He would never brag on it, but man, did he ever leave a mark on this game. Just look at the MLB logo: The batter? For decades, many have believed it's Killebrew.
He spoke softly and carried a very big stick, a stick that launched 573 home runs over 22 Hall of Fame seasons. He ranks 11th on the all-time homer list and, yes, that's where the whole Killer thing emerged.
As the old Washington Senators infielder Ossie Bluege once said, "He hit line drives that put the opposition in jeopardy. And I don't mean infielders. I mean outfielders."
When they razed his old baseball home in Minnesota, Metropolitan Stadium, and turned it into the United States' biggest shopping mall, they left his mark. To this day, one of the prime attractions remains one red seat, still visible amid the maze of Banana Republics and Foot Lockers.
It is installed at the estimated location and elevation of the longest home run in Twins history, Killebrew's monstrous, 520-foot blast on June 3, 1967, against reliever Lew Burdette in a game against the California Angels.
Not many outside of Minnesota realize this, but there is a direct line tracing the landing spot of that home run in '67 to today's Twins and their new Target Field.
See, outside of Gate 34 -- the gate dedicated to Killebrew's Hall of Fame colleague Kirby Puckett -- there is a giant Gold Glove that is a perfect place to meet, or for a photo op. It is no coincidence that that Gold Glove is located exactly, yes, 520 feet from home plate.
You can't put into words the depth of Killebrew's meaning to the Twins and to baseball fans in Minnesota. But you can sure see it in the smiles of those who meet at that glove on summer nights, or by the Killebrew statue outside of Target Field.
Perfectly, that bronze statue captures Killebrew's follow-through at the plate. I assume he's just sent another baseball rocketing toward the Mississippi River, clear out of sight.
"Killebrew can knock the ball out of any park," the old Orioles manager Paul Richards once explained. "Including Yellowstone."
Far as anyone knows, Killebrew never did test Richards' theory. But he did groom that swing and grow that power not far from Yellowstone.
A native of tiny Payette, Idaho, Killebrew was "discovered" by Bluege at 17. By then, Bluege was the Senators' farm director, and owner Clark Griffith dispatched him to see some kid recommended by a real Senator, Idaho's Herman Welker.
At the time, Killebrew was planning to play football and baseball at the University of Oregon. Then Bluege watched the budding slugger hit a ball over the left-field fence, into a beet field, that the scout measured off the next day at 435 feet.
Line drives that put outfielders in jeopardy.
You expected anything but small from Killebrew, especially if you met him during a time when much smaller men like Barry Bonds literally grew right before our eyes. Inauthentic behemoths recently have rushed past him on the all-time homer list: Mark McGwire (10th), Sammy Sosa (seventh), Alex Rodriguez (sixth) and Bonds (first). Notably, the record book does not offer listings for integrity.
Like so many Hall of Famers who will live on in our memories, Killebrew came from another time and place. He was of our fathers, and of their fathers. A 13-time All-Star, he became the American League's Most Valuable Player in 1969 with 49 homers, 140 RBI and a still-incredible 145 walks. Killebrew was so feared he became one of the first players whom opponents frequently would intentionally walk (he ranks 15th all-time in walks).
"He was the meal ticket for our franchise for all those years in Washington and Minnesota," Calvin Griffith said, and when Killebrew finished his career in 1975 with one season in Kansas City, it seemed badly out of place, as if Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon suddenly relocated in Omaha.
First and always, he was a Twin. The first one elected to the Hall of Fame (in 1984). And, in so many ways, the face of the franchise until he took his final cuts at 74.
"A muscular slugger with monumental home run and RBI success," reads his Hall of Fame plaque.
Or, as 2011 Hall of Fame electee Bert Blyleven said, "A lumberjack of a ballplayer."
The Gentleman Slugger, he came from a time of beet fields and corner shops, not drive-thrus and megamalls.
But he fit oh so perfectly, just the right size for his day, and just the right shape for the ages.
