Axel Kohagen

When I dipped my toe into the new Twins season, I braced myself and winced. Like most people on Twins Daily, I'm excited for our hitting but unsure if we've got the pitching to be competitive. More than that, these old bones are sore from the 2021 season. Things looked swell last year at this time, and then the losses piled on and on. And on and on and on. Admitting you were a Twins fan got you a free bowl of soup and a friendly ear in Depression-era diners last year. "Times are tough," the cook would say. I made time to watch the first game at a chain restaurant that specializes in wings (even though no wings come close to achieving the greatness of Tooties on Lowry, home of the best wings on earth). I took my 5-year-old daughter and bought some quality baseball time by loaning her my cell phone so she could play her little game on it. The Twins tripped and fell right away in the game. They staggered and righted themselves a bit with an Urshela home run, then stumbled on the way to their final out. Game two and Buxton does a little talking with his bat. Twins take a lead and then blow it. I follow along on my phone, sliding back into the groove of ignoring friends and relatives to keep up on the game. The secret is lots of eye contact when you're paying attention to THEM, to make up for all the times you only have eyes for your phone. Game three is much better. Sanchez knocks in a grand slam and there are home runs everywhere, like they were participation trophies. I tried to listen to part of this on the radio, but my 5-year-old daughter caught me tuning in when I was supposed to be babysitting her dolls. I ended up having to sing David Bowie songs to them while the Twins hauled in their first victory. Game four? I'm fully immersed in the Twins season and loving it. There are good things happening for the Twins, and there's every reason to nurture a bit of hope. So why did I feel so blah? General contrariness? Always a possibility. Maybe it's because I read the news today, oh boy, and the real world has become A Bad Place. Baseball usually takes me away from all that - the longer, the better! Maybe it'll just take a little longer this year to fully escape into the game. There's no reason to worry about whether or not this team can warm your heart. This team is so loveable it could sour puppies and kitties by comparison. Buxton plays the game with gusto and he'll take you along for the ride. Polanco and Correa can turn frowns upside down with a swipe of their bats. Kirilloff is going to get there, people, and it'll be delightful. And this Duran guy? You gotta love what you see when he pitches. Also, he appears to be a very good hugger, based on my own observations. This is a team you can cheer for. This is a team that brings "fan favorites" and "baseball crushes" back to the ballpark. I, for one, am ready to let baseball dazzle me into a happy grin yet again. Bring on the summer of 2022, and bring on the next chapter of Twins history!

Everybody's trying to save baseball from something. Things aren't the way they oughta be. Or they're not the way they were. Baseball purists tilt a windmills and sling arrows at one another with one goal in mind - keep The Game intact for the future. The generational hand-off has to occur, or The Game gets lost. What's really at stake? What are we fighting for? Real life has enough to engage us. There are plenty of other sports. What makes baseball so noble? Just recently, many denigrated the sport as "just a game" when the owners and players fought for their own visions for the future of the sport. The players get to play a kid's game for a living. The diamond is not real life. So many complaints, and yet many of those incensed will come back to the game with their money in hand. Baseball, after the first pitch is thrown, runs on its own hourglass. I'm not the first person to notice baseball games take as long as they take. A new pitch clock won't change that. The game lasts until the final out is recorded. And I'd be resorting to a cliche if I mentioned baseball is a marathon, not a sprint. The world, however, has moved so very far away from that baseball ethos. Look at where we are. Seriously. We're literally suffering through two of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Where are you getting your doom from? It's always in your pocket, waiting on your cell phone. You can take a quick break at work and use that office computer to keep tabs on the spreading darkness. Make sure you only check in with the news agencies that share your point of view. We're always behind and we're sprinting every day. When a baseball game is being played, your brain has a chance to work through all the angles. Like a chess game, to borrow another cliche. The organist plays along as you ponder coaching decisions under the sky and the stars. The world is shrunk down to one problem, Home versus Away. Baseball rewards you for paying attention and using your brain. If you miss the plot, you miss a lot. When we save baseball, we save ourselves. At least, we save the part of ourselves that has time to sit with a problem and take the time to work on it. When the game is done, we're back to real life. Everything moves fast and if you can't win the first time, don't try. We lack patience. Fixing baseball is dangerous. If it loses patience and thoughtfulness, it loses its identity. And we can't afford to lose more parts of society that reward patience and thoughtfulness. Take a child to a baseball game the way it is now and, true, they might be bored. But boredom doesn't kill kids. Give that kid some of your time and explain the game. Watch the joy on their face when they start to see the inner cogs of the mental game. Congratulations! You just shared a valuable life skill. You just taught a kid about relationships and strategies. Because The Game is STILL The Game. It's been The Game since before the Civil War, and it's more important now than ever because the world is broken. Life is fragile - it's even more fragile when the threat of war and more war looms over the world. Baseball isn't the only solution, but I firmly believe it is one solution. The kids will come to baseball and they will learn to be patient and thoughtful and they'll transfer those skills into navigating a treacherous, hostile world. If the kids never learn those skills in this fast-paced, chaotic world, it's not baseball that will be lost. It's us.

