Axel Kohagen

I've been married for over ten years, so trying to find an emotional connection with this group of Minnesota Twins pitchers is really hard for me. Let me explain. Trying to keep up with the Twins players getting their innings in on the mound feels like trying to keep up with a string of bland blind dates that almost - but don't quite - squash the hope right out of your heart. I know this from single friends. It sounds like there's always something to like in the people stuck playing restaurant roulette of the damned. You just want something better than okay out of the experience. That's how I feel about all of the tall, wounded, old, unproven, shaky men who toss it sixty feet and six inches across the dish. They seem fine, but none of them make me want to put my feet up with a beer and Cory Provus's voice on the radio, waiting to see if that pitcher can cast a spell. Maybe toss a perfect game a little more perfect than Francisco Liriano's no-hitter from 2011. Unlike my dating life, the Twins are going to settle on some pitchers that are innings-eaters. "Innings-eater" is basically baseball speak for "great personality." (I'd talk now about how thankful I am to have a wife who's an all-star on the mound, but I don't want to put up with a week of her rolling her eyes and mocking me for being mushy.)

I've been married for over ten years, so trying to find an emotional connection with this group of Minnesota Twins pitchers is really hard for me. Let me explain. Trying to keep up with the Twins players getting their innings in on the mound feels like trying to keep up with a string of bland blind dates that almost - but don't quite - squash the hope right out of your heart. I know this from single friends. It sounds like there's always something to like in the people stuck playing restaurant roulette of the damned. You just want something better than okay out of the experience. That's how I feel about all of the tall, wounded, old, unproven, shaky men who toss it sixty feet and six inches across the dish. They seem fine, but none of them make me want to put my feet up with a beer and Cory Provus's voice on the radio, waiting to see if that pitcher can cast a spell. Maybe toss a perfect game a little more perfect than Francisco Liriano's no-hitter from 2011. Unlike my dating life, the Twins are going to settle on some pitchers that are innings-eaters. "Innings-eater" is basically baseball speak for "great personality." (I'd talk now about how thankful I am to have a wife who's an all-star on the mound, but I don't want to put up with a week of her rolling her eyes and mocking me for being mushy.)

I've liked Cory Provus from day one. The man calls a good ballgame. He doesn't oversell the drama. He sounds like baseball ought to. Since I've permanently ditched cable for the radio, I've been spending a lot more time listening to Mr. Provus. My opinion hasn't changed. However, I've begun to notice something. He's funny. He's really funny. He isn't flashy about it. He's not about loud voices, zingers, or crazy stories. I can't quote you a kneeslapper to prove my point. But he's funny just the same. You have to listen for it. Whenever I tune in Provus drops one small, subtle joke. He doesn't make a show out of it. When you realize he just said something tremendously funny he's already moved on to the next thing - and that makes it funnier. I miss that sly, dead-pan humor. Maybe it's the 90s child in me. Provus must know a little something about the 90s, considering his bio proclaims his appreciation of the band Pearl Jam. Here's what I know for sure: I'm ready to sit outside with the radio on, listening for opposite field dingers and subtle Provus zingers. Summer is looking pretty good. -- Axel http://www.axelkohagen.com

I've liked Cory Provus from day one. The man calls a good ballgame. He doesn't oversell the drama. He sounds like baseball ought to. Since I've permanently ditched cable for the radio, I've been spending a lot more time listening to Mr. Provus. My opinion hasn't changed. However, I've begun to notice something. He's funny. He's really funny. He isn't flashy about it. He's not about loud voices, zingers, or crazy stories. I can't quote you a kneeslapper to prove my point. But he's funny just the same. You have to listen for it. Whenever I tune in Provus drops one small, subtle joke. He doesn't make a show out of it. When you realize he just said something tremendously funny he's already moved on to the next thing - and that makes it funnier. I miss that sly, dead-pan humor. Maybe it's the 90s child in me. Provus must know a little something about the 90s, considering his bio proclaims his appreciation of the band Pearl Jam. Here's what I know for sure: I'm ready to sit outside with the radio on, listening for opposite field dingers and subtle Provus zingers. Summer is looking pretty good. -- Axel http://www.axelkohagen.com

