Axel Kohagen

This morning, fellow citizens of Twins Territory left their homes to find infant animals, such as deer and rabbits, lining up to sniff their hands in the dewy grass and pastel sunlight. Maybe. Look, none of us really know what the 4-0 life is like. Last time it happened was 1987, an era the nearest adolescent to you will tell you is "ancient" before building another cube-pig-insult-to-nature on Minecraft. You hate the Minecraft, don't you? It's always nice to beat the White Sox, too. Except I read the 2017 Baseball Prospectus entry on the Sox last night and . . . that team's one serving of borscht away from being a Russian tragedy. The White Sox would be a nifty new adversary for The Walking Dead. Piicture zombies spinning and sparking on those home run circles. That annoying brat mascot suit could be used to pad bites and keep them from breaking the skin. The Pale Hose could dress up as Baseball Furies and smack down the undead with their bats. Just, you know, some of 'em will only get in a meaningful hit at .250 or lower, right? Hey, we've been there. But now we're here, 4-0. My fingernails are firmly latched into the doorway to the Winner's Lounge, and I'm prepared to lose a few before I relax my grip.

It's opening day and I'm wearing my Joe Nathan shirt for the tenth year in the row. The Twins are playing the Royals, because the Twins are ALWAYS playing the Royals. Advanced statistics will confirm the Twins play 127% of their games against the Royals, and 75% of those games mean nothing to anybody anyway. But we sure play them, now knowing that all of us can go to Hy-Vee afterwards. A guy named Duffy is taking the mound for the Royals, which kind of pissing me off. I don't know Duffy, and I have no desire to expend any effort to find two facts I can string together that make it look like I cared. Our Minnesota Twins lost over 100 games last year and, on their first battle of 2017, a pitcher with a name sounding like pure aw-shucks happiness is going to be come trotting on to the field. Couldn't we have found a team with a pitcher named "Grimm-Reeper" or "Rebuilding-Year?" I know, everybody's in first place now. Groovy. It was a short weekend and I still remember trying to have meaningful discussions about the team's future while they circled the bases in reverse, like the were slugging runners round the rim of a toilet bowl. Don't get me wrong, I'm not insulting the players who put in the work and try their best and are probably more frustrated than the average fan can imagine. I just have to spell out my feels because I know some of you out there will pick up what I'm putting down. I love the Twins like I love air and water, but I can't just forget 2016. If my wife had a sexy affair with a guy dressed like my arch-nemesis Sweetums, from the Muppets . . . we would try to work through it. But I would insist on having her deloused and I would leave the house and burn it if I saw one brown muppet hair. Soon, those blue-billed Royals will emerge from the secret tunnels between their stadium and the Twins, tipping their Morlock bus driver as they exist. It will be the first of 1000 games between these two teams, before the All-Star break. Next, Twins fans will arrive. "I want to see a double!" a small child will say, and everyone will understand. We love our team to death, but bruised hearts start slow. -Axel Kohagen

This is definitely feedback I sincerely dig - thank you! I'm hard at work at living a healthier life. It's a process born from a horrifying moment where I found myself all alone in a rural Kentucky hospital, unsure if they would let me leave due to my blood pressure. I'll tell you about it sometime.

I planned to write four columns for four Twins games attended in eight days, but I got stuck after running Fifteen's 5K before the last game and ended up skipping the game and staying home. The Twins lost, but my experience running into Target Field and getting closer Glen Perkins to sign my medal thrilled me enough to make me forget my favorite team's woes. Still, I felt like I owed y'all that last blog entry, to justify my shameless and unabashed promotion of my novel Orphans (in paperback and on Kindle!). Then the Twins kept losing, and if you don't have anything nice to say . . .Alisha Perkins already wrote something about people who don't say nice things. My friend Cindy and I discussed it on the 5K, and then we high-fived Alisha herself as we crossed the finish line. Cindy looked much tougher closing out that race than my winded, sweat-covered self did. I stood on Target Field and smiled, very content, and found myself in desperate need of large amounts of breakfast foods. Alisha wrote about the on-line crap her husband was taking for suffering a string of bad luck games. Her calm explanation of working through adversity is clear and worth reading. I'm always surprised when I see articles listing the attack tweets people have had to endure. When they start looking like plastic-sealed evidence from a crime show about serial killers, I start to wonder about my fellow Americans. Part of one line stuck with me, though: Alisha writes, "The cyber-bullying fad in America needs to stop . . ." For the most part, I believe I've been more of a cyber-smartass than a cyber-bully, but I'd have to let others be the judge of the effects of my actions instead of just the intentions. That said, I've tossed out a few mean tweets in the process of being funny. I used to assume the rich, famous, or Internet-famous read these pop culture quips and digs as if they were just lines in a movie where they already knew they would save the day. I started to let go of this attitude when I saw how quickly and viciously Internet users are willing to cross a line of social comfort for a quick bit of approval or attention - myself most definitely included. Once I saw how many death threats were tossed about, wrapped in a "just kidding" envelope," I worked to keep my online interactions sensible enough I would communicate them to the person in question in their own living room. Go through my Twitter feed and I have no doubt you'll find some times I've violated this rule, but I do try. So after this grown-up rant, I have to confess I understand the desire to rip some stranger from the top of the hill all the way down to the bottom. When you see a ballplayer as superhuman, you feel like you can tear them up, bit by bit, and it doesn't matter. Work might suck, your family might hate your guts, and your lumpy tummy might be pouring over your belt buckle (and here you see one of the reasons for running that 5K), but everybody can pick on the guy on the mound when the baseballs go straight from his hand to a lucky fan's bookshelf. We all know that guy, and we figure he can take it. If you think this sounds like the kind of bullcrap children are capable of flinging, I'm right there with you. After all, I honed my meanness on a steady diet of jealousy for others talents, fear of taking chances, and frustration about all of my own mistakes. Do any of us ever really grow out of that? Alisha, I read your column a couple of times (and I'd offer to call you and personally read you Orphans as you run, for your new book on tape), I think you do your best work against it when you write about things like anxiety, pain and frustration in a way that shows bravery and empathy. As a running trainee, reading your stuff makes me feel more normal about my frustrations. I especially like it when you stand at the end of 5Ks and cheer yourself senseless for a (slightly less) chubby guy running slowly but not quitting. After all, there's no need to attack someone else online when you're proud of what you accomplished and someone showed kindness and paid attention when you met your goal. -- Axel Kohagen Click here to view the article

