Axel Kohagen

We worked our way through bright orange road construction to park our luggage at the hotel on Friday, August 2nd. No time to dawdle. Back into the car and northbound to Target Field. I wore my lucky hat and my Eddie Rosario shirsey. We parked and made our way into the stadium. This represented the first of four baseball games we were taking our daughter Evelyn to over the course of six days. She's almost eight. We wished for patience.
Target Field continues to amaze me. I feel as comfortable in it as I do my own living room. Until, that is, I start hunting for more shirseys (T-shirt jerseys - are people still into the shirseys anymore?) None of the shops had much in my size, but they all say the other shop just a little further down the line probably has the shirts I'm looking for. It's the kind of repetitive connect-the-dots task that makes people get sick of playing video games, but I kept looking nonetheless. We did find one t-shirt in the main shop, thanks to the dogged devotion of an employee who did anything and everything to help me out. I wish I knew her name; she worked hard at her job.
I picked up a scorecard at the store and told my daughter Evelyn we were going to be keeping score that night. She acknowledged that yes, this was factual information, and then went back to squirming and snacking. The kid must be in a growth spurt. At regular intervals, my wife took her up from our seats to buy more food. If she started singing "Feed Me, Seymour," I would not have been surprised. I myself had most of an okay hamburger and then busied myself with keeping score. It took a bit to remember exactly how everything got noted, but I kept at it. I showed Evie about fly outs and line outs and backwards Ks and filling in the diamond when someone hits a dinger. She listened to me, and I silently wished to be filling out scorecards with her throughout the rest of my years on Earth.
The lucky hat did its job. The Twins knocked in a bunch of runs at the end of the game and the much-reviled White Sox lost. They've been awfully good at losing this year, haven't they? We made our way back to the hotel and it was a race between my daughter and I to see who could be asleep first. She won, but not by a lot. My wife stayed up a little longer than that. She likes her quiet time, after her two goofy gremlins have finally worn themselves out.
The next day we met up with old friends and then took a trip around the sculpture garden. Then it was ice cream at Bebe Zito (the best) and back to Target Field for another game. Despite the massive crowds, we managed to snag our Joe Mauer replica plaques before Michelle ordered a Bomba Juice and we made our way to our seats. My lucky hat was ready to go,
Seeing the Mauer ceremony was special, even though I didn't tear up quite like I did when they inducted him into the Twins Hall of Fame. I think the actual moment they announced he was a first-ballot Hall of Famer wrung all of the emotions out of me instantly. Irreplicable. Still, seeing him calmly thanking thousands of fans for the honor and then, later, seeing him lead a group of gleeful kids in "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" will go in my Mauer memories. The kid (he still feels like a kid, doesn't he? Grey hair and all?) is officially a part of our family. From the early days, where I was overly critical of him because a certain crabby sports show host liked to feel edgy by picking on number seven. After that, I came around. The more I learned about baseball, the more I appreciated how special Joe Mauer really is. I can remember waving to him at TwinsFest, getting my picture taken with him at TwinsFest, getting a poster signed by him at TwinsFest . . . He never felt like he was up on a pedestal. My wife took Evie to see the Twins retire Joe's number. We all came up from Iowa to see his induction into the Twins' hall of fame, and we were there when he made it to the Baseball Hall of Fame. This time, I got my picture taken with the actual plaque that will hang forever in Cooperstown. Unforgettable. When they unveil Joe's statue, we're going to try to be there, too. 
On our way out, my eyes spotted a splash of baseball cards splayed across part of the stadium. I stopped and scooped them up, stacked them neatly, and handed them to Evelyn. She looked through them and spotted a Joe Mauer card in the bunch. Her excitement could not be contained. Of all the baseball cards in all the world, she had one from the hero of the day. Someday, she'll realize there are a lot of baseball cards of popular players. Someday, she'll realize this card will never make her wealthy or impress a collector. But that night, she won the lottery. Her eyes gleamed with the pure joy every child who finds the right baseball card at exactly the right moment feels. 
We drove south to Iowa that Sunday, with enough time to repack and recharge. We slept in our own beds. We cuddled with our own pets. Then, we were ready to travel again.
My mother-in-law came with us. She's been a Cubs fan for years but she had never seen them play at Wrigley Field, so we decided to take her to a couple of games as a Christmas present. Our trio turned into a quartet and we were back on the road again. We took 20 most of the way and found our AirBnB without too much difficulty. After that, the only thing we had to accomplish was devouring some Chicago-style pizza. Pequod's lived up to its reputation.