While I was moping behind my snowblower, I noticed an unusual formation of snow. I turned off the machine and stepped closer to it. The identify of those piles of snow became clear. You've seen them before, too. They're the smiling, handshaking baseball players whose image lights up when Twins players hit home runs. The players looked at me as if they were waiting for me to speak. "Who will these 2013 Twins be?" I asked. "Who can I cheer for? Who can I believe in?" The figures just kept shaking their snowy hands and grinning. "I can't take any more heartbreak. No more Joe Nathan. No more Span or Revere. I'm still grieving about all the hopes and dreams I had about Carlos Gomez." For a moment, I wondered if I could even smell a baseball bat with my stuffed-up nose. "If you just tell me who the 2013 Twins are now," I began, "I know who to cheer for. I can get attached. Maybe for a couple of years, even." "No," said the one on the left. "Not even we know," said the one on the right. "Watch the stats." "There will be patterns," the one of the left said. He seemed the nicer of the two. "Some where you would expect, some will surprise you." "Don't trust in Willingham or Diamond," the right figure said. "They aren't enough. The pattern will come from the minors." "I have hopes for the starting pitching," the one on the right said. "Call me crazy." The one on the right just shook his head, snow falling from its cap to the ground. "So you're saying there is hope?" I asked. "The future is already in Florida," they said in unison. "Wait for the signs." Then, they shook hands once and the whole snow sculpture collapsed. It's probably nothing, of course. By this point in March, I think we all lose touch with reality when we stare into the snow. But I'm going to look for the patterns anyway. For more Mr. Horrorpants, head to www.axelkohagen.com.

While I was moping behind my snowblower, I noticed an unusual formation of snow. I turned off the machine and stepped closer to it. The identify of those piles of snow became clear. You've seen them before, too. They're the smiling, handshaking baseball players whose image lights up when Twins players hit home runs. The players looked at me as if they were waiting for me to speak. "Who will these 2013 Twins be?" I asked. "Who can I cheer for? Who can I believe in?" The figures just kept shaking their snowy hands and grinning. "I can't take any more heartbreak. No more Joe Nathan. No more Span or Revere. I'm still grieving about all the hopes and dreams I had about Carlos Gomez." For a moment, I wondered if I could even smell a baseball bat with my stuffed-up nose. "If you just tell me who the 2013 Twins are now," I began, "I know who to cheer for. I can get attached. Maybe for a couple of years, even." "No," said the one on the left. "Not even we know," said the one on the right. "Watch the stats." "There will be patterns," the one of the left said. He seemed the nicer of the two. "Some where you would expect, some will surprise you." "Don't trust in Willingham or Diamond," the right figure said. "They aren't enough. The pattern will come from the minors." "I have hopes for the starting pitching," the one on the right said. "Call me crazy." The one on the right just shook his head, snow falling from its cap to the ground. "So you're saying there is hope?" I asked. "The future is already in Florida," they said in unison. "Wait for the signs." Then, they shook hands once and the whole snow sculpture collapsed. It's probably nothing, of course. By this point in March, I think we all lose touch with reality when we stare into the snow. But I'm going to look for the patterns anyway. For more Mr. Horrorpants, head to www.axelkohagen.com.

Weather reports tell me something wicked this way comes. I've got two gallons of gas for the snowblower and just enough left in my own tank to dig out from this one. Downtown, Target Field better be ready. Come April, we're all coming over to watch the game. With the weather waiting to pummel us yet again, how many of us are imagining a Wintery Wasteland Opening Day nightmare? Ever since they announced the stadium, the truly pessimistic of have smirked small, bitter smirks and imagined a snowpocalyptic first day for the hometown nine. -- Dick and Bert in pom-pomed stocking hats, grinning through chattering teeth. -- Players in ear-flapped hats shaking their head each time they walk up to the plate. Outfielders bouncing up and down to stay warm. -- ESPN and other national sports outlets reveling in jokes about how cold things are in Minnesota. Minnesotans, upon hearing this, tune out and throw some more salt on their front steps. -- Dozens of exactly the guys you'd expect arriving at the game shirtless. No one sees them crying the next day as they are treated for frostbite. -- Cars spinning and careening off one another like bumper cars as they empty from the downtown ramps. Fans STILL refuse to hurry as they cross the street. -- Each firework makes one cold farting noise and falls limply to the earth. -- Fans make a snowman and spend the entire game trying to get a camera operator's attention. -- The camera operators who always use the camera to scope attractive women refuse to talk to anyone/choke back tears. -- No one slides. No one cares. -- Someone makes a joke about the commercial where the California guy gets his tongue stuck to the flagpole. That person jokingly touches their tongue to the flagpole. That person realizes they've made a mistake. -- A child tries to slide on a ice patch next to a child with a bloody head crying to a parent. The sliding child does not make the connection. I believe in the Twins' grounds crew. They'll get the field right. The rest is going to be epically Minnesotan. -Axel For more on Mr. Horrorpants non-baseball writing, head to www.axelkohagen.com. --

