Minneapolis has a great sports entertainment district, with tons of bars and restaurants within easy walking distance of the Viking’s Metrodome and the NBA Timberwolve’s Target Center. It makes for a safe and lively destination environment. So it stands to reason that when building a new ballpark, the Minnesota Twins had three good reasons for shoehorning Target Field into a very challenging piece of real estate. Location, location, location.

The decision to build upon this smallish parcel of land has its consequences though. Building a stadium “up” rather than “out” can make for a claustrophobia-inducing environment, as almost everywhere you go in Target Field you’re under some sort of overhang. Sometimes deep under that overhang, as is the case on the main concourse. And with thousands of people crowded into this cave-like area, the pre-game atmosphere on a warm evening can get a little…sauna-esque.

So as the ladies in the South might say, I was “misting” by the time I escaped the below-decks scrum and settled into Section V – home for the next nine innings of my life. As I sat there taking in the sights and sounds though, it troubled me to admit that the Target Field Kool-Aid that I had come to sample was not yet that easy to swallow.
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Minneapolis needs a better press agent. It’s not that there’s a lot of negative information out there about this gleaming metropolitan area. It’s that there’s pretty much no information out there. I’m sure that there is a Chamber of Commerce, a Convention & Visitors Bureau and a Tourism organization of some sort. But the day-to-day, nuts and bolts work of creating an image for Minneapolis? Not so much. Come to think about it, I’ve read much more over the years about the resurrection of St. Paul, the smaller of the Twin Cities.

But each time my travels bring me to Minneapolis it’s almost like I’m seeing the city for the first time. And each time I like it. In fact, there’s next to nothing not to like – well except for that six month winter thing-y. “I have to come here more often”, I say to myself. But then my visit concludes, I get on a plane and inevitably fail to think about Minneapolis again until business brings me back.

Fortunately there is an easy solution to this PR gap. If anyone in a position of power in Minneapolis is reading this, I urge you to seek out the publicist for Target Field and pay them whatever they ask to take on the city as a client.
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John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” is playing on the P.A. system. I’m sitting in the grandstand at an internationally recognized and beloved sporting event. I’ve parked, secured admission and had a little lunch in preparation for the Little League World Series International Championship game. Total cost thus far? Let me see…parking…plus ticket…add in a hot dog and a Powerade…total the column, carry the remainder…OK, if my math is correct, that comes out to a grand total of $4.50.

I haven’t even seen a pitch yet and this is already one of the best events on the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour schedule to date. But then again, any day that starts with meeting a sportscasting legend certainly does get things rolling in the right direction.
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Back when I was kid, when we played the game with stuffed brontosaurus skins and woolly mammoth tusks, there was a single three-syllable word that encapsulated all of my fondest baseball dreams: Williamsport.

I barely knew that Williamsport was an actual place, let alone how to find it on a map. It was more like a concept whose existence you took on faith. Much like Valhalla to ancient warriors.

You went there only if you persevered, played your absolute best, and had the gods of baseball smiling down on you at just the right time. Every kid that ever played Little League knew that each August, just one All-Star team from each of four U.S. regions (now eight regions) was able to play their way to Williamsport, Pennsylvania and the Little League World Series.
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Here’s the thing about sumo – it is a sport with all pretense stripped away. A one-on-one flashpoint collision with one sole objective: To overwhelm and physically dominate one’s opponent. Testosterone on testosterone. And if you lose, it can often be in humiliating fashion.

Yet over the course of three hours spent at the U.S. Sumo Open, I witnessed not a single display of anger or bitterness. Literally dozens of matches took place without incident. No taunting. Zero smack-talking. Not a trace of the intimidation techniques so common (and celebrated) across the pro sports ranks today.

These guys just lined up, looked each other in the eye, and had at it, with the best man winning that particular match. And after each match was done, both sumos stood to face each other across the ring and bowed. It was an environment of deep mutual respect and competitive humility.

It was the anti-NFL. The NBA with a muzzle. It was dignified.
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