I just asked my wife if my Twins Zubaz still existed. I have to ask. They’ve seen better days. Their greatest wound is an inch and a half ripped seam in the crotch, rendering them useless for anything public. I’ve thought about mending the tear, but the rest of the Zubaz are worn so thin I imagine they’d tear in ten other places like ice crackling during a spring thaw.Do I wear them expecting they’ll bring me closer to the Minnesota Twins as I slumber? Absolutely. Pajamas should always be a bridge to pleasant dreams. In truth, I often dream of going to Twins games. Usually I’m just wandering Target Field, trying to meet up with some group of people I’m supposed to join at the game. Once, despite being in my early forties, I dreamed I was the first runner-up to be the Twins ball boy. They asked me to field a grounder and toss the ball to the coach. When I failed as miserably as I would while I was awake, the other dude got the job. I actually made the team one evening, but it was a nightmare. Sure, I was excited to be a Minnesota Twin. But I also knew I suck at playing baseball. In my dream, I was taking up a roster spot with no skill. The dilemma - do I tell Coach I shouldn’t be there or wait until he figures it out and drink in the joy of baseball? Maybe my Twins Zubaz are like a dreamcatcher in reverse, letting out the best parts of baseball dreams and sealing in the existential doom of regular living. Whether or not your dreams come true, it’s fun to play pretend you’re on the team. If you’ve got your own version of my Twins Zubaz, share some details in the comments. How far do you go? Some nights, I break out the Twins socks and a TC t-shirt and when I wake up, I’m still a guy in his early forties. A guy in his forties with the smile of a goofy twelve-year-old. My wife will probably kill the Zubaz when I’m not looking. They’re one hole away from being invisible and she preys on weak and wounded clothing. When that day comes, I’ll have to get a new pair immediately. The new pair won’t be as soft and worn-in. They’ll get into game shape in no time, though. It’s spring training for sleep slacks, too. Pleasant dreams, Twins Territory. Click here to view the article

I just asked my wife if my Twins Zubaz still existed. I have to ask. They’ve seen better days. Their greatest wound is an inch and a half ripped seam in the crotch, rendering them useless for anything public. I’ve thought about mending the tear, but the rest of the Zubaz are worn so thin I imagine they’d tear in ten other places like ice crackling during a spring thaw. Do I wear them expecting they’ll bring me closer to the Minnesota Twins as I slumber? Absolutely. Pajamas should always be a bridge to pleasant dreams. In truth, I often dream of going to Twins games. Usually I’m just wandering Target Field, trying to meet up with some group of people I’m supposed to join at the game. Once, despite being in my early forties, I dreamed I was the first runner-up to be the Twins ball boy. They asked me to field a grounder and toss the ball to the coach. When I failed as miserably as I would while I was awake, the other dude got the job. I actually made the team one evening, but it was a nightmare. Sure, I was excited to be a Minnesota Twin. But I also knew I suck at playing baseball. In my dream, I was taking up a roster spot with no skill. The dilemma - do I tell Coach I shouldn’t be there or wait until he figures it out and drink in the joy of baseball? Maybe my Twins Zubaz are like a dreamcatcher in reverse, letting out the best parts of baseball dreams and sealing in the existential doom of regular living. Whether or not your dreams come true, it’s fun to play pretend you’re on the team. If you’ve got your own version of my Twins Zubaz, share some details in the comments. How far do you go? Some nights, I break out the Twins socks and a TC t-shirt and when I wake up, I’m still a guy in his early forties. A guy in his forties with the smile of a goofy twelve-year-old. My wife will probably kill the Zubaz when I’m not looking. They’re one hole away from being invisible and she preys on weak and wounded clothing. When that day comes, I’ll have to get a new pair immediately. The new pair won’t be as soft and worn-in. They’ll get into game shape in no time, though. It’s spring training for sleep slacks, too. Pleasant dreams, Twins Territory.

The Houston Astros. The team downplayed it. The commissioner spoke on it. The other players weighed in, some enraged at the cheaters, some enraged at the snitchers. Clearly baseball needs another bulky white man’s opinion, but I’ve had difficulty decided exactly how I feel about it. I went with “smug” first, typing out a bratty lil piece about wishing the Twins would cheat to get past the Yankees in the post season. Even typed out a draft on my phone: Maybe we get found out. Maybe it takes a year and then someone snitches. We would still have one year where we were alive and we believed the Twins could beat the Yankees. Just think about THAT for a little bit. Too soon, maybe. Also, it turns out I do like cheering for the nice guy MLB team. I added some sugar-sweet “Love You, Twins” words into the draft and it still didn’t work. Apparently I care more about the Twins good sportsmanship than beating the Yankees, or I would have published the quoted article a week ago. The Twins are still Luke Skywalkers in a Han Solo world - at least to me. Blegh. Am I right? So it hits me, after I plot a third draft, that I don’t hate the Astros. I don’t particularly feel any sort of way ABOUT the Astros. Shouldn’t they also have to apologize to me for making me care about a pretty good baseball team who cheated their way up to being champions? The Astros’ World Series victory is like that time Star Wars sold a display box because they didn’t have the action figures ready yet. It is the way you shrug after you realize the hot-bodied human at the bar gave you a fake phone number. It is the ten-minute joke your kid forces you to listen to before revealing there is no punchline. It is when the Team of Destiny is revealed to be just another good baseball team. With spying and thumping. If you can’t apologize right, apologize WRONG. Villains are more interesting than whatever sad sack shoe-gazing **** show they’re boring us with now.

