Joe Mauer and the Warm Comfort of Familiarity

Often lost in sports is that these players are human, with their lives naked and popular. That openness leads fans to having—or thinking they have—insight into their personhood. I have never met Carlos Correa, but I feel that I know something about him and his personality, simply because I’ve watched him on my TV for nearly two years now. I know who his wife and child are, I know he went to High School, at the Puerto Rico Baseball Academy, and I know that he sometimes likes to one-hop throws to first base. Reserving three hours nightly to watch them play does that, and, without even realizing it, I have seen Correa more in my life than any of my aunts. 

It becomes a quiet comfort. While the people we meet in our life change and move, evolving as we do, sometimes fading away as the realities of adulthood command much of our attention, those three precious hours—treated religiously every night—offer a rare stability. I know I’ll see Max Kepler tonight, just as I have since he was 22, and I was in High School eight years ago. That’s a sort of emotional attachment usually reserved for the most intimate members of our life. 

And so: Joe Mauer. For 15 years—a decade and a half of everyone’s life—he was a rare constant. He joined a team with Lew Ford and Brad Radke, and left it in the hands of Eddie Rosario and José Berríos; he entered as a catching phenom, and left it as a worn-down first baseman; he started in the Metrodome, and left in the cool open-air breeze of Target Field.

It was an atypical relationship between player and franchise, one that goes unnoticed and often underappreciated in an arena where one’s job is never safe for an extended period of time. Any slip in performance is met with calls for a trade or a signing, and personalities and people clash, with players soon finding themselves on different teams. Rod Carew was an Angel for seven years, Johan Santana tossed over 700 innings for the Mets, but Mauer never left. 

That quiet comfort—the familiarity of the shared experience—grew with Mauer as with no Twin in recent memory. As players and coaches went, there stood Mauer, penciled in at a different position perhaps, but still smiling, still slashing doubles into the left-center gap. 

I think, perhaps, this amount of exposure separates baseball from most other sports; I have to think for a decent amount of time to remember a time when Kirk Cousins hasn’t been the Vikings QB, but even his Minnesota career only amounts to 80 regular season games—less than half a typical baseball season. Mauer’s was 1,858. Inevitably, something he did on the field became connected with a life experience, something near and dear still fondly remembered today, in part because Mauer helped make it visceral. 

It’s unsurprising that Mauer donning his catching gear for one last time in 2018 evoked the kind of reaction it did; here was a man—Minnesota’s man—reminding the fans of good times, when our heroes were immortal and forever young; when the shackles of expectations and disappointment could fall aside and we could, revere and celebrate together. That 2018 team wasn’t good, but at that moment, no one cared; the moment was Mauer’s and his alone.

When we see Mauer on the field to enter the Twins Hall of Fame tonight, we will all be flooded with memories. Some may think of his MVP season, some may recall his one-and-only walk-off homer in 2017, and some may think of his perfect Twins introduction: his first career hit smacked right up the middle. In all cases, though, there will surely be personal artifacts—parts of each person's life critical and endearing to them—associated with each moment; perhaps he cracked a big hit on an especially raucous night partying in college, or perhaps iconic behind-the-back snag preceded a first date that soon became a marriage. In any case, and in memory, the magic of Mauer is time: his extended, wonderful career became intertwined with the fans and their lives, making him a rare warm comfort with his familiarity and excellence.