When we met up at Wrigley the next night, on a Tuesday, the whole experience had changed. I struggle to put it into words, but the vibe of a group of Cubs fans is fundamentally different than the vibe emanating from Twins fans. No disrespect to Target Field, my beloved home away from home, but the Cubs fans outside of Wrigley seemed like monks about to enter the church for services. The long history of the place hangs over the fans like a mantle they gladly accept. I don't believe in ghosts but man, they're out there at Wrigley. How many Cubs fans would gladly fall out of their lives into an eternity at the ball park? 
I wore my lucky cap. My mother-in-law has never seen the Cubs lose in person. Something had to give. Evelyn tried to cheat the situation that morning by threatening to hide my lucky cap in our AirBnB, but she's a very kind soul and didn't really do it. I must be honest with you now and say that yes, I really did believe in the power of my lucky cap. Ridiculous. I mean, I definitely don't believe in lucky objects. I just act like I do. Or, more accurately, I do believe in lucky objects but I won't admit to myself that I believe in lucky objects.
Regardless of my beliefs, the lucky North star on my hat crashed down to Earth that Tuesday night as the Cubbies beat the Twins. A game the Cubs won fair and square, even though I think the very existence of a pitcher as good as Shota Imanaga feels like it goes against the laws of nature. He made the Twins look foolish at the plate. Part of my gut worried, in the first few innings, that he might just pitch a no-hitter. The guy is good. Evie and my mother-in-law waved their "W" flag and sang that song. That "Go Cubs Go" song that I'm not terribly fond of but, regardless of how I feel, it gets stuck in my head for a week anyway.
We went home and came right back for an afternoon game. I kept the lucky baseball cap on, even though now it had lost all of its magic. The Twins seemed eager to prove the magic was gone when Joe Ryan went out on an injury and the reliever got two outs and gave up five walks. My enthusiasm for my dear Twins deflated like a puffed up bird who just lost a mating dance. The stink of failure was upon them. 
At least the game had three things going for it. First of all, it was outdoors baseball. I went to the Medieval Torture Museum in Chicago during my trip, and I saw a multitude of methods for mangling the human body. People do this. People invent ways to be awful. But, and this can bring light into the darkness, people also created baseball. We're still enjoying this invention, still getting closer together to sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" (sung by Ted Lasso's Coach Beard - the second thing that Wednesday game had going for it), we still have hot dogs and beer. When they list up all the things we got wrong in Column B, never forget that we get to put "baseball" in Column A.
The other great occurrence in the Wednesday afternoon game was a visit from Twins Geek and The Voice of Reason. They were at the game and stopped by our seats. I introduced them to the family and we chatted a bit about life. It made me miss the good ole days of being a Twins fan. When I hopped aboard the bandwagon in 2006, the world was full of Twins activities. There were three days of TwinsFest and also an autograph party. There was an event where Twins players tended bar for charity. There were regular signings at pro shops, grocery stores, and pizza places. There were meetups at bars and restaurants where fans would get together. I made many friends this way. I never felt like a Twins player was removed from me. The whole team felt like part of the community. We belonged. So many of those experiences are gone now, trickling down to drips before Covid shut the whole thing down. I believe Twins Daily still does their winter meltdown, but what about all of the rest? In an time where fans are cross with the front office about spending and finding the game on TV is challenging, it's even more sad we've lost these things (even though, as a current Iowan, I would still be missing out on these things). I used to feel like I was one step away from the dugout, and now I feel like a guy in a long line, preparing to hand over some money to a kid checking TikTok on his phone. 
We saw the Twins win two at home and lose two on the road. My mother-in-law has never seen the Cubs lose in person. Her and my daughter posed for a picture after the Wednesday win, still smiling from singing that "Go Cubs Go" song. This is an area the Twins definitely need to improve on. When the last out is recorded after a victory and the music starts to swell, Twins fans are already on their way out of the ballpark. Cubs fans truly celebrate each victory like a war just ended and everyone feels the joy of freedom and survival. Victory, for the Cubs, means life. Now, let's be honest. The Twins play in Minnesota, and Minnesotans are likely too reserved and Minnesota-nice to sway together and wave flags for a home victory. There has to be some way we can show our devotion. Maybe fans bring purple pom-poms and the game ends with "Purple Rain" and fans creating said rain with flashy pom-poms. We could do better is all I'm saying.
Four games. Six days. One lucky cap ruined. One happy mother-in-law, one happy kid. One happy Dad because said kid agreed she would cheer for the Twins - as long as they weren't playing the Cubs. Home runs. Stolen bases. Strikeouts. Three generations (grandmother, mother, daughter) making memories over a charming old game. Baseball is best when it's a public space where we can all come together. I'll meet you out there the next time we make it to a game.
 
