America's Pastime
Harmon “Killer” Killebrew missed the good ol’ days.
But only when it all seemed empty. When there was just the hum of the air conditioner and Harmon was sitting below the navy plastic seat hung high near the ceiling. Hung as a tribute, they said. A leftover from the stadium days slowly fading from peoples’ memories.
Course he didn’t know what the place used to look like before he came along in the 60s. It had been a baseball diamond for as long as folks he knew could remember. Before that, who knew. Probably Indian land. Everyone just talked about those summer days, when everyone’s face was burnt and the kids’ cheered their heroes towards home and dust swirled at the plates.
But that was before his time. He remembered the days after they built the stadium, built it right in the same spot the old diamond used to be. The Metropolitan. It was classy sounding. Respectable, like the game he loved to play.
Harmon “Killer” Killebrew had been good too. Drafted to the big leagues before he was even 18. 5’11”, 210 lbs. But he had power. 573 homeruns. 1584 total RBI. First jersey retired by the Twins, that lucky number 3.
His nickname had been a joke though, he knew that; mainly because he couldn’t kill down the drinks and the women like his teammates. Sure, he’d go to the parties with them. But he would always slip out when everyone else had just knocked back enough not to notice, setting his drink on a coaster before he left. The newspaper asked him what he liked to do for fun. “Well, I like to wash dishes, I guess,” Killer said.
Later though he grew bored with chores. Harmon was already washed up from injuries. Not much to do, with the kids already being out of the state for years. He had played while they grew up. So like all the former greats he became an announcer. Crack. And the rookie hits another out of the park.
Then there was the insurance job. Practical. No cases of Double Indemnity. Car sales. Financial planning.
Eventually the old Met died. Minnesota became sick of it. People needed something NEW AND IMPROVED, they declared. They decided to build a nice climate-controlled mall, since it was winter 9 months out of the year. And being the 80s and all, with the BIG hair and the BIG shoulder pads and the BIG coke business, the mall had to be BIG. So they built a big box.
Sometimes they would put up a banner: MLB COMES TO THE MOA. They’d set up a table, right under where the old stadium seat hung from the ceiling, and the kids would line up with baseballs and trading cards in their hands. Tony Oliva. Kent Hrbek. Harmon Killebrew. But those weren’t the names the kids were waiting for.
And soon Harmon was washing dishes again, his grandson listening to a record from when his dad was young. The next day everybody got up/ Seein’ if the clothes were dry./ The dogs were barking, a neighbor passed,/ Mama, of course, she said, ‘Hi!’/ ‘Have you heard the news?’ He said, with a grin,/ ‘The Vice-President’s gone mad!’/ ‘Where?’ ‘Downtown.’ ‘When?’ ‘Last night.’/ ‘Hmm, say, that’s too bad!’/ ‘Well, there’s nothin’ we can do about it,’ said the neighbor,/ ‘It’s just something’ we’re gonna have to forget.’/ ‘Yes, I guess so,’ said Ma,/ Then she asked me if the clothes was still wet.
“Not quite so loud,” Harmon said, as he placed another dish on the pile.
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