Honoring the Killer

In the past few days the Internet has been overwhelmed with pieces regarding the man, and the memories of Minnesota Twins hall of fame slugger Harmon Killebrew. Killebrew, who ended his fight against esophageal cancer and entered hospice care about a week ago, passed away on Tuesday at his home in Scottsdale, Arizona.

By no means do I have much more information than you’ve already heard about the silent slugger from Payette, Idaho, but I simply wanted to offer a fan’s take. A fan’s take on a man who retired 12 years before I was born and still had a profound impact on my baseball fandom. A man who won’t just live on as a plaque in Cooperstown, or a statue outside the Twins home of Target Field; Harmon won’t just live on as a great baseball player, or the face of the Minnesota Twins. He’s going to live on as a friend.

My only personal experience with Harmon came at Twins Fest 2003, and quite honestly it’s a stretch to call it personal. Harmon had just finished a segment on a radio show that had been covering the festivities and hundreds of fans, including myself, were waiting by the set for him to finish.

Security had warned the others and myself repeatedly that Harmon would not be signing autographs and if that was what we wanted we were wasting our time. While I did have my jersey and a sharpie handy the thought of an autograph was not at the front of my mind. I merely just wanted to see him, see him closer than I had in his countless highlights and appearances he made at Twins games. I was only 14, and I never got to see him play, but the connection I felt to Harmon was something that went deeper than simply being a fan of watching him hit a baseball. It’s a connection he shares with not just every Twins fan, but with every person who was lucky enough to meet him to find out that his nickname “Killer” only applied to what he did to baseballs.

Harmon finished his interview and began walking through the crowd of admirers that was still waiting. As promised by security he was not signing any autographs. I was standing towards the end of the line and after seeing all of the hats, balls, and baseball cards held out in hope get denied by the imposing security guards I accepted the fact that I would not be getting the famously legible signature of Harmon Killebrew, not on this night.

However, as he made his way through the line and eventually was standing mere feet from me I called out to him, without even thinking about what I was going to say.

“Harmon!” I yelled already feeling embarrassed. “You’re the best slugger ever!”

I thought my words were going to fly right over his head, it wasn’t anything clever or original I had said. It was something he’s probably heard over a thousand times before. Yet he didn’t keep walking towards the exit and dismiss like just about every professional athlete would have done. He stopped, walked over to me and extended his hand with a smile on his face that would’ve lit up the whole Metrodome.

“Why thank you young man,” Harmon said. “It’s a pleasure meeting you son.” He let go of my hand and patted me on the head like I was his grandson and not just some high school kid wearing a backwards Twins hat.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I was not alone in sharing wonderful moments with Harmon. He was a hall of famer on the field, but he was even better off of it. He came back to Minnesota on a regular basis after he retired to enjoy his favorite part about being one of the best baseball players of all time, mingling with Twins fans.

Minnesota loved Harmon, and Harmon was not shy in loving us back. He was a Twin on the first day the franchise existed in 1961, and he was a Twin all the way to the end. He spoke with fellow hall of fame Twin Bert Blyleven less than 24 hours before his death and the first thing he said was “Bert, what’s wrong with our boys?”

Even in death Harmon didn’t have a selfish bone in his body. He saw himself as a teammate of current Twins and never hesitated to put his arm around a struggling minor leaguer and offer hitting advice, or shake the hand of a 14-year-old and the ballpark just to put a smile on his face.

Just about every player on the Twins could tell you a story about their friend Harmon, and every one of them could tell you how diligently he worked to make sure all of them perfected their signature so fans could actually read and enjoy their autographs.

I’ll never forget that moment at Twins Fest nearly 10 years ago, and something tells me neither will Harmon. Most pro athletes have signed close to a million autographs and shook just as many hands and Harmon was no different, but Harmon was a special player who didn’t see fans, he saw friends. If you cheered for the Twins he was your friend, and if you simply loved baseball he was your friend, Harmon was amazing in that way, and perhaps that’s why I feel he remembers every autograph and every admirer he came into contact with in his career.

The Twins lost the centerpiece in their history on Tuesday, and baseball lost it’s kindest killer. Goodbye Harmon, I’ll never forget the eight words you said to me, and something tells me, neither will you.