2027 AD. The Playoffs. Yankee Stadium. The stands are filled with screeching Yankees fans. Some wear spiked shoulder pads. Some look like the Baseball Furies. Zombies sit in the cheap seats. Billy Crystal stands on the pitcher's mound, dressed exactly like Tupac in the "California Love" video. He incites the crowd to heightened frenzies. The zombies are having fun. "Who will the New York Yankees select to play in the playoffs?" Mad Billy shouts. In the other dugout, the Minnesota Twins are all cowering under blankets. The manager wears Groucho glasses. The crowd hushes. Who will they pick? "Should we pick the Indians?" Billy asks. "Noooo!" screams the crowd. "How about the Astros?" "Nooooo!" screams the crowd. "Who can we choose?" says Mad Billy Crystal. "Which team will guarantee a Yankees VICTORY?" "Just spit it out!" shouts one of the Minnesota Twins. Billy Crystal moonwalks around the bases. "Who do we choo-choo-choose?" he says. "Twins! Twins! Twins!" screams the crowd. The Jumbotron replays all of the times the Yankees beat the Twins in the playoffs. "Stop picking us!" scream the Twins fans as they huddle together. "Just stop it! Let us be!" "Twins! Twins! Twins!" the Yankee fans chant. The camera pulls back and we see we have been watching a cell phone screen in a Minnesota cabin. The wind howls. "Will it ever not be the Yankees, Papa?" a child asks. The father simply shoves the child's face into a tater tot hot dish.

When you're grown up, there's no reason to hide from the truth. You're not as funny as you think you are. Everyone dies. The universe is cold and hostile. More true than all of these, though, is the following Truth: the Minnesota Twins will lose to the New York Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. This series of columns begins with the ending, which is the Minnesota Twins losing to the New York Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. Other bloggers, vloggers, pundits, podcasters, columnists, poets, and novelists pretend to be fair-minded. They will write about the present, which is unknown to us. All we know of the present is that inevitably leads to our team, the Minnesota Twins, losing to the New York Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. This column will not be adverse to statistics. Statistics are an excellent way of deconstructing a Twins loss to the Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. Without them, we'd be stuck relying on our gut instincts to explain how swiftly and soundly the New York Yankees beat the Minnesota Twins in the playoffs. Some of you prefer to wallow in cynicism. Some of you are incapable of enjoying the lazy summer arc of a baseball season, which always ends with a playoff loss to you-know-who once sweatshirt weather comes around. "Why focus on the negative?" you protest as you set your expectations to "unrealistic." A true Twins fan is prepared with a hale and hearty "Better luck next time!" when the asscheeks of the last Yankee on the bench fly from the pine to celebrate in the field. A true Twins fan knows a three game sweep just cleans up the dust from a 182 game season so the hometown nine can rest until next year. I think we'd all like to see the Twins win 117 games in 2020. They will set an MLB record for victories. They will hit 308 home runs. They will strike out 1600 batters. They will prove, without a doubt that they are the best team in baseball and they will be ready, willing, and able to make the Yankees looks even better when they lose to them in their first round of the playoffs.

Instead of writing an original piece of HIGH STRANGENESS to satisfy your curiosity, I am sharing a most EDIFYING piece in praise of the one solitary run the Twins are allowed to score in most games. 4 out of 6 since last we talked. Gather, ye ball fans As I make all clear The most mirthful joy Of our ONE run cheer! To score runs PLURAL Cannot be much fun Compared to sheer glee From scoring just one! Teams - not the Twins, no They love the long ball They hammer and drive They score, one and all! Bless’d fans of TC How lucky are we? To score just a run And not two or three? That one run, and how! When we see it plate, To bed we can go Needn’t stay up late. Our run! It’s our run! It’s the only we get! You must love the run! When your teams plays not so very good. ⁃ The Bard Axel Kohagen