Weather reports tell me something wicked this way comes. I've got two gallons of gas for the snowblower and just enough left in my own tank to dig out from this one. Downtown, Target Field better be ready. Come April, we're all coming over to watch the game. With the weather waiting to pummel us yet again, how many of us are imagining a Wintery Wasteland Opening Day nightmare? Ever since they announced the stadium, the truly pessimistic of have smirked small, bitter smirks and imagined a snowpocalyptic first day for the hometown nine. -- Dick and Bert in pom-pomed stocking hats, grinning through chattering teeth. -- Players in ear-flapped hats shaking their head each time they walk up to the plate. Outfielders bouncing up and down to stay warm. -- ESPN and other national sports outlets reveling in jokes about how cold things are in Minnesota. Minnesotans, upon hearing this, tune out and throw some more salt on their front steps. -- Dozens of exactly the guys you'd expect arriving at the game shirtless. No one sees them crying the next day as they are treated for frostbite. -- Cars spinning and careening off one another like bumper cars as they empty from the downtown ramps. Fans STILL refuse to hurry as they cross the street. -- Each firework makes one cold farting noise and falls limply to the earth. -- Fans make a snowman and spend the entire game trying to get a camera operator's attention. -- The camera operators who always use the camera to scope attractive women refuse to talk to anyone/choke back tears. -- No one slides. No one cares. -- Someone makes a joke about the commercial where the California guy gets his tongue stuck to the flagpole. That person jokingly touches their tongue to the flagpole. That person realizes they've made a mistake. -- A child tries to slide on a ice patch next to a child with a bloody head crying to a parent. The sliding child does not make the connection. I believe in the Twins' grounds crew. They'll get the field right. The rest is going to be epically Minnesotan. -Axel For more on Mr. Horrorpants non-baseball writing, head to www.axelkohagen.com. --

I think Twins magic begins with a car radio, a commute of erratic, skidding traffic, and staring at the sun while waiting for red lights. Returning to baseball life is a greater gift to the fans living in places where the offseason is covered in snow and loneliness. When the bat cracks and the crowd cheers, we know the small city filled with red- and blue-clad fans will be born around Target Field. There will be beer, hugs, and shouting. At that moment, the shouting comes from the guy in the car beside you. You can't heart it because his windows are up and the whole world feels warm because it's just barely not freezing. The first weeks the city of Twins Territory comes alive, the sidewalks will seem enormous without child-sized mountains of snow. People will chuckle when they remember what sandals people wore last year. Conversations will start on the street and continue, because no one is worried about frostbite. The red light changes. The game on the radio continues. A chunk of snow falls off of the car in front of you. If you couldn't hear the baseball on the radio, you wouldn't believe it was ever coming back.

I think Twins magic begins with a car radio, a commute of erratic, skidding traffic, and staring at the sun while waiting for red lights. Returning to baseball life is a greater gift to the fans living in places where the offseason is covered in snow and loneliness. When the bat cracks and the crowd cheers, we know the small city filled with red- and blue-clad fans will be born around Target Field. There will be beer, hugs, and shouting. At that moment, the shouting comes from the guy in the car beside you. You can't heart it because his windows are up and the whole world feels warm because it's just barely not freezing. The first weeks the city of Twins Territory comes alive, the sidewalks will seem enormous without child-sized mountains of snow. People will chuckle when they remember what sandals people wore last year. Conversations will start on the street and continue, because no one is worried about frostbite. The red light changes. The game on the radio continues. A chunk of snow falls off of the car in front of you. If you couldn't hear the baseball on the radio, you wouldn't believe it was ever coming back.

