by Kent Hrbek
There’s not a lot I can add to what’s already been said about those exploits. When Puck passed away in the spring of 2006, the Minneapolis Star Tribune did a huge story about his performance in Game 6, calling it one of the greatest ever. In addition to the home run, he made a leaping catch to rob Ron Gant of at least an extra-base hit in the third inning. We rode Puck into Game 7, and then turned it over to Jack, which is a pretty good guy to hand it to.
When we came into the clubhouse after Game 6, Jack had Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” playing on the speakers. It was pretty fitting, because that’s the way we all felt.
Game 7
The biggest contribution I made in Game 7 came in the top of the eighth when the Braves loaded the bases with one out. Atlanta actually would have had a 1–0 lead had it not been for Greg Gagne successfully playing one of the oldest tricks in the game on Lonnie Smith, who had led off with a single. Terry Pendleton hit a ball into the left-field corner, but Smith for some reason had his eyes on Gagne, who faked as if he was catching a grounder and getting ready to start a double play.
Smith slowed down, and by the time he realized what had happened, he only made it to third. After Ron Gant hit a grounder to me for an unassisted out, David Justice was walked intentionally. That brought up Sid Bream, who hit a grounder to me that started a first-to-catcher-to-first double play to end the inning. To this day I can still see Brian Harper catching the ball and throwing it back to me. When I got that ball I gave a hard fist pump because it was a key play, keeping the game tied 0–0.
That’s one of those plays you practice a ton every spring. I’ll bet in my whole career, 14 years, I probably made that play three times where we actually got the double play. Most times you get the out at home and don’t even make the throw to first.
The next year in spring training when we were doing infield drills TK said, “C’mon, give me the pump Hrbie.” Then he hit the ball to me, I threw home to Harp and Harp threw it back to me. I gave the arm pump, and TK said, “We’re done for the day.”
All Jack Needed
Jack Morris took care of the rest, holding the Braves scoreless until we were finally able to push across a run in the bottom of the 10th. To me, there’s no other pitching performance in the history of the World Series that comes close to what Jack did that night. And that includes Don Larsen’s no-hit game in 1956.
Jack was so fired up, it was almost like he had an aura around him. He was in such a zone, you could probably have hit him on the head with a sledgehammer and he would have never felt it. It was amazing to see a guy that pumped up but able to stay in such complete control of those emotions. When Jack needed to make a pitch to get out of a jam, he made the pitch, like he did getting Bream to hit the grounder to me with the bases loaded in the eighth inning.
Watching him pitch that night, it was almost like the rest of us should just have taken a seat and watched him. It was like an out-of-body experience for me, to stand in the field and watch what the guy was doing.
When Jack came in after the ninth inning with the game still scoreless, TK went to him to see how he was feeling. I didn’t hear the exchange, but I’m told Jack didn’t hesitate, telling TK that he wasn’t going to come out, and that it was his game to win or lose. And TK let Jack go out for the 10th inning.
That’s the way TK was with pitchers. He wanted to hear what people had to say. If Jack would have wavered, and said something like, “I don’t know, I feel pretty good, I think I can go another inning,” he’d have been out. But Jack wanted the ball, and that’s all TK wanted to hear.
One more inning was all Jack needed to give us. Danny Gladden made a great base-running play to lead off the inning, getting a double on what looked like a bloop single. Knoblauch sacrificed him to third, and they walked Puck and me to load the bases with one out. Gene Larkin then etched himself into Minnesota sports history with a long single over a drawn in outfield to give us our second World Series in five years.
I made headlines during the Series, too, although it wasn’t something I tried to do, or felt I even deserved. But folks are always going to remember my grand slam in the ’87 Series and Ron Gant and Kent Hrbek in ’91.
The Play
I’ll be honest with you: I still try to avoid connecting flights through the Atlanta airport because of what happened in Game 2. Harmon Killebrew’s son lives in Atlanta, and he says they still hate me down there. They’ve probably got my picture on a wall next to General Sherman, who burned his way through the city after the Civil War. I can tell you they don’t forget the people they think did them wrong.
We had won Game 1 behind Morris 5–2, so Atlanta was desperate not to fall behind two games. Here’s the scene: We were up 2–1 in the top of the third of Game 2, and the Braves had Lonnie Smith on first with two out. Gant, the next batter, singled to left, and Danny Gladden made a great play getting the ball to the infield.
What took place next should never have happened, because with a runner on third, our pitcher, Kevin Tapani, should have been backing up the catcher behind home plate. But Tap, for some reason, was standing between the pitcher’s mound and home plate. Gant was probably more surprised to see Tap in that spot than anyone, because he took a big turn at first, thinking the throw might go home and he’d head to second. But Tap cut the relay off, and I hollered at him to throw to first, which he did.
