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After the players and staff arrive, but before most of the fans, a special guest shows up at CHS Field ahead of St. Paul Saints games. Right now he rides in a crate in the backseat of a pickup truck; soon enough he’ll need his own trailer.
Meet HaMelo Ball.
He weighs 22 pounds — last week it was 11. He snorts, screams and unties passersby’s shoelaces. The Pioneer Press joined him for a Friday night in July to see just what goes into the life of a ball pig.
For a 7:07 p.m. first pitch, HaMelo arrives at 6:03 p.m.. Leashed and harnessed, he’s led in through the back entrance and across the field to his kennel. Handler Dennis Hauth is careful to note it’s important to lead the pig, not let the pig lead you.
The pig zone sits in an alcove attached to the home dugout, open to players who greet HaMelo — who’s named after newly acquired Timberwolves point guard LaMelo Ball — as they pass. Inside a white picket enclosure filled with wood shavings, he promptly knocks over his food and water bowls, a process he repeats every time they’re refilled. There’s a gate that can latch, but it rarely does.
HaMelo is leashed, but free to roam, get bottle-fed or nap. He has slipped the leash once, making a mad dash onto the field mid-inning. Even when he’s leashed, he’s prone to make a similar break for it.
The Saints have had a ball pig since the team was founded in 1993. Co-owner Mike Veeck noticed other independent teams had ball dogs and wanted an animal that represented the Midwest instead. Dennis and Marylin Hauth, who own a farm 35 minutes outside St. Paul, had worked with production companies looking to put pigs in commercials, and they were game to bring one to the ballpark. Thirty-four years later, they’re still at it.
At five weeks old, HaMelo acts his age. He likes being petted and scratched behind the ears, rubs against people’s legs, and noses at their shoelaces until they come undone — left alone, he’ll fully unlace a pair. His holding area sits next to the players’ walk-out tunnel, where kids peek over to watch him trot around. He’s popular with fans, players and staff alike, who comment on how fast he’s growing every time they pass.
Usually, Dennis and Marylin go to the field together, but Marylin was sick on this particular Friday evening, so their 14-year-old grandson Easton stepped in to assist.
Dennis and Marylin have been married 50 years and have traveled to 18 countries together. They have three children and seven grandchildren and are hoping to keep the farm in the family. In Marilyn’s absence, the couple spoke twice on the phone during the game and texted throughout.
HaMelo is putting on two pounds or more per day. Pigs grow so fast that the Saints now go through two ball pigs a season, swapping at the halfway point. His predecessor, Chat BLT, went viral for refusing to leave the field after one ump visit. It took two people to carry him off.
By the time HaMelo retires, he’ll weigh 130 to 140 pounds, though pigs keep growing well past that. The Hauths let their first ball pig, Saint, live out his life; he topped 1,500 pounds, standing four feet tall, three feet wide and 10 feet long at his peak, eventually growing too heavy to stand up on his own.
Most pigs are butchered long before that point. Ball pigs are no exception.
Saint arrived 34 years ago, before St. Paul became the Twins’ Triple-A affiliate. Then, as an independent baseball team, the Saints pioneered the wacky, offbeat activities that are iconic to the minor leagues today. In those early days, there was no corporate oversight of on-field activities. Saint would ride a motorcycle, Marylin would make costumes for interns to “Drag the field” in literal drag. Even today, visiting umpires are instructed to “kiss the pig” before making any calls.
Fans and staff love it, Dennis says, with the occasional exception of “an ump or two who wasn’t too happy with the pig.”
“But that’s too bad,” he said.
HaMelo’s first job of the night comes at 6:48 p.m.: the pregame bottle feed. It’s simple, and he’s highly motivated. First, though, he has to be wrangled by two people into his initial costume: a handmade fabric baseball with his name stitched on, courtesy of Marylin. He’s oinking by the time he’s dressed, but the milk makes up for it.
He walks onto the field, camera crew in tow, suckles a baby bottle for a few seconds and heads back to the dugout. He’ll get a new outfit every inning. Some easy to get on, like a red leather harness. Others, like an orange tutu, take some wrangling.
HaMelo was taken from his mom at three weeks. Since then, the bottle and Dennis, who delivers it, have become “Mom.” He downs six full bottles of milk over the course of the game. By the time he’s grown, he’ll be able to put away the same number of quarter-pounders.
Back in the dugout, pitcher Alejandro Hidalgo stops by to give him some attention. As a ball pig, HaMelo is technically supposed to carry a ball out to the umpire at the end of every inning, but he’s too small at this stage for that, so he just walks alongside while Dennis carries the ball.
