HHH Metrodome 34 Kirby Puckett Place, Minneapolis, MN 55415 Home of the Minnesota Twins

I've seen so many ballgames here that it's easy to become complacent. Yet there's no denying that this is a downright terrible place to watch baseball. But, where to begin...?

First things first, arriving at this building requires navigating a sea of surface parking lots, all charging various prices (at various times) for parking. There is no rhyme or reason, and most lots can be entered from only one direction. With all the surrounding streets being one-way, woe to the driver who misses the driveway for his desired lot. The first time you come to this stadium, plan lots of time for parking and get there early.

Real world example: Once I arrived about 20 minutes before the start of a weekday afternoon game. (This is later than I usually arrive, but it could not be avoided.) I ended up having to park about a mile from the stadium, and missed the first three innings of the game.

Once parked, you will enjoy a lengthy walk through blocks of city ruins. That's because the revenue from these surface lots (built where old buildings have been torn down) discourage their owners from pursuing any new development. There is no neighborhood feel whatsoever. No charm in the least. There is a gigantic hospital complex just to the south, and the rest of the buildings are industrial. (Hubert's, a bar, is the lone exception.)

Upon entering the building, your first site is of cement, lots of cement, as far as the eye can see. There is literally no way to see the playing field from the concourses. Closed circuit televisions have been added, but this is a pale substitute. It means that getting up for a snack requires ignoring the game.

Setting foot into the stadium, you get a palpable sense of disappointment. Maybe it's best to say that baseball feels like it isn't welcome here -- like it's just borrowing somebody else's stadium. The place was obviously built for football (or maybe monster truck rallies), so to accommodate baseball, they have to:

a) push back some of the seats so there's a right field;

b) hang a big plastic curtain (aka "the baggie") over those seats to keep more balls in play;

c) stretch a similar plastic substance in an arc to create an outfield "wall" which players appear to bounce off of like a trampoline; and

d) drop a huge curtain to cover the large number of seats in center field which have no chance of being sold.

There are numerous seats which do not face the infield, and those that do are behind a variety of metal barriers, psychologically distancing the fan from the action.

Real world example: I got a seat in the front row of the upper deck, directly behind home plate. When I sat down, I realized that the pipe railing in front of me directly blocked my view of the plate! I had to move up about 15 rows before I could get an unobstructed view of the action.

If you want to keep score, you'll have to pay $4 or $5 (varies by game) for a program. This is no big deal except that all I want is the scorecard, not the magazine. Other major league parks sell such things for $1 (and Comerica gives you a free pencil!). If everything else about this place was perfect, this wouldn't even be worth noting. As it is, even the small things work against the Metrodome.

The place is relentlessly blue, a color so neutral as to be nauseating. The food is boring, and there are very few roaming vendors, especially in the cheap seats. If you want something, you'll have to stop watching the game and go to the concourse (I have learned to time this with pitching changes).

If there are upsides to this venue (and I'm not really sure) they would be that:

a) It never sells out. You can always get a seat.

b) Good seats can be had for $10 if you choose your section carefully.

c) Two World Series' and an All-Star game were played here, giving the dump some real baseball history.

I'm not going to even get into the well-known issues of the bouncy playing surface, baseball-colored roof, and noise. (Bring earplugs.)

When I was a kid, the thought of a domed stadium was exciting. I even wrote to Calvin Griffith, pleading with him to get a new stadium. But my sense of disappointment was palpable the first time I set foot in the place. I hate the cement, the relentlessly blue chairs, the fly-ball camouflaging roof.

Occasionally, as I sit in my favorite section, I wonder if, after it's gone, we'll look back with fondness on this frumpy and utilitarian building. Will we miss its quirks and the advantage it gives to the Twins? Will we one day see it as a model for idiosyncratic and cheap multi-purpose stadiums?

Nah.