Gather round the fire, ye baseball fans. Imagine, if you will, a roaring blaze licking from beneath a tent of shattered bat handles. Listen to the tale I am about to tell, for EVERY word is true. I tell the tale . . . Of the BASEBALL WEREWOLF! A baseball werewolf behaves in much the same way as your regular, meat and potatoes werewolf. The moon and the night bring out its power, which is the ONLY possible explanation for why the Twins seem able to score ONLY AFTER THE FIFTH INNING in the last week of so. How did the power of lycanthropy find our hometown nine? In older times, a person might become a werewolf by donning the fur coat of an evil person or spirit. Unless Bill Belichick left his Ewok-hide duster around after the Super Bowl, this theory seems DEAD ON ARRIVAL. It’s likely a careful fan might notice a Twins player taking the field while wearing a fur coat. Kent Hrbek playing in a werewolf-fur coat is both likely to happen and a guarantee he will be the league MVP. Another theory suggests a person can become a werewolf by drinking rain gathered in the footprint of a wolf, so if anyone recently spotted Logan Morrison carrying a LONG STRAW and heading to the zoo’s Minnesota Trail, PLEASE inform this columnist post-haste. Most likely, a member of the Twins was bitten by a grizzled European character actor. After all, when’s the last time you’ve seen the Twins playing with their SILVER slugger awards? As long as they keep winning, THIS COLUMNIST will howl at the moonshots for the home team! Even if they don’t score runs until his old buttocks are already abed and asleep! Now comb your hair and let’s all head to Trader Vic’s! ⁃ Axel Kohagen of London (For more serious lunacy, head to www.supertruestories.com and check out my podcast!)

Joe Mauer’s DEVOTION regarding walking up to T.I.’s “What You Know?” is well-known and even generates some GOOD-NATURED RIBBING from the chaps who write baseball things. Yet, has the STABLE SLUGGER hidden a message of PROFOUND SUPERNATURAL LORE within these words? Consider the following lyrics: What you know about that? What you know about that? What you know about that? Simple, upon first view. But simplicity can hide behind its cloaks GREAT COMPLEXITY, like the bounteous spread of dishes at your local PIZZA RANCH! If you look closely, you will see each line of this selection contains both FIVE WORDS and SIX SYLLABLES! The odds of this happening by chance are ASTRONOMICAL! The odds off this happening for just two lines is rare enough we scream the magical word “JINX!” to ease our sense of interdimensional HORROR! THE DARK GODS THEN DEMAND A COKE! The word “know,” the middle word of five, hints at a world we may imagine but will likely never visit. Is this the QUIET PLACE where the Mighty Mauer’s patience at the plate was born? Is he teasing us because we can never reach this zen ballpark? WE MUST GO DEEPER! Six of the fifteen words end with “at.” Is “that” where it’s “at?” The remaining two words, “you” and “about,” cannot be ignored. “About” has two syllabouts, whereas “you” only has what. That adds up you what hell about a know take on this old song. You know what? About that. What, that? You know about! That about know you what. You know about, What That

(Note - it is my hope that we are far enough past the CIRCLE ME BERT CANCELLATION NIGHTMARE that I may impart some TRUTHFUL TRUTHS. If my voice is silenced suddenly, please leave a stick figure drawing of TC Bear in a City Pages on the big glove sculpture. My people will understand.) Roswell, NM. An alien spacecraft crashes in the desert. The cover-up begins immediately. Some say it was a WEATHER BALLOON or an EXPERIMENTAL AIRCRAFT. A few even think the whole incident was an ELABORATE DECEPTION from the mind of BILL VEECK! From the wreckage, a small, spherical object rolled free. Some say that object was a baseball. It moved quickly and avoided detection for around TEN YEARS. A small boy reached out to touch it. Within moments, his arm began to GLOW. Years later, the boy became a man named BB. His otherworldly curveball made him a LEGEND. When B transitioned to announcing, he wanted to make contact with the aliens whose ENERGIES he encountered as a small boy. In a meeting with his PRODUCTION STAFF and CERTAIN AQUATIC FISHMEN WHO MAINTAIN AN INTEREST IN EARTHEN TECHNOLOGIES, B created a program to place a symbol of the UFO WHO BROUGHT HIS POWERS on the broadcast. The UFO from underneath. THE CIRCLE OF BERT! Why was this NEARLY CANCELLED? There are things I simply CANNOT REVEAL, but an occasional visitor to the stadium has his own relationship to the UFOs, and he has some pretty BIGFEET. There's not much else I can reveal, except that I have it on GOOD AUTHORITY the aquatic fishmen are not happy with the last ten years or so of Mariners Baseball. The Truth Is Not Here, -- Axel Kohagen

