"2001 Between the Lines" is a series of columns by Magazine writers looking back at small, but significant, moments in sports.

Let's go into the Minnesota Twins clubhouse, in early May. It's a strange place to start, I concede, but just give it a minute.

The Twins are in first place. They've just piggy-backed a low-viscosity pitching performance from Brad Radke to a win over the Yankees. Outkast is pumping through the portable stereo (a good portable stereo, but still, this is small-market) and the Twins are trying hard -- maybe even a little too hard -- to buy into the reality of their good fortune.

This is back when it was still hip to have hope. Remember, back before the talking mannequins who run baseball decided to throw up their arms and say the hell with it?

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On this night in May, with thousands of rowdy Minnesota high-schoolers harassing Chuck Knoblauch to within an inch of a felony, it didn't matter which team had the more lucrative television contract.

At the time, you couldn't say with certainty that Doug Mientkiewicz wasn't going to hit .400. You couldn't say with certainty that Radke wasn't going to win 30 games. You couldn't say with certainty that Tom Kelly wasn't going to become the most anonymous manager to win three World Series.

I know they crashed, and I know it was as predictable as another Yankee appearance in the World Series. But still ...

I have no particular affinity for the Twins, other than spending four enjoyable days watching them play while reporting a story on Mientkiewicz. But I thought about that night when it became clear Bud Selig decided to take a filet-mignon baseball season and chase it with a chunk of liverwurst.

In fact, I thought about one moment in particular. Mientkiewicz, who had four hits that night, walked past Radke's locker. Radke -- a sedate, analytical sort -- excused himself from a group of reporters and gave Mientkiewicz a heartfelt, eye-meets-eye handshake.

They stared at each other like they knew it all along. They didn't say anything. I'd like to believe they didn't need to, but their silence might have been more accurately attributed to the 767 sound of the portable stereo.

Either way, the sound in that room was the best sound in sports.

It was the sound of hope, of resolve, of surprise attempting to transform itself into actual belief.

The question is, can you hear it now?

Tim Keown is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at tim.keown@espnmag.com.