The Haunting Of Thad Levine: A Twins Daily Halloween Investigation

[Lou Hennessy]

Many questions rose to the surface when it was announced that the Twins’ general manager would not be returning in 2025. Twins Daily asked their best paranormal investigators to seek answers on location at Target Field. They weren’t available, so they sent Sweet Lou instead.

These are his findings. 

Image courtesy of Purple Wolf Graphics

I took one last drag from my cigar and put it out between the eyes of the bronze TC Bear statue that sits outside Target Field. I’m starting to forget why Bonnes sent me back to this madhouse in the first place. It’s a cloudy evening in Minneapolis in late-October, and I hadn’t been back to the ballpark since it was announced that Thad Levine, the Twins’ general manager for the last eight seasons, was mysteriously dismissed at the end of this season. 
Twins’ spokespeople said all the right things in the aftermath. That his role had been diminished as the rest of the front office found their footing. That he was looking for a new challenge. You know, the usual answers as they try to save face. 
But my bigwig bosses at Twins Daily weren’t buying it. Something weird was going on. Something… spooky. 
Rain started to sprinkle as dusk sank deeper into night.. I flipped the collar of my trench coat and shook the droplets off my black fedora as I made my way through the gate marked for Media/Paranormal personnel. I remembered what Bonnes yelled at me before I left our downtown headquarters (Bricksworth Beer Co.):
“Sweet Lou, the rest of the staff is busy doing actual baseball research, so I need you to make yourself useful for once. Try to poke around the executive offices to see if you can figure out why Thad is leaving so suddenly,” the Geek ordered as he pulled my Naz Reid IPA away from my parched lips. “And you better do it for free, damnit!”

---

I’m led through the empty, muted halls of Target Field to Thad’s office by a nameless, overworked intern who has an eerie glaze over their eyes. We pass two other interns who I swear are exact replicas as my guide. Same glossy stare, same robotic pace, same Twins branded Stanley tumbler. I can’t tell if they really are clones made by the front office to save money on hiring, or if I’m getting so old that all these kids are starting to look the same. Never mind them, Sweet Lou. One crisis at a time. 
I’m left by myself in Thad’s office to see if he left any clues behind as to why he felt the need to leave this organization in such a hurry. I start with his bookshelf that sits behind his exquisite mahogany desk. It’s filled with everything from timeless baseball community must-reads like Moneyball and The Art of Fielding, to whatever it is that LaVelle is putting out these days. But one small, leather bound paperback caught my eye. It was sticking out from the rest of the collection, as if someone rushed to stuff it back into place. I grab it carefully and slowly pull it back. As I pull it back, I hear a strained voice whispering in my ear. Is it chanting in tongues? 
“Humber… Guerra… Gomez…Mulvey…”
“Is there a spirit present?” I blurt out as my eyes dart around the room. I look through my coat for my emergency exorcism supplies. A cross made from broken bats that were shattered by Emmanuel Clase’s cutters. A vile of holy water collected from the troughs of the Metrodome. Before I can grab them the voice continues.
“Hoey… Delmon… Tsuyoshi… Hardy…”
The whispers continue and the room starts to spin. I woke up on the floor in a cold sweat. A flash of lightning is followed by a booming crash of thunder outside the rain-soaked window. I look down at the small leather bound book that is now opened in my hands. The cover now has a massive scratch across it. But at the bottom, there’s a scribble in black pen. It reads - The Personal Diary of Bill Smith.

---

I open the journal to the last page with writing on it, maybe halfway through the book. The last entry went as follows:

I don’t know how much time I have left. I can hear something scratching at the door every time I close my eyes. I can’t sleep because I keep thinking about the transactions that - - - 

And that was it. The bottom of that page had been ripped out. Maybe Thad was haunted by the moves the Twins had made that never really panned out. That has to be it. I should get back to Bonnes to tell him my hypothesis.
Suddenly I can see my breath. I hadn’t felt this frigid since Opening Day at Target Field back in, well, every year. Did the Pohlads refuse to turn on the heat again?
Another strained whisper fills the air. 
“Ponson… Sierra…Livan…Pelfrey…”
This time it starts getting louder with each passing phrase until it’s practically shouting in my ears. 
“Correia… Nolasco…Doumit… Byung-Ho…“
The room starts spinning again and I fall back to the floor faster than a flawed roster’s 90% probability to make the postseason. I wake up sitting in Thad’s desk chair, but I can’t move a single muscle. I try to scream, but all that leaves my mouth is a tiny whimper. I look up to see a tall, cloaked figure hovering in front of me. 

---

“I’ll tell you what I told Bill and Thad,” said the raspy-voiced mysterious spirit. “It’s not the terrible moves you make that haunt you. It’s the ones you didn’t make because they weren’t in the budget.”
The office door swings open violently, and from the darkness on the other side emerges a tall man wearing a stylish button-down dress shirt from Hammer Made. He stomps forward slowly, like Frankenstein’s monster. As he passes the threshold, I can see that it’s Thad himself, but his eyes are completely blacked out. He stops in the middle of the room and his head starts spinning, like the girl from The Exorcist, or Mike Maxx when he’s forced to learn how to pronounce yet another player’s name that has an accent. . 
“Wheeler… Rodón… Darvish… Sonny…” Thad chants. I’m now realizing that it was his voice whispering in my ear. Only this time, he’s chanting names of players that would have been clear fits with the Twins had their price tag not been so deservedly exorbitant.
It’s all starting to make sense. Thad Levine had been haunted by the moves he wasn’t allowed to make due to financial limitations, and it drove him mad, just as it had for Bill Smith. Well, Smith, and Thad’s predecessor… 
Before I connect the dots, the cloaked figure removes his hood, revealing himself to be none other than Terry Ryan. 
“That’s the reason these fools couldn’t last,” he said with an insidious grin. “If you can’t do the job under budget, then you shouldn’t do it at all…”
Terry and Thad simultaneously lock their gaze on me and point in unison. Suddenly, a rabid TC Bear charges through the door and his giant stupid mouth opens wide and covers my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and scream as loud as I can. 

---

When I open my eyes and look around, I’m back at Bricksworth with about half a dozen empty pint glasses around me. Had I dreamt the whole thing?
I walk down the street to Target Field. Everything is bone dry, as if it hadn’t rained in months. It felt so vivid, but I guess it was all in my head. I shake off the otherworldly sense of dread I had been feeling, and start walking back toward my place, ready to work on my next piece. I call Bonnes and let him know I might need a day or two to shake this nightmare off. 
“Who is this? How did you get my number? Don’t call me anymore.” he exclaimed before hanging up. I chuckle to myself. Same ol’ Bonnes. 
I pass the bronze TC Bear statue I had dreamt of, and I can’t help but notice the ashy burn mark between his vacuous, dead eyes. 
 

 

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