- Axel
If you're curious what else I've been up to lately, check up on my 20 horror movie marathon from September 13th-15th. I'm doing it to support The Trevor Project, a suicide hotline and more for LGTBQIA+ youth. Follow AxelScares on Instagram for updates. 

Wes Johnson, huh?
This doesn’t feel good. I’ve read the articles and the blog posts and the comments. I’ve had a chance to digest this thing. So far, it doesn’t sit well in my tummy. Like a member of the clean plate club choking down a particularly bad supper, I gagged on Wes Johnson writing until I could feel despair grow in my chest.
First of all, the Twins were paying him $250,000 a year? Doesn't Griffin Jax makes twice that? Hell, doesn't every player on the team makes at least twice what he does? If I’m getting my numbers right (and feel free to double check), Johnson will be making 500,000 more dollars a year. I expected to see him being roasted in the comments section for selling outtake, but it seems like a lot of people think $500,000 is an amount of money that erases a lot of loyalty. Take care of you and your own, because opportunities don’t come every day.
If I sound a little bitter, it’s because I am. Don’t get me wrong, I’d take the job, too, and every dollar of that money. I would probably even ditch a team midseason. Except, I’d have a lot of trouble abandoning a team during a playoff hunt. Our pitching staff has already felt shaky, like a house of cards. This news is like opening a drafty door. Will everything collapse? I guess we’ll have to find out together.
Johnson’s going to stick around through the series with the Guardians, which now feels even more important. Five games. Four days. Wes Johnson’s last chance to impart his wisdom on the pitching staff before he’s gone. Will he share some final lessons, or is this just another series for him? How will he hand off duties to Pete Maki?
Maybe I’m too sentimental for my own good, but I feel like I’d take this a little personally if I were a Twins pitcher. This is their shot at winning it all (or, dare we dream,  Minnesota? – winning one playoff game). It seems like team loyalty is a myth, along with the rest of the good ole days. Baseball is a data-driven business. You’ve gotta have ice in your veins to make it work. I’m not saying this is a bad thing. Or a good thing. It’s just an attempt at objectively observing the state of the game.

The Guardians took two out of three from the Twins, sending us down to second place. On Wednesday the 22nd, the Twins put up ten runs and still lost. Now it’s time for a three-game series against the Rockies and then a five-game series against the Guardians.
Part of me wants these games to be as feisty and spirited as a parking-lot fist fight.
We need a lot of runs to win games. Everyone needs to contribute, and the elite need to be at their best. Every at bat is personal now. Defensively, it’s time to pitch with a chip on our shoulders. We need to bring our best stuff every time we get on that mound. Cue “Street Fighting Man” by the Rolling Stones. Prep “What’s My Name” by DMX. We’re going to war on the base paths.
That’s what my gut tells me, at least. I want to see the Twins overpower, outmuscle, and subdue their opponents. I haven’t played baseball since elementary school and here I am, fired up about how this team needs an attitude. They’re out there every day, putting in the work with practice, training, and coaches. I think the Twins probably realize these games are important, and I know they’re trying pretty dang hard to get the job done. They probably don’t need a scruffy-haired guy from Iowa telling them to be aggressive, yet here I am. B-E A-G-G R-E-S-S-I-V-E.
What I’m really saying is I think the Twins are better than this. I think they should consider anything less than a divisional championship a wasted opportunity. Is it helpful for the team to look at it this way? Or, like Ted Lasso said, do they need to be goldfish with short memories and stay focused in the present?
Really, I’m a hypocrite. When I did play sports, I never got motivated when the coaches started yelling about “leaving it all on the field” and “playing every down.” I felt like I was already doing that. Of COURSE I was already trying to do that. I didn’t get fired up – I panicked. I played sloppier because I was trying to give more than I had. I didn’t ask questions because I felt like I didn’t need help, I needed to work harder. If I didn’t understand things it didn’t matter. I just needed to do it harder. I quit playing sports in high school and didn’t enjoy them until much later, when I wasn’t in a constant state of fear and panic.
So why hasn’t that kind of unhelpful thinking been worked out of me? Years of sports failure programmed me to buy into a cliché that didn’t work for me at all. Maybe it does for other people, but not for me. I know I don’t want to raise my daughter to push herself past the limit, risking injury and destroying joy. Maybe the first step is letting these Twins play these games as they see fit. Me wanting them to be ready to brawl doesn’t affect the team very much, but it does affect me. It’s time to challenge our motivations.

