Tales from the Minnesota Twins Dugout Read online

  Copyright © 2007, 2012, 2019 by Kent Hrbek and Dennis Brackin

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Tom Lau

  Cover photo credit: TK

  ISBN: 978-1-68358-282-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-68358-285-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATED TO THE MINNESOTA TWINS AND THEIR GREAT FANS

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One: THE TWINS WAY

  Chapter Two: SHADOWS OF THE MET

  Chapter Three: MY FIRST LOVE

  Chapter Four: HEADED TO THE PROS

  Chapter Five: WELCOME TO THE BIG TIME

  Chapter Six: A NEW ERA

  Chapter Seven: G-MAN

  Chapter Eight: MOVING UP

  Chapter Nine: A STEP BACK

  Chapter Ten: THE NEW PIECES

  Chapter Eleven: THE POSTSEASON

  Chapter Twelve: THE SLIDE

  Chapter Thirteen: RETURN TO GLORY

  Chapter Fourteen: WINDING DOWN

  Chapter Fifteen: WHERE’S IT HEADING?

  Chapter Sixteen: LIFE AFTER BASEBALL

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Index

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Twins Way

  WHENEVER THE TWINS ARE SUCCESSFUL, LIKE they were in 2006, I hear people talking about “the Twins way.” The Twins way is heavy on respect for the game, heavy on fundamentals, and heavy on fun.

  I think what people are calling the Twins way started about the time Gary Gaetti, Tom Brunansky, and I walked into the Twins clubhouse for our first full year together in 1982. It had almost as much to do with cleaning fish in the clubhouse—until it got banned—as anything that happened on the field.

  You could say we were a little different. One thing about my big-league career is that I did it the way I was taught—the old-fashioned way, some might call it.

  Had a ton of fun. Didn’t spend much time working out or watching what I ate. And I got out when I was 34 years old so I wouldn’t miss my daughter’s birthday parties and school plays, like I had watched so many of my teammates do.

  Oh, did I mention I also have two World Series rings? That’s the reason I played this game. Personal stats? Overrated.

  Late in my career a writer told me a prominent executive from another American League club had once said, based on my physical frame and swing, I could have been one of the all-time greats. My numbers, he said, should have been Hall of Fame.

  I think the writer thought I’d feel bad or something, like I hadn’t lived up to my potential. I felt I lived up to my potential. Maybe I could have done things better. But who knows? My main goal was to win a World Series, and I was lucky enough to win two.

  I think I was lying on the dugout bench at the time, watching some of my teammates stretch.

  People will tell you I was never much for wind sprints or pregame stretching.

  Homegrown

  I look back at my career and wonder how lucky could one guy be. I grew up a couple miles from the old Metropolitan Stadium, and I was a huge Twins fan. I played at Bloomington Kennedy High School, got drafted by the Twins, reached the majors with my hometown team at the age of 21, and played my whole career with one team.

  Stop and think for a minute about how often that happens. How many kids get to play in the big leagues for their hometown team? And not only that but hit a grand slam in the World Series and help their team win two Series titles. That just doesn’t happen, especially in baseball today where guys jump teams as soon as they get a better offer. A lot of people have described me as a throwback, and I’m proud of that. Loyalty—to my team and my state—has always meant a lot to me. It just wouldn’t have been the same to me playing in the big leagues for anybody but the Twins.

  And today, I still live in the same Bloomington house that I did as a player, a couple miles from where I grew up. The difference from my playing days is that I live in the house alone after my wife—ah, I better make that former wife—Jeanie and I divorced in 2018. That’s one of the toughest things I’ve ever gone through, and I’m fortunate to have family and friends close by. Fortunate, too, to have Heidi, my daughter, move back to the house last summer during her college break, which came at a time I didn’t want to be alone.

  Living in Bloomington helped me, too. I guess the best way to say it is it’s home. The ballpark where I played as a kid—Valley View—now has a four-field baseball complex that is named Kent Hrbek Fields. Can you believe that? That’s cool as heck. I’ve got buddies I went to school with, and they’ll tell me: “My kid is playing at Hrbek Fields this week.” It feels pretty weird to hear them talking about a field named after me. I always thought they named fields after people who had died. And I’m not dead yet.

  Growing Up Fast

  But as much fun as it was, and as lucky as I was, it wasn’t all a joyride. I was 21 years old, playing Class-A ball in Visalia, California, when I got the call. My mom told me that my dad had been to the doctor, and they thought he had Lou Gehrig’s disease. I didn’t even know what that was. All I knew was that Lou Gehrig had died from it.

  I immediately told them I was coming home, and they said, “No, you’re not. We’re coming out there to see you.” They didn’t have the money to be flying around like that—my dad worked for the gas company, my mother had been a stay-at-home mom for me, my brother, and my sister—but they hopped on a plane and flew out to see me.

  My dad didn’t seem sick at all when they came out, so that made me feel a little better. But I soon learned how fast the disease progresses. Mom said she had noticed some slurred speech, and he dragged his foot a little, but that happened mostly when he came back from his weekly bowling outing, and she thought maybe he had just had a few cocktails. But she kept noticing it, kept on him to go to the doctor, and that’s how they found out.