I planned to write four columns for four Twins games attended in eight days, but I got stuck after running Fifteen's 5K before the last game and ended up skipping the game and staying home. The Twins lost, but my experience running into Target Field and getting closer Glen Perkins to sign my medal thrilled me enough to make me forget my favorite team's woes. Still, I felt like I owed y'all that last blog entry, to justify my shameless and unabashed promotion of my novel Orphans (in paperback and on Kindle!). Then the Twins kept losing, and if you don't have anything nice to say . . . Alisha Perkins already wrote something about people who don't say nice things. My friend Cindy and I discussed it on the 5K, and then we high-fived Alisha herself as we crossed the finish line. Cindy looked much tougher closing out that race than my winded, sweat-covered self did. I stood on Target Field and smiled, very content, and found myself in desperate need of large amounts of breakfast foods. Alisha wrote about the on-line crap her husband was taking for suffering a string of bad luck games. Her calm explanation of working through adversity is clear and worth reading. I'm always surprised when I see articles listing the attack tweets people have had to endure. When they start looking like plastic-sealed evidence from a crime show about serial killers, I start to wonder about my fellow Americans. Part of one line stuck with me, though: Alisha writes, "The cyber-bullying fad in America needs to stop . . ." For the most part, I believe I've been more of a cyber-smartass than a cyber-bully, but I'd have to let others be the judge of the effects of my actions instead of just the intentions. That said, I've tossed out a few mean tweets in the process of being funny. I used to assume the rich, famous, or Internet-famous read these pop culture quips and digs as if they were just lines in a movie where they already knew they would save the day. I started to let go of this attitude when I saw how quickly and viciously Internet users are willing to cross a line of social comfort for a quick bit of approval or attention - myself most definitely included. Once I saw how many death threats were tossed about, wrapped in a "just kidding" envelope," I worked to keep my online interactions sensible enough I would communicate them to the person in question in their own living room. Go through my Twitter feed and I have no doubt you'll find some times I've violated this rule, but I do try. So after this grown-up rant, I have to confess I understand the desire to rip some stranger from the top of the hill all the way down to the bottom. When you see a ballplayer as superhuman, you feel like you can tear them up, bit by bit, and it doesn't matter. Work might suck, your family might hate your guts, and your lumpy tummy might be pouring over your belt buckle (and here you see one of the reasons for running that 5K), but everybody can pick on the guy on the mound when the baseballs go straight from his hand to a lucky fan's bookshelf. We all know that guy, and we figure he can take it. If you think this sounds like the kind of bullcrap children are capable of flinging, I'm right there with you. After all, I honed my meanness on a steady diet of jealousy for others talents, fear of taking chances, and frustration about all of my own mistakes. Do any of us ever really grow out of that? Alisha, I read your column a couple of times (and I'd offer to call you and personally read you Orphans as you run, for your new book on tape), I think you do your best work against it when you write about things like anxiety, pain, and frustration in a way that shows bravery and empathy. As a running trainee, reading your stuff makes me feel more normal about my frustrations. I especially like it when you stand at the end of 5Ks and cheer yourself senseless for a (slightly less) chubby guy running slowly but not quitting. After all, there's no need to attack someone else online when you're proud of what you accomplished and someone showed kindness and paid attention when you met your goal. -- Axel Kohagen

For the most part, Target Field is like a spacecraft from a hopeful, utopian science-fiction universe. There, fans saluting any pennant can wear clothing honoring their sporting allegiance without harassment. Your experience might be different, but I've always enjoyed sharing the game with other fans and enjoying nothing worse than mild ribbing. There are cracks in the facade, of course. The worst cracks open a gateway to hell, from which sprouts an unholy creature born to create utter misery in our baseball utopia. I speak, of course, of the Insufferable Out-of-Town Fan. Unlike his or her counterparts, the Insufferable One did not come to the stadium to enjoy the game. The Insufferable One came to perform a one-person act of performance art, designed to create discomfort that spreads across the stadium in waves of pure annoyance. After any action beneficial to the visiting team, the Insufferable One leaps to his/her feet to flail wildly. If this creature notices a normal fan cheering enthusiastically, he/she must make wilder gestures and louder noises until his/her awfulness greatly exceeds anyone in the area. If children are present, the Insufferable One rejoices in utilizing the more emphatic swear words. The Insufferable One utilizes her/his environment for maximum awfulness. For example, a simple baseball cap can be turned and rotated and placed upon her/his head in an annoying manner. Always concerned with achieving the proper affect, The Insufferable One will look around to insure everyone notices the ridiculous way they've altered their appearance (perhaps a ballpark giveaway can make an annoying noise or otherwise pester a decent fan). Should all of these methods fail, any cup of liquid can make for a spilly surprise. The mere presence of The Insufferable One brings out the worst in the fans around her/him. If one of those other fans dares to speak a word -- or even make a noise -- The Insufferable One believes is directed to her/him, a bellowing bullfrog type of communication ensues. During this grunting display, The Insufferable One can create a second pocket of despair around the hapless fan he/she lured into the fray. If all goes as planned, the game will end with a Twins loss and a gloating, puffed-up Insufferable One clapping loudly as several pockets of taunted and disgruntled fans kick their empty beer cups. Encounters with this creature, in its various forms, must simply be tolerated. Still, this writer dreams of utopia. Perhaps security can begin screening for fans who refuse to blink and cheer directly into the faces of Twins fans. Ushers could respond to early signs of Insufferability with a simple test. If the fan cannot maintain a simple conversation without screaming catchphrases and player last names, he/she could be transported to a room filled with mannequins and speakers repeatedly announcing "We are paying attention to you." We can all be citizens of utopia, if we work together. -- Axel Kohagen www.axelkohagen.com

