Baseball, like life, tends to be a game of chance. A former collegiate pitcher once informed me
that a hitter has about a half-second to react to a fastball being thrown at
them. That’s a half-second to decide if
the location of the pitch is going to be a ball or a strike, determine the
approximate speed the ball is traveling, and ultimately choose to swing at it
or not. No wonder a great batting
average is often considered getting on base only a third of the time. Of course, being successful at playing
baseball is not just shear guesswork.
Skill and practice can obviously increase your likelihood of getting
lucky at the plate or being in the right place at the right time on the field
as line drive is hit right at you. But
sometimes you just get lucky, and I think the Chicago Cubs might agree.
Many professional athletes can probably identify one or more
chance opportunities that helped them make it to the big leagues, and Kirby
Puckett is likely no different. Despite
being an All-American in high school, no colleges were interested in Puckett,
and he went to work at a Ford Motor Plant installing carpet in Thunderbirds. It wasn’t until he got laid off from his
factory job that he was noticed by a college head coach, when he decided to
attend a pro baseball tryout. In
college, he switched from third base to center field to get more playing time,
and wasn’t noticed by any professional scouts until the summer of 1981. The MLB was on strike at that time during the
1981 season, and Jim Rantz, the assistant farm director for the Minnesota
Twins, went down to watch his son play in a summer collegiate league. His son’s team happened to be playing against
the team that Kirby was on, and at Rantz’s suggestion, the Twins picked Puckett
with the third overall pick in the 1982 draft.
He made his professional debut on May 8, 1984, and three years later was
helping the Twins win their first World Series title since relocating from
Washington DC.
1987 was a banner year for a few different reasons. Of course, it was the first World Series won
by the Twins. A feat of historic
proportions considering the team had a winning percentage of only .525. Fortunately for the Twins there was only one
other team in the AL West who finished above .500 that season. To say that the seven-game series victory
over the St. Louis Cardinals was an upset would be a bit of an
understatement. The 1987 series also
made history as the first series to be played completely indoors and the first
series where the home team won every game.
The 1987 playoffs also saw the creation of the “Homer Hanky”, a white
hanky with red lettering that was waved voraciously by Twins fans during games,
both in the stadium and those following along at home.
I don’t remember much of the 1987 World Series beyond
the “Homer Hankies” (I was four at the time), but 1987 happened to be the model
year
of the Dodge Caravan that my parents purchased to serve as our family
vehicle. My sister and I had successfully
used the summer sun to melt crayons onto every exposed piece of backseat
interior of our existing vomit-green Buick, and the Caravan, with its
excessively large woodgrain “racing stripes” down the side, was deemed to be a
suitable replacement. The middle and
back bench seats were easily large enough for children under 10 to prostrate
horizontally, and rather dangerously, to sleep during long car rides – like the
rare occasions we were able to go to a Twins game. Beyond serving as my primary mode of
transportation for more than a decade, this 1987 Dodge Caravan would play a
major role in how I wound up where I am today.
While (presumably) lacking a Dodge Caravan of their own, the
Twins Organization did have a recognizable “Caravan” of another sort. It was a cross-state road trip during the off
season, that was literally called the “Twins Caravan”. It still exists to this day, and has been
recognized as one of the longest running and most extensive “caravans” of any
professional sports organization.
Essentially the caravan serves as a PR stunt by the team to engage the
fan base outside of the Twin Cities metro, who can’t regularly get to games and
spend copious amounts of money on tickets and concessions. It would include appearances from some
second-tier players – someone who hit in the 6-9 spots of the batting order or
was one of the many middle relief pitchers, and typically a few retired players
who were still involved in the organization – those who weren’t probably good
enough to have the luxury of not needing to be interested in baseball after
their retirement. Autographs were
signed, pictures were taken, souvenir bats/helmets/balls were handed out. I can’t say for certain, but the odds are
high, being the baseball fan that I was in my youth, that I attended one of the
Twins Caravan stops in the “moderately small town” nearest to my “tiny small
town” hometown. I’m sure if I dig hard
enough, I could probably find a picture of me with Chip Hale and Pedro Munoz,
or someone else of their caliber.
As Frank eloquently pointed out in the opening post of this
blog, the writers are a collection of men nearing the age of Kirby Puckett’s
jersey number who all happened to cross paths while attending Saint John’s
University, a small (but bigger than my hometown), all-guys school in the
middle of nowhere in Central Minnesota.