  I wanted to come home, but they wanted me to stay in California and play ball. My dad told me: “I got you here. I’m going to be at home, taking care of Mom. You keep going with what you’re doing here.”

  Those were probably the best words my dad ever told me. When I look back, that conversation cleared my mind. From that point, my whole incentive was to get back home and get called up by the Twins.

  Heading Home

  I had a great year at Visalia, batting .379 with 27 homers and 111 RBIs in 121 games. I walked into the clubhouse on August 22, and five or six of the guys were already there.

  They said Skip—Dick Phillips—wanted to talk to me. I went in thinking, “Geez, I’m getting called up to AA.” I remember the first thing Phillips said to me was, “Hrbie, the Twins are playing in New York Monday night, and Billy Gardner wants you to play first.” I just stood there. No response. I couldn’t believe it. Finally, the first thing I said was, “How do I get there?”
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br />   I was fired up, because I knew I was going home.

  The Debut

  On Monday night, I was in the lineup, playing first base at Yankee Stadium where Lou Gehrig once played. I look back now and that seems pretty ironic. A few months earlier I had learned my dad was dying of Lou Gehrig’s disease, and my first taste of the big leagues was standing on the same piece of ground where Lou Gehrig played. I hit a home run in the 12th inning to win that game. Exciting? I was up all night calling everyone back home.

  A few days later my dad got to see me play in the big leagues. That meant a lot to me. But the next year, in 1982, during my rookie season, he died. And that’s one of the reasons I retired early.

  I’m not saying we were a huggy-kissy family growing up. But we were a family—my mom and dad, brother Kevin and younger sister Kerry. We ate dinners together, my parents came to 90 percent of my ballgames, and they were there for me whenever I needed them.

  And I respected them, which is what families have to have. I remember swearing one time as a kid, and my brother said he was going to tell Mom, because she’d wash my mouth out with soap. Well, I ran to beat my brother home, and I went in the bathroom and stuck a bar of soap in my mouth so Mom wouldn’t have the pleasure of doing it.

  Maybe some people don’t understand why I walked away from the big leagues so young. But when I turned 34, my daughter turned two. I decided I was going to watch her grow up and be a dad. I wasn’t going to miss all those years.

  Besides, by that point, I’d already had a heckuva run.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shadows of the Met

  No. 6: Tony-O

  My earliest memory of playing on a team was right here in Bloomington, playing T-ball when I was about six years old. We didn’t have uniforms or anything, but the coach told us that we should all wear white T-shirts so that we looked like a team. Or at least look the same when everybody is heading the wrong way on the base paths, which is what T-ball is all about.

  But there was something about swinging a bat at a ball that I loved right away. Plus, I loved my first uniform, such as it was. My mom sewed the No. 6 on my back—not an iron-on number but actually hand stitched—because even then I was a big Tony Oliva fan. Tony could flat-out hit, and he was left-handed like I was. At age six, that was plenty of reason to idolize the guy.

  I lived close enough to the old Met as a kid to ride my bike to the ballpark. Monday nights were discounted for seniors and under 16s, and we used to go to a lot of Monday night games. My dad would take me to some games, and other times I’d go with friends. I loved the outfield stands at the old Met. There was a lot of entertainment going on besides the game itself. We’d play tag under the bleachers some nights. Other times we’d get the seats over the bullpen and talk to relievers. I wish I knew then what I know now, because my teammate, Ron Davis, would trade baseballs for bratwurst as he sat in the bullpen. I’d have had a lot more baseballs, and eaten a lot fewer brats, as a kid.

  When I did watch the games, the guy I watched was Tony-O. I can still recite his stats: first player to win the batting title in his first two seasons, three batting titles in all. He was among the top three in batting seven times in eight seasons, starting with his rookie year in 1964. When I got to the big leagues, people assumed that Harmon Killebrew must have been my favorite player as a kid. But I always focused on watching Tony swing the bat and hit the ball to all fields. Believe me, I loved it when Harmon hit those tape-measure homers. But for some reason, I liked the way Tony slapped the ball around better than home runs.

  I think that surprised a lot of people because I was a big guy playing first base, and people just naturally thought I should be a home-run hitter. Now, I’ve got nothing against home runs. But I always hated striking out, and that’s the price you pay if you’re trying to hit homers all the time. I always had the attitude that nothing gets accomplished when you strike out. But if you put the ball in play someplace, something can happen. I always prided myself on on-base percentage more than home runs. My career on-base percentage was .367, which is pretty good for a guy who batted cleanup most of his career. I’m also proud that I had more walks (838) than strikeouts (798). I think even Tony-O would have been proud of those numbers.

  Learning the Game

  The most important thing as far as developing my game wasn’t organized youth baseball. I mean, those games were fun, getting to wear a uniform and playing in front of your mom and dad. But where I learned the game was playing Wiffle ball in the neighborhood backyards. We always had a ballgame going, and we had holes worn in the yard where first, second, and third base were. Every time I think about that, I remember Harmon telling me that when his dad would get upset because the kids were ruining the yard, his mom would yell, “Hey, what are we raising here, kids or grass?” That’s the same attitude my parents had.

