We worked our way through bright orange road construction to park our luggage at the hotel on Friday, August 2nd. No time to dawdle. Back into the car and northbound to Target Field. I wore my lucky hat and my Eddie Rosario shirsey. We parked and made our way into the stadium. This represented the first of four baseball games we were taking our daughter Evelyn to over the course of six days. She's almost eight. We wished for patience.

Target Field continues to amaze me. I feel as comfortable in it as I do my own living room. Until, that is, I start hunting for more shirseys (T-shirt jerseys - are people still into the shirseys anymore?) None of the shops had much in my size, but they all say the other shop just a little further down the line probably has the shirts I'm looking for. It's the kind of repetitive connect-the-dots task that makes people get sick of playing video games, but I kept looking nonetheless. We did find one t-shirt in the main shop, thanks to the dogged devotion of an employee who did anything and everything to help me out. I wish I knew her name; she worked hard at her job.

I picked up a scorecard at the store and told my daughter Evelyn we were going to be keeping score that night. She acknowledged that yes, this was factual information, and then went back to squirming and snacking. The kid must be in a growth spurt. At regular intervals, my wife took her up from our seats to buy more food. If she started singing "Feed Me, Seymour," I would not have been surprised. I myself had most of an okay hamburger and then busied myself with keeping score. It took a bit to remember exactly how everything got noted, but I kept at it. I showed Evie about fly outs and line outs and backwards Ks and filling in the diamond when someone hits a dinger. She listened to me, and I silently wished to be filling out scorecards with her throughout the rest of my years on Earth.

The lucky hat did its job. The Twins knocked in a bunch of runs at the end of the game and the much-reviled White Sox lost. They've been awfully good at losing this year, haven't they? We made our way back to the hotel and it was a race between my daughter and I to see who could be asleep first. She won, but not by a lot. My wife stayed up a little longer than that. She likes her quiet time, after her two goofy gremlins have finally worn themselves out.

The next day we met up with old friends and then took a trip around the sculpture garden. Then it was ice cream at Bebe Zito (the best) and back to Target Field for another game. Despite the massive crowds, we managed to snag our Joe Mauer replica plaques before Michelle ordered a Bomba Juice and we made our way to our seats. My lucky hat was ready to go,

Seeing the Mauer ceremony was special, even though I didn't tear up quite like I did when they inducted him into the Twins Hall of Fame. I think the actual moment they announced he was a first-ballot Hall of Famer wrung all of the emotions out of me instantly. Irreplicable. Still, seeing him calmly thanking thousands of fans for the honor and then, later, seeing him lead a group of gleeful kids in "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" will go in my Mauer memories. The kid (he still feels like a kid, doesn't he? Grey hair and all?) is officially a part of our family. From the early days, where I was overly critical of him because a certain crabby sports show host liked to feel edgy by picking on number seven. After that, I came around. The more I learned about baseball, the more I appreciated how special Joe Mauer really is. I can remember waving to him at TwinsFest, getting my picture taken with him at TwinsFest, getting a poster signed by him at TwinsFest . . . He never felt like he was up on a pedestal. My wife took Evie to see the Twins retire Joe's number. We all came up from Iowa to see his induction into the Twins' hall of fame, and we were there when he made it to the Baseball Hall of Fame. This time, I got my picture taken with the actual plaque that will hang forever in Cooperstown. Unforgettable. When they unveil Joe's statue, we're going to try to be there, too. 

On our way out, my eyes spotted a splash of baseball cards splayed across part of the stadium. I stopped and scooped them up, stacked them neatly, and handed them to Evelyn. She looked through them and spotted a Joe Mauer card in the bunch. Her excitement could not be contained. Of all the baseball cards in all the world, she had one from the hero of the day. Someday, she'll realize there are a lot of baseball cards of popular players. Someday, she'll realize this card will never make her wealthy or impress a collector. But that night, she won the lottery. Her eyes gleamed with the pure joy every child who finds the right baseball card at exactly the right moment feels. 

We drove south to Iowa that Sunday, with enough time to repack and recharge. We slept in our own beds. We cuddled with our own pets. Then, we were ready to travel again.

My mother-in-law came with us. She's been a Cubs fan for years but she had never seen them play at Wrigley Field, so we decided to take her to a couple of games as a Christmas present. Our trio turned into a quartet and we were back on the road again. We took 20 most of the way and found our AirBnB without too much difficulty. After that, the only thing we had to accomplish was devouring some Chicago-style pizza. Pequod's lived up to its reputation.

