Axel Kohagen

As Twins broadcast signs off and repeats the 8-2 score, my thoughts turn to a Minnesota Twins playoff run. Don't blame me. I tried to smother them in cynicism and reality. The Twins just have to win games ugly and scrappy for this first third of the season. It's going to take cold weather, weird heroes, and relentless scrappiness. In that time, they sort out their pitching staff. If they can come up with 3 above-average pitchers and then they can grind out some victories. It's not much, but it's what I came up with. I've got the spoon I stole from despair's kitchen and I've picked out a section of wall to start tunneling through. I'll order my poster of Rita Hayworth in the morning. First professional hit for Aaron Hicks. Willingham and Plouffe hit homers in the same game. The bullpen holds the whole thing together and picks up a poor outing from Roenicke. It's easy to forget the beginning of the game, which was filled with errors and Twins batters going three up, three down, in the Rhythm of Failure. Listened to the whole game on the radio and followed along with the Twitter gossip. In the middle of the game, word spread that film critic and writer Roger Ebert had passed away. Game reports came in mixed with reactions of saddened admirers. His death isn't connected to baseball except for the timing of the announcement. Baseball seasons have a way of absorbing the history around them. -Axel

I missed most of this game. I got into my car in time to hear Glen Perkins get all Mama Said Knock You Out on the top half of the ninth. My hopes went up, and Plouffe got on base right as I parked my car. By the time I got inside and let the dog out, the Twins won on a walk-off double from Eduardo Escobar. I thought about tuning into the game for the post-game celebration but, when you miss the moment, you miss the moment. From what I heard of the game, music at Target Field sounds like someone put a mic by a cell phone left in the hands of an 8 year old. Can anyone confirm this is true? When you don't get to see the games - or even hear all of them - Twitter is where you go for your post game celebration. Everyone has to mention it's been a long time since the Twins have been at .500. Then we dissect Roy Smalley's hair, which is an activity that happens far more regularly. Wish I could've been there to sing "Mother" when Ryan Doumit walked up today. It's his birthday, and I like to think he would appreciate that. Now that the Twins have won one game, I'm convinced they can make the playoffs if they just try hard enough. At least I know enough to be embarrassed of myself. - Axel

I missed most of this game. I got into my car in time to hear Glen Perkins get all Mama Said Knock You Out on the top half of the ninth. My hopes went up, and Plouffe got on base right as I parked my car. By the time I got inside and let the dog out, the Twins won on a walk-off double from Eduardo Escobar. I thought about tuning into the game for the post-game celebration but, when you miss the moment, you miss the moment. From what I heard of the game, music at Target Field sounds like someone put a mic by a cell phone left in the hands of an 8 year old. Can anyone confirm this is true? When you don't get to see the games - or even hear all of them - Twitter is where you go for your post game celebration. Everyone has to mention it's been a long time since the Twins have been at .500. Then we dissect Roy Smalley's hair, which is an activity that happens far more regularly. Wish I could've been there to sing "Mother" when Ryan Doumit walked up today. It's his birthday, and I like to think he would appreciate that. Now that the Twins have won one game, I'm convinced they can make the playoffs if they just try hard enough. At least I know enough to be embarrassed of myself. - Axel

When I sat down in my home office and turned on the Nationals game to hear how Denard Span did with his new team, the sun was friendly and my view was mostly free from snow. By the time I got in my car and tuned into the Twins game, all I could see were piles of snow and gloomy skies. Gray is the official color of being down by two runs. The Twins must have settled in after that, but when I got back in my car I listened to them waste a bases loaded opportunity. Duensing came in and I winced. I was right to wince. At least Mauer seems ready to rumble. Listening in, it sounded like Dozier was a little off, but that might just be a by-product of my gray mood. I did my part. I put up my Twins stained glass and wore my lucky Joe Nathan shirsey (first shirsey I ever bought). I even put on my Twins socks. They're a newer part of the ritual, but they're very important. Last night Game of Thrones started a new season and The Walking Dead finished up a season. I came home listening to Sisters of Mercy cheer on the apocalypse from my car stereo. It hit me that when we picture the apocalypse or medieval times, we tend to imagine ourselves as heroes or villains. Somebody has to be the soldier who dies without fanfare, or the zombie brained without a second thought. You can't have heroes without filling the battlefield with cannon fodder. On a gray day like today, it's hard not wonder if we're signing on to cheer for cannon fonder - zombies with TCs on their heads. Maybe I'm being too hard on the team. It's only April. The days will get less gray. -Axel

