The Vikings trailed Cleveland by a point, 23-22, and Tommy Kramer had just launched a pass from the Browns' 46-yard line into the right corner of the end zone, with four seconds showing on the scoreboard clock.
A Minneapolis sewer worker despondent over the abduction and death of his performing monkey braces himself for a far more painful loss.
A photo of Betty McClellan surrounded by her 10 children was featured in a four-column Wonder Bread ad in the Minneapolis Tribune in May 1950.
Thousands flocked to 31st and E. Lake Street in May 1905 for a preview of a new 10-acre amusement park called Wonderland. A Tribune reporter in attendance somehow captured the glittery excitement of the day without getting a single quote from the park's owners, visitors or employees.
The last time the Vikings shut out the Packers, I was a 12-year-old kid listening to the game on the radio in a living room in Richfield. The game, played at the Met, was not broadcast on local television. Here's the Minneapolis Star account of the fourth-quarter interception that led to Minnesota's winning field goal.
It was a wonderful suggestion from a reader, and the newspaper jumped on it with enthusiasm: Find impoverished children in need of Christmas cheer and match them with generous citizens who want to play Santa Claus.
A Tribune editorial correctly predicted that restoring the original name, "Mendoza," would not stick.
The Minneapolis Tribune once described it as "the one crop in Minnesota that never fails."
He "doesn't sing too well, and he doesn't play his white guitar too well, but he does have a lot of sex," one critic wrote after witnessing Jimi Hendrix play the Minneapolis Auditorium.
Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn-Wonce (variously known as Kay-bah-nung-we-way, Sloughing Flesh, Wrinkled Meat or plain old—well, really old—John Smith) was reputed to be 137 years old when he died. Whatever his precise age, his well-lined face indicates a man who led a long and full life. He had eight wives but no children. He fought, he fished, he counseled, he rode horses and trains, he appeared in moving pictures and he sold postcards. The Tribune's page-one obituary featured a two-column photo of Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn-Wonce.
Little is known about the Park Board girls' rifle team beyond what can be deduced from a Minneapolis Journal photo taken in about 1920.
"Just ask," a man-on-the-street photo feature, appeared in the Minneapolis Tribune from November 1946 until June 1964.
Read it in the voice of Garrison Keillor for the full effect.
Elvis Presley, young bump-and-grind artist, turned a rainy Sunday afternoon into an orgy of squealing in St. Paul auditorium.
The first sex-reassignment surgery performed in Minnesota took place more than 40 years ago at the University of Minnesota. Twenty-nine male-to-female operations were completed at the Minneapolis hospital between 1966 and 1969. Among the patients was Liz Lyons, a veteran female impersonator who had worked at the Gay 90s bar on Hennepin Avenue for many years before making the transition. Lyons was born in Chicago in 1919. The name on the birth certificate: Reuben Elkins. The gender: male. She took the name Lee Leonard when she launched her "songs and comedy" act at nightclubs in California, Arizona, Oregon, Idaho and Alaska in the early 1950s. Will Jones, longtime entertainment columnist for the Minneapolis Tribune, let Lyons fill in the rest of her unusual story.
"Well, now," said Prince Carol of Roumania, who sat directly back of the catcher in a box seat at the ball game at St. Paul yesterday afternoon, "why didn't that man strike at the ball?"
Fifty years ago today, the Minneapolis Tribune provided potential evildoers with a trove of information about an innocent young woman: her name, age, date of birth, weight, place of work and home address. The practice was common back then. Except for weight and birthdate, such details were frequently disclosed in newspaper stories of the 1950s and 1960s. The young woman, Sheila Keating, married Odell Hegna later that year. She went on to make a name for herself as an advocate for fair housing, economic development and battered women. She died in March 2017.
Here a nameless Tribune reporter spins a ghost story worthy of any campfire. The scene is set near an abandoned graveyard in northeast Minneapolis, most likely Maple Hill Cemetery, the city's first, established in 1857.
More than 60 Minneapolis firefighters and at least one firehouse cat have died in the line of duty since the department was founded in 1879. Just a kitten when he was left at Station No. 10 in 1935, Mickey learned how to slide down the fire pole when the fire alarm sounded. That trick earned him the admiration of fellow firefighters and a feature role in a Pathe New Reel. He answered the bell for the last time one August night in 1937. Minneapolis Star editors put his death on the front page, above the fold.
Minneapolis Tribune coverage of Neil Armstrong's historic first step on the moon.