The Fargo/Moorhead Red Hawks

For two years, I believe they were 1960 and ’61; my dad was president of the Class C Northern League, St. Cloud (Minnesota) Rox--an affiliate of the San Francisco Giants and later the Chicago Cubs.

Dad took me to most games. I remember Lou Brock, Matty Alou, and Orlando Cepada. I met Willie Kirkland. They became major league stars.

One week the batboy for the visiting team was on vacation. I got to fill in. The thing that I still remember is that I shined Joe Torres’s shoes (he played for Eau Clair, WI, Braves) and he paid me $5.00. That was a lot of money. I can still remember his dark beard. Today he is the manager of the New York Yankees.

More than 45 years later…

I moved from the mountains of Colorado to the wind-swept plains of Fargo, North Dakota early in 2002.

I saw an ad in the local newspaper for the upcoming season of the Fargo/Moorhead Red Hawks, a Northern League team—now an independent league.

The advertisement brought back the memories of my childhood.

I decided to go to a game and see what minor league baseball was about.

I liked it.

Five years and about 150 games later:

I normally leave home at 6:00 P.M. and pull into the parking lot across from Newman Field 16 minutes later. I pay my $2.00 for parking and pull into a parking spot right in front of the driveway so I can get a fast exit after the game.

Not that a fast exit is needed in Fargo; this is an old habit from 30 years of going to Minnesota Vikings games and trying to get out fast to beat the traffic jams outside of Metropolitan stadium and later the Hubert H.Humphrey Metrodome in downtown Minneapolis.

I walk across the street and enter along the right-field side of the park. I climb the steps to the concession area and buy my regular hot dog for $1.50 (Cloverdale meats—they are great), diet coke for another $1.50, and popcorn for $2.00. I add lots of mustard and some onions to my hot dog and walk to my seat behind the Red Hawks dugout. Some of the regular season-ticket holders are already seated in front of me with their backpacks filled with radios, cameras, jackets, cell phones, baseball gloves, food from home, and memorabilia to be signed by players.

I sit down and eat my hot dog careful and try not drip mustard onto my white T-shirt. I’m successful about half the time. I wolf down my popcorn in a few minutes and nurse my diet Coke for most of the evening.

At 6:35 P.M. I put my earphones on and turn the radio on for the pre-game show with Scott Miller. I like Miller, in his first season as play-by-play radio announcer. He has a relaxed voice (“My, oh my” is a favorite exclamation point to a home run) and asks thoughtful questions of those he interviews. I listen to him interview Red Hawks manager Doug Simunic—the winningest manager in Northern League history with more than 700 victories. Simunic is a winner (see photo above).

I’m a good judge of talent, and I admire Simunic’s ability to put a winning team together year after year. He can spot talent and he can pick players who get along together. He manages aggressively and goes for the big inning. He makes the tough decisions needed to be a consistent winner, and he is compassionate towards his players often helping them find another place to play if he cannot keep them. He is a purist when it comes to baseball and has little time for the nonsense of marketing and promotion gimmicks. Doug’s philosophy can be summed up with: “mix it up, stir it up, throw it out and see what happens.” That’s about as good a description of how to live life and play baseball as I have heard.

Local talent sings the National Anthem and at 7:05 P.M. the first pitch is thrown. The legendary Maury Wills, in town for this series, joins Scott Miller to add the color commentary. I enjoy listening to Maury: he is wise, mature, experienced, and his insights add meaning to the actions on the field. A Maury Wills museum is below the stadium concourse. The locals fawn over Maury and he loves the attention. He exudes humility and gratitude for the game of baseball.

Somewhere between 2,000 and 4,000 fans attend the games. The fans are respectful and rarely boo umpires or opposing players and applaud the local athletes even when they stink-up the field, which is rare.

A few hundred people, I would guess, are real baseball fans. The rest come to eat, socialize, and enjoy an evening outside (winters are long in Fargo). The ball park and Red Hawks staff serve as good babysitters for work-weary parents who want to relax. Kids come and go as they pester parents for money for food. I stand up and sit down over and over again. Around the 7th inning, the parents are broke and the kids—filled up with fat and sugar—are cranky.

The Red Hawks usually win the game. This year they have strong pitching and good hitters. Some kids are just out of college; others got cut from major league organizations. Many still have their dream of being a major leaguer alive inspired by Chris Coste, catcher for the Philadelphia Phillies. Coste, a Fargo native, played 4 years for the Red Hawks and 10 years in the minor leagues before going to the big leagues. A few know their future is past and play only for the love of the game. They all play hard.

The Red Hawks won the first half championship and are guaranteed a spot in the playoffs. They are in first place so far in the second half despite losing their first 6 games of the second half. They lost their star 1st baseman to an organization recently. They then went on to win 4 in a row.

My mind wanders as I watch and listen. I am not a fanatical fan: mostly I enjoy the totality of the event and the solitude behind my headphones. They give me privacy as much as anything. People nearby think I am engrossed in the game when often my mind is far, far away thinking about something far removed from baseball or reflecting on something I feel strongly about. Occasionally Hawkeye—the team red hawk mascot—startles me to attention. I keep a close eye on left-handed batters; they can send screaming line-drive foul-balls into my section.

By the 7th inning, boredom sets in unless the game is close, and I head for the exit often pausing for ½ an inning to watch from the concourse as I make my way to the exit. Usually by 9:30 P.M. I am on my way home. The game usually ends before I arrive.

I am in bed by 10:30 P.M.