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.
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?”
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.