I spent my Tuesday night at Target Field because of a coupon and the Pittsburgh Pirates. The Pirates are the team I root for in that other league, and the ticket cost next to nothing after I applied the coupon. Since this coupon paid for one single ticket, I went without a spouse or a sidekick. Once I knew my novel Orphans (with Roy C; Booth} would be published on July 21st, this lonesome visit to Target Field took on added importance for me. The book takes three lonely, crumbling men and haunts them past their breaking points. I doubted the Twins would break me, even if they did lose like they had the last time I saw them play (and they did). I just wondered if you could still be a lonely grump in a twenty-first century ballpark, and if you could get lost in your thoughts instead of your smart phone. The first four innings went smoothly, and I spent them in my seat in the 300s. Later, I discovered I sat in front of some old friends from an old job, but I missed them by diving into a mixture of thoughts, texts, and temptations to be hopeful about Pelfrey's outing. He kept the game in line and the offense put two runs on the scoreboard in his support. I might have kept watching from the skies if my stomach had shut up. I left the stands and found myself watching the Target Field organist work. Even though the interior of the pub feels like a place where bartenders where garters on their sleeves, nothing here was lonely. In fact, the organist herself smiled as she glanced over the room, somehow finding time to chat with fans, watch the game, and play her tunes when the right time came. The smiling drinkers around me convinced me I was two minutes away from a friendly conversation, so I escaped to continue my quest to be the lonely wanderer of Target Field. I found more space out by left field, but the standing view wasn't quite to my liking so I moved down to the second level. Just one level down, the wandering was far more social. Small squads of princesses from various hometown contests milled about, taking pictures. You could spot them by their sashes and matching shoes. Adults wandered the same pathways and smaller children darted between princesses and adults, like sand between pebbles and rocks. I couldn't stay disconnected from the blue-and-red mob. The Twins were handing back runs as I watched from railings. I followed the game from the crowd noise, and I smiled at other fans. The wind picked up and blew a hat and rack of chips on the floor, and everyone shared a chuckle. I watched a challenged play at the plate from an awkward third base angle. Another wandering guy watched next to me and together we agreed the runner was out just moments before the umpires concluded the exact opposite. The guy walked away. Actually, I think someone he belonged to came to claim him. I wandered the main level on my stomach, desperate to find the perfect food and settling for some standby nachos. I stood on the concourse by the flags, a place where I always feel comfortable in the shadow of a Jim Thome home run. I found a spot next to a man who cheered like a bad audition for professional wrestling. A flurry of hits drove the Twins down by four runs. Truth be told, I escaped to my car after the inning finally ended. I cheered along on the radio as the Twins brought in the runs to tie the game, and I cringed when they gave up the lead and lost the game. My blood still runs through blue and red veins, but my mind and body felt like enjoying some solitude. A day later, still covered in wreckage from today's Twins loss, it occurs to me this is something of a miracle. Target Field may actually be timeless, and this may be the proof. It survives smart phones, bright lights, instant scoreboard updates, cable, and wifi. With National Night approaching, it seems worth noting going to a baseball game was so friendly I couldn't be a cranky bastard when I tried my best. With a week full of especially crappy news, there must be some value in this discovery. It appears the men of my novel could've done more to save their own souls.

After regularly commenting on the 2013 Twins season, I stayed away from the blog while I put life's little bits together into something that resembled the picture on the puzzle box. Now, with Roy C. Booth and my novel Orphans published and ready to scare everyone senselessly, I finally have time to return to overthinking the odds and ends of Twins baseball. I will be attending four games this week and writing an essay about all of them.After I learned about baseball, I can remember a moment where I considered the possibility of a never-ending baseball game. Younger then, I always assumed all of the fans would stay for every pitch. Job absences would be forgiven by authority of baseball. Children and pets would move to different houses. The game would play on, sometimes with matched innings of big scoring, mostly with zeroes filling up the scoreboard. I remembered this at the Twins game last night, when the New York team -- mostly Alex Rodriguez -- placed the game perilously close to the spiral of a dance with infinity in the extra innings. I should have worried more about a total collapse and another painful, pin-striped gut punch. Maybe it was because we were playing the Yankees, but thinking about a game played without time limits made me think of the timelessness of the game itself. We baseball romantics love to think of the game as being a neatly preserved time capsule from over a century ago. Is it still so romantic when a clock keeps both teams from wasting precious time and the man destroying your team at the plate may have benefited from scientific discoveries unheard of a hundred years ago? Are the people in the stands the same people, or just a similar type of people? I watched an older man having trouble finding his way back to his seat. I saw couples on dates ignoring each other to check in with other people on their smart phones. I saw players on both teams making enough money that their entire families would never work again, while their past counterparts needed employment between seasons. We all judged each other's T-shirt slogans. Twins fans came as cultural refugees on a glorious July night, to hide in a game we can at least pretend is pure from the taint of decades of upsetting and frightening change - however we personally define upsetting. The runners keep going around the bases and we can pretend we aren't still outraged about the thing that just happened to our country. Except we're still checking our social media to make sure our side is still winning. In fact, if we eavesdrop, we can hear someone saying the exact same things we blocked three people to avoid reading last week. We could text someone official for help silencing them, but how timeless would that be? In times like these, even the Yankees don't seem like miserable wretches. Except Alex Rodriguez still does, because he hit three home runs against the hometown heroes and such things are timelessly deplorable. -- Axel Click here to view the article

(Note: After regularly commenting on the 2013 Twins season, I stayed away from the blog while I put life's little bits together into something that resembled the picture on the puzzle box. Now, with Roy C. Booth and my novel Orphans published and ready to scare everyone senselessly, I finally have time to return to overthinking the odds and ends of Twins baseball. I will be attending four games this week and writing an essay about all of them.) After I learned about baseball, I can remember a moment where I considered the possibility of a never-ending baseball game. Younger then, I always assumed all of the fans would stay for every pitch. Job absences would be forgiven by authority of baseball. Children and pets would move to different houses. The game would play on, sometimes with matched innings of big scoring, mostly with zeroes filling up the scoreboard. I remembered this at the Twins game last night, when the New York team -- mostly Alex Rodriguez -- placed the game perilously close to the spiral of a dance with infinity in the extra innings. I should have worried more about a total collapse and another painful, pin-striped gut punch. Maybe it was because we were playing the Yankees, but thinking about a game played without time limits made me think of the timelessness of the game itself. We baseball romantics love to think of the game as being a neatly preserved time capsule from over a century ago. Is it still so romantic when a clock keeps both teams from wasting precious time and the man destroying your team at the plate may have benefitted from scienctific discoveries unheard of a hundred years ago? Are the people in the stands the same people, or just a similar type of people? I watched an older man having trouble finding his way back to his seat. I saw couples on dates ignoring each other to check in with other people on their smart phones. I saw players on both teams making enough money that their entire famlies would never work again, while their past counterparts needed employment between seasons. We all judged each other's T-shirt slogans. Twins fans came as cultural refugees on a glorious July night, to hide in a game we can at least pretend is pure from the taint of decades of upsetting and frightening change - however we personally define upsetting. The runners keep going around the bases and we can pretend we aren't still outraged about the thing that just happened to our country. Except we're still checking our social media to make sure our side is still winning. In fact, if we eavesdrop, we can hear someone saying the exact same things we blocked three people to avoid reading last week. We could text someone official for help silencing them, but how timeless would that be? In times like these, even the Yankees don't seem like miserable wretches. Except Alex Rodriguez still does, because he hit three home runs against the hometown heroes and such things are timelessly deplorable. -- Axel

