Joe Mauer's: It's a Hall of Fame Life

[Lou Hennessy]

A familiar angel is sent from (baseball) heaven, to show a discouraged hometown hero what life would have been like had he never been... drafted with the first overall pick in 2001. 

Image courtesy of Purple Wolf Graphics

WARNING: This tale contains some very strong language, for Joe Mauer. We have elected not to censor his voice, and to leave intact his expressions of grief and frustration. We hope you will excuse the invective.

“Ah jeez,” Joe Mauer sighs, as he drains the last swig of 2% milk at the bottom of his custom highball glass. “Heck, I’m not driving.”

He reaches into the fridge and grabs a small bottle of chocolate milk, then fills his glass with three fingers of Nesquik. It’s the night before baseball’s Hall of Fame announces the final vote tallies for this year’s class, where it appears Joe will fall just short.

The house is dark, and the only light is the flickering of MLB Network on the den TV in the background. The former hometown hero walks past his mantel, surveying the various pieces of prestigious hardware that have made themselves cozy above his marble fireplace. 

Five Silver Slugger bats.
Three Gold Gloves. 
An American League MVP trophy. 
A small shadow box holding a pair of his promotional giveaway prop sideburns.

“I think Mauer should be in the Hall of Very Good. Yeah, people say he was one of the greatest catchers of all time, but I only remember him being pretty good, and he hardly ever caught.” one of the talking heads on the TV declares in the background. “And I’m not just anybody. I’ve been covering the game since 2014. Maybe I just expect more from a player taken first overall in their draft.”

Joe throws his remaining milk to the fire, creating a quick flash of nuclear green. He leans against the mantel, and looks at a framed picture of a teenage version of himself on the day that he signed his first contract in 2001. The Joe in the picture is wiry, donning dorky glasses and a haircut that screams, “Thanks Mom!” as he pulls his arms through a pinstriped Twins jersey. He ponders the burdens of expectations and the story of Jesus being rejected in Nazareth.

“Talk about a case of the Mondays,” he says under his breath. “Sometimes I wish I was never taken with the first pick that day.”

---

Suddenly, the fire dies and the TV signal drops to static before turning off completely. Joe is left in the dark.

“Holy cow, what the heck is going on?” he says quizzically as he makes his way out the front door. Joe gets to the street and looks around at the neighboring houses. All their lights seem to be working just fine. He gives a friendly Minnesota wave to a man getting out of a car in the driveway next door. The man furrows his brow and flips the hood of his coat up before turning to go inside. 

“They don’t know who you are,” says a booming voice from behind Joe. He turns to see a burly figure in a hooded cloak. The man removes his hood to reveal himself dramatically. As he shows his face, he lets out his trademark jolly chuckle and introduces himself. “Aaaaand welcome, TO. . . It’s a Hall of Fame Life - Joe Mauer edition. I’m your host and guardian geek, John Bonnes.”

The angelic figure steps towards Joe and reaches out his hand. As he moves, a couple empty glass bottles can be heard rolling at his feet. 

“Take my hand, Joe. It’s time you see how good you really have it,” the guardian geek says. “But first let’s talk about the sponsors of this dream sequence, the fine folks at SotaStick.”

As the geek continues talking, Joe’s attention turns to his mailbox. But it’s somehow different from the one he remembers. He walks up to it and sees ‘PRIOR’ written where his name used to be. 

“For Pete’s sake. Who is messing with my mailbox?” he exclaims. “I told Bert my house was off-limits for pranks from now on.”

He removes the mailbox from its post and makes his way back up to the house. When he gets to the entrance, the door is locked. 
“That’s not your mailbox, and that’s not your house,” Bonnes said, surprising Joe, who didn’t expect the old coot to continue following him. “That’s what I’m trying to get to. You were never taken with that first overall pick back in 2001. Instead, the Twins picked Mark Prior. He had a great couple of years, but failed in the few postseason games that he was able to start before his career was cut way short due to injuries.”

Joe looks at the geek like he’s a mad man. “That’s not possible,” he says. “I had my number retired by the Twins. You can ask any of the beat writers.”

The geek raises an eyebrow and takes Joe’s hand. The two soar through the air, and land in St. Louis Park, outside of a quiet Chinese restaurant. Joe wipes his eyes, as he can’t believe what’s happening. When he catches his breath, he looks up and sees a disheveled, bearded man sitting beside the restaurant door with a sign that reads ‘Will podcast for fried rice’ and a souvenir JR Rider cup from a Timberwolves game that has a handful of loose coins jingling inside. 

“Aaron Gleeman! Surely he’ll be able to vouch for me,” Joe says, approaching the man at the door. “Hey Gleeman, can you tell this guy that I really am a Twins Hall of Famer? Something wacky is going on and he doesn’t believe me.”

The man looks up and smirks.

“You? In the Twins Hall of Fame? You sure about that?” he chuckles. “Sure, buddy. And I was the 2021 NSMA Minnesota Sportswriter of the Year.”

Joe looks at him, defeated. None of this is making any sense. The kind man that vouched for him on countless occasions is now a jaded, sarcastic fool. He's wearing a cheap button-down from Target, and top of his head shows the effects of male pattern baldness. 

“What happened to him?” Joe asks. “I can barely recognize him.”

“Gleeman lost interest in baseball when the Twins sputtered between 2004 and 2010,” the guardian geek explains. “You weren’t there to give him something interesting to write about, so he quit. The successful, captivating writer that you know and love never came to be. Now look at him.”

Joe takes one last look at the beggar before Bonnes grabs his hand and they soar above the Minneapolis skyline.

---

As they fly into downtown, the geek drops Joe at the front door of Manny’s Steakhouse. 

