Of Heroes, Villains and Man.

From 1994-2005 my number one passion in life was playing baseball. Almost half my life was dedicated to doing better, getting better and learning the game. For people who never invested so much time and effort into a sport, it's hard to imagine. It's something you need to know and experience to truly understand.

My dad was a former all-state baseball player, but didn't go to college, but went to fight in Vietnam. My brother was considered one of the best shortstops in Minneapolis, before he too went to fight a war in the Middle East. Baseball is a religion in my family, my mom is a huge baseball fan as well.

My dad has been a season ticket holder for the Minnesota Twins since the mid eighties. He watched as the Twins won two world championships, one on the year I was born. What I'm trying to say here, is that I was raised with baseball and even more specifically, the Minnesota Twins organization. Summer became about two things, playing baseball and watching the Twins.

Now you all know I didn't grow up in a real, great household. Physical abuse rarely happened, verbal abuse was common and just plain negligence was rampant. Even so, the one thing my father was adamant about teaching me, was baseball. Become a good player, become a good fan and be smart about the game.

I remember when I was 9 and playing in my first little league game at second base, a position where I would stay till 2005. It was great, one of the few times my dad actually came to a game, but then in the 6th inning, I came up to bat and struck out without swinging the bat. Things that happen when you're a kid and even to the best of all players.

After we lost the game, my dad on the way back to the car made sure we weren't seen by anybody. He grabbed me by the shoulders and squeezed so hard that I had bruises for a few weeks afterwords. He yelled at me, never to strike out without swinging, never to let that happen ever again as long as I played the game. In 9 years, I never struck out without swinging ever again... That is how seriously my family took the game.

But back onto topic.

I went to my first baseball game in 1991, the year that we won our second world championship. That year a small second baseman was having a wonderful season and became rookie of the year.
Chuck Knoblauch was a small guy and as such had to perform better to prove how good he was to everyone. He was exactly the player I always wanted to be, a good hitter with tremendous speed and fielding ability. In the 6 years he played for the Twins, he put up amazing numbers and after Kirby Puckett retired, became the most popular baseball player in the Twin Cities.

He was my hero, an idol for me to look up to as I made my way higher and higher in the sport. He was a sign that things weren't always going to be bad for me, that I could work my way out of my situation. Then suddenly in 1997 everything changed. He demanded a trade and was sent to the New York Yankees, my most despised team in the world. He changed from being my hero, to being the antithesis of what was wrong in the world.

A week after he was traded, I took a metal bucket from the garage and set fire to my Knoblauch jersey and baseball cards. An action that would normally get me yelled at, but was well received by my family.

When he returned to Minnesota as a Yankee, I happened to be at the game. I joined in as thousands of people booed him and some people even through objects at him. He was the most hated man in Minnesota for a few years. I was fine with that,

The years passed and Knoblauch lost the ability to throw the ball accurately and even the ability to hit the ball. As I took joy in his complete and utter failures in New York, at the same time I was getting more and more recognition in baseball circles, for being exactly like him in play style.

Things got so bad for him, he retired years earlier than he would have if he had remained at the same level as before. Then years later he was named in a report for using steroids while playing, when I was told this, all I said was, "Figures."

Now going forward, my dad sends me sports articles in the mail from The Star Tribune. The last one I got was a giant two page article, entitled, "Chuck Knoblauch: Unpacking Memories"

In the article, a reporter visited the retired second baseman at his home in Houston. Where there was no sign that he was ever a baseball player, no pictures, no trophies, nothing at all. He kept all that stuff including his World Series rings packed away in his old home that he never went to. The pictures showed a man, who was almost a shell of his former self. Out of shape and looking nothing like he was ever a premier athlete. He was no longer a hero or a villain, but just a normal human with problems just like the rest of us. He is someone who dedicated himself to his family and his life outside of the sport of baseball. Then it dawned on me...

I had become just that.

I was at the top of the world, I was going to go to a big baseball college, then the minors and maybe the MLB. Then my right shoulder was severely injured and I could no longer hit as well as I used to. All those opportunities dried up and I was left in a very dark place.

Looking back I can now sympathize with him, what he went through and the person he ended up becoming. Why would you want any sign of how good you used to be hanging around the house? How could you look at them everyday? That's when I realized, I didn't have anything up from when I played in my office or anywhere. I found my box of baseball stuff, my old mitt, some trophies and a small metal canister. It contained a small bit of dirt from a baseball field, marked with scotch tape in childlike handwriting.

"From my first stolen base, summer 1997."

I have it sitting on my window ledge at my home office now. It's all I need to remember... It's all I want to remember.