The 86th World Series had ended at 11:01 p.m. in downtown Minneapolis on Oct. 27, 1991, with Dan Gladden cantering home from third on pinch hitter Gene Larkin's fly ball past a drawn-in outfield.

Jack Morris, mound architect for 10 scoreless innings for the winning Twins, by 1-0, had raced madly toward Gladden as the Dazzler was completing the 90-foot journey, and the Metrodome and Minnesota went nuts.

Ira Berkow, writing on severe deadline for the New York Times, offered this as a finish for this epic seven-gamer between Atlanta and the Twins: "Two teams that finished last in their divisions the year before win the pennants. Each team knowing in its heart that it cannot lose, that the fates have ordained that this is their season."

Thirty years later, the fates of our four men's pro teams that offer the best competition in the world have not ordained for any of those to reach a final two, to be close enough to know in its heart that it cannot lose.

The Twins (28), Vikings (30), Timberwolves (30) and Wild/North Stars (22) have combined for 110 postseasons without playing in a title game or round since Gladden reached home plate for the last time as a Twin.

Much like Major King Kong riding the missile at the end of "Dr. Strangelove" (the greatest movie ever made), it's certain that we'll meet again some sunny day for a full-blown parade to celebrate a championship in one of these four men's majors.

And when it occurs, the likelihood is nil that the manager or coach in charge will handle it with the cool wonder that did Tom Kelly.

The next winner with some of our fellas will be screaming and leaping and taking bows, not sitting in their small office two hours after it ended, asking for an update on the fate of that day's Fantasy Football game for a team that he shares with a character known to all as "Lunch."

There were a pair of victory cigars, for Kelly and Lunch McKenzie, baseball man, visiting locker room worker at the Dome. And the manager permitted himself this tribute to his second winning World Series, and to the past two nights:

"Those were some ballgames. They were games! Saturday night, Kirby [Puckett] hits the home run. Tonight, Morris … you don't do what he did. You can't write a script like that.

"And Geno Larkin! A lot of guys go up there a little nervous in that situation, a little nervous about pulling the trigger. Geno goes up there on one leg [injured], takes a whack at the first pitch he sees and we win.

"They were games!"

Weren't they, though?

And we'll meet again; not all of us, but many of you.

I mean, Owen next door, 22 months, already trying to play catch and shoot baskets, already loves sports. He'll see that sunny day.

Won't he?