The Guardians took two out of three from the Twins, sending us down to second place. On Wednesday the 22nd, the Twins put up ten runs and still lost. Now it’s time for a three-game series against the Rockies and then a five-game series against the Guardians.
Part of me wants these games to be as feisty and spirited as a parking-lot fist fight.
We need a lot of runs to win games. Everyone needs to contribute, and the elite need to be at their best. Every at bat is personal now. Defensively, it’s time to pitch with a chip on our shoulders. We need to bring our best stuff every time we get on that mound. Cue “Street Fighting Man” by the Rolling Stones. Prep “What’s My Name” by DMX. We’re going to war on the base paths.
That’s what my gut tells me, at least. I want to see the Twins overpower, outmuscle, and subdue their opponents. I haven’t played baseball since elementary school and here I am, fired up about how this team needs an attitude. They’re out there every day, putting in the work with practice, training, and coaches. I think the Twins probably realize these games are important, and I know they’re trying pretty dang hard to get the job done. They probably don’t need a scruffy-haired guy from Iowa telling them to be aggressive, yet here I am. B-E A-G-G R-E-S-S-I-V-E.
What I’m really saying is I think the Twins are better than this. I think they should consider anything less than a divisional championship a wasted opportunity. Is it helpful for the team to look at it this way? Or, like Ted Lasso said, do they need to be goldfish with short memories and stay focused in the present?
Really, I’m a hypocrite. When I did play sports, I never got motivated when the coaches started yelling about “leaving it all on the field” and “playing every down.” I felt like I was already doing that. Of COURSE I was already trying to do that. I didn’t get fired up – I panicked. I played sloppier because I was trying to give more than I had. I didn’t ask questions because I felt like I didn’t need help, I needed to work harder. If I didn’t understand things it didn’t matter. I just needed to do it harder. I quit playing sports in high school and didn’t enjoy them until much later, when I wasn’t in a constant state of fear and panic.
So why hasn’t that kind of unhelpful thinking been worked out of me? Years of sports failure programmed me to buy into a cliché that didn’t work for me at all. Maybe it does for other people, but not for me. I know I don’t want to raise my daughter to push herself past the limit, risking injury and destroying joy. Maybe the first step is letting these Twins play these games as they see fit. Me wanting them to be ready to brawl doesn’t affect the team very much, but it does affect me. It’s time to challenge our motivations.

Writing one column for every Twins series has made me realize how fickle a fan I am. If the Twins lose a few more than they win, I’m the first guy to say we’re all doomed. Twins win a few and I’m starting to plan for the playoffs. Win and strut about. Lose and pout in the corner. I’m the exact kind of fan that drives other fans nuts.
Today, though, I feel as if I’ve arrived in a moment of clarity. The Twins are far enough into the season for me to say they are a play-off worthy team. There’s a lot of season left, and they still might not get there. But they could, and they really ought to. Maybe they’ll even win a playoff game along the way. Maybe we’ll even get to have the tastiest revenge of all.
I feel comfortable saying this because the pieces are a little clearer to me. For starters (pun fully intended), we’re getting back several injured pitchers. Gray and Ryan threw against the Mariners. I believe Winder will be back soon, too. If they stay on the field, things look a lot better for the team. With better pitching on the mound, the Twins won’t have to score 7 runs a game to win.
When they do need to score runs, though, I believe they have the bats. Buxton is hitting again, and Correa’s going to go on a tear soon. Maybe Kirilloff comes back and Jeffers gets it together. It could happen. Then there’s Luis Arráez. Like everyone else in Twins Territory, I’m currently in love with Luis Arráez. Every time he gets to the plate, he’s got a real good chance of getting on base. He’s money in the bank. Doesn’t matter what the count is – he’s going to get on base.
So what would our revenge be? Well, if you haven’t noticed, the Yankees are doing exceptionally well this year. If you know a Yankees’ fan, you probably already know this. At the time I wrote this, they are atop their division with a record of 46-16. They could potentially break the MLB record for most wins in a season.
I think it would be just spiffy if the Yankees did break that record. And then faced the Minnesota Twins in the first round of the playoffs. And then, this time, they lost. The Yankees 2022 season gets stabbed in the back and dropped to the floor with TC Bear dancing around it like Jim Morrison celebrating the lizard. I’m not saying that would make all the pain of our playoff losses go away. I’m just saying it would feel pretty good for a long time.

Writing one column for every Twins series has made me realize how fickle a fan I am. If the Twins lose a few more than they win, I’m the first guy to say we’re all doomed. Twins win a few and I’m starting to plan for the playoffs. Win and strut about. Lose and pout in the corner. I’m the exact kind of fan that drives other fans nuts.
Today, though, I feel as if I’ve arrived in a moment of clarity. The Twins are far enough into the season for me to say they are a play-off worthy team. There’s a lot of season left, and they still might not get there. But they could, and they really ought to. Maybe they’ll even win a playoff game along the way. Maybe we’ll even get to have the tastiest revenge of all.
I feel comfortable saying this because the pieces are a little clearer to me. For starters (pun fully intended), we’re getting back several injured pitchers. Gray and Ryan threw against the Mariners. I believe Winder will be back soon, too. If they stay on the field, things look a lot better for the team. With better pitching on the mound, the Twins won’t have to score 7 runs a game to win.
When they do need to score runs, though, I believe they have the bats. Buxton is hitting again, and Correa’s going to go on a tear soon. Maybe Kirilloff comes back and Jeffers gets it together. It could happen. Then there’s Luis Arráez. Like everyone else in Twins Territory, I’m currently in love with Luis Arráez. Every time he gets to the plate, he’s got a real good chance of getting on base. He’s money in the bank. Doesn’t matter what the count is – he’s going to get on base.
So what would our revenge be? Well, if you haven’t noticed, the Yankees are doing exceptionally well this year. If you know a Yankees’ fan, you probably already know this. At the time I wrote this, they are atop their division with a record of 46-16. They could potentially break the MLB record for most wins in a season.
I think it would be just spiffy if the Yankees did break that record. And then faced the Minnesota Twins in the first round of the playoffs. And then, this time, they lost. The Yankees 2022 season gets stabbed in the back and dropped to the floor with TC Bear dancing around it like Jim Morrison celebrating the lizard. I’m not saying that would make all the pain of our playoff losses go away. I’m just saying it would feel pretty good for a long time.

