waking up the day after the end of days

The Sunday newspaper has a date of May 22nd this morning. From this I’m guessing that the world didn’t really end yesterday. For further confirmation, there don’t seem to be any second-coming sized headlines above the fold of the first section. We did get some dime-sized hail after dinner last night but that was as close as we came to earth shattering, life-as-we-know-it ending natural disaster type shit. No earthquakes, no floods of biblical proportion, no cracks opening up in the back yard and swallowing up me and Miz Susan and all of the trappings of our sinful and decadent middle class life style. It's been kind of a letdown.

Not that I was actually expecting much in the way of Old Testament fireworks. I walked over to Great Clips for a haircut at about two yesterday afternoon and on the way home I stopped at Super America to buy a couple of quick picks on the Powerball. Not exactly the actions of someone who was planning on starting in on the eternal burning in hell thing within the next five hours or so. And of course I took a swing through Cheapo (both sides of the street) on the way home. I didn’t buy anything but if I had, it’s unlikely that I’d have rushed home to slap it into the CD player or onto the turntable to give it a spin.

On the way across the Cheapo parking lot, I found a crumpled up dollar bill. Taking this as a sure sign from one god or another, I walked back to SA to buy another Powerball ticket. What the hell? If I was doing the heretical non-believer schtick, I might as well jump all over it with both feet. I could have run home, popped the buck into an envelope and then run back up to the mailbox to send it off to the Harold Camping Ministry. I think that I probably could have made the afternoon pickup. But that’s not me. Even staring into the fiery depths, I’m not about to prop up some 90-year old quack who thinks he can count up to 7,000.

Good sweet Jesus above, Miz Susan told me that some of the more anxious of her 4th graders had said that they were a little worried about the potential for unpleasantness. Don’t these end of the world nut-cases have anything better to do than frighten 10-year olds? If they’d wanted to do some worthwhile doom and gloom predicting, why hadn’t they warned me well in advance that the Twins would get bit by the injury bug big time and suck as bad as they have? That would have been something I’d have paid attention to. For a tip like that, I might even have sent a few bucks Camping’s way for his predictions on individual game results. Hey, no harm in laying a little off, just in case, is there?

I suppose that it’s possible that the world truly did end yesterday and that I just didn’t notice the transition from my previous hell-on-earth existence to the real live fire and brimstone stuff. But I’m not buying that. My life wasn’t (and still isn’t, apparently) anywhere near a hell on earth. I’ll admit that a few others might have believed that theirs were, just from the effects of having had to deal with me on a regular basis. But as my old friend Laura Prail used to say, “F--- ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

No, friends and family, there aren’t going to be any easy outs for us courtesy of some wack-job who’s spent a little too much time staring at the small print in his Bible. We’re in it for the long run and we should try to make the best of things. Keep up the good work.

harmon killebrew then and now

I had a dream over the weekend in which Jim Lemon was called into a Twins game to pinch hit against a tough left-hander. Lemon homered, an opposite field line drive that snuck just over the right field wall and inside the foul pole.

Don't ask me where that came from. I suppose I think about Jim Lemon every once in a while as my fevered little brain goes over archival footage from my so-called life. But still. Lemon moved out to Minnesota when Calvin Griffith packed up the Washington Senators in the middle of the night and high-tailed it for the upper Midwest. He was coming off of back to back 30+ homer and 100 RBI seasons but he must have missed the muggy tropical nights in DC. He dropped off to 14 homeruns for the Twins in '61 and he was out of the game by 1964.

I have no idea how often Jim Lemon went the opposite way with any of his 71 long balls in 1959 and '60. But however many it was is probably more than teammate Harmon Killebrew did in all of his 573 lifetime homeruns. Harmon hit 'em high and he hit 'em to left field. And as much as Jim Lemon seemed to miss hot and sweaty Griffith Stadium, Harmon seemed to love it here. You got the feeling that he wasn't looking back. And now, only in our memories.

I'm sure that I saw dozens of Killebrew homers on TV Twins games or during the 10:25 sports wraps after those games. And probably listened to announcers' calls of many more on WCCO over the years. I only recall seeing two in person and both came at old Metropolitan Stadium.

The first was when I was 10 or 11. The Twins lost but Killebrew homered, one of his high soaring shots. When I went to games in those days I'd keep score and then try to finish up my scorecard in the lighted tunnel under Ft. Snelling on the way home. I begged Doug to slow down so that I could tally the last RBI's but I doubt that he ever did.

I also saw what turned out to be his last homerun, a straight-line bullet shot to the left-center field seats. This was in 1975 and I was unemployed to the point that I could ride my bike out to Metropolitan Stadium for a day game. Harmon was sporting the powder-blue double knits of the Kansas City Royals on that day. It still doesn't seem right. He hit 14 for KC that year but finished with a batting average of .199. Everybody gets old.

And, despite the aspirations of four billion souls currently hoping to be the one who lives forever, I suspect that every one of us is going to die sooner or later. Harmon Killebrew passed that way today and it does make me a little sad.

I drafted Harmon Killebrew for my Strat-O-Matic team in 1976. He never saw the light of day on the big team until September call-ups and even then he had pretty limited value. A little pop and a little on-base against lefties but that was about it. Lou Jungbauer had offered me all sorts of mid-level talent for Harmon, his boyhood hero. But I resisited and Harm's day of glory finally came. I pinch hit with him to lead off an inning in a game which had gone into extras. Jim Barber, the opposing manager, ooh-ed and ahh-ed over Harmon's pathetic card and intentionally walked him. There was a pinch runner waiting for Harmon when he arrived at first base and I somehow managed to push that runner around to score the winning run. Chalk up another one in the W column for the Duluth Gabbro.

Honest to God, I rememember it like it was yesterday and that was in 1976 or '77. It happened just down the street from where we live now, in the big duplex at 1630 Laurel.

There you have it, from boyhood hero to figment of the imagination of a reluctant adult's baseball dream life. Pretty much the same things, I suppose.

Thanks very much for everything.