I wrote An Open Letter to Dave St. Peter and the Minnesota Twins during the 2019 season recapping an emotionally-scarring anecdote from my childhood. They didn’t return my broom, but after the letter made the rounds at Target Field, they hooked me up with some pretty decent tickets to make amends.
Dear Mr. St. Peter,
On June 28, 2001, the Minnesota Twins hosted the Chicago White Sox for a series closer at the HHH Metrodome. Going into the game, the upstart Twins — headlined by young fan favorites like Torii Hunter, Cristian Guzman, and A.J. Pierzynski — were neck-and-neck with the Cleveland Indians for the AL Central division lead with a surprising 46–30 record. Veteran ace Brad Radke was toeing the rubber, as the Twins hoped to send the Southsiders packing with an impressive series sweep.
Little did anyone know the implications of what took place between the chalk lines that afternoon would pale in comparison to an event just beyond the Astroturf.
That morning, a crew of Little League buddies and I, 14 years old at the time, stuffed our pockets with lawn mowing earnings and begged one of our moms for a ride down 35W to the Dome box office. We donned our “M” hats, grabbed our mitts, and just before heading out the door, snagged one last good luck charm — a wicker broom, the decades-old symbol of a series sweep.
We leaped out of Mrs. Larson’s minivan and into the shadows of the ballpark minutes before Radke fired his trademark first-pitch strike. After securing nose-bleed tickets, we eagerly approached the rotating doors of the stadium. The friendly ushers at Gate H greeted us with a smile, handed back our freshly-torn ticket stubs, and sent us on our way to our blue plastic seats to take in the ballgame — with one caveat.
No brooms allowed.
This revelation was truly devastating. Not only had I borrowed my family’s go-to kitchen broom with a promise to my mother to return with it intact, but this symbolic souvenir was going to rally the team to a much-needed victory in a way no foam finger ever could. I mean, what harm could a 115-pound middle-schooler do with a wicker broom other than root, root root for the home team? (Remember, this was a pre-9/11 world, and expectations at security gates were much more lax.) I was told I could pick up the broom after the contest, and sulked into the concourse empty-handed.
Unfortunately, we know how this story ends. There was no sweep. The Sox got to Radke early, scoring five runs in the first two innings, and the Twins were unable to rally back, losing the game 6–3. More importantly, the team went on to post a 39–46 record from that date on, missing the playoffs for the 10th consecutive season.
After the game, I returned to Gate H to pick up my broom. It was nowhere to be found. Not a single usher manning the gate knew what had happened to it. I went back home without the broom — nor victory — in hand.
Now, is it a mere coincidence that the team took a nosedive after The Broom incident? Maybe. Is it possible that this young team just wasn’t ready to compete for a pennant? Sure. But I think it’s far more likely that this turning point in what was a promising season is a direct result of the karmic implications of turning my broom away at the gate. Among some historians (fine, more like a handful of my friends), The Broom is up there in baseball curse lore with the Babe Ruth Trade and The Billy Goat.
With the current ballclub slugging the ball at a historic rate and a chance for the team to do some real damage in the postseason for the first time in a decade, reparations for The Broom must be made. The players are doing their part on the field. The front office has made the necessary moves to shore up the bullpen for the stretch run. Now, it’s time for the organization to return my broom to its proper home.
The Metrodome is now a fading memory of concrete and Teflon in the minds of Twin Cities sports fans — yet the injustice that took place that sunny Thursday afternoon in 2001 is as tangible as the towering football cathedral that stands in its place. If we want this year’s ballclub to reach the heights we all believe it is capable of reaching, together, we must right this wrong.
Please give me my broom back.
Sincerely,
Joe Stefanson
Loyal Twins fan since 1991
The New York Times wrote an article about how pizza wasn’t good, and that didn’t sit well with me.
In Defense of Pizza
Recently, the New York Times blasphemously diminished the crucial role of pizza in modern society with a piece titled “Yes, We Believe That Pizza Is Meh”. It’s rather sad that the paper that once published the Pentagon Papers would resort to levels of trolling normally reserved for the click-bait cesspools of the web (“15 Reasons Pizza is ‘Meh’ That Totally Remind Us of These 90s Cartoons!”). I was embarrassed to read such nonsense.
As a self-proclaimed pizza connoisseur and someone who received a solid B+ in high school Lincoln-Douglas debate class, I feel I am uniquely qualified to rebut. So, let us begin. Author Willy Staley kicks off his smear campaign by painting this scenario:
Picture this: You coach a T-ball team that has just finished its last game of the season. You’re a nice coach, so you decide to treat your team of exhausted 5-year-olds to a celebratory meal. But where?
First of all, did we win or lose? How did we play? Did we get fucked by the ump in the last inning when the ball CLEARLY hit the base runner and should have been the third out? Because if that’s the case we’re not celebrating anything, kids. Turn in your stirrups to Matt’s mom, I’m taking the Caravan down to the Clover to drown my sorrows with a different 5-year-old – one that’s aged in an oak barrel and will never let me down in the biggest game of my managerial career, dammit.
What’s a food inoffensive to even the most unsophisticated palates? A food that comes in massive quantities because its ingredients are humble?
Pizza, with its humble roots, is fundamentally American. In what other country could the simple combination of cheese, flour and tomatoes transform into one of our most celebrated dishes? (Ok, maybe Italy.) When our forefathers opened their collective arms for the tired, poor, huddled masses, I imagine the migrants were greeted with Lady Liberty’s fearless stare, endless opportunity, and a greasy slice of Meatlover’s with extra cheese. He continues:
And then, like so many T-ball coaches before you, you pull into a strip-mall parking lot and find a spot in front of the local Chuck E. Cheese. Pizza is right at home here in a suburban strip mall because pizza, like a strip mall, is fundamentally meh — good, but rarely great; fine, but seldom bad.
Choosing any one pie – let alone one from Chuck E. Cheese – to use as a basis of critiquing pizza as a whole is not fair. It’s the equivalent of playing Frank Stallone’s 1984 self-titled debut as evidence that music sucks. Next, Willy, why don’t you rip the works of Shakespeare because your 14-year-old nephew’s drama class butchered Hamlet?
You liked pizza when you were 5, because pizza — like anything a 5-year-old likes (baseball cards, shoe-tying, garbage trucks) — is inherently meh.
Funny how a grown man who calls himself “Willy” would dismiss something because it’s enjoyed by a child. I’d delve into the garbage trucks thing more deeply, but I don’t want this to get too wordy.
It’s basically bread with cheese and sauce on it, and maybe some other stuff. It’s like a sandwich with fewer ingredients and less topological complexity.
And the Mona Lisa is basically a piece of wood with some oil on it.
Go ahead and eat pizza (it usually tastes good!), but it is now, officially, unworthy of being discussed.
Willy, writing for the Times does not allow you to wave a magic wand and decide what is worthy, officially or otherwise, of discussion. I WILL go ahead and eat pizza. I will also unapologetically continue to discuss and worship it as well. Because pizza is delicious. It brings people together and makes them happy. And it is definitely not “meh”.