Once, many of us still believed in a magical NORTH POLE where SANTA CLAUS makes everything all better (perhaps more of you would still believe if it wasn't for a terrible lie your parents told you to benefit BIG ELFING). Sadly, childhood may be the last time the lot of us all believed in a magical place ON EARTH! We Iowans once tried to pull some flim-flammary to convince you Iowa was heaven, FOOLED YOU, MINNESOTA! Some people still find it in themselves to believe in heaven on the planet. Every day they go to work - JUST LIKE YOU - but inside they harbor daydreams about SHANGRI-LA or EL DORADO or SCOOTER THOMPSON'S ELEPHANT EAR HUT. Lots of people believe in the lost city of Atlantis, but remain much LESS ENTHUSIASTIC about the MISPLACED TOWNSHIP OF WOOOO-PACKERS, WISCONSIN. However, on this day while the Twins have actually won a game, does anyone still believe in the MAGICAL LAND OF THE MINNESOTA TWINS WORLD CHAMPIONS? If so, how have you held on through the DARK NIGHTS OF SUFFERING? I write "nights" quite purposefully, for it seems this band of baseball brothers really enjoys clenching it all up so they can POO the BED in the later innings. Does your loss of faith come tied to a blown lead or another damn strike-out? Do you remember the name "DAVID HALE" and wonder who he was, or where he went to, or whether or not any of this matters because we are all dust in the wind? Or are you a little OUT THERE like me? Is your heart dialed in to that RAINBOW CONNECTION that has Minnie and Paul shaking hands over the WORLD SERIES TROPHY, being held by a giant JOE MAUER bobblehead? Do you cheer for the Twins when it ain't over, it's just HIGHLY MATHEMATICALLY IMPROBABLE? It's a bit DARING to share UNBRIDLED HOPE when your team's playing like TEN TONS OF BUTT in a 5 POUND BAG that was not EXPLICITLY CREATED FOR THE TRANSPORT OF BUTT AND BUTT RELATED PRODUCTS. But summer's always better when you can believe. And Atlantis? Great location for catching walleye. -- Get me a banjo and lillypad, Axel Kohagen (For more wisdom, check out my podcast at http://www.supertruestories.com/)

Though the SPINNING WHIRLS OF THE SUPERNATURAL WORLD are often filled with lonely men in black t-shirts, nearly every Twins fan has pondered the UNBEARABLE SUFFERING of LOSING EVERY GAME to the NEW YORK YANKEES! I hope I can somehow ease the EVERLASTING suffering of the sweet, TC-hatted heads in our community. How many of you have flung pillows at flat-screen televisions, slapped the power knob of a car radio, or politely told the ghost of Yogi Berra his delightful witticisms are not appreciated when your favorite team grounded out for the final out? My recommendation for the Twins front office? ETERNAL VIGILANCE! All it takes is a Bronx Bomber with mojo on the mind to leave a cursed object somewhere in Target Field. Such an object might be small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, making it seem easier to demolish a building. I have a STRONG SUSPICION the Metrodome was DOOMED FOR DESTRUCTION as a method of exorcising the spirits of FORNICATING BATHROOM REVELERS who chilled visitors with their LOW, GUTTURAL GRUNTING! And it gets worse. Who knows what they're doing in New York City, which I hear is larger than Duluth and St. Paul COMBINED! They could have a Minnesota hot dish in the stadium, baked with the sweat of Kent Hrbek's cap, left in a freezer to COOL THE BATS of the Twin Cities team. Perhaps a group of INTERDIMENSIONAL MYSTICS from R'LYEH to make each pitch seem bigger than the giant inflatable ball we make children chase to watch them STUMBLE AND FALL! HOW THEY FALL! It's possible they might have a lot of money, too. My money is on one Twins fan named Shemp Campbell. Shemp's a farmer from around Austin and he once saw a duck wearing a Yankees hat and he kicked it. Sometimes, that's all it takes. How many of us think before kick our ducks? ESPECIALLY when they're wearing athletic apparel. Makes you think. But you don't have to think when the Yankees are beating the Twins. AGAIN. You just feel. You feel really badly. You wish the game could be fun again. Don't kick ducks, -- Axel Kohagen

Why can't Target Field have a yeti? Even a dedicated master of the art of SUPERNATURAL BASEBALL has trouble cobbling together enough words to delve into the spirit of this wonderful sport. It's difficult enough to put on a face to open your door in these days of late, late winter. No baseball cap upon your head but instead a STOCKING CAP where the pom pom is made of the SHREDDED PLANS OF YOUR SNOWBOUND LIFE! Twins fans spent a whole weekend indoors without a BIT of baseball to ease the pain. Many of us had to spend time speaking to our ACTUAL FAMILIES! It would be a nice gesture if the Twins released a LIVE YETI onto the unshoveled parts of America's National Winter Wasteland. This is not as difficult as you might initially think. After all, a Twins advertiser regularly brings a live Bigfoot to baseball games. I have it on good authority this is a SUBURBAN SASQUATCH who can't be bothered to menace a camper if that camper had their missing S'mores ingredients. A yeti, though. That's a different thing than a sasquatch. Yeti's tend to have white fur and they think it's stupid to say "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck." They might not enjoy life in the Cities, but they make WONDERFUL snow forts and get REAL cross when, say, TC Bear smashes into them with a snowmobile. You notice TC Bear doesn't snowmobile around as much anymore? Do you think he misses it? I mean, if he did, who would he tell? Ron Gardenhire's with Detroit now. Anyway, tuning in to see a yeti frolic in Target Field might seem bizarre, but it would be A GREAT DEAL BETTER than spending a weekend with a BUTTLOAD of snow and an earful of people complaining about it. You don't have to be an expert in SUPERNATURAL BASEBALL to know baseball IS magic. Give us the magic, then take it away, and there's going to be sadness. So is a baseball yeti so much to ask? Aspiring Skunk Ape, Axel Kohagen