The Hauths aren’t especially invested in the baseball itself. When the Saints hit three consecutive home runs in the bottom of the fifth, no one in the pig alcove seemed to notice. Dennis says it’s rare if he knows what the final score is, and it took some puzzling to determine that the “LOU” on the visitors’ scoreboard stood for the Louisville Bats, not Louisiana.
“When I’m at home, I’ll watch a Saints game on TV because I know the players,” Dennis said, noting he would never watch a Twins game on television.
He says COVID was “horrible” because there were no games. A ball pig was still named “This Little Piggy Stays Home” for good measure.
Midway through the game, a VIP group comes down for a meet-and-greet, and HaMelo is immediately unsettled. Something about them doesn’t sit right, so he starts screaming. It’s a sound unlike an oink: something closer to a broken electric mixer at full speed. (Death-metal vocalists actually train to produce a similar “pig squeal,” curling the tongue behind the teeth, jutting the jaw and adding a scream.)
HaMelo screams for about two minutes, though it feels longer, inconsolable even with a bottle, while the VIPs look on in confusion. He eventually settles enough for a quick photo, capping what Dennis calls a “total hissy fit meltdown.”
A second group comes down a few minutes later, and HaMelo is an angel for them, taking pets and posing for pictures without complaint.
Every pig has a personality, Dennis says. Those personalities change every 10 days or so. He’s not sure he has a favorite, but he has a least favorite pig — a female the Hauths tried using in their second year with the team. She vocally rejected every part of the job, and they’ve used only male pigs since.
By the final inning, HaMelo is worn out. The night has cooled down, and he naps in his pen and poops on the wall. When the game ends, he’s hustled out of the stadium before the postgame Friday fireworks, the sounds of which would spook him. Pigs can’t look directly up into the sky due to the structure of their heads, so he isn’t missing out on much.
He’s in the car by 9:56 p.m., oinking incessantly. Dennis had planned to move him from crate to trailer once he outgrew the carrier, but if HaMelo is too annoying, he might make the switch sooner.
Dennis has been with the Saints for a long time and two stadiums. He’s still enjoying it.
“We have a lot of fun with the pigs,” Dennis said. “Over the years, it’s been great.”
The Saints still keep a ball boy on staff for the jobs a pig can’t handle. Dylan Wilcox, a clubhouse attendant and batboy, says it’s cool the team has carried on the tradition for so many years, and that players and fans love the pig.
“Thankfully, I get to sit the furthest away from it so I don’t have to be too close to it,” he added, “but it’s pretty cool.”
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Meet HaMelo Ball.
He weighs 22 pounds — last week it was 11. He snorts, screams and unties passersby’s shoelaces. The Pioneer Press joined him for a Friday night in July to see just what goes into the life of a ball pig.
For a 7:07 p.m. first pitch, HaMelo arrives at 6:03 p.m.. Leashed and harnessed, he’s led in through the back entrance and across the field to his kennel. Handler Dennis Hauth is careful to note it’s important to lead the pig, not let the pig lead you.
The pig zone sits in an alcove attached to the home dugout, open to players who greet HaMelo — who’s named after newly acquired Timberwolves point guard LaMelo Ball — as they pass. Inside a white picket enclosure filled with wood shavings, he promptly knocks over his food and water bowls, a process he repeats every time they’re refilled. There’s a gate that can latch, but it rarely does.
HaMelo is leashed, but free to roam, get bottle-fed or nap. He has slipped the leash once, making a mad dash onto the field mid-inning. Even when he’s leashed, he’s prone to make a similar break for it.
The Saints have had a ball pig since the team was founded in 1993. Co-owner Mike Veeck noticed other independent teams had ball dogs and wanted an animal that represented the Midwest instead. Dennis and Marylin Hauth, who own a farm 35 minutes outside St. Paul, had worked with production companies looking to put pigs in commercials, and they were game to bring one to the ballpark. Thirty-four years later, they’re still at it.
At five weeks old, HaMelo acts his age. He likes being petted and scratched behind the ears, rubs against people’s legs, and noses at their shoelaces until they come undone — left alone, he’ll fully unlace a pair. His holding area sits next to the players’ walk-out tunnel, where kids peek over to watch him trot around. He’s popular with fans, players and staff alike, who comment on how fast he’s growing every time they pass.
Usually, Dennis and Marylin go to the field together, but Marylin was sick on this particular Friday evening, so their 14-year-old grandson Easton stepped in to assist.
Dennis and Marylin have been married 50 years and have traveled to 18 countries together. They have three children and seven grandchildren and are hoping to keep the farm in the family. In Marilyn’s absence, the couple spoke twice on the phone during the game and texted throughout.
