Winding Down
I’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER THE 1992 SEASON as the first time I seriously began thinking about retirement. It wasn’t a passing thought, like when Jeanie told me I was going to be a father the previous summer. The thoughts became a little more intense, a little more real, in ’92.
Life changed for me in a lot of ways that summer. Physically, by then, I was hurting all the time. I had dislocated my left shoulder in 1989 and missed six weeks. I dislocated the same shoulder again in spring training of ’92.
It wasn’t only my shoulders. My knees ached, my ankles ached, my wrists ached. My whole body hurt most days. I took four Tylenol before batting practice, then four more before the game.
My outlook on life changed, too. Our daughter, Heidi, was born during spring training. She had some complications after the birth and required stomach surgery. I was able to hang around for a couple days, but then I had to get back to training camp to get ready for the season. When I got back to camp, it felt like I’d seen Heidi for two seconds, then I was out the door.
It was three weeks before I could see them again. Every day I’d take batting practice, then run in to call home. Then I’d play the game, and run in to call home. My whole world depended on how those phone calls went. Was Heidi doing well that day? Or was it a bad day?
I guess everything just came to a head in ’92. We had a good team, winning 90 games, but it wasn’t a championship team. Jack Morris, our big pitching horse, signed a free agent contract with Toronto after ’91, and Danny Gladden, who had been our left fielder for two World Series championship teams, signed a free agent deal with the Tigers.
I was never a big fan of conditioning or stretching, and my weight was always a hot topic for the media. Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
Then, to top it off, I injured my right shoulder in a collision at home plate in late August. I had career lows in homers and RBIs. But it wasn’t the numbers as much as the way I felt inside. It got to the point that it wasn’t fun anymore.
I’d be at home and look at the clock and say, “Oh, I’ve got to go to the park today.” Before, it was always, “Oh, I get to go to the park today.” It wasn’t the guys on the team or anything like that. It was just changes with me.
Advice from the Top
My weight had always been a topic of conversation, a lot of it humorous. I came to spring training camp in 1984 and one of my teammates had painted my number, 14, on a Shamu the Whale billboard for Sea World at our ballpark in Orlando. Funny stuff. I laughed at it, too, right along with my teammates. I learned it had been Mark Portugal who painted the number on, and I got even. I can’t remember how, but I’m sure I did. I always did.
Wanting to spend more time with my daughter, Heidi, was one of the main reasons I decided to call it quits in 1994. Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
I was a skinny kid when I came to the majors, but let’s just say I grew. And after a while, the jokes weren’t as funny to some people. I was playing at about 260 pounds by the ’90s, and I knew that Twins officials were thinking that my weight was taking a toll on my knees and ankles and was probably going to cut my career short.
My manager, Tom Kelly called me in for a heart-to-heart about my weight after the 1992 season. TK laid everything on the table, and I pretty much told him that this was me. I didn’t totally neglect my conditioning. I had tried, at various times, to watch my weight and work out in the offseason. But I was never going to be a fanatic about it. I told him I wasn’t trying to shortchange anyone, but this is what you’re getting.
TK told a reporter after I retired that he felt terrible walking out of that meeting, and he decided he’d never have that talk with me again. I gave everything I had on the field. I played hurt, I dived for balls, I took the extra base. And TK knew that better than anyone.
I always said if they had someone who could take my job away from me, then he could have it. But that never happened.
Full Circle
Nothing happened the next two summers to change my thinking about retirement. My batting average was declining, and the team hit the skids. We had losing seasons in both ’93 and ’94, and it became increasingly clear to me that I would finish out the five-year deal I signed after the 1989 season and retire at the end of ’94.
I was 34 when I walked away. I could still hit the ball, and I’m sure I could have hung on and played a few more years. But that wasn’t the way I wanted to go out, hanging on to make a few more bucks. I wanted to walk away while I still could, while I was still having some fun.
Yes, we had losing seasons my final two years. But I felt lucky because my manager was still Tom Kelly, and the coaching staff, including my old minor-league manager Rick Stelmaszek, was still pretty much intact. That made those final years special. And it meant a lot to me to play my whole career with the Twins. I didn’t want to lose that.
As much as anything, I had this thing about retiring, probably because my dad died when he was 52 and never got to retire. To me, retiring was a good thing. It meant you could go off and do whatever you wanted.
That’s bad?
The Announcement
I didn’t make any attempt to keep it a secret that 1994 was going to be my last season. If reporters asked about retiring, I told them the truth. I finally made it official with a press conference the first week in August. We had to do it then, because baseball was heading toward a strike that would end the season on August 10.
The strike didn’t have anything to do with my decision. I certainly felt bad about the strike and what it did to the game by knocking out the World Series. But I was going to retire after the 1994 season no matter what. It just came a couple weeks earlier than I’d have liked.
It wasn’t a real emotional press conference, except for the part where I talked about my dad never getting to retire. As far as I was concerned, this was a joyful time. I had a little kid growing up, and I was going to be able to spend time with my family. I was ready to move on and try something new. It wasn’t like I was being forced out. That would have been tough, I think. But I was walking away on my own terms.
It’s almost fitting that two days before what was going to be my final game, I sprained my ankle. But TK told me that if I could walk, he wanted me to be on the field. He said I’d meant too much to the organization to go out sitting on the bench.
I announced my retirement from baseball at a press conference. I have no regrets about leaving when I did. Does this guy look sad? Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
So I played. Big deal. I’d been playing hurt for the last few years. I got standing ovations every time I came to the plate my final game. And I caught the pop-up that ended the game. I always thought that was a neat way to have it end.
Looking Back
Some things never changed during my career. There was always someone saying that I had “Hall of Fame” talent and asking what might have been had I devoted myself to physical conditioning.