The day after Wednesday - which is the day I publish my evaluation of Twins baseball FROM BEYOND THE EXPERIENCE OF NORMAL BASEBALL MINDS - an epic, significant omen occured. Many have already rushed to offer insight upon this experience, which is a GRAVE MISTAKE! Only the knowledge of a professional supernatural baseball blogger should be considered in situations such as these. Now, unfortunately, I have no knowledge to add to this experience, but I will continue to type and pontificate anyway, under the assumption that a hefty helping of my SUPERNATURAL MYSTICISM will show the factual reports of this event as what they are. During the opening ceremony for Twins baseball, an eagle by the name of "Challenger" (I have it on good authority these showbiz eagles rarely use the names they were given at hatching when they perform) FORSOOK the calls of his trainer and, after experiencing some resistance, landed upon the shoulder of Seattle Mariner's starting pitcher James Paxton. Is this what we call love? I believe not. "Challenger" clearly swats the back of the pitcher on the dismount, as if from one bro to another. Eagles are huge dudebros. Did this bald-faced wannabe albatross CURSE the pitcher? Only time will tell. I do see he ended the game with a lucky 7 strike outs . . . and a less lucky 7-plus ERA. Perhaps the real curse will not occur until the next FULL MOON, when James Paxton unfurls his feathers as a WERE-EAGLE, flying from pick-up truck to pick-up truck and admiring his likeness in decal form. Birds are quite often MAGICAL HARBINGERS of major events. Perhaps Challenger represents the snarky Minnesota attitude that DARES ask the question, "COLD ENOUGH FOR YA?" It is still possible that this bird was simply a big fan of a pitcher named "James Pullman" and, as if often the case, became confused. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? Fear not - I will watch the signs for you. Perhaps when the EAGLE LANDS UPON THE OPPONENT it signifies a PATRIOTIC GREATNESS is protecting our Twins hopes to win the World Series. And birds ARE the most majestic creatures to routinely crap all over our cars. Flipping the bird as necessary, Axel Kohagen

Imagine the Universe, swirling mysteriously across untold aeons and dimensions. Within this maelstrom, how can one isolate the force that is Mauer Power? How far does it extend? Is it more polite than other Universal forces, like Hulkamania? My goals may be lofty in this Universe, and yet I am COMPELLED to write yet another column about Mauer and the home runs. This Question of the Ages is a perennial classic for the local sports media. For most of them, it seems Mauer Power did not increase the size of their hearts three sizes in all. So I stand at the precipice that is beginning this column, armed with the knowledge that only a FULL and MEASURED knowledge of THE UNSEEN WORLD can solve this riddle. And it’s all done with numbers. In 2009, Joe Mauer hit the most home runs for season he'd ever hit in his career. He has yet to meet or exceed that number again - the number 28. Mauer's number is 7. 7 is widely considered to be a lucky and powerful number. 28 divided by 7 is 4. 28 also ends in 8, whereas 2009 ends in 9. These are not the same numbers. However, 7 did eat 9, which is highly symbolic of Mauer's power in the year 2009. This year is 2018. 18 is equal to 9 times 2. Skid Row taught us that 18 equals Life, which is also promising. This mathematics teaches me that Joe Mauer will hit 56 home runs in 2018, because of the maths mentioned above. And yet, this SIMPLICITY of the UNIVERSE seems complicated or even ridiculous to those not attuned to the POWERS OF MYSTERIOUS POWERS. And if he could just line drive those suckers into the left field stands like a screaming banshee. the Universe would crap itself in delight. Magically Delicious, Axel

Some folks will tell you there's a special kind of magic to Opening Day. But ask a stathead to identify exactly what type of magic we're dealing with and the room goes quiet. Is it simply the crack of the bat, the taste of the hot dog, and the lack of parkas? Surely this magic is there, but there are levels of mysteries in this world. Some of these mysteries can disturb the very foundations of reality, yet when handled with a cool, level hand (such as mine), a baseball fan can learn of NEW WORLDS and contemplate STRANGE MYSTERIES, like the much-whispered about Interplanetary Coalition to Destroy "Circle Me Bert," or ICDCMB. Today, I have come to teach you about THE MANDELA EFFECT! This phenomenon is named after a series of odd occurrences where people believed Nelson Mandela died well before he actually did. Could this be a simple case of coincidental misrememberings spread across the internet? Perhaps. OR PERHAPS IT IS A SIGN THESE INDIVIDUALS PEERED INTO A DIFFERENT DIMENSION, ONE WHERE MANDELA DID DIE EARLIER! There's also a lot said about the correct spelling of the Bering Sea Bears books. But how does this relate to baseball, you ask? This "Mandela Effect" affected me in regards to Opening Day! Somehow, perhaps as I slumbered, I envisioned another dimension where THE MINNESOTA TWINS played their first game on TUESDAY, not THURSDAY! So clear was this vision that I even dressed in a cap and t-shirt to support the home team. I even prepped a meal of HOT DOGS to add to the celebration. Yet, when I turned my attention to the Internet, I discovered the vision was WRONG! My family and I ate a silent meal containing THE HOT DOGS OF SHAME! Doubtful? Doubt no longer! Just one day later my will was brought into ANOTHER OTHER DIMENSION where I believed the TWINS OPENED THE SEASON AT HOME! I nearly logged onto a ticket-selling website to purchase a ticket before I became aware of my natural dimension. As a father of a toddler, these experiences HAVE to be related to the Mandela Effect and cannot have any connection to general confusion and exhaustion. Also, I am old. Why this should happen two times in a short period of time I cannot say. It seems odd the universe would be so disturbed. After all, it seems there is a surplus of kindness and camaraderie these days. I believe the true magic of Opening Day kept me from getting lost in these alternate timelines. After all, baseball is a magical thing that can bring a group of people together to be happy, except in regards to the umpires and the New York Yankees. -- Axel Kohagen Your Paranormal Baseball Reporter