Download attachment: x_74fc7a18vvvv.jpg Holding a Handful of Water (Twins 7 White Sox 5 – Game 66) As a kid, I used to fill my cupped palm with water to see how long I could hold onto it. No matter how steady I held my hand, the water always slipped away. I grew up Iowa. We made our own fun and we liked it. As an adult Twins fan, the feeling returns. Game after game I see the Minnesota team find a big inning – like their four run first inning – and then slowly let it slide through their fingers. The tall tale used to be that the Twins managed the infield like an enchanted bear trap. Now I’m just happy if they give up fewer than four runs a game. Doumit came up clutch again, and I’m loving that. Doumit would be a great hero for devout Twins fans to reminisce about for winter after winter. He’s scrappy and he’s 99.9% rock and roll. He might not get his own verse in the Ballad of 2013, but he deserves a mention. Late Inning Seepage (Twins 7 White Sox 4 – Game 67) Something sickening about watching runs go up in the late innings against the Twins. This game is about Justin Morneau breaking a homerless streak and giving out imaginary high-fives in the dugout. And it’s about trying to find my hatred for the White Sox. I miss really hating a baseball team. I’m too old to believe in evil super villains and demons summoned by a golden puzzle box. I don’t believe the rag-tag, plucky team of ballplayers beats the richer, stronger team from across town, either. Used to be different. I used to listen to games on the radio and tell my brother-in-law “Don’t worry, the Twins find a way.” And I would be RIGHT so much of the time. When those Twins from the past beat the White Sox, it was like Smaug taking a nosedive. No need to give up hope. Maybe I can work up some bile and fire and brimstone for the Yankees. All Day on All Days (Twins 8 White Sox 4 - Game 68) Like a vampire in reverse, baseball is more powerful in the daylight. In fact, regular daylight living might be what’s sucking the life out of everyone. Everything’s so convenient we have to have hissyfits about the three seconds of life we lost when someone cut us off in traffic. You can handle your money with a human-free drive-thru. Not even the billboards stand still these days. But when the Twins play a day game, something heroic has a chance to enter into your bumper-to-bumper, quickie-cell-phone-check kind of day. There’s the tale of Oswaldo Arcia, who came to the pros fully formed and ready. I’m quite partial to Arcia – when I heard John Bonnes praising him on Gleeman and the Geek I got mad someone else had noticed him. There’s the awkwardness of Jared Burton’s struggles (and the aforementioned Arcia dropping a ball didn’t help) and his redemption in closing out the game. More compelling than wondering if you’re driving past the chain restaurant in your neighborhood or the exact same restaurant two cities over, isn’t it? Click here to view the article

Download attachment: Thome_Jim_600-321.jpg Twitter started sizzling yesterday. There's a chance Jim Thome rejoins the Minnesota Twins 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. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] Joe Mauer is 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 Aaron Gleeman's tweets about fans booing the local boy. Justin 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 Josh 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 Kyle 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. Click here to view the article

The Way the Ball Bounces (Twins 2 Royals 7 – Game 102) With the trade talk making the Minnesota Twins look like the garage sale everybody drives past, baseball kept being baseball. The game sounded great in my car, with the window down, and a few hints of fall in the breeze. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] Provus described a routine foul ball and it reminded me how elegant but complicated the game is. The ball goes in the air, affected by the way it was thrown, the way it was hit, and the atmospheric conditions with which it’s forced to contend. Universal truths, but so many ways for a ball to bounce. The nostalgia lasted about as long as Pelfrey did. I stopped seeing the forest and started seeing the trees (trees always being a sore subject for lovers of Target Field). I quit listening. When baseball has no chance at a postseason, you really just have to be there. Download attachment: Batman-and-Robin.jpg Who Traded Catcher Robin? (Twins 3 Royals 4– Game 103) Butera is no longer a Minnesota Twin, but Justin Morneau is safe for now. Waiver wire wildness is on its way, and the Twins might still shed a player or two from their roster now that BreakEvening is totally unrealistic. Drew Butera was Robin on a team without a Batman. The boy wonder had his moments, and definitely handled his business behind the plate, but sidekicks need a different class of hero than the Twins have. Twins lose another one to the Royals, too. In the pop music world, there’s a song called “Royals” by Lorde. The ditty praises low-brow living, but this time it’s the Kansas City boys are showing more upward mobility. (Twins 2 Royals 7 – Game 104) Didn’t the Twins already lose 7-2 to the Royals this series? Is this like when college students just copy and paste old homework assignments and pass it off as brand new? While the door was still slamming shut from Butera’s departure, Scott Diamond and Aaron Hicks found out there is more than one way to exit a major league ballpark. The Aaron Hicks story is filled with false starts and painful slumps. I still think he gets it, and at least this means we get to see Oswaldo Arcia again. Diamond, though. A year of broken dreams is rough, and it scrubs away at a magical year of exceeding expectations until that story’s completely scraped away. Whatever comes back from Rochester will be a different man. Harder, perhaps, but maybe wiser and better as well. Click here to view the article