When we met up at Wrigley the next night, on a Tuesday, the whole experience had changed. I struggle to put it into words, but the vibe of a group of Cubs fans is fundamentally different than the vibe emanating from Twins fans. No disrespect to Target Field, my beloved home away from home, but the Cubs fans outside of Wrigley seemed like monks about to enter the church for services. The long history of the place hangs over the fans like a mantle they gladly accept. I don't believe in ghosts but man, they're out there at Wrigley. How many Cubs fans would gladly fall out of their lives into an eternity at the ball park? 

I wore my lucky cap. My mother-in-law has never seen the Cubs lose in person. Something had to give. Evelyn tried to cheat the situation that morning by threatening to hide my lucky cap in our AirBnB, but she's a very kind soul and didn't really do it. I must be honest with you now and say that yes, I really did believe in the power of my lucky cap. Ridiculous. I mean, I definitely don't believe in lucky objects. I just act like I do. Or, more accurately, I do believe in lucky objects but I won't admit to myself that I believe in lucky objects.

Regardless of my beliefs, the lucky North star on my hat crashed down to Earth that Tuesday night as the Cubbies beat the Twins. A game the Cubs won fair and square, even though I think the very existence of a pitcher as good as Shota Imanaga feels like it goes against the laws of nature. He made the Twins look foolish at the plate. Part of my gut worried, in the first few innings, that he might just pitch a no-hitter. The guy is good. Evie and my mother-in-law waved their "W" flag and sang that song. That "Go Cubs Go" song that I'm not terribly fond of but, regardless of how I feel, it gets stuck in my head for a week anyway.

We went home and came right back for an afternoon game. I kept the lucky baseball cap on, even though now it had lost all of its magic. The Twins seemed eager to prove the magic was gone when Joe Ryan went out on an injury and the reliever got two outs and gave up five walks. My enthusiasm for my dear Twins deflated like a puffed up bird who just lost a mating dance. The stink of failure was upon them. 

At least the game had three things going for it. First of all, it was outdoors baseball. I went to the Medieval Torture Museum in Chicago during my trip, and I saw a multitude of methods for mangling the human body. People do this. People invent ways to be awful. But, and this can bring light into the darkness, people also created baseball. We're still enjoying this invention, still getting closer together to sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" (sung by Ted Lasso's Coach Beard - the second thing that Wednesday game had going for it), we still have hot dogs and beer. When they list up all the things we got wrong in Column B, never forget that we get to put "baseball" in Column A.

The other great occurrence in the Wednesday afternoon game was a visit from Twins Geek and The Voice of Reason. They were at the game and stopped by our seats. I introduced them to the family and we chatted a bit about life. It made me miss the good ole days of being a Twins fan. When I hopped aboard the bandwagon in 2006, the world was full of Twins activities. There were three days of TwinsFest and also an autograph party. There was an event where Twins players tended bar for charity. There were regular signings at pro shops, grocery stores, and pizza places. There were meetups at bars and restaurants where fans would get together. I made many friends this way. I never felt like a Twins player was removed from me. The whole team felt like part of the community. We belonged. So many of those experiences are gone now, trickling down to drips before Covid shut the whole thing down. I believe Twins Daily still does their winter meltdown, but what about all of the rest? In an time where fans are cross with the front office about spending and finding the game on TV is challenging, it's even more sad we've lost these things (even though, as a current Iowan, I would still be missing out on these things). I used to feel like I was one step away from the dugout, and now I feel like a guy in a long line, preparing to hand over some money to a kid checking TikTok on his phone. 

We saw the Twins win two at home and lose two on the road. My mother-in-law has never seen the Cubs lose in person. Her and my daughter posed for a picture after the Wednesday win, still smiling from singing that "Go Cubs Go" song. This is an area the Twins definitely need to improve on. When the last out is recorded after a victory and the music starts to swell, Twins fans are already on their way out of the ballpark. Cubs fans truly celebrate each victory like a war just ended and everyone feels the joy of freedom and survival. Victory, for the Cubs, means life. Now, let's be honest. The Twins play in Minnesota, and Minnesotans are likely too reserved and Minnesota-nice to sway together and wave flags for a home victory. There has to be some way we can show our devotion. Maybe fans bring purple pom-poms and the game ends with "Purple Rain" and fans creating said rain with flashy pom-poms. We could do better is all I'm saying.

Four games. Six days. One lucky cap ruined. One happy mother-in-law, one happy kid. One happy Dad because said kid agreed she would cheer for the Twins - as long as they weren't playing the Cubs. Home runs. Stolen bases. Strikeouts. Three generations (grandmother, mother, daughter) making memories over a charming old game. Baseball is best when it's a public space where we can all come together. I'll meet you out there the next time we make it to a game.

- Axel

If you're curious what else I've been up to lately, check up on my 20 horror movie marathon from September 13th-15th. I'm doing it to support The Trevor Project, a suicide hotline and more for LGTBQIA+ youth. Follow AxelScares on Instagram for updates.