Gant stopped in his tracks, turned, and raced back to first. If he would have slid, he would have been safe. Instead, he came back in trying to stand up. He tried to put one foot on the base and stop himself, but I knew his momentum was going to make him overrun the base. I caught the ball, tagged his leg, and just kept my glove on his leg. I could feel him falling as he tried to stop. I could feel him pushing me backward, and the whole time I just kept my glove on his leg in case he went off the base. And that’s exactly what happened. I actually bruised my thigh on the play because he hit me with his leg as he started to fall backward.
Now, if you watch the play at regular speed, the angle they showed it makes it look like I picked his leg up. Everyone thought that, except the most important person: umpire Drew Coble. I tell everyone who will listen to watch the play in slow motion. You’ll see that Gant was falling backward, pushing me back. I did not pick up his leg. I knew he was going to come off the base. That’s why I kept my glove on him and held my ground.
This play with Atlanta’s Ron Gant in Game 2 of the World Series made headlines when Braves fans thought I pushed him off the bag. Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
The only thing I did wrong was probably have a little too much fun with it after the game. That was during my Baron Von Raschke stage—a professional wrestler known for his Claw hold—when I was talking about a second career as a wrestler after I retired. So naturally the media had some fun talking about my fondness for wrestling, and I joined in the fun. In fact, I said something to the effect that if you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying, which might have been the dumbest thing I ever said after a game because the folks in Atlanta took it as a confession.
It didn’t help the mood in Atlanta that we won the game 3–2.
The Reception
It didn’t take long for the calls to start coming. My mom got a call at home before she left for Atlanta, telling her that her son better watch out when he got to Atlanta. There were some death threats made, and when I got to the ballpark for Game 3, I had FBI agents waiting to talk to me. They filled me in on the death threats and said they were taking them seriously.
When we went out to the outfield to stretch before the game, I looked around, and I didn’t have a teammate close to me. I looked up, saw all the empty space around me, and someone yelled, “If they start shooting, we don’t want to be anywhere near you.” That was cute, but honestly, it was pretty serious stuff.
Jeanie was about five months pregnant at the time and made the trip with me to Atlanta. We had to take the phone off the hook and didn’t leave the hotel. Atlanta might be a real nice city, but
I wouldn’t know. I never saw any of it because we didn’t dare leave the room.
When they introduced me before Game 3, they booed. Every time I came to the plate, they booed. It was definitely an uneasy, unnerving feeling. I had a rough time at the plate in Atlanta, going 1-for-13 in the three games. Personally, I think I just stunk. But subconsciously, could the death threats have bothered me? I’m not going to lie—it was a rough time, and there wasn’t anything funny about it.
The Aftermath
What always bothered me, to this day, is that Ron Gant never had the balls to come out and say, “I lost my balance. You made a good play.” That’s always bothered me.
I’ve never even talked to the guy. I’ve signed a couple baseballs for fans that had his name on it. I guess people thought it was neat to have both our names on the same ball, although I’m not too fond of being linked with him.
In front of our home crowd at the Dome, I thanked the fans on behalf of my teammates for their support. It was special but didn’t feel quite like the 1987 celebration. Courtesy of the Minnesota Twins
Maybe if they’d have shot me, he’d have come out and said, “Oh, he shouldn’t have been shot. I made a base-running blunder.” But I’ve never crossed paths with the guy, which is probably just as well.
But the memory lives on. To this day, that play is the most-asked question I get. I don’t care if I’m doing a golf fundraiser, or hunting or fishing. Someone will say, “I always wanted to ask you . . .” And I’ll stop them, and say, “No, I didn’t pull him off the base.”
It was kind of strange timing, but we had a trip scheduled to the Bahamas in January of 1992, and it had a connection in Atlanta. That seriously was as nervous as I’ve ever been, anyplace. It felt spooky. I sure didn’t have my chest out, saying, “Hey, we just kicked your ass in the Series.” It was more like I had my coat over my head, and I just wanted to get on the next flight.
To this day, Atlanta is one city I don’t want to visit. I’m pretty sure the Kent Hrbek Outdoors TV show wouldn’t do very well down there.
The Celebration
That planned feeling about the team that I said we had entering the season stuck with us right to the end. I’m not saying that was bad, it was just different than ’87.
I can’t even remember how we celebrated after winning Game 7. Maybe that means it was really good. Or maybe it means I just went home and slept. I don’t know.
Even the parade was more planned. In ’87, they had us in convertibles, and the cars could barely get through the crowd. People reached out and touched us. In ’91, we rode in trucks, so we could be above the crowd a little bit.
The ’91 team was a better club, but the feeling in the city was a little different. We’d been through it once. I always say it’s kind of like having two kids and people ask which one is more special. Well, they’re both special. But there’s a feeling the first time you go through something that sticks with you.
One thing that didn’t change: I rode in the ’91 parade in the same vehicle with Jim Wiesner, our equipment manager.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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.