Axel Kohagen

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. 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 aren’t 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 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.

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. 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 aren’t 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 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.

You can view the page at http://twinsdaily.com/content.php?r=2025-Yup-All-Four-(Twins-versus-Yankees-Games-78-81)

Blink and the World Ends (Twins 4 Yankees 10 - Game 78) This was supposed to cross the finish line with the Twins in the lead. I’d decided that late last week. The Twins are struggling but still have a heartbeat. The Yankees have pains of their own. The saga’s supposed to take a turn for the Twin Cities tonight. I expected a spanking, perhaps with the Twins using a broom. The innings I caught on the radio didn’t spoil my dream, even though I did enjoy hearing Dan Gladden’s plan to walk with Cory Provus past Brett Gardener to see who was taller. Giggles. When I turned on my cell phone and saw the Yankees scored their way into the tens place, I shoved that phone into my wife’s face. Like when you point at the cat puke on the carpet because you hope someone else will deal with it. I try to remain a simple man. I believe in a world where things often average out, and someday the Yankees will lose. I try to believe, but this is the way my world ends. Not with a bang, but with those damned Yankees. Why Was I Mad at Brian Runge? (Twins 3 Yankees 7 - Game 79) Every time I checked my phone, the Twins gave up another couple runs. If you could edit together my grimacing, sour-lemon reactions to this growing defeat, it’d make for nice comedy. Believing in the Twins against the Yankees makes for tragicomedy. Sick of watching spinning porcelain and hearing flushing sounds, I scanned other baseball related news to find Brian Runge isn’t umpiring in the majors anymore. I pumped my fist, glad to see someone who spit on my beloved Twins out of the way. Then, I couldn’t remember why I passionately despised this man. It seemed like I should know why I was cheering for his decline, so I did extensive research (checked out two sites after I googled “Brian Runge” and “Minnesota Twins”). Turns out Runge called a strike after Brendan Harris called time and stepped out of the box. Ball whizzed by his head. Scary. He argued, Gardy argued, Gardy got tossed. . . I vowed to never forget. And I kinda sorta didn’t forget. If you can remember where your rage came from, your blood oath is still good, right? Even if it takes a lifeline or two? Even if the wronged player no longer plays for your team? Submissive Peeing (Twins 2 Yankees 3 - Game 80) In high school, my best friend had an adorable white dog who got so excited she piddled every time I walked in the door and scratched behind her ears. The dog was adorable, and I enjoyed watching my friend wipe up dog pee because it was his house, not mine. Such a sweet dog, even if it couldn’t handle excitement. If you put a Twins cap on that dog as it gives into stress and whizzes itself, you get a pretty good metaphor for every Twins/Yankees series this decade. When the Twins got a runner on in the ninth, I was thinking “walk-off homer” all the way. But Jason Kubel, last of the cutter slayers, wasn’t at bat and the Twins sprayed another defeat all over the linoleum. Celebrating relentless failure, my neighbors exploded hundreds of dollars of fireworks. How delightful. Another night of hoping my cowardly dog doesn’t shiver so hard the house shakes. Guess my neighbors must’ve been Twins fans who gave up on the home team celebrating independence from Yankees tyranny tomorrow. Never Mind the BBQ, This is the Pits (Twins 5 Yankees 9 - Game 81) [ATTACH=CONFIG]4696[/ATTACH] Hey, I did my part. I wore my Twins socks. Don’t blame me. Some baseball games are lost in heartbreaking moments. This was a tug of war match always headed toward a Yankees victory. Sure, the Twins pulled back a bit in the end, but the folks in the stands knew our team was going head over heels into the mudpit when the Yankees pulled them over the ninth inning. I wonder how many fans used barbecues as excuses to sneak away a few innings early. [ATTACH=CONFIG]4697[/ATTACH] We stayed the whole time, enjoying the weather and hoping for some serious Twins magic at the plate. To be fair, the Canadian Justin Morneau brought some nice fireworks to the celebration with two home runs. But with the Yankees threatening to score in the double digits, it just wasn’t enough. And just like that, the Twins lost all four games, leaving me feeling as sad dog embarrassed for hoping as I was about pounding a whole helmet of nachos and leaving cheese trails all down my stomach. [ATTACH=CONFIG]4698[/ATTACH]

You can view the page at http://twinsdaily.com/content.php?r=1990-Treading-Royal-Blue-Water-(Twins-versus-Royals-Games-74-77)

Since June 20th, Hanson has gone 12 for 38 and hit .316/.366/.474. His 2013 average, including his time at Rochester, is .267/.327/.408.