Writing one column for every Twins series has made me realize how fickle a fan I am. If the Twins lose a few more than they win, I’m the first guy to say we’re all doomed. Twins win a few and I’m starting to plan for the playoffs. Win and strut about. Lose and pout in the corner. I’m the exact kind of fan that drives other fans nuts.
Today, though, I feel as if I’ve arrived in a moment of clarity. The Twins are far enough into the season for me to say they are a play-off worthy team. There’s a lot of season left, and they still might not get there. But they could, and they really ought to. Maybe they’ll even win a playoff game along the way. Maybe we’ll even get to have the tastiest revenge of all.
I feel comfortable saying this because the pieces are a little clearer to me. For starters (pun fully intended), we’re getting back several injured pitchers. Gray and Ryan threw against the Mariners. I believe Winder will be back soon, too. If they stay on the field, things look a lot better for the team. With better pitching on the mound, the Twins won’t have to score 7 runs a game to win.
When they do need to score runs, though, I believe they have the bats. Buxton is hitting again, and Correa’s going to go on a tear soon. Maybe Kirilloff comes back and Jeffers gets it together. It could happen. Then there’s Luis Arráez. Like everyone else in Twins Territory, I’m currently in love with Luis Arráez. Every time he gets to the plate, he’s got a real good chance of getting on base. He’s money in the bank. Doesn’t matter what the count is – he’s going to get on base.
So what would our revenge be? Well, if you haven’t noticed, the Yankees are doing exceptionally well this year. If you know a Yankees’ fan, you probably already know this. At the time I wrote this, they are atop their division with a record of 46-16. They could potentially break the MLB record for most wins in a season.
I think it would be just spiffy if the Yankees did break that record. And then faced the Minnesota Twins in the first round of the playoffs. And then, this time, they lost. The Yankees 2022 season gets stabbed in the back and dropped to the floor with TC Bear dancing around it like Jim Morrison celebrating the lizard. I’m not saying that would make all the pain of our playoff losses go away. I’m just saying it would feel pretty good for a long time.

Writing one column for every Twins series has made me realize how fickle a fan I am. If the Twins lose a few more than they win, I’m the first guy to say we’re all doomed. Twins win a few and I’m starting to plan for the playoffs. Win and strut about. Lose and pout in the corner. I’m the exact kind of fan that drives other fans nuts.
Today, though, I feel as if I’ve arrived in a moment of clarity. The Twins are far enough into the season for me to say they are a play-off worthy team. There’s a lot of season left, and they still might not get there. But they could, and they really ought to. Maybe they’ll even win a playoff game along the way. Maybe we’ll even get to have the tastiest revenge of all.
I feel comfortable saying this because the pieces are a little clearer to me. For starters (pun fully intended), we’re getting back several injured pitchers. Gray and Ryan threw against the Mariners. I believe Winder will be back soon, too. If they stay on the field, things look a lot better for the team. With better pitching on the mound, the Twins won’t have to score 7 runs a game to win.
When they do need to score runs, though, I believe they have the bats. Buxton is hitting again, and Correa’s going to go on a tear soon. Maybe Kirilloff comes back and Jeffers gets it together. It could happen. Then there’s Luis Arráez. Like everyone else in Twins Territory, I’m currently in love with Luis Arráez. Every time he gets to the plate, he’s got a real good chance of getting on base. He’s money in the bank. Doesn’t matter what the count is – he’s going to get on base.
So what would our revenge be? Well, if you haven’t noticed, the Yankees are doing exceptionally well this year. If you know a Yankees’ fan, you probably already know this. At the time I wrote this, they are atop their division with a record of 46-16. They could potentially break the MLB record for most wins in a season.
I think it would be just spiffy if the Yankees did break that record. And then faced the Minnesota Twins in the first round of the playoffs. And then, this time, they lost. The Yankees 2022 season gets stabbed in the back and dropped to the floor with TC Bear dancing around it like Jim Morrison celebrating the lizard. I’m not saying that would make all the pain of our playoff losses go away. I’m just saying it would feel pretty good for a long time.