  In Bloomington Little league, I was the tallest kid on my team (middle row, third from right). Courtesy of Kent Hrbek

  My buddies on the block—the Meyers brothers: Jimmy, Russ, and Monte—had the perfect place for a baseball field in their backyard. The Meyers’ backyard is probably where I learned the game best—how to hit different pitches because of all the things they were able to make that damned Wiffle ball do. I learned to hit curveballs, knuckleballs, you name it. I can’t tell you how many times we stood in the backyard and played until it was so dark we couldn’t see anymore. We always tried to emulate Twins players, from the top of the order to the bottom, guys like César Tovar and Rod Carew. We had their batting stances down. And if you were Dean Chance, you had to strike out to make it real life. Poor Dean couldn’t hit, but he sure could pitch.

  I’ve always been someone who just loved playing games. You name the game; I love it. And I love to win. I used to play Candy Land with my daughter, and I admit, I tried to beat her. I suppose that’s not really nice, but that’s just the way I am. I’m not even sure where that came from—my dad, for sure, and probably my high school baseball coach, Buster Radebach, who used to play in the Boston Red Sox system.

  But it has to be fun, too; otherwise, I’m not going to do it. I’m a big guy, and people figured I must have been a good high school football player. Well, the last time I played football was seventh grade. I hated the idea of practice, practice, practice, practice four days a week, then play one game. Four days of work for one day of fun. NO THANKS!

  Baseball was different. Even the practices were fun. You’d get to step in the batting cage and hit or take fielding practice. There’s something about baseball that felt like a game every time you stepped onto the field. Not like football.

  Now, I played a lot of other sports at the park. I was good at everything, even hockey . . . except for basketball. The one thing I could never do was dribble a basketball. So by the time I got to high school, I wasn’t playing football or basketball. Nope, the only sport I played was baseball.

  Switching Positions

  I wasn’t a superstar in junior high. There were always a couple guys on the team who had better stats than I did. I had always been a shortstop and pitcher in youth baseball. The summer before I went to Kennedy High, there was a guy on the team, named Marty Petersen, who was a shortstop and a sophomore. I was a ninth grader. They needed a first baseman on the summer team, and I said, “Hey, I’ll give it a shot.”

  Our coach, Phil Smith, stuck me over there at first, hit me a ton of ground balls, and I survived. I never played shortstop again. I guess I should say thanks to Phil Smith and Marty Petersen for making me a first baseman.

  We made the high school state tournament my sophomore year at Bloomington Kennedy, and Timmy Laudner’s Park Center team beat us in the first round 4–1. I remember I dunked a little double over the third baseman’s head. But another thing I remember is that Timmy played center field, believe it or not. I didn’t even know him at the time, but he would become a teammate and good friend of mine with the Twins. The guy I remember more than Tim from that game was a pitcher named Donnie Nolan,
who threw harder than anybody I’d ever seen.

  But maybe the most important thing to happen to me that year was a game we played at Wayzata during the regular season. Wayzata had a big stud catcher named Dave Vanzo. The Chicago Cubs had a scout in the stands that day watching him play, and I hit two home runs, which was pretty good for a skinny sophomore. As I’m walking to the bus, the scout grabbed my arm and said, “Mr. Hrbek.”

  That was the first time anyone ever called me “Mr. Hrbek.” He told me he saw the way I played the game and wondered whether I had any interest in playing baseball beyond high school. That was kind of a jolt, because as a sophomore, I wasn’t the kind of kid who thought too far out. I got on the bus and wondered, “What was that guy talking to me about? Do I have an opportunity to play this game?” From that day on, there were scouts at most of my games. I guess word spreads pretty fast in the scouting fraternity.

  After my junior year, I went to a couple of tryout camps just to see how I’d fit in. I remember going to a Cincinnati camp and a Dodger camp. What I learned was that I didn’t run fast enough for those two organizations.

  I could hit the ball off the wall all day long, but I couldn’t run. At least not fast enough for those guys. Now, I was pretty fast. In fact, during my rookie year with the Twins in 1982, I was the fastest guy on the team, which probably said more about that team than it did about me. We lost 102 games that year and stole 38 bases. That’s the team total, not mine.

  If you remember Cincinnati and Los Angeles in the ’70s, they were both built around speed and stolen bases. So they’d take stopwatches out and time you sprinting. I always wondered why they didn’t pay more attention to me hitting balls off the wall. But I guess they were too busy timing the wind sprints.

  Twins Enter the Picture

  Smokey Teewalt is the guy who got the Twins interested in me. Smokey was a concession guy at the old Met Stadium, and his son was the same age as me. I played against him when he was at Bloomington Lincoln, which was only a couple miles from my school, Kennedy. I’ve heard that it was the summer of my sophomore year that he went and told George Brophy, the chief scout for the Twins, that someone should go and check this Hrbek kid out.