I was a rabid baseball fan as a kid and knew all the star players on all of the (then) 16 major league teams. The first big league games I ever went to in person were to see the almost brand new (moved from Washington the year before) Minnesota Twins in the old Met stadium in Bloomington. In California I went to Dodgers and Angels games but cheered mightily for the Twins in their 7-game 1965 World Series loss to the Dodgers. I slowly lost interest in baseball in general until the Twins suddenly returned to pennant contention. I watched every playoff and series game that I could in both their World Series winning years. I especially remember the end of the 87 series, when the TV announcer noted in wonderment that nobody would leave the stadium after the final out. They, along with me on my couch in Texas, were savoring that moment, waiting as we had for 22 years to avenge the championship that had gotten away. The 91 series was just as exciting, proving that the previous one hadn’t been a fluke. And there was never any doubt in my mind that the difference-maker was Kirby Puckett. When he left Minnesota I left baseball. For 27 years I’ve lived within pop fly distance of the Texas Rangers ballpark (first the old and now the new) and never felt like attending a game. Kirby was my last tie to my boyhood love affair with the game.