“You go in without me,” Bonnes says, as he keeps floating towards Finnegan’s Brew Co.

Joe walks into the swanky restaurant and makes his way to the bar. A sharply-dressed, clean-cut man is sitting next to him, scarfing down the biggest steak Manny’s has to offer. He’s watching Jeopardy on the bar TV and answering every question before the contestants can ring in.

“Hey, you’re Do-Hyoung Park,” Joe says. “Please tell me you remember who I am. I just talked to you in the Twins’ press box a few months ago.”

“Will you pipe down?” the man snaps. “I’ve never been in a press box before. I’m one of the most trusted chemical engineers in the US military, not some jock-sniffing creative type. One call to President Neuman and I can erase your entire life, buddy. Now get out of my face!”

Park pushes Joe off of his stool. Mauer picks himself off the floor and runs back out toward the street.

“What is…pain.” Park whispers depressingly as he looks down at his steak. 

---

Joe sees his guardian geek at the end of the block. He runs toward the man, who is now barking into his cell phone.

“Look, I told you I’ll have your money by the end of the week! There’s no need to get violent,” Bonnes pleads. “Ope, he’s back. Gotta go.”

He hangs up and sighs as he looks at Joe. 

“Sorry, that was my wife,” the geek explains. “Come on, I have one more place to show you.”

As they glide above First Avenue toward the North Loop, Joe notices an odd omission in the Minneapolis skyline.

“Wait a second, what happened to Target Field?” Joe shouts. "There’s just an empty lot where my beloved home ballpark used to be.” 

“Target Field was never built, because there just wasn’t enough interest in baseball in Minnesota,” Bonnes explains, as the two drop down to the cement footprint where the Twins' beautiful ballpark should have been. “The team didn’t have a franchise icon that they could market. Instead, the Twins played their final game in Minnesota on October 3rd, 2010. The club moved to Las Vegas that winter, and Minnesota has been left without a professional ballclub ever since.”

Joe drops to his knees as snow begins to fall around him. He can’t take it anymore. With tears streaming down his face, he reaches up toward the heavens.

“Please! I’m sorry!” he cries as he clenches his eyes shut, trying to awaken from this nightmare. “I want my life back! I wish it really had been me who was taken first in that draft. I had a great career, no matter what the Hall of Fame voters decide.”

---

He sits in silence for a moment, feeling the snowflakes melt as they land in his salt-and-pepper hair. When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer downtown, but back on his front lawn, holding his mailbox with the name ‘MAUER’ etched on its side. His wife opens the front door and peeps her head out into the winter air. 

“Joe, sweetie, what the heck are you doing out there?” she asks. “You need to come inside! Something marvelous has happened.”

Joe races into his house. His home is back to its normal state. The fire is crackling and one of his twin daughters is practicing the piano. She stumbles through a rendition of “What You Know” by T.I. (Joe continues to assume "key by the three" is a basketball reference.)

He doesn’t care, though. He’s relieved to be home, back in his normal life. 

The TV is still blaring MLB Network, and the host of the show is interviewing a panel of writers about Hall of Fame chances for the following day. Among the guests are Aaron Gleeman of The Athletic, and Do-Hyoung Park of MLB.com.

“I talked to so many voters in recent days, and I’m confident that Mauer is going to absolutely sail past the 75-percent requirement in his first year,” Gleeman proclaims. “I guarantee he’s going to get the call tomorrow.”

“I agree with Aaron,” Park chimes in. “And I was on Jeopardy!” It's not an exclamation; that's just official Jeopardy! style.

Joe can’t believe what he’s hearing. He smiles at his wife and wraps her in a hug. 

“Hey, what’s in your back pocket?” she asks. 

Joe pulls out a gift card to SotaStick that has a message scribbled on the back. 

Congratulations, Joe. And remember. . . No man is a failure who has friends within the media. Thanks to our sponsors!
Love, 
Your guardian geek, John Bonnes

“Who’s that from, dear?” his wife asks.

“Oh, nobody,” Joe replies as he smiles and looks into the fire. “Just some old coot.”

He places the card next to the framed photo of himself as a teenager on the mantel and gathers the family around the piano to sing the first verse of his longtime walk-up song.

The End

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[Old Crow]

A well done parody.

[WinTwins162]

This is great, though maybe needs a cameo from Reusse.

It will be great to have HOF Joe. 

[HoskenPowell]

For 8 years he as the best hitting catcher in MLB.  For about 5 years he was the best fielding catcher.  He was pretty dang good a few more years onto both of those statements.....then injuries forced him out from behind the plate.  Still played good , but not great.    I think he gets in.   

How long was Sandy Koufax the best pitcher in baseball???  7/9 years or so????   He was then done , no position switch to a position he was just good at..........but he's in the hall?????  HIs stasts say he had only a great 6 year run 61-66.

 

Joes a no brainer then.

 

[Blyleven2011]

It was cheerful but tearful  ,

Good Christmas story ...

[Twins_Fan_For_Life]

Please - Joe Mauer, a Hall of Famer?  He's no Harrold Baines!

[Thiéres Rabelo]

This was fantastic! Thank you for writing it, Lou!

[D. Hocking]

I feel Chief would have made a great Mr. Potter when he was younger.

[Finlander]

I laughed so hard I'll need to do laundry now...you got me with the "Thanks mom" haircut. Great fun!

[MGM4706]

Joe will eventually get in. Just not on the first ballot. That's reserved for a special level of player, usually with Clutch hits in big games. Joe didn't play in many big games and not a lot of clutch hits. Lots of singles and some doubles. Very good player but just not first ballot.