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 UFOS. Deduno will probably crash to earth, but until then he’s mystifying everyone and putting on Ws on the board. Legends are best when they come outta nowhere, even if they don’t last long at all. 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 of their motor skills to get the ball from their glove 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 needed reinforcement, it was the pitching mound. If the bleeding stops on that pitching mound, we could be Break-Evening by at least 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 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 strikes 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.

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 UFOS. Deduno will probably crash to earth, but until then he’s mystifying everyone and putting on Ws on the board. Legends are best when they come outta nowhere, even if they don’t last long at all. 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 of their motor skills to get the ball from their glove 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 needed reinforcement, it was the pitching mound. If the bleeding stops on that pitching mound, we could be Break-Evening by at least 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 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 strikes 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.

You can view the page at http://twinsdaily.com/content.php?r=1987-Monsters-and-Yankees

Losing to Traffic AND the Marlins (Twins 2 Marlins 4 - Game 72) Began the drive home with the Twins down by two runs and an unexpected optimism they could pull this thing off. Maybe getting a phone call from my wife informing me we had power after a 91 hour drought made me sentimental. Maybe it was seeing Minnesotans looking over piles of chopped wood, proud to have survived another beating from Mother Nature. My hope didn’t die when then Twins attempts to score a run died on the basepaths, like floodwaters cresting before the top of a dam. I carried those hopes with me into the Chipotle and temporarily forget them while trying to order fast enough for the rapid-fire burrito assembly line. Ordering Chipotle during a supper rush is not for the faint of heart. I turned the key and heard Kris Atteberry’s voice. This was a potentially disastrous omen, as Atteberry is the voice of the post-game recap. He mentioned some other scores and then, false alarm, the game was back on. At least when the Twins do lose, he always finds something unique to focus his wrap-up on. He’s like a grandpa trying to cheer up a kid who just lost a scoop of ice cream to gravity. Thielbar kept his 0.00 ERA. It’s got to be good to be him right now. He beat the odds and now he’s conquering the world, holding onto that baseball like a bloody battle axe. Odds are he can’t rule that mound forever, but right now he’s king of the hill until someone changes the tune. There’s no better feeling than cheating death and inevitability. Around this time, the world’s loudest whistler blasted a serviceable rendition of “Charge!” . . . and then things got weird. The whistler kept right on whistling, until the tune went all free form jazz. From there, the whistling went mad like a hatter and he kept on tooting and shrieking away, presumably hoping someone would slap him on the back to stop the noises forever. I fear this whistler may still be whistling, in the dark, unable to stop. I think the Twins’ batters came up to the plate in the 9th, but not so anyone with an untrained eye would’ve noticed. Then, Kris Atteberry came on with a the real wrap up and I brought supper in to my wife. The Twins lost, and somehow gave up one more run than I had noticed. I had hoped for nothing. But somehow, hoping and being wrong didn’t kill me. That might be worth remembering for next time. Magically Ineffective (Twins 3 Marlins 5 - Game 73) I didn’t turn the radio on because the Twins were up by three. This makes sense, you see. Because if I listened to the Twins play out the rest of the game, I’d have to hear them ground out and fly out and strike out and poop out. Then, there’d be a home run or two and we’d lose. But if I stopped listening, the Twins would forget to choke. The game would proceed in a straight, uneventful line until the Twins win and The Most Wonderous Crown of BreakEvening was in our hands. Truly, I believed this would work. It didn’t, of course. My phone coughed and I got a text saying the Twins had breathed their last breath in Miami, where all of about four people probably witnessed it. If they’d have won that game, I would’ve been sure it was because I didn’t jinx them. Since they lost, I get to settle in for a long night of being a sucker. Awesome.

