So the Twinks made it to Game Seven.

I can’t say that I expected much.

I went to a party that night, at an upstairs duplex near Franklin and Pleasant, in South Minneapolis.  There were maybe a dozen of us – my pal Rich, my guitar player Casey, another guitar player and expat from Jamestown, Mike, and a slew of people I didn’t even know then, much less now.

And I’ll never forget the action – in the [fill in inning], when [fill in player] caught that [what kind of hit] at the [foul line/warning track], or when pitcher [pitcher’s name] caught [batter] in a [type of pitch], or the grand finale, when [play by play announcer] almost [vocal condition] as [Twin] got a [type of play] against [a Cardinal] as [one of the managers].

OK.  I’ve never cared much for sports trivia.  The main thing I remember is, as the game ground toward the end, and the Twins remained in the chase, feeling light-headed – almost high, with the communal excitement of the moment. 

I remember the final call – the immortalized pileup at home plate…

 …and running out onto the street and practically jogging all the way downtown, up Nicollet, seeing downtown glowing in the distance, feeling the crowd converging downtown as much as hearing it.

It was a gorgeous night; a little cool, but perfect.

I got downtown toward 11 or so; I lost the other people somewhere around Ichiban, and wandered around on my own; above 11th Street, the crowd was Calcutta-like. 

What did I do for the next six hours?

• Had a beer at the Little Wagon.  Or three or four.  I can’t remember.
• Watched as about 100 people piled onto a moving fire truck that was trying to get through the crowd on Hennepin.  Unfortunately, it was trying to get to an actual fire, as the driver kept yelling over the PA system.
• Took a bunch of beers that people were handing out from coolers in the street.  Passed most of them on.  Was too happy to be drunk.
• Felt, rather than heard, the noise on the street as tens or hundreds of thousands of people teemed through the streets.
• Talked about the odds of someone actually burning a police car with a couple of yobs from Brooklyn Center. 
• Made out with some girl by the entrance of the Plymouth Building.  No, really.  Musta seemed like a good idea at the time.  This, I do not believe, has ever happened again.
• Wandered down Hennepin at 5AM back toward my car, with a group of random other people, warm and snug in the cameraderie and good will that wafted through the every corner of the Cities for that night at the next couple of days.

I made it home around 5:30AM, with three conclusions:

• I’d never see another night like that as long as I lived in the Twin Cities.
• I needed to kickstart my life.
• I should have gotten the number of the girl at the Plymouth Building.