When I retired, naturally someone asked Tom Kelly if I had Hall of Fame talent. “I sure think so,” he said. My teammate, Gene Larkin, said some nice things, then added: “I just wish he had stayed in better shape, from a fan’s point of view. But that’s him.”
Geno’s still a close friend, by the way. The thing is, I understand all those comments. I just hope people understand me when I say I couldn’t be happier the way my career turned out. The day I popped out of my mom’s belly I had a gift that allowed me to hit a baseball. It just came natural. To me, that was something to be proud of, not feel bad about.
I was proud that I played the game hard and competed. I was proud that we played the game the right way and represented Minnesota well on and off the field. My shoulders were the first part of my body to go, and that was because I dived for balls on the hard turf of the Dome. It didn’t have anything to do with weight.
Sure, I wish I could have been in better shape. But that just wasn’t me. I was a throwback in a lot of ways, and I guess that was one of them. I’d have been a lot more at home having a beer and hot dog with Babe Ruth than working out at some gym with modern ballplayers who want to look like body builders.
Hall of Fame talent? Harmon Killebrew who sadly passed away in 2011, is a Hall of Famer and was a great guy. But did being a Hall of Famer make him any different than me? He got more money for his autograph than I did, but otherwise, we were never that different, as far as I can see. And what about guys like Bert Blyleven and Tony Oliva? If I had a vote, they’d both be in the Hall of Fame. Tony’s still waiting and Bert got in on his 14th year on the ballot. But does any of that make them any different as ballplayers?
And here’s the thing to remember with some Hall of Famers: Ted Williams never won a World Series. Harmon never won a Series. Ernie Banks never won a Series. A lot of guys who have plaques in Cooperstown never won a Series.
I was fortunate enough to be a part of two Series champions. And that, to me, was the ultimate. It was the reason I played this game. If I was a tennis player, I’d have felt different because that’s all individual. But baseball to me was a team game. You lived and breathed baseball every day from February through October with your teammates and coaches. You won together, you lost together.
To have your name on a championship trophy, that’s the only plaque that really mattered to me. And to win those championships in a small market like Minnesota—and in my hometown city—that makes it even more special. I walk around here today and people still smile because when they see me they remember 1987 and 1991. That’s what I played for.
Awards
If I’m not obsessed with the Hall of Fame, you can probably guess that I’m not overly concerned with individual awards. I can take them or leave them, although I would have liked to have taken a couple more during my career—namely a Gold Glove. That’s one thing that always eats at me. I took a great deal of pride in my defense, and I know if you talk to my manager and teammates, they’ll say I was a great first baseman who saved a lot of runs with my glove.
I honestly thought I should have won five or six of them. I took a lot of pride in catching the baseball, and I didn’t think there was anybody better than I was at first base. To this day, I still feel that there wasn’t anybody better at first base.
One of the best compliments I ever got from an opponent came from Dwight Evans, after he singled and was standing at first base with me. A lot of times those days they were sticking left fielders or third basemen at first base to get another bat in the lineup. I’d been a first baseman since ninth grade. Dwight said to me: “Hrbie, they can stick anybody at first base, but nobody can play it like you can.”
The truth is I’ve got one Gold Glove in my basement. Gary Gaetti won four straight Gold Gloves with the Twins (1986–89), and he gave me one of his. He told me that if I wouldn’t have caught all the shit he threw over to first base, he’d have never won one.
That’s pretty special, coming from a teammate.
And as long as we’re talking individual awards, I’ll admit it: I thought I should have won the Rookie of the Year in 1982. You look at the numbers, and I had a better year than Cal Ripken (.301 average, .363 on-base percentage, 23 homers, 92 RBIs to Ripken’s .264 average, .317 on-base percentage, 28 homers, 93 RBIs). And in ’84, when I was second to Willie Hernández, a reliever, well, all I can say is that he had a great year, but there are a lot of people who believe pitchers shouldn’t be MVP. They’ve got their own award: the Cy Young.
But I can live with that. I’ll ride off into the sunset with the two World Series.
The Biggest Honor
The Twins had a special day for me at the Dome in 1995. Before the game, they had a ceremony announcing that the team was retiring my number. My jersey, 14, is up on the outfield wall with Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, Rod Carew, and Kirby Puckett. We’re the only five Twins who have ever had their number retired.
That’s probably the greatest personal honor I’ve ever had in my life. It’s an incredible feeling for me to walk into the Dome and see my number hanging there. And then you think about the other people whose numbers are out there with me. I know I’ve said this before, but I still think of this when I walk into the Dome: I used to pretend to be Tony-O while playing Wiffle ball in my backyard. Wiffle ball in my backyard. And now my number is hanging next to his on the outfield wall. Who’d have thunk?
If I go to a Twins game now with some buddies and their kids, or maybe their nephews and nieces, it’s fun to think that one day those kids will be telling their friends that they met the guy who once wore No. 14. It’s pretty awesome to think that when I’m 95 and walk into the Twins stadium, my number is going to be hanging on the wall.
The other thing that happened during the ceremony was just as special: My Twins teammates gave me a trophy for being a good teammate. That’s all I ever wanted to be: a good teammate to the guys I played with.
The night was a little emotional. But it’s hard to be emotional when you see your buddies and start talking about baseball and share stories. Pretty soon, it was just a party, back with my teammates, having fun, sharing all those old memories. There’s not a bad memory in the group—even the one where I busted my ankle chasing a kid around the clubhouse. It might not be the greatest memory, but it’s pretty funny and pretty stupid that I’d do something like that.
Heck, without that I might not have been Turkey of the Year.