It is time we all join together to accomplish a great thing, Twins Territory. We must send Anthony Swarzak on a Bigfoot hunting expedition. Swarzak has publicly discussed his interest in cryptozoology. I'm skeptical about the existence of an unidentified , two-legged mammal remaining undiscovered by science for so long, but I'm definitely a supporter of encouraging curiosity into the unknown. The Twins pitcher has taken enough ribbing for his curiosity about nature, and he needs a chance to get out there into the night forests. Sasquatch hunting isn't about dressing like a ghostbuster and talking in spooky voices. It can be a professional expedition with very real dangers from the natural world around the explorers. Want a glimpse into what Swarzak would be getting himself into? Listen to this podcast where Lyle Blackburn shares stories from some of his trips.Lyle Blackburn writes about cryptozoology for Rue Morgue Magazine (find his stuff here). Whether you believe in Bigfoot or not, you have to admit taking a Sasquatch hunting trip would be an amazing experience for Swarzak. Also, it'd be a nice reward after putting up with grief from friends and fans. Why should Twins fans make this their mission, too? 1) Swarzak Stalks Squatches would be reality show gold. Especially if you add Lyle Blackburn (who is also the maniacal lead singer of hellbilly punk giants Ghoultown) and closer Glen Perkins to the cast. The FSN North article above suggests Perkins would make an excellent smart aleck skeptical character on the show. Who WOULDN'T watch it? 2) Reality show = extra revenue for the Twins during a rebuilding year. 3) Who helps pay for the show? Jack Link's Beef Jerky. I think I've already seen their mascot throwing out a first pitch at Target field, haven't I? 4) If Lyle Blackburn like spending time with the Twins, maybe he would write the team an anthem with some actual teeth. If nothing else, he'd meet Josh Willngham and hook the slugger up with his perfect walkup music. 5) Let's say the guys actually find Bigfoot. The Twins get mentioned in every newspaper around the world. Then, just maybe, Ken Burns has to spend some time talking about them in his next baseball documentary. Let's get Swarzak out in the woods for the trip of a lifetime, Twins fans. We would all win. -Axel For more on Mr. Horrorpants/ (also known as "Axel Kohagen") non-baseball writing, head to www.axelkohagen.com.

It is time we all join together to accomplish a great thing, Twins Territory. We must send Anthony Swarzak on a Bigfoot hunting expedition. Swarzak has publicly discussed his interest in cryptozoology. I'm skeptical about the existence of an unidentified , two-legged mammal remaining undiscovered by science for so long, but I'm definitely a supporter of encouraging curiosity into the unknown. The Twins pitcher has taken enough ribbing for his curiosity about nature, and he needs a chance to get out there into the night forests. Sasquatch hunting isn't about dressing like a ghostbuster and talking in spooky voices. It can be a professional expedition with very real dangers from the natural world around the explorers. Want a glimpse into what Swarzak would be getting himself into? Listen to this podcast where Lyle Blackburn shares stories from some of his trips.Lyle Blackburn writes about cryptozoology for Rue Morgue Magazine (find his stuff here). Whether you believe in Bigfoot or not, you have to admit taking a Sasquatch hunting trip would be an amazing experience for Swarzak. Also, it'd be a nice reward after putting up with grief from friends and fans. Why should Twins fans make this their mission, too? 1) Swarzak Stalks Squatches would be reality show gold. Especially if you add Lyle Blackburn (who is also the maniacal lead singer of hellbilly punk giants Ghoultown) and closer Glen Perkins to the cast. The FSN North article above suggests Perkins would make an excellent smart aleck skeptical character on the show. Who WOULDN'T watch it? 2) Reality show = extra revenue for the Twins during a rebuilding year. 3) Who helps pay for the show? Jack Link's Beef Jerky. I think I've already seen their mascot throwing out a first pitch at Target field, haven't I? 4) If Lyle Blackburn like spending time with the Twins, maybe he would write the team an anthem with some actual teeth. If nothing else, he'd meet Josh Willngham and hook the slugger up with his perfect walkup music. 5) Let's say the guys actually find Bigfoot. The Twins get mentioned in every newspaper around the world. Then, just maybe, Ken Burns has to spend some time talking about them in his next baseball documentary. Let's get Swarzak out in the woods for the trip of a lifetime, Twins fans. We would all win. -Axel For more on Mr. Horrorpants/ (also known as "Axel Kohagen") non-baseball writing, head to www.axelkohagen.com.

