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When the All-Star rosters were announced, Roland Henderson was the sole Twin named to the squad. Though Del’s numbers were at least equal to Hendu’s, the American League was flush in first basemen, and three veterans were slotted in ahead of him. The Minneapolis papers railed against the perceived injustice, as did columnists in various cities around the league on behalf of their own hometown heroes. Though disappointed, Del shrugged off the slight, privately grateful for chance to fly home over the three-day break.
Four days before the midseason intermission, Angels first sacker Cecil Biggerstaff took a pitch off the back of his hand, fracturing the knuckles on both his ring finger and pinky. He was out as a sub for the AL. And Del was in.
Dana cried. All her unspent vacation was reserved for the wedding and honeymoon. “Just come to New York,” Del urged. “You can quit in November. You won’t need to work once we’re married.”
That only made things worse. “I didn’t get my MBA to be a housewife,” she replied curtly, ending the discussion.
Del considered declining the invitation on personal grounds. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Wicker demanded, when he broached the subject. Milo took a more philosophical approach. “I want you to go back in time and explain that to the eleven-year-old who promised me that one day he’d be an All-Star. Dana will get over it. You, however, might regret it for the rest of your career. Or longer.”
Del booked first-class tickets to New York for Milo and Gwen and met them at JFK Sunday night shortly after his flight arrived from Chicago, where the Twins had finished the first half of their season. The pride he had felt introducing his father to players in spring training was just a pip on the Big Apple compared to how big his heart swelled walking Milo around the home clubhouse of Yankee Stadium. Never at a loss for words, Milo had an easier time talking to the superstars surrounding them than Del did. His father emerged from the locker room with a baseball signed by seventeen AL players and a tote bag loaded with swag.
One by one the reserves on the lineup card posted in the home dugout were scratched out, until by the bottom of the ninth, with the National League clinging to a 4-3 lead, only Del’s name remained. He sat on the bench, tapping the head of his bat on the floor between his feet. As each batter climbed the stairs to the on-deck circle, Del glanced hopefully at AL skipper Duane Freeman. Finally, with two outs and the tying run on first, he heard his name.
“Tanner.” Freeman spat a stream of tobacco juice over the rail and turned to Del, brown sludge leaking out the corner of his mouth.
Del popped up from the bench and yanked his batting gloves from his back pocket. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m saving you for the tenth. In case we need a hitter.”
All Del could manage in response was a cross between a shrug and a nod. His chest tightened as he slumped back onto the bench. His disappointment turned to indignity when Placido Escobar, the light-hitting shortstop on Freeman’s own Tigers, popped out to shallow left field to end the game.
On Minnesota’s visit to Detroit the week after the break, Del glared into the Tiger dugout as he took his place in the batter’s box. He slammed the second pitch he saw into the visitor’s bullpen, then drove in the go-ahead run in the top of the eighth with a deep sacrifice fly that sent Tigers right fielder Jermaine Wingfield to the wall. He left town two days later with five hits and six RBIs to his credit, and more importantly, a three-game sweep. Placido Escobar went 2-for-12, both hits infield singles.
The long season eventually wore Del down. He endured hitless streaks of five and six games in August, his average slipping to .285 the week before Labor Day. He tinkered with his stance, opening his front foot to give him a fuller view of the pitcher, then closing it off tighter than he started, before eventually settling back right where he’d been. Suddenly the hits came again in bunches. His double plated three runs in the bottom of the ninth to give the Twins a walkoff win over the White Sox. Two nights later he launched two home runs in a laugher against the Indians. The Twins ran neck and neck with the Tampa Bay Rays in the wild-card race, neither team pulling ahead by more than two games until mid-September, when Minnesota’s bullpen imploded, blowing four leads in a five-game span.
The night they were eliminated from the race, the pain of twenty-five broken hearts echoed through the Twins clubhouse. The only voices came in low, clichéd responses to predictably moronic questions from the Minnesota beat reporters. Del simply shrugged when asked what more the team could have done. There certainly wasn’t much else he himself could have contributed. Eleven of his twenty-seven home runs had either tied the game or given Minnesota the lead. His ninety-three RBIs were second best on the club, just two behind Roland Henderson. And his .302 average was tops among the team’s starters.
The voting for American League Rookie of the Year wasn’t close. The sabermetricians with their new-fangled statistics were finally in agreement with their RBI-wielding, Luddite counterparts. By any measure Del headed the class. He led all freshmen in batting, on-base, slugging, runs, RBIs, and homers, and ranked second in doubles and walks. He collected twenty-five of the twenty-eight first-place votes, winning in a landslide over Blue Jays second baseman Garrick Owens.
The announcement that confirmed what most observers had assumed since shortly after his All-Star snub came as Del was enduring the final fitting for his tuxedo. His phone crackled with congratulatory calls as the seamstress chalked his cuffs and shoulders, sighing and harrumphing each time it rang.
“Enough with the phone already,” she lectured him in a strong Turkish accent. “I don’t care who you are or what you won. If you can’t hold your hands straight down at your sides you will look like shit on Saturday.”