To my knowledge, no one in this group had any prior connection to anyone
else in the group before becoming “Johnnies”.
Yet over the course of our four years at Saint John’s our paths crossed in
a manner that changed the dynamic of our relationship from classmate to
acquaintance to friend. Whether it was
living on the same floor freshmen year, taking the same class or majoring in
the same field, sharing a similar interest/ability in music, or playing the
same intramural sport. At some point, we
all had initial encounters with each other, and I will often retrospectively
consider the sheer amount of chance, or dare I even say luck, present in those
interactions. Despite being 15 years
removed from our freshmen year of college, I can still recall in very vivid
detail one of my first meaningful interactions with each one of the other
writers who are a part of this project.
I would suspect that if they took some time to reminisce, they could
probably do the same with each other.
So, it seems fitting that my decision to enroll at Saint
John’s happened, in my view, somewhat by chance, and with help from our 1987
Dodge Caravan. During the last few
months of my senior year of high school, when I should have been more concerned
with finalizing my post-graduation plans, my Mom relegated me to exclusively
driving the Caravan as punishment for some very teenage-like behavior. For about a week, my Mom and I were not on
speaking terms, which was a little strange because we were the only inhabitants
of our house at the time. One night,
during the close of our silent treatment session, I signed the acceptance
letter for the financial aid package from Saint John’s, and placed it on the
kitchen counter where I knew she would see it in the morning. My intentions were bizarre at best, as I
seemed to sign the letter out of spite, even though I knew it was what my Mom
wanted. I wasn’t trying to appease her
so she’d forgive me, I was more trying to give her what I thought she wanted
and maybe she’d feel a tinge of guilt.
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| The Caravan - "the van that cares" |
Of course, trying to make my mom feel guilty was not my
ultimate reasoning for eventually deciding to attend SJU. My sister went to St. Ben’s, the all-women’s
school that partnered with Saint John’s, so I was pretty familiar with the
place. No matter how much I tried to
convince myself I wasn’t going to follow my sister to college, the place
already kind of felt like home. It was
also the closest college I applied to, which would give me the most
opportunities to see my then girlfriend (now wife), who had one more year of
high school. I do like to romanticize
though that the “Caravan incident” was the tipping point in pushing me to make
that final decision to attend SJU.
I have previously divulged in more detail in another blog
that I infrequently update, how my experience at SJU has helped me to get to
where I am today. Seven years ago, my
wife and I returned to the college town that is home to our alma mater on
account of a job opportunity for her. We
decided to stick around when we found out we’d be adding offspring to our
family, and plan on being here for the foreseeable future. Despite being one of the last of the group to
actually turn 34, I’m probably the one living the most “typical 34 year-old
experience”. One of the first to get
married, the first to have kids, and the one with the most kids (three). For the past two years, I’ve been a
stay-at-home dad, spending a good chunk of my time piloting a, you guessed it,
Dodge Grand Caravan (albeit a much newer model). So, if you’ve followed along so far, being
forced to drive a 1987 Dodge Caravan led me to attend Saint John’s, which has
led me to driving a Dodge Caravan today by choice.
Frank’s comment that “the impact SJU has on young men is
quite remarkable” is very poignant, as I know my time there had a profound
impact on my life. Much of that
profoundness was courtesy of the gentlemen contributing to this blog. They were the biggest reason my SJU
experience was as transformative as it was – the people make the place. And for my benefit, as each of our lives has
taken its own course following graduation, the Johnnie support has continually
flowed amongst each other. Each of these
guys has helped me become the person I am today because they have always been
there for me. Like any true teammate, they’ve
encouraged and cheered me on. They’ve
helped point me in the right direction when I’ve gotten turned around. They’ve called me out on my shit, and they’ve
called on me for advice, even when it might seem glaringly obvious that I have
nothing to offer. They’ve valued my
friendship, just as I have valued theirs.
So, when Frank talks about how impressed he is of the
accomplishments of our cohort, and the fellow writers of the blog, I know that
he is without hesitation including me too.
Even when our other classmates have climbed the ranks of prominence in
careers both the public and private sphere, and my time is mostly spent doing
laundry, cooking meals and changing diapers.
It’s humbling to be included with a group of guys like that. And it’s humbling to think about how I came
to consort with a group of guys like that.
I can’t help but think that I was just in the right place at the right
time. I just got lucky. I know that if I ever offered any of them a
ride in my caravan, they’d gladly accept, even if there were screaming kids
occupying the other seats. They’d maybe
think that they got pretty lucky too.
