That morning, a crew of Little League buddies and I, 14 years old at the time, stuffed our pockets with lawn mowing earnings and begged one of our moms for a ride down 35W to the Dome box office. We donned our “M” hats, grabbed our mitts, and just before heading out the door, snagged one last good luck charm — a wicker broom, the decades-old symbol of a series sweep.

We leaped out of Mrs. Larson’s minivan and into the shadows of the ballpark minutes before Radke fired his trademark first-pitch strike. After securing nose-bleed tickets, we eagerly approached the rotating doors of the stadium. The friendly ushers at Gate H greeted us with a smile, handed back our freshly-torn ticket stubs, and sent us on our way to our blue plastic seats to take in the ballgame — with one caveat.

No brooms allowed.

This revelation was truly devastating. Not only had I borrowed my family’s go-to kitchen broom with a promise to my mother to return with it intact, but this symbolic souvenir was going to rally the team to a much-needed victory in a way no foam finger ever could. I mean, what harm could a 115-pound middle-schooler do with a wicker broom other than root, root root for the home team? (Remember, this was a pre-9/11 world, and expectations at security gates were much more lax.) I was told I could pick up the broom after the contest, and sulked into the concourse empty-handed.

Unfortunately, we know how this story ends. There was no sweep. The Sox got to Radke early, scoring five runs in the first two innings, and the Twins were unable to rally back, losing the game 6–3. More importantly, the team went on to post a 39–46 record from that date on, missing the playoffs for the 10th consecutive season.

After the game, I returned to Gate H to pick up my broom. It was nowhere to be found. Not a single usher manning the gate knew what had happened to it. I went back home without the broom — nor victory — in hand.