2004 ALCS vs Red Sox

Lore & Background

By the fall of 2004, the Twins had built something special. Johan Santana was in the midst of a career that would earn him a Cy Young Award that very season, and the rotation and bullpen gave the club a depth of pitching that had eluded them for years. The lineup, led by Ordonez's power and Hunter's all-around excellence, could hit for both average and damage. The Twins finished the regular season with a record in the high nineties, earning the third seed in the American League and a first-round bye that set them up against Boston in the ALCS.

The series swung back and forth in a way that kept both fanbases on the edge of their seats. The Twins took Game 1 at home, Boston answered in Fenway, Minnesota won on the road, and the Red Sox clawed back in Minneapolis to force a decisive fifth game. The Metrodome was electric on that final night, the air thick with the particular electricity of a franchise that had been told for years it couldn't close out a series.

In the end, it was not a superstar moment but a grinder's. Lenny Harris, a utility infielder and outfielder who had been in and out of the lineup all season, came up in the bottom of the tenth with the bases loaded and the Twins trailing. His single drove in the winning run, and the Metrodome erupted in a way that felt almost religious. The Twins had done it. They were going to the World Series. The celebration in the clubhouse and on the field captured a city that had waited so long for this exact feeling.

In Their Own Story

The lights in the Metrodome hum their low, electric hum. It is the bottom of the tenth, and the noise in the stands is not quite a roar anymore—it is a held breath, a collective inhalation from forty thousand people who have been through four games of this and who refuse, categorically refuse, to leave without an answer. The bases are loaded. The runner on first is a kid in a Twins cap who got his ticket from his grandfather. The pitcher winds up, and for a moment the whole dome seems to contract inward.

Lenny Harris steps in. The first pitch is a fastball, high and outside. He lets it go. The second is a changeup, and his bat snaps through the zone. The ball skips off the end, rolls toward the outfield grass, and the sound that follows is not a cheer—it is a detonation. Harris is running. The runner from first is running. The runner from second is running. The runner from third is home, and the catcher is standing in the dirt looking up at the scoreboard, and the Twins are in the World Series.

Harris is mobbed at first base. The dugout is a blur of orange and blue. Somewhere in the stands, a man in a flannel shirt is crying and laughing at the same time, and his wife is pulling his arm because they have to go to the parking lot, but they don't go. They don't go for a long time. They just stand there in the rain that has started to fall, listening to the Metrodome sing, and they think: *this is the one. This is the one we were waiting for.*

Reader's Guide

The Metrodome is shaking. Bottom of the ninth, the Twins are down by one, and the Red Sox have just escaped a jam that should have ended it. The crowd is on its feet, not in celebration but in that white-knuckled, prayerful tension that only comes when a franchise's entire identity is balanced on a single at-bat. The extra-inning count is set: bases loaded, one out, the Twins trailing.

Lenny Harris steps to the plate. He is not the name you would have written on a postcard. He is the guy who plays every position, who has been a backup for half his career, who is here because the lineup needs a lefty bat and a steady glove. He taps the plate. The Red Sox pitcher sets his feet, and the dome goes quiet in that specific, almost sacred way.

The pitch comes in. Harris swings, and the bat connects with a crack that you feel in your chest before you hear it. The ball skips off the end of the barrel, rolls out into the outfield, and three runners are sprinting. The runner from third crosses the plate. The umpire's arm goes up. The Twins are in the World Series.

Harris is buried under teammates at first base. The dugout is a wall of orange and blue. In the stands, a kid in a too-big cap is screaming at the top of his lungs, and his father has him by the shoulders, both of them shaking, both of them grinning like they have just been told a secret. The rain starts to fall, soft and cold, and nobody moves. They just stand in it, listening to the dome sing, and they think: *this is the one. This is the one we were waiting for.*

Did You Know?

• Lenny Harris, the man who hit the walk-off single in Game 5, was primarily a utility player who had been in and out of the Twins' everyday lineup throughout the 2004 season.
• The Twins' 2004 ALCS victory was the first postseason series win in the franchise's history under the Minnesota name, ending a long drought that stretched back to the 1987 ALCS loss to Detroit.
• Johan Santana won the American League Cy Young Award for the 2004 season, the same year he helped anchor the Twins' rotation through the ALCS and into the World Series.
• The Twins' World Series run ended in a four-sweep by the St. Louis Cardinals, a result that made the ALCS victory feel all the more precious and all the more bittersweet to Minnesota fans.