Target Field

Lore & Background

For nearly three decades, Twins fans endured the artificial hum of the Metrodome's enclosed air, its flat lighting, and the muffled thud of a ball hitting a dome rather than a sky. The decision to build a new, open-air stadium in the heart of Minneapolis was met with both excitement and skepticism—would an outdoor ballpark in a city with brutal winters and long springs actually work? The answer, delivered over the course of the 2010 season and beyond, was an emphatic yes. The first crack of a bat under natural light, the smell of cut grass instead of recycled air, the sound of the crowd carrying without a roof to absorb it—these small sensory shifts rekindled something in a fanbase that had grown accustomed to compromise.

The 'Twin Cities' call, in which the entire stadium erupts into a synchronized wave of white towels, became an almost immediate ritual. It is not merely a cheer; it is a statement of identity. When the Twins are playing well, the towels fly in celebration. When they are playing poorly, the towels fly in defiance, in solidarity, in the stubborn Minnesota belief that the next at-bat will be different. The call has drawn attention from across MLB as one of the most visually striking and emotionally resonant fan traditions in the sport.

Target Field also served as the stage for the Twins' 2016 World Series run, their first appearance in baseball's fall classic since 1965. Though the series ultimately ended in heartbreak against the Chicago Cubs, the home games at Target Field—packed to capacity, the towels flying, the entire North Loop neighborhood alive with noise—became a defining chapter in the stadium's young history and a reminder of what the ballpark was built to do: make the city feel like it was playing the game alongside its team.

In Their Own Story

The April wind off the Mississippi cuts through the upper deck, carrying the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and the warm, buttery tang of a bratwurst from the concession stand below. A kid in a pinstriped Twins cap presses his face against the railing, watching the pitcher wind up, his breath fogging in the thin air. The crowd murmurs, a low collective hold of breath. The ball leaves the hand, arcs, and the crack of the bat is not a sound so much as a physical jolt, felt in the sternum before the ear registers it. The stadium exhales. Then the call comes—'TWIN—CITIES!'—and ten thousand towels lift in one white wave, a slow tide of cotton rolling from section to section, catching the low sun, turning the whole bowl into a single breathing thing. The kid's dad grabs his shoulder, grinning, saying nothing, because there is nothing to say. The night is young, the game is close, and the sky above the outfield is the exact shade of blue that no dome has ever been able to fake.

Reader's Guide

You arrive in late afternoon, the sun already low over the North Loop, and the first thing you notice is the smell: cut grass, popcorn, the faint metallic tang of the chain-link behind the outfield fence. The stadium is not sleek or corporate; it feels built by and for the people inside it. Wide concourses, easy sightlines, no dome to flatten the acoustics. The crowd noise rolls and swells in a way that a roofless structure simply allows.

Then the call comes. A voice from the PA, or maybe just the crowd itself, and every section begins to lift. White towels, some brand-new, some threadbare and soft as cloth, rise in a slow, rolling wave that takes ten seconds to cross the bowl. The sound is not a cheer so much as a collective inhale, a held breath, a rumble you feel in your feet through the concrete. You join in. You always join in. It does not matter if the Twins are up or down, if it is a Tuesday in May or a Sunday in September. The towels go up. The city says: we are here, we are watching, we are not leaving.

The food is a ritual unto itself—brats, cheese curds, the endless stream of Target-branded cups. Kids run between the rows. Someone three seats over has been yelling 'LET'S GO TWINS' for two hours and shows no sign of stopping. The sky above the outfield is the real sky, streaked with clouds, and when the game ends and the lights come on, the whole structure glows amber against the darkening Minnesota evening. You walk out into the North Loop, still buzzing, still smelling like a ballpark, and the city feels a little bit more like yours.

Did You Know?

• Target Field replaced the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, ending a 29-year era of dome baseball for the Twins and returning them to an open-air, natural-light playing environment.
• The 'Twin Cities' towel-wave call has become one of the most recognizable and photographed fan traditions in all of Major League Baseball, drawing attention from rival teams and national broadcasts alike.
• Target Field served as the home stage for the Twins' 2016 World Series, their first appearance in the fall classic since 1965, making it the site of some of the most emotionally charged games in the franchise's modern hi
• The stadium's naming rights partner, Target Corporation, is headquartered in the Twin Cities, making the ballpark's identity a deeply local one rather than a generic corporate brand.