Losing to Traffic AND the Marlins (Twins 2 Marlins 4 - Game 72) Began the drive home with the Twins down by two runs and an unexpected optimism they could pull this thing off. Maybe getting a phone call from my wife informing me we had power after a 91 hour drought made me sentimental. Maybe it was seeing Minnesotans looking over piles of chopped wood, proud to have survived another beating from Mother Nature. My hope didn’t die when then Twins attempts to score a run died on the basepaths, like floodwaters cresting before the top of a dam. I carried those hopes with me into the Chipotle and temporarily forget them while trying to order fast enough for the rapid-fire burrito assembly line. Ordering Chipotle during a supper rush is not for the faint of heart. I turned the key and heard Kris Atteberry’s voice. This was a potentially disastrous omen, as Atteberry is the voice of the post-game recap. He mentioned some other scores and then, false alarm, the game was back on. At least when the Twins do lose, he always finds something unique to focus his wrap-up on. He’s like a grandpa trying to cheer up a kid who just lost a scoop of ice cream to gravity. Thielbar kept his 0.00 ERA. It’s got to be good to be him right now. He beat the odds and now he’s conquering the world, holding onto that baseball like a bloody battle axe. Odds are he can’t rule that mound forever, but right now he’s king of the hill until someone changes the tune. There’s no better feeling than cheating death and inevitability. Around this time, the world’s loudest whistler blasted a serviceable rendition of “Charge!” . . . and then things got weird. The whistler kept right on whistling, until the tune went all free form jazz. From there, the whistling went mad like a hatter and he kept on tooting and shrieking away, presumably hoping someone would slap him on the back to stop the noises forever. I fear this whistler may still be whistling, in the dark, unable to stop. I think the Twins’ batters came up to the plate in the 9th, but not so anyone with an untrained eye would’ve noticed. Then, Kris Atteberry came on with a the real wrap up and I brought supper in to my wife. The Twins lost, and somehow gave up one more run than I had noticed. I had hoped for nothing. But somehow, hoping and being wrong didn’t kill me. That might be worth remembering for next time. Magically Ineffective (Twins 3 Marlins 5 - Game 73) I didn’t turn the radio on because the Twins were up by three. This makes sense, you see. Because if I listened to the Twins play out the rest of the game, I’d have to hear them ground out and fly out and strike out and poop out. Then, there’d be a home run or two and we’d lose. But if I stopped listening, the Twins would forget to choke. The game would proceed in a straight, uneventful line until the Twins win and The Most Wonderous Crown of BreakEvening was in our hands. Truly, I believed this would work. It didn’t, of course. My phone coughed and I got a text saying the Twins had breathed their last breath in Miami, where all of about four people probably witnessed it. If they’d have won that game, I would’ve been sure it was because I didn’t jinx them. Since they lost, I get to settle in for a long night of being a sucker. Awesome.

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.

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.

You can view the page at http://twinsdaily.com/content.php?r=1952-What-Games-Twins-at-Indians

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. That said, the rain announced something bigger than baseball was coming, and then the power dropped out. Somewhere in between the storm and the silence, my phone informed 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 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 powerless. I was powerless. The Target I went to for candles and trail mix was half-powerless, and 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 1980s. 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 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 Games of Thrones by candlelight seemed rather fitting, which was a blessing. I downed 500 pages of that book while killing time. I like holding my flashlight like a cop and pretending like I’m in a late 90s suspense/thrill when I go downstairs. 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 until 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 from a trip into civilization to fill my saddlebags with power for my batteries. 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 came home at last.

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. That said, the rain announced something bigger than baseball was coming, and then the power dropped out. Somewhere in between the storm and the silence, my phone informed 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 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 powerless. I was powerless. The Target I went to for candles and trail mix was half-powerless, and 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 1980s. 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 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 Games of Thrones by candlelight seemed rather fitting, which was a blessing. I downed 500 pages of that book while killing time. I like holding my flashlight like a cop and pretending like I’m in a late 90s suspense/thrill when I go downstairs. 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 until 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 from a trip into civilization to fill my saddlebags with power for my batteries. 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 came home at last.

You can view the page at http://twinsdaily.com/content.php?r=1929-Rolled-Sox-(Twins-versus-White-Sox-Games-66-68)

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 to me. 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 in that the rag-tag, plucky team of ballplayers beat 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 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 out here) and his redemption in closing at 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?

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 to me. 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 in that the rag-tag, plucky team of ballplayers beat 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 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 out here) and his redemption in closing at 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?