through” can be read as “Casilla creating craziness.”
Mike and I enter the ticketing line, which stretches back 100 meters from the ticket booth. I’m trying to gauge the crowd. Some say if we win one, we’ll win the series. We need at least one win in New York though. But our record against the Yankees this year has been far from impressive-the New York market share is always hard to overcome.
The entrepreneurs of the group become vocal, but probably don’t know I’ve overheard them. American capitalism or pure ruthlessness? “Why don’t we buy the tickets right now at the ticket window and then resell them at three times the price?”
[I guess some people will just wait their turn, that’s all.] That sense of inflation was rampant in the crowd. People were limited to buying eight tickets per person. That being said, scalping will be rampant on Sunday.
Life goes on outside of the ticket plaza. Trains are off schedule as they wait for the masses to cross the tracks and trudge back to their cars. Fans are waiting in line. Some are glad the rain has stopped. Others, like myself, wish that it had been pouring so the lines would be cut in thirds.
Go home and watch Sports Center to catch the highlights and the game. I hope I’m in a line. Keeping tabs on cutting is hard. “Do me a favor and make sure that guy doesn’t cut in front of us.” (Random to fellow random.)
Popular culture talk. “Great Clips only gives one haircut-faux hawks.” Rumors spread through the crowd. “Lower level tickets sold out. “The Dome doesn’t want us to go…”
Haven’t taken a step forward in what feels like twenty minutes. The woesome huddled masses debate their fate: Are we killing this recession or boosting it by buying $300 worth of tickets on Visa?”
Some one sees me scribbling notes, and offhandly adds to the lines’ running commentary. “That was the best Twins game I’ve been to in my entire life.”
[I’ve already forgotten the score.]
“If my Mauer jersey isn’t there by the next series Bryan is dead.” I think to myself: How many #7 jerseys are selling right now? The systems of commerce are spinning faster than normal. Agreeing that normal exists.
“My man,” a bystander casually answers the phone, “Where you at?” I make a snap call--twenty yards to the booth. If I was 5” taller and 11 pounds heavier I would march right up there.
Loving the hype-loving the promos-a Twins ticket-$11. Experience-priceless. I wish my ears could pick up every conversation right now to be hearing more of these anecdotes.
We are 20 yards from the ticket booth. I receive an email on my BlackBerry about the opportunity to buy Twins tickets for the postseason. Prefabricated, but still-smart marketing. Market share.
People are annoyingly smoking cigarettes in line right now. I thought that had become taboo a few years ago? A security-looking man busts through the crowd with a few people in tow. Excuse me, excuse me. Confusion.
Frantic people in the lines. The virtual waiting room is taking forever, and people have lost interest in standing in line.
“Did you know you can watch the game on your phone?” “Its an iPhone—of course.”
“I called that Ordonez shot.” A man brags to his friends.
I keep thinking of what is actually going on here. Is this a line to collect our unemployment checks? A line to the bathrooms? The LRT?
“A beer line,” the lady says. She hasn’t really been speaking; she’s been dancing to inaudible trance music on top of a concrete block. Slipping and sliding everywhere, people are starting to pay attention. Injury is imminent so the crowd waits for the inevitable. “Do a back flip!” v No, I think not. I THINK she’s an ex-exotic dancer. (Possible?) The line behind us extends up the ramp to Gate C. Back to the unemployment thought. I ask around: “Do you think we’re in a recession?” “It’s only a recession if you don’t have a job.”
Supply and demand?
Predictions on the outcome of the series?
“100%.” This guy wasn’t serious but I caught him- 100% wins or 100% chance of winning?
He rephrases his own statement. “The fact that Brett Favre is pitching tomorrow, or so I heard, ensures this. Although, I hear he’s not at 100%.”
How to get tickets for a BoSox game? Camp out. The guy behind me says he camped with a thousand others in tents to see the Series back in the day. A straight shot, 24 hours to Boston. With a travel buddy, who probably isn’t a travel buddy anymore.
The wheels of commerce keep spinning and we move forward-the ticket machines are running at 110%. We have reached the window. There is a ticket salesman, frosted hair- (another cultural artifact?) working, frantically, tickets being lost by the seconds, and there, on HIS BlackBerry, a man in a green shirt. Checking the stocks, no doubt. Going through the roof if he’s associated with the Company who makes the paper the tickets get printed out on. Doing what exactly? Green shirt is a Supervisor.
I think I see some drug dealers buying tickets now to my left. Dressed in pajamas, college looking kids, but the wad of hundreds he rolls out to max out his ticket sales is surprising.
The ticket salesman’s name is Robert G. 2 rows, two seats. Mike tries to get all of the party together. $256 for eight tickets. “Oh shit” was all he could muster. Not from shock but realization.
Nope, Robert says, lost those tickets. We get the next best.
OUT. A man comes back to the line, looking for his ID. Robert G has no idea where it is. No time for these antics. Robert G. has tickets to sell. To get Minnesota out of the recession. Create some hysteria.
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