Chuckles (Twins 10 Astros 6 Game 136) Other places it was Labor Day and the last day of the fair, but in our house it was preparation day. The next day my wife was due at the hospital for a thyroidectomy. She's fine, and she's going to be fine. It's just another annoying grown-up thing that reminds a person real life always wins. We stayed busy preparing for our trip to the hospital, and the game itself didn't get much attention. Still, when I heard about Colabello's grand slam in the ninth, I had to chuckle . In spite of all the stress and worry, knowing something magical and uncommon happened for my favorite team made me smirk to myself in an emotionally draining moment. Thank you, Chris Colabello, for that. Territorial Pride (Twins 9 Astros 6 -- Game 137) Download attachment: heart-stethoscope.jpg The team won this game on the road, but its fans won the day for our family at home. I've had the pleasure of meeting with many other Twins fans online, and several of them are friends who have met me at games, shared a meal with me, or even been in my house (after my wife was certain the house was cleaned to her standards). Finding friends gets harder with age, and for me spotting a person with a TC hat and an attitude is a great sign I'm meeting a person I'm going to like. As my wife cruised through her surgery like a champ and took to her recovery with the ferocity and dedication of Adrian Peterson, I realized how many great friends we had made through Twins-related activities. Many of those friends have been there for us during this stressful time, providing us with smiles and support. It's a heckuva thing to know a simple game of strategy can bring together a community of giving hearts. Twins fans out there who have reached out and given time and compassion, we thank you heartily. You know who you are, and we won't forget. I may be biased, but I believe baseball fans are the best people to know. Thanks, everyone, for proving me right. Off Day A-Hoy! (Twins 5 Astros 6 -- Game 138) Caught bits and pieces of this game on the radio and my phone as we got permission to take my wife home for some rest, relaxation, and high-quality husband care. Everything felt a little topsy-turvy, but it looked like the Twins might get me grinning with a series sweep - I always love those. It came close, but it didn't happen. I was already napping before the game was over, getting to some off day battery recharging a little ahead of my favorite baseball team. My wife's spirit is coming back, and we're hoping our own personal bounceback season is finished and we can return to our championship form soon. Oh, and because I am still the creepy guy? Anyone look at the Astros' scores for the last three games? 6. 6. 6. We should keep an eye on that, guys. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: Cuddyer_Michael_US_Batting_720.jpg Salem’s Lot (Twins 3 Royals 0 - Game 54) I started my day with a run. My Michael Cuddyer shirsey kept me company. It’s funny how sturdy a fan’s heart is. After the announcement a beloved player will no longer be a Minnesota Twin, grief sets in. Then, when the season rolls around, you’re cheering for the players still in the dugout and you only pout when you hear former Twins’ names on highlight reels. Sorta like breaking up with the person you kissed at summer camp. I don’t go to summer camp anymore. I watch the Twins play the Royals, because at a certain point it seems like all the Twins do is play the Royals. Since their collapse from greatness, the Royals are the screwed-up cousin at the AL Central family picnic. Nobody wants to be them. Which is why it hurts that they’ve been spanking the Twins of late. At least this night halted the skid. The Twins collected three runs early and then closed out the dance club coasting at that number. Job done. Except. . . Whispers around the country that baseball’s gonna suspend players associated with recent steroid allegations. Great. Now all my friends who don’t like baseball will be bitching about steroids for the next decade instead of appreciating the nuances of a game crafted with great focus and strategy. I guess when you live in a country that produced the Salem Witch Trials, this is your lot in life. Funny Jokes (Twins 1 Royals 4 - Game 55) I missed the game, but my dad didn’t. He got to a Twins game at Kansas City before I could. I’m not saying I’m jealous, but his birthday is coming up and I’m giving him old socks and dirt. It’s looking like misread this whole steroid scandal, too. It’s looking to be just another round of veiled threats and official statements. I sure hope someone gets up on a high horse and talks about the kind of baseball the children of America truly deserve. Great joke, right? If you’re an adult baseball fan, you ought to know that things happen because they’re likely, not because they ought to. Baseball’s purity comes from our willingness to believe as children. But you can wish like a child all you want. It won’t guarantee the slugger on the cusp of the Hall of Fame gets one more year before his knees give out. It doesn’t make a pitcher stop getting tired in inning seven of a no-hitter. And no matter how much you pout, it doesn’t get you free tickets and airfare to Twins away games. KC and the New Royal Basement Revue (Twins 3 Royals 7 - Game 56) My beloved Twins found a way to lose in KC yet again. Royal loyalists have to be thrilled to see the Twins acting like perennial AL Central basement dwellers. At least it didn’t matter too much tonight, as the MLB draft gave us a nice distraction. As predicted, the Twins took pitcher Kohl Stewart in the first round. Like many fans, I’m behind on my research. Therefore, I must submit Kohl Stewart to the name test. Does he have a cool sounding name? Will it look good autographed on a baseball? Can I imagine the Target Field PA announcing it in familiar baseball fashion? I am proud to say that, using these well-honed criteria, the Twins picked well. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: 1927951498_1368080883.png Department of Water and Power (Twins 1 Indians 5 Game 69) It’s really easy to forget about a baseball game when you open up your blinds to see water slapping into your window like gravity made a 90 degree mistake. Weekend baseball series are like a family cookout you can take with you on the car stereo. When the Twins are out of town, the cookout covers the Twin Cities and keeps going. You can ask strangers in blue and red for a score and they’ll tell you. If your biological family is far away, Twins Territory never is. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] That said, the rain and wind announced something bigger than baseball was coming; then, power dropped out. Somewhere between the storm and the silence, my phone informed me the Twins had already lost. At least I wouldn’t have that to fret about. Sometime around 1 AM, my wife and I took to the roads to get ice, water, and batteries. I wondered what would have happened if the storm had hit when the Twins were holding court in Target Field. I don’t think I even looked to see if the lights were on. Seeing that place dark just breaks my heart. Kick in the Pants (Twins 7 Indians 8 - Game 70) I expect the power to come back on within two hours of it going out. I’m not saying this is realistic, but it’s true for me. I don’t even get worried; I just know I have to wait two hours and the power will come back on. The Twins took the field 24 hours after power went out, and my house was still powerless. I was powerless. The Target I went to for candles and trail mix was half-powerless; the freezer section was a casualty of the storm. I bought a brick of batteries to put in a twelve-year-old portable radio. One trip out of the house had brought me from the Stone Age to the 1980's. I could set the radio outside, put my feet up on a lawn chair, and listen to the Twins play. Except P.J. Walters spoiled the evening I was brewing. If I had power in my house, I’d be scouring Twitter and the Internet beyond for reasons why before I would really let myself cuss him out for all those walks. Rendered powerless, I was forced to give him the benefit of the doubt. There are parts about not having electricity I’ve learned to enjoy. Reading Game of Thrones by candlelight seemed rather fitting, which was a blessing. I downed 500 pages of that book while killing time. When I go downstairs I like holding my flashlight like a cop and pretending I’m in a late 90s suspenser/thriller. I even get to watch the cars driving past my window and imagine flipping off the ones I’m pretty sure have electricity. Moseying into Town (Twins 4 Indians 3 - Game 71) The Twins won, but I didn’t notice 'til afterwards. We’re still powerless and I keep losing track of time without having a cell phone clock to check. I caught the postgame show in my car on the way home from a trip into civilization to fill my saddlebags with power for my necessities. Then, at home, I caught Gleeman and the Geek on my portable radio as I stared at my Starin’ Tree and hoped I had enough juice to finish my game recap while it’s still fresh in mind. I’m such a cry-baby. Couple days without tech toys and I feel like Major League Baseball is sailing away from me across the Seven Seas. This is just a temporary loss of obsessive electronic fandom. Gone is the illusion I can harness the entire game in my head the moment it happens. Now, when I’m gazing at my Starin’ Tree, I imagine the game in my head. These mental phantoms aren’t real, and they can’t be analyzed. Still, there’s an added heroic element to these daydreams, as if boyhood dreams come home at last. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: crop-circle-1_1432836i.jpg All Summers are Royal Blue (Twins 3 Royals 1 - Game 74) When, in the course of baseball events, the Twins are clearly not going to make the playoffs, the Royals will play against them approximately one million times. Neither team will be playing meaningful baseball, and yet they will continue playing. I shouldn’t complain. The Twins won. Deduno wins again, too. Aaron Gleeman calls him a UFO, because people believe in his pitching prowess even though all the evidence points toward a more rational explanation. I, for one, think there’s no reason to hate on UFO's. Deduno will probably crash to earth, but until then he’s mystifying everyone and putting W's on the board. Legends, even if they don't last long, are best when they come outta nowhere. Wooden Bleachers (Twins 3 Royals 9 - Game 75) Caught this game in punchlines. There was a rain delay, then an embarrassment of Royals' runs and a loss. The joke wasn’t on me, however, because I got my baseball joy from watching my 5 year-old niece play T-ball. It’s easy to keep track of four bases when you’re grown up. When you’re a kid, the diamond has more twists and turns. At least you have extra time to navigate a path home when the other team is using all their motor skills getting the ball from their gloves to first base. I cheered loud and took pictures, and my niece was clearly the best one out there (also, my other niece was the cutest kid playing in the playground during the game). All the parents and relatives were cheering, brought together by a kid’s game, to blink away infield dust and watch a ball game amid trees and Iowan plains. Reinforced (Twins 6 Royals 2 - Game 76) My 11 year wedding anniversary involved a fancy meal of buffet pizza with my nieces and our family. I was too busy to catch the score until my Dad spotted it on a TV. Twins win. Kyle Gibson wins. The reinforcements are coming, Twins Territory. I can hear the bugles all the way down here in Iowa. Hicks and Arcia arrived as scouts, but Gibson’s arrival is something else. He survived injury and pitched a debut game worth bragging about. If any battlefront needs reinforcement, it is the pitching mound. If the bleeding stops on that pitching mound, we could be breaking even by next year. Maybe it’ll knock some of the Cubs shirts off of Iowans. After all, the Kernels are giving them a taste of what’s coming to Target Field. Ain’t Nothin’ Like the Real Thing (Twins 8 Royals 9 - Game 77) If you step toward a wall and travel halfway there with each step, you’ll never make it to the wall. Similarly, no matter how close communication advances get you to the game of baseball, they never quite take you all the way to the ballpark. We finished the trek home from Iowa and I took a break to look at my phone. The Twitter updates sent directly to me informed me Clete Thomas had hit a home run, and then in the next sentence let me know the Twins were still losing. Then another RBI and the Twins were closing in on tying the game. At least until I checked the score again and found the Twins were losing by three. Emotions went up and down from there. Morneau and Plouffe found home runs to keep the game hopping, and then the whole shooting match ended on three strike outs and this Royals series is done. The real loss is my streak of consecutive days without attending a Twins game. New players are coming. Old players are going to leave. I’m feeling the urge look both categories in the eyes again, even if it’s from the top of the bleachers. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: CLOCK.jpg Behind the Maps (Twins 4 Angels 2 – Game 95) Putting the Twins on a West Coast road trip is like keeping something in your glove compartment. No matter how much you swear you won’t forget this time, your mind goes blank when it counts. California-time victories are nice to find between smashes of the “snooze” button on my cell phone. It’s like getting a nice letter, except no one mails anything anymore. Even the junk mail people gave up the ghost years ago. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] Since there’s no reason to focus on postseason pipe dreams, I keep coming back to the old saying: “If there’s a jersey on your back, you still got a chance.” It’s a game, but most of life is a game. Especially the most important parts. Any game is a chance to tune in to perfection and start some kind of magical streak. Great moments get remembered after bad seasons fade away. Even if those great moments happen half a country away, against a team who reached for the crown and fell in the moat. MauerKinder (Twins 10 Angels 3 – Game 96) No one cared about the game tonight. The Minnesotan Royal Babies were coming, and Papa Joe Mauer left on a jet plane to meet his kids at the plate. Twitter exploded in joy, then made the comparisons to the royal birth in England and exploded all over again. Mauer is tied to this region so deeply it goes past DNA into the soul of the state itself. His days as kid ballplayer were already finished. Now, he’s a new father. If you’re sipping from a half-full glass, you’ll appreciate the beauty of change. See things half empty and it’s just another sign time moves too damned fast to keep up. So the game got left behind, but it still got played because that’s the whole point of everything. This game kept going so Chris Herrmann could hit his first career grand slam in extra innings. It’s the smallest moment in a losing season, and Herrmann isn’t on track to be a superstar. But the game doesn’t stop giving out great stories and moments of heroism just because the season is already over for a team. Nothing But Bathwater (Twins 0 Angels 1 – Game 97) We have MauerBabies. Twin girls with beautiful names. It’s a perfect hometown and hugs moment from the man who looks perfectly natural posing next to dairy products. Later on, former Twin Francisco Liriano turned heads by pitching an excellent game against the Nationals. If he can’t be our hero, I’m okay with him saving the day in Pittsburgh. It’s karmic. In between these events, the Twins played and lost. They turned in a bland 0-1 scorecard and the loss hit me with all the force of a bored shrug. With hope gone, baseball’s much bigger than games and scores. The race turned into a Sunday drive through the country, and suddenly the scenery matters. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: creek-bridge.jpg Lots of Hits, No Crossovers (Twins 4 Rays 7 - Game 85) Crossed through the radio broadcast of the game like going over the same creek, again and again, driving down a country highway. Things were peaceful enough until I crossed paths with the game one more time to find the Twins down three runs. As I listened, a fourth Rays run crossed the plate. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] There was still hope before I got home. Aaron Hicks got his fourth hit of the game and then scored a run. I got home and hurried through a few chores, but I knew it didn’t matter. The text announcing the loss arrived on my phone before my body hit my favorite spot on the couch. It does ease the pain to see Hicks getting it right. He and Arcia show promise for the future. Still, I’d like for the Twins coaching staff to sit Hicks and Arcia down for the “Don’t be Danny Valencia after the 2010 season” talk. This whole team has a long way to go. What’s Blogger for “The Wave” (Twins 1 Rays 4 - Game 86) The Twins losses keep mounting, and I decided, as punishment, to let the team spend a day without me caring about them. I’m a rational man, but somehow I really do believe the team can feel apathy and spite through the airwaves. Just a normal, everyday craziness, I guess. A dip into the Twitter pool led me to believe lots of bloggers gave up along with me. If there was a way to bounce a beach ball from one tweet of suffering to the next, I think lots of people would’ve kept things bouncing. All these losses share the same lack of energy. It’s like the Twins identified some perfect exemplar of loss and have set themselves about replicating it in every game. I’ll be back tomorrow. Pouting is great, but it doesn’t make up for a world without baseball. Guess I do need this team more than they need me, even when they’re losing. Then Miss Jackson It Is (Twins 3 Rays 4 - Game 87) Didn’t realize I was lying in yesterday’s recap when I said I’d care about the Twins game tonight, but I was. Forgot it was even happening until the Internet told me. It scares me how much I wait for the Internet to keep me posted these days. Internet brought me good news with a two run Florimon homer that gave the Twins the lead. I felt no thrill. Past history has taught me a one run Twins lead had the same chances of survival as the last jelly donut at a boring meeting. So the boys in the out-of-town jerseys made it a two-run lead, and I thought that was something. But the Twins continued to do the same thing they’ve done for me lately and found a way to lose the game. This time, they managed to stretch the game’s death throes into extra innings. When they finally lost the game as my head hit the pillow, I don’t know if it was more or less sad. Passengers (Twins 3 Rays 4 - Game 88) There was under an inning to celebrate the Twins avoiding a no-hitter before the home runs came screaming through the air. Two of them, back to back, like an execution to end the series. What happens to all of Gardy’s commercials after the Twins let him go? I don’t know if Gardy’s going to get fired or not, but all the fingers tapping on keypads has turned into the loud clanging of a bell tolling for the end of his tenure as Twins manager. Hard to have any feelings about that potential loss when every Twins’ loss numbs me like Novocain. Now it’s off to New York. What beatings await the team there? Click here to view the article