This is a TV promo, and this is your last chance to strap yourself in. Because the next time your favorite team takes the field, the team's ace is going to be taking the mound. The guy on your team people from other states know. The ace. The guy who can throw fireballs and baseballs that dart about like butterflies and baseballs that start at the batter's eye line and auger ten feet underground. He's the guy who looks like his giant streetlight poster, and is actually taller than he appears on the Jumbotron. Every damn time he takes the field he gets a win, a standing ovation, and his own montage of strikeouts on TV. He hauls his team to the playoffs. Playoffs. He makes them exist. How long till we have one on OUR side?

Miguel Sano is the AL Player of the Week. Baseballs scream at night for their baseball parents to make sure Miguel Sano isn't under their bed. As I write this, the Twins have a winning schedule. Good. Because let's face it, none of us are happy about anyone else. The dam of Internet puppies and kitties finally busted. Log on to social media and drown in smarm and misery. Tyler Durden once wondered how far clever would get a person, and I think we found out. I don't know about you, but the amount of time I spend on social media is less about having fun and more about my gag reflex being able to keep the bile down. Truthfully, God bless baseball. It's been the calm smile in a crazy world for over a century. It survived wars and miseries. They may fancy it up, but you can still get a hot dog and beer (grudgingly acknowledging this beer will probably be a triple-hop aged horseradish-infused microbrew aged in a vat made of sentient wood). Baseball has the nicknames and the dingers. When the Twilight of the Gods comes, I'd like to think there will be one last pitcher taking the mound against the uncoming tide of endless darkness. Question is, has that pitcher been born yet? It's all so damned depressing I'd almost do the stupid-ass wave for a distraction.

New Line Cinema released a furious preview for their remake of Stephen King's It, and the excitement drove me to pick up my well-worn hardcover of the book to reread it slowly and deliberately. I hope to become so connected with the terrors of Derry, Maine, that I risk waking up to find myself staring at the house on Neibolt Street. Or worse. Last night, I read something that sparked my imagination. Mike Hanlon, future librarian and member of the heroic Loser's Club, referred to listening to the 1958 Washington Senators. He's right to worry about their performance (the Senators lost 93 games that year), but he's completely unaware those Senators will become the Minnesota Twins in 1961. He's already listening to future Twins greats like Camilo Pascual and Harmon Killebrew. Clearly, I must take this tiniest bit of trivia and blow it completely out of proportion. Therefore, I proclaim the Minnesota Twins are the official baseball team of Derry, Maine, on the basis of my complete lack of authority. Most Stephen King creations tend to develop ties with the Boston Red Sox, but this is Twins time. Big Steve owes us for David Ortiz, right? The movie is expected to come out in September, which leaves plenty of time to establish Derry Daze at Target Field. The organist can play jaunty circus music. Pennywise the Dancing Clown can throw out an orange pom-pom as the first pitch. And every fan gets a balloon. They'll be environmentally safe, but you can bet that EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE BALLOONS WILL FLOOOOOOOOOAT! If needed, I would volunteer to dress up as Pennywise. I'd even sit behind the opposing team's dugout and scream "BEEP-BEEP!" any time they try to talk. It's the least I can do. Axel

Whether I watch the Twins on the television, listen on the radio, or follow along with Gameday on my phone, I can assure you I am doing my part. Yet, somehow, this team is failing. When Twins players stand in the batter's box, I say "Home Run." I mean, I actually say the words out loud. And I nod once, with my chin in the air, to let that player know I am as sincere as Linus van Pelt singing praise in the pumpkin patch. The crappy thing is they aren't hitting them when I say they should. It forces me to live in an empty baseball world where the path to first base is covered in chalk and bitter existential ennui. At some special time, I'm demand to scream "called it" -- as is my birthright as a homer fan. I'm calling victories for pitchers, too. I do this in an even more elaborate way, explaining which pitch will earn the strike-out or how the next pitch will drop two runners with some 6-4-3 magic. Then, as you might expect, those home runs show up and the other team's players prance around the bases like some ancient black and white cartoon. Clearly, you other fans deserve more. I will not let you down. I will enunciate, in case our hometown nine think "home run" really means "strike out looking . . . again!" I will simplify the cheers I make for our pitchers to a very clear, if inelegant, "please make the man with the bat go back and sit down in his dugout with sadness and zero runs." If it's not me, gang? Then the failure could be back, And you can't cheer your way out of the failure. We'll all spend twice as much on food, but we'll be eating it at home because it's too sad to see the failure in person. So blame me, because none of us can take another season like we usually get.

