If you stand in the middle of the Nickelodeon Universe at the Mall of America and look toward the Log Chute, you’re standing on top of ghosts. Specifically, you’re standing right where home plate used to be. It’s a weird feeling. For a lot of people, the Met Stadium Bloomington MN era wasn't just about baseball or football; it was the moment Minnesota finally joined the big leagues.
Before the glass walls of the MoA or the corporate sheen of U.S. Bank Stadium, there was just "The Met." It sat out in a cornfield. Literally. When they broke ground in the mid-1950s, Bloomington was barely a suburb. It was a gamble. Local leaders basically built a stadium and prayed that if they provided a seat, a Major League team would eventually show up to fill it.
It worked. But the story of Metropolitan Stadium isn't some polished corporate success tale. It’s a story of frozen bleachers, flooding dugouts, and a level of intimacy between fans and players that just doesn't exist anymore.
The Cornfield Gamble That Actually Paid Off
In 1956, the Minneapolis Millers moved in. At the time, the stadium was a triple-A facility. People thought the organizers were crazy for putting it so far from the downtown hubs of Minneapolis or St. Paul. You have to remember, back then, Bloomington was the "middle of nowhere." But the Metropolitan Sports Area Commission knew something others didn't: people had cars now, and they wanted parking.
Lots of it.
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The Met had 15,000 parking spaces. That was the selling point. It wasn't about the luxury suites—there weren't any—it was about the fact that you could drive your station wagon right up to the gate. When the Washington Senators finally moved to town in 1961 to become the Minnesota Twins, the Met Stadium Bloomington MN site became the center of the Upper Midwest sports universe.
It wasn't just the Twins, though. The Vikings showed up the same year. For two decades, this slab of concrete and steel hosted everything from the 1965 All-Star Game to the Beatles (who, by the way, complained about the locker rooms).
Why the Design Was Actually Kind of Terrible (And Why We Loved It)
Let’s be honest: The Met was a Frankenstein’s monster of a stadium.
Because it was originally built for baseball and then expanded for football, the sightlines were bizarre. If you were sitting in the bleachers for a Vikings game, you were basically in a different zip code from the end zone. The triple-deck grandstand was imposing, sure, but the wood seats in the old sections would give you splinters if you weren't careful.
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And the weather? Brutal.
There was no roof. No heaters. When the Vikings played their legendary "Purple People Eater" defense in December, the field was basically a sheet of ice covered in a thin layer of dirt. Hall of Fame coach Bud Grant famously forbid heaters on the sidelines. He wanted the visiting teams to see the Vikings standing there, frozen but stoic, while the opponents shivered. It was psychological warfare.
The dugouts were notorious for flooding during heavy spring rains. Players would joke about needing a life raft just to get to the bat rack. Yet, there was this weird closeness. The fans were right on top of the action. Harmon Killebrew would be standing in the on-deck circle, and you could literally yell a question to him and he might actually hear you.
The Night the Lights (Almost) Stayed On Forever
The end of the Met Stadium Bloomington MN era wasn't a slow fade. It was a messy, emotional breakup. By the late 70s, the stadium was literally crumbling. Concrete was spalling. The plumbing was a nightmare. The "Metrodome" was the shiny new toy being built in downtown Minneapolis, promising climate control and "modern" amenities.
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The final Twins game at the Met happened on September 30, 1981. It was a disaster, but a beautiful one. After the final out, fans didn't just leave. They rioted—in a nice, Minnesota way. They started digging up the turf. They ripped out seats. People were walking out with pieces of the scoreboard. They wanted a piece of the magic before the bulldozers arrived.
The Vikings played one last game there in December '81 against the Chiefs. It was cold. It was gray. And then, just like that, the gates were locked.
What’s Left of the Met Today?
If you go to the Mall of America today, you can find the remnants. Most people walk right over them.
- Home Plate: It’s embedded in the floor of Nickelodeon Universe. It’s the exact spot where Killebrew, Carew, and Oliva stood.
- The Red Seat: High up on the wall near the Log Chute, there’s a single red stadium seat. It marks the spot where Harmon Killebrew hit a 520-foot home run on June 3, 1967. It’s a reminder of just how massive that stadium felt when the "Killer" was at the plate.
- The Memories: Talk to any local over the age of 50. They won't talk about the luxury tax or the concessions. They’ll talk about the smell of the nearby cedar trees, the tailgating in the massive lot, and the way the stadium shook when the Vikings defense made a goal-line stand.
Honestly, the Met represented a version of Minnesota that was scrappier. We didn't need a billion-dollar glass palace. We just needed some bleachers and a winning team.
Actionable Steps for Sports History Buffs
If you want to actually "experience" what's left of the Met Stadium Bloomington MN legacy, don't just read about it.
- Visit the Mall of America Home Plate: Don't just look at it. Stand on it. Look toward where the outfield would have been (toward the east side of the mall). It gives you a genuine sense of the scale.
- Find the Killebrew Seat: It's located on the wall above the Log Chute in the theme park. It’s way higher than you think it should be, which tells you everything you need to know about that home run.
- Check out the Hennepin County Library Digital Archives: They have high-resolution blueprints and photos of the construction. Seeing the stadium rise out of an empty field is a trip.
- Visit the Minnesota Historical Society: They hold several original seats and artifacts that weren't looted during the 1981 finale.
The Met is gone, but the footprint remains. In a world of sterile, corporate arenas, remembering the grit of the old Bloomington cornfield is a way to stay connected to the real soul of Minnesota sports.