A Grand Slam is Always Something (Twins 7 White Sox 5 -- Game 112) Even in a losing a season, a grand slam is something special. The Twins won the game, but even if they hadn’t, Morneau’s grand slam would have been something special. On the second to last pitch of a formerly 20-0 game, a grand slam is still special. Morneau hit two home runs in this game. I guess when you have to strain to see where you’ll be next year, you’re focused well past the skyline. And then you send the baseballs out of the ballpark in that direction. Spinning a Little Fiction (Twins 3 White Sox 2 – Game 113) Download attachment: large_Death_of_Sandlot_2.jpg Every run of this game was scored from a solo shot home run. It gave the Twins Twitter update folks a lot to crow about. I’ve invented my own version of the game. I’m positive it’s completely false, and I’m sure even a cursory look at the box score would disprove the tale I’m about to tell. Thing is, some stories are too important for me to worry about the truth. I like to think the Twins and White Sox talked during the first game, on the basepaths and between innings. I like to think they were sick of the grind of losing seasons and playing two games in a day. I like to think they made a pact. Every player would swing like mad, putting every bit of body mass from toe to head into it. Pitchers gave it everything they had, too. The only goal was swatting all those red stitches out of the ballpark. Five solo home runs. I like to pretend this would happen because this is how little boys would solve the problem. Sometimes, it’s nice to remember the spirit of sandlot boys lives in major league baseball. Music Is My Life (Twins 4 White Sox 5 – Game 114) I took advantage of a quiet night to listen to some albums I’d put onto my iPod but never really given the time of day to. In between revelations and disappointments, I took the time monitor a Twins game that was pretty much what a person would expect. Note: I still mentally categorize music by album, not on a song by song basis. The mp3 age may have made album guys like me dinosaurs, but I’ll always take my songs in themed bunches. Comparatively speaking, this makes me the equivalent of a baseball fan who hates fantasy baseball. Twins won the battle for my attention but lost the war. There was a wisp of hope in the ninth, but it didn’t amount to anything. I have to say the phrase “Addison Read replaces Donnie Veal” inspires pure baseball delight, doesn’t it? It just sounds basebally. Morneau and Arcia shared home run glories again, their careers in sync until school lets out for the winter. I hope the fall fireworks keep coming. Wake Up Cheering (Twins 5 White Sox 2 – Game 115) I’ve reached a point in my life where I require a Sunday nap. If this nap doesn’t happen, someone will pay for it later. I sometimes pretend I might skip this nap, but my wife and I both know I’m lying. This nap ended with a nice, soft breeze and a quick check of the cell phone. No score. I busied myself with getting awake and ready. When I came back to the phone, the Twins woke up as well. Two home runs, five runs, and I was wide awake. Three out of four is better than “ain’t bad,” so take that, Meatloaf. The Twins will leave U.S. Cellular behind to a team that’s doing far, far worse. Considering how rough it is for the South Siders, I can’t be mad they got two solo homers at the end of the ninth. You can’t over-salt scorched earth. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: 01.jpg The Way the Ball Bounces (Twins 2 Royals 7 – Game 102) With the trade talk making the Minnesota Twins look like the garage sale everybody drives past, baseball kept being baseball. The game sounded great in my car, with the window down, and a few hints of fall in the breeze. Provus described a routine foul ball and it reminded me how elegant but complicated the game is. The ball goes in the air, affected by the way it was thrown, the way it was hit, and the atmospheric conditions with which it’s forced to contend. Universal truths, but so many ways for a ball to bounce. The nostalgia lasted about as long as Pelfrey did. I stopped seeing the forest and started seeing the trees (trees always being a sore subject for lovers of Target Field). I quit listening. When baseball has no chance at a postseason, you really just have to be there. Who Traded Catcher Robin? (Twins 3 Royals 4– Game 103) Butera is no longer a Minnesota Twin, but Justin Morneau is safe for now. Waiver wire wildness is on its way, and the Twins might still shed a player or two from their roster now that BreakEvening is totally unrealistic. Drew Butera was Robin on a team without a Batman. The boy wonder had his moments, and definitely handled his business behind the plate, but sidekicks need a different class of hero than the Twins have. Twins lose another one to the Royals, too. In the pop music world, there’s a song called “Royals” by Lorde. The ditty praises low-brow living, but this time it’s the Kansas City boys who are showing more upward mobility. (Twins 2 Royals 7 – Game 104) Didn’t the Twins already lose 7-2 to the Royals this series? Is this like when college students just copy and paste old homework assignments and pass it off as brand new? While the door was still slamming shut from Butera’s departure, Scott Diamond and Aaron Hicks found out there is more than one way to exit a major league ballpark. The Aaron Hicks story is filled with false starts and painful slumps. I still think he gets it. And at least this means we get to see Oswaldo Arcia again. Diamond, though. A year of broken dreams is rough, and it scrubs away at a magical year of exceeding expectations until that story’s completely scraped away. Whatever comes back from Rochester will be a different man. Harder, perhaps, but maybe wiser and better as well. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: 5680261120_e2ab721088_z.jpg Run(s) Scored (Twins 3 Phillies 2) Run(s) scored. When my team is at bat, I add up all the players and figure out how many runs could’ve gone on the scoreboard. I assume the highest number possible. But when it’s the other team . . . As soon as “Run(s) scored” appears on my smartphone screen all sounds around me cease. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK]I can hear my heart beat. I don’t even add up how bad the damage could be. I just assume infinity. Somehow, despite seemingly being on the mound for all but four minutes of the baseball game, PJ Walters escaped two of those soul-stopping ” Run(s) scored” announcements with the minimum amount of damage and Justin Morneau smacked a single to take the game. By the way, we were watching a zombie movie called Warm Bodies last night. When the movie-makers wanted to up the young-and-innocent-love factor, they showed the lovers visiting a ballpark. I think I’ve said this before. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, baseball is our only hope. ~~~ The Old Man Snuggle (Twins 4 Phillies 3) The Twins came from behind and won. I’m not going to lie. I didn’t even give this game a chance. I went to bed early because I’m old and cranky and totally felt like it. It was great, too. Quiet and peaceful. The wife stayed up watching TV, so I had the whole bed to myself. That’s a lie. I had two small cats with me who didn’t take up a small amount of space, but I didn’t mind. And then the wife came to bed and I gave her the third of the bed space she’s used to. When I was in my early twenties, this would have felt like surrender. Now, it feels like Christmas. The present came when I got up in the morning, checked my text messages and saw the good guys had won. Not a bad way to start a morning. ~~~ Deckstravaganzapalooza Gala (Twins 2 Phillies 3) The Twins came up with a lead in the downhill innings, then gave it right back and spun around in strikeout circles until the game was over and the home team had lost. Two out of three and all that. Rough game-ending for the Twins Deckstravaganza outing, where Twins bloggers and social media types get out on the Budweiser deck to watch the game. First, I gotta say that someday I WILL get up to the Budweiser deck. Secondly, I gotta wonder if all of us who type and tweet would give it all up for a chair at the barbershop or a booth at the local restaurant where the baseball talk flows without the aid of technology. Would we still do this if we knew a place where everybody knows our name and they’re always glad we came? I mean, what are YOU doing with all the free time you’ve saved because you knew how to handle technology? Nothing against the Deckstravaganza – I’d love to go someday. And I love meeting others in this great big world of blogging. I guess, after a loss and busted sweep, I just need a hug and an album by The Cure. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: hauntedhouse.jpg Centre of Horrors, With an “R-E” (Twins 0 Blue Jays 4 - Game 82) After an early first pitch and late jog, my trusty phone informed me the Twins were down four to zip. Last week I might’ve had enough “never say die” to keep an eye on the game, but the Yankees took that with them back to New York. Catching the pre-game show on my drive home didn’t exactly fill me with rainbows, hopes and dreams. The crew kept referring to Rogers Centre as a “House of Horrors” for the Twins. They always lose there, but they aren’t exactly rampaging barbarians in Seattle or New York. Or anywhere else these last few years. Kind of a League of Horrors, really. [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] By the way, it took me a while to really understand “House of Horrors” meant something bad. Come on, what’s cooler than a house of horrors? Skulls and ghouls everywhere, with scares around every corner and a delightful mix of strobe lights and black lights? Can this be a theme night for the Twins? It’d be something to look forward to after the All-Star break. Pelfrey’s Patches Hold (Twins 6 Blue Jays 0 - Game 83) Two three-run innings, adding up to a 6-0 Twins victory, made a nice Saturday afternoon even nicer. I caught part of the game on a fast food run, being careful to give the carload of teens next to me plenty of extra room. It’s only fair, with school being out and most of them not working full time. It’s their world, and if one of them has a car and a license, the rest pile in and cruise around. The destination is anywhere outside of the house. Pelfrey’s no young pup. I’m glad to see him weather his first post-DL outing for a scoreless victory. He’s a big dude trying for a comeback. Long as he can take the mound every five outings, he gets to walk onto the diamond. Diamond dust is the fountain of youth; you can get younger just listening to people playing on the radio. On the way home, I got stuck behind older drivers, but I just let it happen. According to my wife, I already drive like an old dude anyway. After all, I’ve got no reason to be out cruising with my buddies when I could be home napping on my couch after the game. The game. It’s the only thing that stays the same long enough to tie all of these generations together. There’s something holy in that. Game Over, Man (Twins 5 Blue Jays 11 - Game 84) Sticking with last game’s “I’m an old dude” theme, I’ve mostly quit with video games. They make me feel trapped, like I’m inside the console and not sitting on the couch with a controller in my hands. The computers are too good and get too mad. Also, I’m too cheap to replace busted controllers and smashed drywall. The Blue Jays’ score in today’s baseball game popped up like the score of a video game. Despite yesterday’s victory, another lopsided loss makes me wonder if the Twins ought to just swallow their pride and look for baseball’s instruction manual, or at least spend some time playing the tutorials. Games are fun as long as there’s some chance for victory within them. Winning one game out of seven suggests this game is leaving the Twins behind. There will be broken pieces to clean up, too. Every loss and scream of frustration puts the team and the fans one step closer to trades and roster moves. Each game may be a player’s last, until they’re in the opposite dugout, spitting sunflower seeds and knocking the ball around for the bad guys. Click here to view the article

