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.
So they sent Angelo Guiliani, the Twins area scout, to watch me. I saw Angelo around the ball parks a lot my junior and senior years, and the summer after my senior year at Kennedy, the Twins drafted me in the 17th round, fairly late, partly because I had already signed a letter of intent to play college ball at the University of Minnesota.
The first offer the Twins made was for $5,000. I turned that down, although not because I had my heart set on going to college. When it came to school, I wasn’t a guy who skipped classes and stuff, mostly because I was afraid Mom and Dad would whoop my ass. But I admit I wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree.
George Thomas was coaching the Gophers at the time, and after my senior year in high school, I played on his summer league team. He told me if I could get the money I wanted, I should sign and go straight to professional baseball. That’s a little weird for a college coach to say to a kid, but he was fired up about the way I could play the game. I love George Thomas for being honest with me. He saw I had a better future on the ball field than the classroom. Plus, he was one of the funniest guys I know.
My dad pretty much left it up to me. We talked about signing, and we decided that if I could get $30,000, I’d sign. We figured that would cover my schooling if I didn’t make it in pro ball, although the truth is I was about as big on the thought of going to school as I was on jumping into a pot of boiling water.
It didn’t seem to matter much, because the Twins didn’t look too anxious to fork over that kind of bonus for a 17th-round draft choice. As baseball fans know, Calvin Griffith, the Twins owner, wasn’t known for handing out money.
But Angelo kept watching me after the draft. Finally, one night, he got Brophy and Calvin to come to a game at Valley View, which was across the street from my house. I remember that night mostly because there was a hush over the ballpark; everyone knew Calvin and Brophy were there to watch Hrbek. I hit a long home run to right-center field, but I don’t even know if Calvin and Brophy stayed the entire game. We never talked after the game or anything, so I had no idea whether they were impressed or not. As the summer went on, it began to look more and more like I was going to college.
At the end of the summer, our Legion team made the state playoffs and went to Austin, Minnesota, to play at McCracken Field. That’s a park where former Yankees star Moose Skowron supposedly hit the longest home run ever hit there. Well, I hit one straight over the center-field fence that the old timers said was longer than the one Skowron hit.
We ended up getting beat by Terry Steinbach’s team from New Ulm, but as we were heading to the bus, Angelo stopped me at the door and said, “I think I can get you the money, kid.” I guess that’s the story of my life as an amateur player—getting stopped by scouts as I was about to get on the bus.
I ended up signing right after that, although it was too late in the summer to send me to rookie ball. They told me to report to Instructional League in the fall. I have to admit I wasn’t quite honest with my dad about using that money for school if pro ball didn’t pan out. I took a good chunk of that $30,000 and bought myself a Ford pickup. In my mind, I was done with school. If this baseball thing didn’t pan out, I figured I’d rather pump gas at the neighborhood filling station.
This was at my high school graduation party in 1978. Hard to believe that four months later I started my pro career in the Instructional League. Courtesy of Kent Hrbek