Writing one column for every Twins series has made me realize how fickle a fan I am. If the Twins lose a few more than they win, I’m the first guy to say we’re all doomed. Twins win a few and I’m starting to plan for the playoffs. Win and strut about. Lose and pout in the corner. I’m the exact kind of fan that drives other fans nuts.
Today, though, I feel as if I’ve arrived in a moment of clarity. The Twins are far enough into the season for me to say they are a play-off worthy team. There’s a lot of season left, and they still might not get there. But they could, and they really ought to. Maybe they’ll even win a playoff game along the way. Maybe we’ll even get to have the tastiest revenge of all.
I feel comfortable saying this because the pieces are a little clearer to me. For starters (pun fully intended), we’re getting back several injured pitchers. Gray and Ryan threw against the Mariners. I believe Winder will be back soon, too. If they stay on the field, things look a lot better for the team. With better pitching on the mound, the Twins won’t have to score 7 runs a game to win.
When they do need to score runs, though, I believe they have the bats. Buxton is hitting again, and Correa’s going to go on a tear soon. Maybe Kirilloff comes back and Jeffers gets it together. It could happen. Then there’s Luis Arráez. Like everyone else in Twins Territory, I’m currently in love with Luis Arráez. Every time he gets to the plate, he’s got a real good chance of getting on base. He’s money in the bank. Doesn’t matter what the count is – he’s going to get on base.
So what would our revenge be? Well, if you haven’t noticed, the Yankees are doing exceptionally well this year. If you know a Yankees’ fan, you probably already know this. At the time I wrote this, they are atop their division with a record of 46-16. They could potentially break the MLB record for most wins in a season.
I think it would be just spiffy if the Yankees did break that record. And then faced the Minnesota Twins in the first round of the playoffs. And then, this time, they lost. The Yankees 2022 season gets stabbed in the back and dropped to the floor with TC Bear dancing around it like Jim Morrison celebrating the lizard. I’m not saying that would make all the pain of our playoff losses go away. I’m just saying it would feel pretty good for a long time.

Thanks to Apple TV, my family got to watch a Twins game for a change. As luck would have it, we got a good one. The Twins crushed the Rays nine to four. Dingers abounded. I silenced my yelps of delight so my daughter would stay asleep.
I enjoyed seeing some of the players I’d only heard about on the radio. I’m not sure I knew what Pagan or Larnach looked like. Watching Buxton hit a home run is a lot more fun than just hearing about it. He enjoys every second of his trot around the bases. I didn’t even know that Joe Smith was a sub-mariner.
Speaking of things I didn’t know – Nobody told me the “Ray” in “Tampa Bay Rays” referred to a ray of sunlight. A harmless, pleasant, butterflies and tweety-birds ray of sunshine. I mean, they try to have it stand for the rays they keep in a pen, too, but is that so much better? To have your mascot be an animal so docile and sweet children can pet it? These used to be DEVIL Rays! That sounds like something malevolent from the sea! Something to fear! Not a little burst of sunlight. Why don’t they just start singing “You Are My Sunshine” instead of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game?”
Before you say it, I realize the Twins do not exactly sound threatening. Seriously, though, take a good look at Minnie and Paul. They would mess you up if they wanted to. They are big, burly men with bats. And we have a bear. TC may be friendly, but he’s still a bear. You don’t see the Minnesota Twins putting a BEAR petting zoo out in the outfield bleachers.
The Twins have to be tough from here on out. Have you seen what we’re putting on the mound these days? If the Twins let a guy go for a bucket of balls for an off-season trade, that bucket of balls would probably be pitching a game right about now. It’s bad. We need to get some of our better pitchers off the IL. Soon. It seems like the Twins need to score seven runs a night if they want to win. That’s a lot of pressure on our offense.
Next up is a midnight series at Seattle. I remember when starting something at 9 PM seemed like a fine thing to do on a week day. Now I’m over forty with a kid. Nothing holy can happen after 9 PM.

Thanks to Apple TV, my family got to watch a Twins game for a change. As luck would have it, we got a good one. The Twins crushed the Rays nine to four. Dingers abounded. I silenced my yelps of delight so my daughter would stay asleep.
I enjoyed seeing some of the players I’d only heard about on the radio. I’m not sure I knew what Pagan or Larnach looked like. Watching Buxton hit a home run is a lot more fun than just hearing about it. He enjoys every second of his trot around the bases. I didn’t even know that Joe Smith was a sub-mariner.
Speaking of things I didn’t know – Nobody told me the “Ray” in “Tampa Bay Rays” referred to a ray of sunlight. A harmless, pleasant, butterflies and tweety-birds ray of sunshine. I mean, they try to have it stand for the rays they keep in a pen, too, but is that so much better? To have your mascot be an animal so docile and sweet children can pet it? These used to be DEVIL Rays! That sounds like something malevolent from the sea! Something to fear! Not a little burst of sunlight. Why don’t they just start singing “You Are My Sunshine” instead of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game?”
Before you say it, I realize the Twins do not exactly sound threatening. Seriously, though, take a good look at Minnie and Paul. They would mess you up if they wanted to. They are big, burly men with bats. And we have a bear. TC may be friendly, but he’s still a bear. You don’t see the Minnesota Twins putting a BEAR petting zoo out in the outfield bleachers.
The Twins have to be tough from here on out. Have you seen what we’re putting on the mound these days? If the Twins let a guy go for a bucket of balls for an off-season trade, that bucket of balls would probably be pitching a game right about now. It’s bad. We need to get some of our better pitchers off the IL. Soon. It seems like the Twins need to score seven runs a night if they want to win. That’s a lot of pressure on our offense.
Next up is a midnight series at Seattle. I remember when starting something at 9 PM seemed like a fine thing to do on a week day. Now I’m over forty with a kid. Nothing holy can happen after 9 PM.