Download attachment: billy-crystal-exclusive-interview-monsters-university.jpg This is the 10th story in "Those Damn Yankees" series, stories about Twins-Yankees rivalry by some of our favorite Twins Daily writers, leading up to the Bombers visit July 1st to the 4th. The first thing you need to understand is the New York Yankees breed monsters. Monstrous Yankees seem to be human, but they grow to be so much more than that. They become legends, with their memory preserved in Monument Park throughout the ages. This is not necessarily an insult: monsters can be heroes, too. Take Babe Ruth. He began as a boy at an orphanage and grew into a walking appetite. His home runs shot further and further away from the batter’s box until thinking of him as a mortal might be a minor baseball blasphemy. Some monsters grow large because of a mouth that won’t quit, like Leo Durocher, Casey Stengel, and Yogi Berra. Their voices live longer than the sounds of their words, famously and infamously. Billy Martin punched his way to baseball heaven with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly. He even did some of his beatings with the Minnesota Twins organization. It’s not just players that become Yankee monsters. George Steinbrenner’s ego grew so large it still lives, even after the man has passed away. Future generations will meet that ego on Saturday Night Live and Seinfeld reruns. These Yankees are much less monstrous than previous incarnations. Alex Rodriguez, perhaps the most Frankenstein-like hodge-podge of ego, scandal, and bad attitude a Yankees’ fan could dream of, is still injured. Mariano Rivera, pitching for his last year in the majors, is a supernatural force. Witnessing him close an inning is simply beautiful, even if it’s your team he’s erasing from the field batter by batter. The slow, measured way he sets himself before the pitch stops the heart. Twins heroes lack monstrosity, for better or worse. The greatest Twin of all, Harmon Killebrew, was famous for his calm demeanor and love of ice cream. A writer couldn’t invent a more likeable, relatable man. Unless, somehow, that writer created Joe Mauer. Famous for side burns, local roots, and an “aw shucks” smile, the only thing monstrous about Mauer is his ability to get on base. Even that gets overlooked by scores of booing fans, who will be the real monsters when history looks back on the Twins catcher. Hating the Yankees is great fun for Twins fans because we get to watch the local boys take on monsters from the coast. When they win, Godzilla gets driven back to the coast and the little guys won the day. Still, the children inside of us still cheer for the monsters sometime, even if that means cheering when Godzilla trashes a building or clapping when Mariano Rivera says his final goodbye to your home city. For more of Those Damn Yankees, check out.... The Cuzzi Call by Nick NelsonThe Twins and Yankees Go Way Back by ThrylosConfessions Of A Twins Fan by Brad SwansonChuck Knoblauch by Cody ChristieDealing with Yankee Fans by PeanutsFromHeavenDerek Jeter Gift Baskets by Twins Fan From AfarDon't Blame Those Damn Yankees by E Rolf PleissA Minnesota Twinkie in King Rivera's Court by Topper Anton.America's Rivals by Stew Thornley Click here to view the article