The Twins

Quirky Coincidences of History

Do you remember who won the World Series in 1991?  Wait, let’s take a step back.  Do you know who won the World Series last year?  Do you follow baseball at all?  Maybe it’s not about the sport or the teams or the scores or the victors or the spoils.  Maybe you’re not good with dates.  Many of my friends defy my geeky logic and profess to not being history buffs primarily because they cannot remember all those names and dates and places.  But I argue that historic moments cannot be rhetorically remembered by names and dates and locations, but rather by the circumstances of the events that help to remind us of the salient details.

President James K Polk (do we all remember that name?), the Commander-in-Chief during the Mexican/American War (do we remember the year that ended?), happened to mention in his State of the Union address that a spot in the American West (do you recall the place?) happened to produce a golden nugget – a nugget that would transform the United States’ destiny.  And that valuable mineral propelled people with promises of prosperity westward spurring the largest stampede that defined the growth of the 19^th century American West.  And how do I remember the key names and dates and places?  Easy: San Francisco, a city located west of the South Fork of the American River, hosts the National Football League’s 49ers named for the year those money-hungry settlers arrived en masse and that's the year of the California Gold Rush.  The year before that, 1848, the United States acquired the land that became the Golden State at the end of the Mexican/American War.  The year after, 1850, California had boomed in a transition from territory to state faster than any other in America’s history because of the rush of folks to the tantalizing gold fields.  And as for President Polk, his middle name, Knox, in one of the fun, quirky coincidences of American history, happens to be the same name as the site of America’s gold depository at Fort Knox.

My Mnemonic Device

Leaning history stems from more than clever coincidences, the memorization of facts, or even the names of NFL teams.  Our memories makes history truly magical and remarkable.  We recall the date of Pearl Harbor because our president (do you know which one?) told us the date would live in infamy.  Our children will remember the events of 9/11 because it may be their earliest memory of American history.  But not all history is tragic, or monumental, or even memorable to everyone.  Take the World Series of 1991.  If you are not from Minnesota, even a baseball fan may not recall the final outcome of that year’s playoffs, and while I am an aficionado of the sport, I would be unable to recall who won the October Classic in 1990.  I remember that particular year, though, (and similarly why I remember the winners in 1992) the way many people recall history – by having been there.

During the summer of 1991, I drove with my son (see “Rapid City, Rapid Change,” November 2011) from Denver, Colorado to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (see “The UP,” July 2012).  The route took me through the Twin Cities during August as the aptly named home team gave its finest effort to make the season truly memorable for the players, the fans, and the Land of 10,000 Lakes.  Baseball history, world history, American history, and my family’s history converged in the summer of 1991 and for that reason, I recall who won the 1991 World Series.  I also know what year members of the old Soviet regime kidnapped Mikael Gorbachev, and what year our family moved to Michigan.  And I didn’t have to memorize any names or dates or places; instead I experienced all of the above.  That’s what I adore about history: the way it comes alive in our lives, the way it becomes a part of who we are in large and small ways, the way it sticks with us and follows us, the way its quirkiness, its coincidences, and its own kind of storytelling excite me.  Don’t even get me started on what happened when Sacajawea bumped into her brother.

Are You Ready for Some Baseball?

Becoming A Fan

Periodically someone will ask how I became a sports fan because I do not fit the sports fan stereotype.  The answer is remarkably simple: I have no idea.  But I do know when I could first trace my sports interest – inside the pages of Scholastic School News, Middle School Edition.  In an attempt to quiet the noisy and rather odoriferous tweens, Mrs. Travis handed out the monthly magazines and asked everyone to complete the geography puzzle – name all twenty-eight cities represented in the National Football League.  Primarily, my strength in this competition lied in my photographic memory of the United States map, but nonetheless I bested every boy in my class because I did know every team name to accompany the major American cities from Florida to Seattle.  I blew those boys away because I knew the Browns played in Cleveland.

In the autumn of 1994, History 316 (United States History 1896-1919) piqued my interest in a quirky and under-studied period of Americana.  From post-reconstruction to The Great War, the course covered heavily significant and momentous events such as the Spanish-American war and World War I, but the class also brought modern American culture to life during the Progressive era.  During that semester, with Major League Baseball threatening to take away my beloved October Classic to a labor dispute, I poured my love of the game into a term paper on the transition of baseball to the modern era, as well as my overall academic effort.  In my own words, I proclaimed my fandom and confirmed my passion for the boys of summer, and garnered an A for the effort.

Baseball Heaven

On the three-hour drive from Melbourne to Miami, after surprising my boys with tickets to the Dolphins v. Jets on Christmas night, we play Hank Williams Jr. on continuous repeat to make undeniably sure that we are ready for some football – a Monday Night party.  A line of damaging thunderstorms drives through Dolphin Stadium just after we sit down with our food and passes by game time.  Of course the Dolphins’ last game of the season falls in the “L” column and the passing weather turned the dirt parking lot into a mud bog, but the presence of Dan Marino and Don Shula at halftime captures our football fanaticism.

But my heart belongs to baseball and the crown jewel: The World Series.  The uncertainty of the yet-to-be-determined playoff sites challenges my travel-planning skills unlike my pilgrimage to Cooperstown (see “The Mile High Club” from December 2011).  After four years of preparing, with a round-trip, frequent-flyer ticket in my virtual pocket, and a landmark birthday just around the river bend, I begin watching every play of the ALDS, the NLDS, the ALCS, the NLCS.  I enter every team's ticket lottery just for the opportunity to buy the one

golden ticket that will admit me to baseball heaven.  By the end of the pennant race, the baseball gods smile down upon me and place the World Series in my own backyard.  Sitting behind home plate, cheering my team on its own albeit-AstroTurf, sipping my beer and nibbling my hot dog, checking the top box off my bucket list, and getting chills throughout every moment of the experience undoubtedly confirms I am a fan.