This morning, I sat down with my granola and Diet Mountain Dew, ready to begin my day. As my hindquarters hit the couch, and before my hand could reach the remote, I noticed a strange presence sitting in a chair in my living room. I was surprised, but somehow I recognized this intruder.

"Jason Tyner?" I asked.

Tyner nodded.

"How did you get in my living room?"

"You're imagining me here," he said. His mouth did not move. "You've been avoiding me inside your own brain, and I had to appear to you before the 2012 Twins baseball season begins."

"What message do you bear, spirit?" I asked. The Tyner-hallucination slapped its forehead in disgust.

"Stop being a diva," he said. "Do you remember when I hit my one home run, ever, as a major leaguer? You thought to yourself I was going to be an All-Star after that."

"Maybe," I said.

"Don't lie to your own imagination!" the Tyner said.

"I guess I just got hopeful," I said. My granola was getting soggy.

"Remember when you said Mike Lamb would solve the Twins infield problems, and then that Joe Crede would? And then that Nishioka would?"

"Okay," I said.

"Remember when you thought Livan Hernandez and Ramon Ortiz were going to be amazing starters for a whole season? Remember saying the 2009 Tigers wouldn't be successful because they were too good?"

"Fine. I get it," I said. "What's your point?"

"Your brain wants you to stop being such a homer, because if you don't you're just going to be a giant, whiny mess by July. You gotta love the game for what it is, not the best case scenario you've concocted in your head. Stop setting yourself up for disappointment."

"Like when you ended your career after getting traded for . . ."

"This isn't about me," the spectral-Tyner said. "I came here for a reason. There's something you need to realize before this season begins."

He held up a picture, and I screamed out loud. He began to fade out of existence.

"You knew it was that already. You know you did," Tyner said as he slowly disappeared. He was right, but like all of the other disappointments he had mentioned, I was trying to keep from thinking about it.

In his hand, the spirit had held a picture of Scott Baker's elbow.

Odd, I had much the same experience. Only I was visited by Ghost-of-Seasons-Future-Ben-Revere, and it was a Coke, not a Diet Mt Dew.

Coulda been worse. It coulda been a collage. Baker's elbow, Morneau's wrist, Denard's neck, Butera's bat and Mauer's sacroiliac.

(And yes, this gratuitous comment was added purely so I could type the words "Mauer's sacroiliac." Twice.)

1. Mine was Revere too (must be a USAF thing) with Diet Coke.

2. I like being a homer and an optimist. Even in late August last year I thought we could possibly get back in the race if we just went on a run and won 10 in a row.

3. I told Revere that I'm realistic on him - he's probably just a 4th outfielder/defensive sub. "But did you see that catch Benson made yesterday? He's got some pop in his bat, too. We just need Mauer, Morneau, and Span to stay healthy, Baker's elbow to settle down, Liriano to straighten out his head, and this will be the year we finally take down the Yankees."