The Metrodome isn’t going out quietly.

It wouldn’t. Which is why I’m going to miss the dump.

Oh, I won’t miss the cramped concourses and endless rows of outfield seats. I certainly won’t miss the neck strain that accompanies sitting in the lower deck beyond first or third base.

Nor will I miss the plastic grass or the muddy, overly loud sound system.

The place is not made for playing baseball, and it’s not made for watching baseball.

But I will miss the certainty of seeing the games played no matter the weather — no small consideration to those of us for whom the travel is at least as time-consuming as the game itself.

And I will miss the Metrodome magic — the odd manner in which the action, and sometimes the season, tended to tilt the Twins’ way at just the right moment.

It’s not much, but the Twins called it home for 28 seasons, for two World Series championships and four other division titles.

Here Kirby Puckett, Justin Morneau and Joe Mauer became stars. Here Torii Hunter worked defensive miracles and Johan Santana made hitters look foolish with his dominant changeup.

Many of the most exhilarating and memorable experiences of my life took place in the Dome, maybe too many to be truly healthy. And those experiences tend to revolve around Minnesota victories.

Nobody who was there in October 1987 to watch the white hankies flutter, join in the din, experience the elation — nobody who was there can really hate the place. (Well, nobody but Cardinal fans.)

It was — is — a dump.

But it’s our dump.

Just win, baby
The Dome has quite the reputation for homefield advantage.

Part of that reputation is anecdotal. It’s based on the 1987 and 1991 World Series — in which the Twins went a combined 0-6 on the road and 8-0 in the raucous Dome.

The reputation also has something to do with increasing scarcity of artificial turf.

And it has something to do with the fact that the Dome forces players to do things differently there.

Chasing fly balls, for a prominent example. Players are taught to run to the spot, then look up to find the ball. But that doesn’t work in the Dome; take your eye off the the ball, and you may never see it again against that Teflon roof. At least not until it’s too late.

Players have been losing fly balls in the sun for generations, and the end result is the same — but the difference is that in the Dome, players are penalized for doing it right.

That can get in their head. And that’s a homefield advantage. Opposing players just can’t play comfortably in the Dome.

There are a lot of people around the American League, from Ozzie Guillen to Derek Jeter, who profess to be certain that the Twins will languish in their new digs.

The Twins have prospered on the field for almost a decade because they could take advantage of skill sets other teams didn’t value as highly. The Dome and its quirks — the turf in particular — made fly ball pitchers, multiple center fielders and infield singles a winning combination.

On the other hand, if the Twins are determined to have a regular outfield of Delmon Young and Michael Cuddyer flanking Denard Span, a more conventional home park is a better fit.



Edward Thoma is a Free Press staff writer. He is at 344-6377 or at ethoma@mankatofreepress.com. He also has a baseball blog at www.mankatofreepress.com/ethomabaseball