When I went to bed last night, the Twins were up seven to three.
I know what you’re thinking – how early does he go to bed? I have to get up early so I go to bed early.
Anyway, the whole game turned into a Schrödinger’s cat kind of thing. Overly simplified, Schrödinger posed an interesting dilemma. First, theoretically, someone could place a cat in a box with a radioactive particle. Then, a radiation detector would be connected to a hammer. The hammer would be poised over a container of poison. If the radiation detector senses radiation, the hammer drops, the container of poison breaks, and the cat dies. Since all of this happens in a box, the observer would have no idea if the cat was alive or dead. Therefore, as I understand it, the cat is both alive and dead until the box is opened. This is quantum mechanics thing, and I won’t pretend to fully understand it, but there you go.
When I was asleep, the Twins both won and lost the game. A lot of us fans have to live with that duality. Whether we’re asleep, away from electronics, or just tuned into something else, we live our lives while holding both possibilities in our heads. The Twins won. The Twins lost. Both true until the box is opened.
Cynically, I expected the Twins had lost. After all, it was the Yankees. And we had a lot of innings to sneak our relievers through without giving up runs. We lay down and show our bellies to the Yankees like a Golden Lab puppy at an eight-year-old’s birthday party. Four runs were a decent cushion, but it didn’t seem like enough.
Optimistically, the Twins could have won. A four-run lead meant it wasn’t even a save situation. We creamed the Yankees the night before, so it could be done.
When I woke up, I checked my phone and opened the box. The cat was dead – the Twins blew it. I had my answer.
Not knowing is the yellow light of baseball. If I can’t get green-lit with a victory, I’ll take a yellow light as opposed to the full stop of a loss. Last year, I even stopped checking the scores. All I did was come into work and ask my Twins fan coworker if they won or lost. I lived in the ambiguity because it was better to hold on to a theoretical victory than risk crashing into a confirmed loss. Baseball becomes so painful that paying attention is punishment.
With as many runs as the Twins are giving up these days, it's easy to get pessimistic. We need better pitching. Quickly. Or we'll all just leave the box shut and go on with our lives.

The Twins took two out of three in Toronto, even in a depleted state. And if the Twins were playing without players, then the St. Paul Saints were stripped down to the bone as well. I wasn't sure what to expect from them when we watched them take on the Iowa Cubs in Des Moines. I know I didn't expect a record-setting day for home runs and a near double-digit victory for the Saints, but I was glad to see it.
I sported my Rosario shirsey and Twins hat, but I'm sad to say my daughter did not match me. She came to the game in her Cubs shirt, ready to cheer for the opposing team. Her grandmother got to her and turned her into a Cubs fan right under my nose. Now, she loves the Cubs. She cheers for the Cubs against any other teams. The Twins. the Minnesota Vikings. the Iowa Hawkeyes football AND basketball teams. "Go Cubs, Go" the whole way for her. 
The plan was to bring up Evelyn the Twins Way. We'd start by watching games on the TV together, maybe attending a game or two as father and daughter. We'd play catch. Eventually, over time, we'd get to more complicated things like advanced statistics. By the time she hit high school, we would be analyzing Twins roster moves and cheering them on to victory. 
Except she's a Cubs fan.
I wondered if this rivalry would get in the way of a good time, but as usual, baseball finds a way to work magic. On a bright summer Sunday, there was plenty of magic to be had for everyone. She got some lemonade and cotton candy. After she inhaled a football-sized clump of cotton candy, she settled into the game. Kirilloff tossed a ball into the stands and it bounced over her head. The man in front of her caught the ball and handed it to her. She beamed and held it up for a picture. Then she got a new Cubs hat, bracelet, and keychain from the team store. Finally, a T-shirt landed right next to me in the stands and I gave that to her, too. 
The game score didn't work out for her, but that didn't matter in the end. Through the glory of baseball magic and some disposable cash, my daughter got to live it up as a Cubs fan, amongst other Cubs fans. She went to bed wearing her new Cubs shirt, which was so big on her it fit like a dress. She was grinning from ear to ear.
Is she backing the wrong team? Heck yes, she's backing the wrong team! But at the end of the day, we were all fans of baseball and everybody won.
It's just one team had eight home runs and scored sixteen times. That felt pretty good.