HaMelo is putting on two pounds or more per day. Pigs grow so fast that the Saints now go through two ball pigs a season, swapping at the halfway point. His predecessor, Chat BLT, went viral for refusing to leave the field after one ump visit. It took two people to carry him off.
By the time HaMelo retires, he’ll weigh 130 to 140 pounds, though pigs keep growing well past that. The Hauths let their first ball pig, Saint, live out his life; he topped 1,500 pounds, standing four feet tall, three feet wide and 10 feet long at his peak, eventually growing too heavy to stand up on his own.
Most pigs are butchered long before that point. Ball pigs are no exception.
Saint arrived 34 years ago, before St. Paul became the Twins’ Triple-A affiliate. Then, as an independent baseball team, the Saints pioneered the wacky, offbeat activities that are iconic to the minor leagues today. In those early days, there was no corporate oversight of on-field activities. Saint would ride a motorcycle, Marylin would make costumes for interns to “Drag the field” in literal drag. Even today, visiting umpires are instructed to “kiss the pig” before making any calls.
Fans and staff love it, Dennis says, with the occasional exception of “an ump or two who wasn’t too happy with the pig.”
“But that’s too bad,” he said.
HaMelo’s first job of the night comes at 6:48 p.m.: the pregame bottle feed. It’s simple, and he’s highly motivated. First, though, he has to be wrangled by two people into his initial costume: a handmade fabric baseball with his name stitched on, courtesy of Marylin. He’s oinking by the time he’s dressed, but the milk makes up for it.
He walks onto the field, camera crew in tow, suckles a baby bottle for a few seconds and heads back to the dugout. He’ll get a new outfit every inning. Some easy to get on, like a red leather harness. Others, like an orange tutu, take some wrangling.
HaMelo was taken from his mom at three weeks. Since then, the bottle and Dennis, who delivers it, have become “Mom.” He downs six full bottles of milk over the course of the game. By the time he’s grown, he’ll be able to put away the same number of quarter-pounders.
Back in the dugout, pitcher Alejandro Hidalgo stops by to give him some attention. As a ball pig, HaMelo is technically supposed to carry a ball out to the umpire at the end of every inning, but he’s too small at this stage for that, so he just walks alongside while Dennis carries the ball.
The Hauths aren’t especially invested in the baseball itself. When the Saints hit three consecutive home runs in the bottom of the fifth, no one in the pig alcove seemed to notice. Dennis says it’s rare if he knows what the final score is, and it took some puzzling to determine that the “LOU” on the visitors’ scoreboard stood for the Louisville Bats, not Louisiana.
“When I’m at home, I’ll watch a Saints game on TV because I know the players,” Dennis said, noting he would never watch a Twins game on television.
He says COVID was “horrible” because there were no games. A ball pig was still named “This Little Piggy Stays Home” for good measure.
Midway through the game, a VIP group comes down for a meet-and-greet, and HaMelo is immediately unsettled. Something about them doesn’t sit right, so he starts screaming. It’s a sound unlike an oink: something closer to a broken electric mixer at full speed. (Death-metal vocalists actually train to produce a similar “pig squeal,” curling the tongue behind the teeth, jutting the jaw and adding a scream.)
HaMelo screams for about two minutes, though it feels longer, inconsolable even with a bottle, while the VIPs look on in confusion. He eventually settles enough for a quick photo, capping what Dennis calls a “total hissy fit meltdown.”
A second group comes down a few minutes later, and HaMelo is an angel for them, taking pets and posing for pictures without complaint.
Every pig has a personality, Dennis says. Those personalities change every 10 days or so. He’s not sure he has a favorite, but he has a least favorite pig — a female the Hauths tried using in their second year with the team. She vocally rejected every part of the job, and they’ve used only male pigs since.
By the final inning, HaMelo is worn out. The night has cooled down, and he naps in his pen and poops on the wall. When the game ends, he’s hustled out of the stadium before the postgame Friday fireworks, the sounds of which would spook him. Pigs can’t look directly up into the sky due to the structure of their heads, so he isn’t missing out on much.
He’s in the car by 9:56 p.m., oinking incessantly. Dennis had planned to move him from crate to trailer once he outgrew the carrier, but if HaMelo is too annoying, he might make the switch sooner.
Dennis has been with the Saints for a long time and two stadiums. He’s still enjoying it.
“We have a lot of fun with the pigs,” Dennis said. “Over the years, it’s been great.”
The Saints still keep a ball boy on staff for the jobs a pig can’t handle. Dylan Wilcox, a clubhouse attendant and batboy, says it’s cool the team has carried on the tradition for so many years, and that players and fans love the pig.
“Thankfully, I get to sit the furthest away from it so I don’t have to be too close to it,” he added, “but it’s pretty cool.”
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