When I sat down in my home office and turned on the Nationals game to hear how Denard Span did with his new team, the sun was friendly and my view was mostly free from snow. By the time I got in my car and tuned into the Twins game, all I could see were piles of snow and gloomy skies. Gray is the official color of being down by two runs. The Twins must have settled in after that, but when I got back in my car I listened to them waste a bases loaded opportunity. Duensing came in and I winced. I was right to wince. At least Mauer seems ready to rumble. Listening in, it sounded like Dozier was a little off, but that might just be a by-product of my gray mood. I did my part. I put up my Twins stained glass and wore my lucky Joe Nathan shirsey (first shirsey I ever bought). I even put on my Twins socks. They're a newer part of the ritual, but they're very important. Last night Game of Thrones started a new season and The Walking Dead finished up a season. I came home listening to Sisters of Mercy cheer on the apocalypse from my car stereo. It hit me that when we picture the apocalypse or medieval times, we tend to imagine ourselves as heroes or villains. Somebody has to be the soldier who dies without fanfare, or the zombie brained without a second thought. You can't have heroes without filling the battlefield with cannon fodder. On a gray day like today, it's hard not wonder if we're signing on to cheer for cannon fonder - zombies with TCs on their heads. Maybe I'm being too hard on the team. It's only April. The days will get less gray. -Axel

The Twins take the field tomorrow for the first time in 2013's regular season. It'd be an awful lot easier to find some hope for the year if the snow wasn't so stubborn in getting off of my lawn. Starting tomorrow, I'm going to record my impression of every Twins baseball game on this, my TwinsDaily blog. I'm taking a page from Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan, who documented a Red Sox season in their book Faithful. Red Sox won the World Series when they wrote that book. I'm not holding my breath. This blog isn't going to be filled with insider information. We've canceled the cable at our house and I work a lot of evenings. I cheer for the Twins on the radio and through the Internet. I can't separate the way the home town 9 are playing from the way the city is living. Hopefully, these 162 blog entries will tell a tale of a Twins Cities summer on and off the diamond. Side note: When did it become so damned hard to watch a baseball game on my TV? If you're interested in keeping up, I'm tagging each entry #TwinsinStereo (since I'm listening to the games on the radio of course). Follow along. -Axel

The Twins take the field tomorrow for the first time in 2013's regular season. It'd be an awful lot easier to find some hope for the year if the snow wasn't so stubborn in getting off of my lawn. Starting tomorrow, I'm going to record my impression of every Twins baseball game on this, my TwinsDaily blog. I'm taking a page from Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan, who documented a Red Sox season in their book Faithful. Red Sox won the World Series when they wrote that book. I'm not holding my breath. This blog isn't going to be filled with insider information. We've canceled the cable at our house and I work a lot of evenings. I cheer for the Twins on the radio and through the Internet. I can't separate the way the home town 9 are playing from the way the city is living. Hopefully, these 162 blog entries will tell a tale of a Twins Cities summer on and off the diamond. Side note: When did it become so damned hard to watch a baseball game on my TV? If you're interested in keeping up, I'm tagging each entry #TwinsinStereo (since I'm listening to the games on the radio of course). Follow along. -Axel

A wonderful article, and the irony of reading it and not praising it would be too much to bear.

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.

You can view the page at http://twinsdaily.com/content.php?r=1410-The-Ballad-of-Big-Jim

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.