As I write this, the Twins have dropped three of the last four. Pride and hope take their lumps. Whatever bunkers Twins fans have built to survive 90 loss seasons are restocking their apocalyptic buffets. The Twins will go back into the mines tonight to try to find baseball gold, and it seems increasingly like Byron Buxton is the canary early-warning system for disaster. Thus far, he's looking a little rough. If he drops back to the minors, or stops seeing playing time, things look rougher for the rest of the Twins as they slug it out. Hard to imagine a more likeable player than Byron Buxton, and l made the mistake of getting too attached to him. His Instagram feed is charming, with lots of pictures of his family. When he makes a diving catch, I text or message someone proclaiming he's finally ready. I dream of taking a picture with him where we pose like the titular Bad Dudes of video game fame. But it's looking like he's already had 23 strike outs, and even my boyish belief in baseball magic can't find a way to sweep this under the rug. Like Samuel Deduno, Joe Crede, Brendan "A Squirrel Tried to Eat Me" Harris, and the second coming of Jason Kubel, I have loved Twins players more from my heart than from my common sense and ability to read baseball statistics. I was at an extra innings game where Joe Crede sent us home with a walk off grand slam, and I hugged a strange and questionably-smelling stranger next to me with unironic joy. But the game goes on, and youf imaginary pals go away. I dream of Byron Buxton interviews where his charm and smile win over the whole of Twins Territory. I can see him hitting his twentieth homer a dozen or so games before he steals his twentieth base. But right now, what I reallly see is a great guy with amazing baseball potential who's about to be pining for the fjords on a plane trip to Rochester. And then one of you will have to tell me sometimes friends move away and it's okay while I cry and pull out all of the drawers in my bedroom.

The Twins are coming home 6-3, and with the seasons we've suffered through they might as well all strut onto Target Field wearing uniforms designed to mimic John Travolta's white suit from Saturday Night Fever. They should have a "Pinch 'n Slap" booth at each entrance to help fans confirm they are not dreaming. Ice cream in mini batting helmets should come with six cherries on top. But we're all gonna talk about losing that series to Detroit, and we're especially going to talk about Byron Buxton striking out like he was trying to take Sally Field's Oscar from Norma Rae. -- Is there any actual strike in that movie? If not, I'm just counting on the fact that Twins Daily readers like me - they REALLY like me! That should get me past the facts. The dread moments of baseball aren't reserved for when your team loses a number of games that would be good to score on the wheel in The Price is Right. Dread's the bitter coffee you have while watching a beautiful sunset. It's the bowel movement caused by that coffee when you sit on your throne and watch videos of another Sano home run. Dread may be a little gross and personal, but we always put it on the menu. By the end of August, every goldurn one of you will have a player you can't stand. And you will follow this player more closely than the players you like. You'll pray for them to get demoted, traded, or even forced into real estate. When one of those outcomes happens, you'll cheer and splatter ink praising the end of the great awfulness all over your social media. Then, before your head hits the pillow, your brain will seize the next player you'll hate by one ankle and begin brewing barrels of spite. I think this happens because we all really believe we're just a bend in the road away from true happiness, and we could fix it if someone just gave us the chance. Proving we can fix the destiny of our favorite baseball team reinforces the idea we'd be living like princes and princesses if the damned bastards of the world would just listen to us. For me, life would be fine and dandy if the White Sox went away and Trevor May got healed by Roma Downey in Touched by an Angel (or some retro Michael Landon miracle-making). Will this amount to anything? Well, Brendan Harris isn't going into the Twins' Hall of Fame any time soon. But the human animal I am can't just watch the game without grounding my teeth and dreading the unholy idea that no one cares what I think.

It's Monday. The Twins aren't playing at the moment, but they're going to unload the war wagons and take on Detroit on their turf. The Twins have taken two series from divisional foes, and winning a third series would feel like a nice little start to somethin' somethin'. Five to one. That makes me pause for a second to remind people to appreciate The Doors like they ought to appreciate them. If you're going to roll down your car windows and drive down a rural highway this summer, you'd better play at least one song by The Doors while doing so. Personally, I recommend "Peace Frog." These Minnesota Twins, though. They've got that Cyberdyne-systems machine kind of feel. The bats spin the the diamond around, and then the tumblers align for a big blast from a terminating machine like Migueal Sano. This summer, that man is going to hit home runs Skynet won't be able to track. Of course, the pitching cog of the Twins Machine does raise an eyebrow or two. I think, if we're very lucky, the thing holds together just well enough that we hire a rent-an-ace in the playoff stretch. I'm sure, if we have any playoff success, this ace will then be offered way too much money to collapse and retire. Long drives with the window down, good music, and a team clicking and clacking their way to something to be proud of. This sounds like a summer worth having.