Twitter started sizzling yesterday. There's a chance Thome rejoins the team and puts a few more taters over the right field flag pole. There's no way this helps the Twins long term, but I can't help but be excited. Jim Thome is so heroic Greek mythology borrows heavily from his career. Mauer's never going to be that kind of hero. He's the quiet, unappreciated type. Biographies of the cool, consistent catcher will mention how little respect he got in his home town. They'll quote Gleeman's tweets about fans booing the local boy. Morneau actually has the potential to achieve that kind of heroism this year. Thing is, if he does, he might get traded away. We get it. We're Twins fans. We can't have nice things. If Willingham dodges the slump we all fear is coming, he could be something to sing about. Disliking Josh Willingham is genetically impossible. He's more strong, silent cowboy than cold-eyed gunslinger, though. Putting Thome in a Twins uniform will take plate appearances from players who will actually be part of the team's future. If his major league time has finally run out, watching his final whiffs at the plate will break hearts. I still hope they do it. I buy Twins tickets to buy stories and memories, and there's no way I'm buying any stories about a playoff run this year. It'll be a few years before I'm purchasing tales of breakout seasons and new team chemistry (unless Gibson and some of the new pitchers catch fire). Even it hurts the Twins, I want them to spend money for another summer of Thome. The city just seems safer and holier when you can rest assured he's standing somewhere with a bat in one hand and a smile on his mug. If the Twins front office saves me from my sentimental longings, that's probably for the best. I'm not saying I'm thinking smart here. I just can't be the guy to deny a smiling Jim Thome a trip to the batter's box.

Twitter started sizzling yesterday. There's a chance Thome rejoins the team and puts a few more taters over the right field flag pole. There's no way this helps the Twins long term, but I can't help but be excited. Jim Thome is so heroic Greek mythology borrows heavily from his career. Mauer's never going to be that kind of hero. He's the quiet, unappreciated type. Biographies of the cool, consistent catcher will mention how little respect he got in his home town. They'll quote Gleeman's tweets about fans booing the local boy. Morneau actually has the potential to achieve that kind of heroism this year. Thing is, if he does, he might get traded away. We get it. We're Twins fans. We can't have nice things. If Willingham dodges the slump we all fear is coming, he could be something to sing about. Disliking Josh Willingham is genetically impossible. He's more strong, silent cowboy than cold-eyed gunslinger, though. Putting Thome in a Twins uniform will take plate appearances from players who will actually be part of the team's future. If his major league time has finally run out, watching his final whiffs at the plate will break hearts. I still hope they do it. I buy Twins tickets to buy stories and memories, and there's no way I'm buying any stories about a playoff run this year. It'll be a few years before I'm purchasing tales of breakout seasons and new team chemistry (unless Gibson and some of the new pitchers catch fire). Even it hurts the Twins, I want them to spend money for another summer of Thome. The city just seems safer and holier when you can rest assured he's standing somewhere with a bat in one hand and a smile on his mug. If the Twins front office saves me from my sentimental longings, that's probably for the best. I'm not saying I'm thinking smart here. I just can't be the guy to deny a smiling Jim Thome a trip to the batter's box.

As a 35 year old man, you don't sit down next to Twins Mascot TC Bear without some trepidation. You're clearly in kid territory when you're posing with him. In fact, you're clogging up the photo line in front of several kids. [ATTACH=CONFIG]3344[/ATTACH] You're not sure their parents understand. A space opens for you beside the bear and you sit down. You look to the bear. He slowly nods his giant, fuzzy head. Do you say anything? It's not like he can say anything back. You briefly remember there is a human being inside the suit. You wish you hadn't. Your friend takes the pictures. You hope the guy in the bear suit forgets your old ass as soon as the next person sits down next to him. The pictures are taken and you stand to leave. You need closure. You offer TC Bear a fist bump. It is important he handle this properly. He does. He raises a paw and, with a cool, cultivated tilt of his head proceeds to fist bump you in an appropriate manner. You look into his eyes. They're fake, but the emotion is real. TC Bear gets it. You may be a person and he may be a bear. Or a person in a bear suit. But at the end of the day, a fan's a fan. And every fan ought to take a picture with the team mascot.

