The Metrodome isn’t going out quietly.

It wouldn’t. Which is why I’m going to miss the dump.

Oh, I won’t miss the cramped concourses and endless rows of outfield seats. I certainly won’t miss the neck strain that accompanies sitting in the lower deck beyond first or third base.

Nor will I miss the plastic grass or the muddy, overly loud sound system.

The place is not made for playing baseball, and it’s not made for watching baseball.

But I will miss the certainty of seeing the games played no matter the weather — no small consideration to those of us for whom the travel is at least as time-consuming as the game itself.

And I will miss the Metrodome magic — the odd manner in which the action, and sometimes the season, tended to tilt the Twins’ way at just the right moment.

It’s not much, but the Twins called it home for 28 seasons, for two World Series championships and four other division titles.

Here Kirby Puckett, Justin Morneau and Joe Mauer became stars. Here Torii Hunter worked defensive miracles and Johan Santana made hitters look foolish with his dominant changeup.

Many of the most exhilarating and memorable experiences of my life took place in the Dome, maybe too many to be truly healthy. And those experiences tend to revolve around Minnesota victories.

Nobody who was there in October 1987 to watch the white hankies flutter, join in the din, experience the elation — nobody who was there can really hate the place. (Well, nobody but Cardinal fans.)

It was — is — a dump.

But it’s our dump.

Just win, baby
The Dome has quite the reputation for homefield advantage.

Part of that reputation is anecdotal. It’s based on the 1987 and 1991 World Series — in which the Twins went a combined 0-6 on the road and 8-0 in the raucous Dome.