World Series, baby! Twins have lost two games of spring training, but they're actually playing and I heard them on the radio. Plus, Willingham knocked one out of the park. My head still knows they're going to suck, but my hearts already preparing to race as the Twins vie for the AL Central. I'm way too excited about guys with giant numbers on their jerseys. This year's Twins squad going to be like a group of high school seniors all the teachers have already written off. The school analogy works. I wonder which new Twins are known by the veterans as the loud one, the funny one, the dumb one, or the stinky one? I know this sounds weird, but I hope there's at least one metalhead on the Twins. Doumit's my bet for that, but I'm not sure. Baseball teams need a metalhead. Like any new year of school, the Twins haven't established the personality of their team this year. Some of those new kids are going to change things, maybe sooner rather than later. Keep it rockin' in '13, Twins.

World Series, baby! Twins have lost two games of spring training, but they're actually playing and I heard them on the radio. Plus, Willingham knocked one out of the park. My head still knows they're going to suck, but my hearts already preparing to race as the Twins vie for the AL Central. I'm way too excited about guys with giant numbers on their jerseys. This year's Twins squad going to be like a group of high school seniors all the teachers have already written off. The school analogy works. I wonder which new Twins are known by the veterans as the loud one, the funny one, the dumb one, or the stinky one? I know this sounds weird, but I hope there's at least one metalhead on the Twins. Doumit's my bet for that, but I'm not sure. Baseball teams need a metalhead. Like any new year of school, the Twins haven't established the personality of their team this year. Some of those new kids are going to change things, maybe sooner rather than later. Keep it rockin' in '13, Twins.

Awesome. I spend the whole entry talking about Chris Parmelee AND misspelling his name. They don't tolerate that well in the cut-throat, manly land of Parmelee, I'll bet.

Okay.

Awesome. I spend the whole entry talking about Chris Parmelee AND misspelling his name. They don't tolerate that well in the cut-throat, manly land of Parmelee, I'll bet.

If my Twins blog gets any bleaker, it'll have to wear black eyeliner. Not too worried. First Spring Training home run by a Minnesota Twin will have me predicted a World Series victory in six games. I'm like that. Roger Clemens is threatening to become an obsession for me. He could go into the Ty Cobb Hall of Fame for players so completely unlikeable they've become loveable. I'd drive him there myself, as long as I didn't have to rub Icy-Hot on his groin area. Saints preserve us, I'm starting to get interested in this outfield situation. Got a good feeling about Hicks, and I think Parmalee's going to end up being a useful Twin this year. Of course, that may just be because I think his last name sounds like some sort of mystical land where the ballplayers have battle scars and talk in gravelly, British accents. Yes, the magical land of Parmalee . . . May we see its shores this year. Ryan Doumit could be from Parmalee. My number one Twins goal this year is to have him autograph a picture of Glen Danzig, in honor of his using "Mother" as walk-up music. I'd like to think we'd head bang and fist bump after he signed it, if only for a moment or two. New Twins beat reporter Phil Miller is all Parmalee - check the facial hair in that headshot, people. His writing earns that scruff. I've really enjoyed what I've read so far. That's all for now. Time to practice my gravelly British accent and head banging skills.

If my Twins blog gets any bleaker, it'll have to wear black eyeliner. Not too worried. First Spring Training home run by a Minnesota Twin will have me predicted a World Series victory in six games. I'm like that. Roger Clemens is threatening to become an obsession for me. He could go into the Ty Cobb Hall of Fame for players so completely unlikeable they've become loveable. I'd drive him there myself, as long as I didn't have to rub Icy-Hot on his groin area. Saints preserve us, I'm starting to get interested in this outfield situation. Got a good feeling about Hicks, and I think Parmalee's going to end up being a useful Twin this year. Of course, that may just be because I think his last name sounds like some sort of mystical land where the ballplayers have battle scars and talk in gravelly, British accents. Yes, the magical land of Parmalee . . . May we see its shores this year. Ryan Doumit could be from Parmalee. My number one Twins goal this year is to have him autograph a picture of Glen Danzig, in honor of his using "Mother" as walk-up music. I'd like to think we'd head bang and fist bump after he signed it, if only for a moment or two. New Twins beat reporter Phil Miller is all Parmalee - check the facial hair in that headshot, people. His writing earns that scruff. I've really enjoyed what I've read so far. That's all for now. Time to practice my gravelly British accent and head banging skills.