The Twins took two out of three in Toronto, even in a depleted state. And if the Twins were playing without players, then the St. Paul Saints were stripped down to the bone as well. I wasn't sure what to expect from them when we watched them take on the Iowa Cubs in Des Moines. I know I didn't expect a record-setting day for home runs and a near double-digit victory for the Saints, but I was glad to see it.
I sported my Rosario shirsey and Twins hat, but I'm sad to say my daughter did not match me. She came to the game in her Cubs shirt, ready to cheer for the opposing team. Her grandmother got to her and turned her into a Cubs fan right under my nose. Now, she loves the Cubs. She cheers for the Cubs against any other teams. The Twins. the Minnesota Vikings. the Iowa Hawkeyes football AND basketball teams. "Go Cubs, Go" the whole way for her. 
The plan was to bring up Evelyn the Twins Way. We'd start by watching games on the TV together, maybe attending a game or two as father and daughter. We'd play catch. Eventually, over time, we'd get to more complicated things like advanced statistics. By the time she hit high school, we would be analyzing Twins roster moves and cheering them on to victory. 
Except she's a Cubs fan.
I wondered if this rivalry would get in the way of a good time, but as usual, baseball finds a way to work magic. On a bright summer Sunday, there was plenty of magic to be had for everyone. She got some lemonade and cotton candy. After she inhaled a football-sized clump of cotton candy, she settled into the game. Kirilloff tossed a ball into the stands and it bounced over her head. The man in front of her caught the ball and handed it to her. She beamed and held it up for a picture. Then she got a new Cubs hat, bracelet, and keychain from the team store. Finally, a T-shirt landed right next to me in the stands and I gave that to her, too. 
The game score didn't work out for her, but that didn't matter in the end. Through the glory of baseball magic and some disposable cash, my daughter got to live it up as a Cubs fan, amongst other Cubs fans. She went to bed wearing her new Cubs shirt, which was so big on her it fit like a dress. She was grinning from ear to ear.
Is she backing the wrong team? Heck yes, she's backing the wrong team! But at the end of the day, we were all fans of baseball and everybody won.
It's just one team had eight home runs and scored sixteen times. That felt pretty good.

Sunday afternoon. I’m making PB and J sandwiches for my daughter, my wife, and myself. I turn the game on the radio for a little bit and it’s the third inning. No runs in at this point. The Twins had already won the series, so I kind of wonder if we were due to lose one. The sandwiches made, I turn off the radio and go into the living room with lunch.
My wife cleans up from mowing the lawn and I’m watching a JoJo Siwa special. I’m thinking about how much I’d rather be watching the Twins play baseball. JoJo slides around the stage in her heelies. My daughter watches and plays Legos. JoJo keeps talking about how you can be whatever you want to be. If that were true, I’d be The Man Not Watching JoJo.
My wife is ready to go so we get our daughter to tidy up and turn off the TV. She says she’s getting a little tired of JoJo, which brings peace to my troubled heart. I don’t hate JoJo, but I do hope for smaller doses. She’s much better than the YouTube show my daughter calls The Grown-Ups and the Kids. That show kills my soul.
I check the score. 6-0, Royals. Just like I thought. We were going to win the series but lose the last game. Still a good showing.
We drive to Target and arrive, with our shopping list on my wife’s phone. She returns some shoes. We go to buy a present for Evie to give the host of the first birthday party she’s ever been invited to. She’s thrilled, but mostly because she wants us to buy all of the toys for her. Fortunately, she corrects herself on that mistaken belief relatively quickly. I try to sneak a Jason Voorhees action figure into the cart for my Friday the 13th collection, but my wife shuts that down real quick.
This will all come back to the Twins. I just need to set the stage.
The biggest surprises of the trip to Target were the lack of shoes and softballs. I recently started playing in a very relaxed (no strikeouts, not a lot of running) softball game and I need new shoes and a softball to practice. I’m currently sporting an ovoid-shaped scrape on my right knee that looks like someone slapped a slice of Italian deli meat to my leg. I need better traction. There are very few shoes, and nary a softball. Not sure how Target can be softball-less in late May, but here we are.
Nearing the end of our Target trip, we are shopping for a birthday card when I succumb to a nagging temptation to check the Twins score. I assume they already lost and, for whatever reason, the Athletic app just failed to notify me of the final score. I check my phone and see the Twins have tied the game.
I show the phone to my wife. My jaw hangs open. I shove the phone further into her face. She agrees this is good news, but her eyes tell me two things. First, I need to pay attention to my family and not become obsessed with my phone, watching the updates come through pitch by pitch. Secondly, I need to get the phone out of her face and quit acting like a goober in public.
Now I’m smiling and walking up the main aisle of Target. I’m nodding at other people because the Twins are winning. In fact, they are going to win. I know this in my heart, and I’m so happy I feel like everyone else is happy for me. Like we could all break into a musical number celebrating the approaching victory.
We make it to the car before I check my phone again – this takes a lot of self-discipline. I sit down in the passenger seat and see it’s the bottom of the ninth. Duran is in, and Gamecast tells me those first two strikes get in there at over one hundred miles an hour. He gets an out and then the next batter fouls off a million pitches. There’s a mound visit and I worry about a potential injury to Duran. I worry, but I have to pocket my phone and unload sundries from Target. We get inside just in time to see the last out come up on GameCast.
Comeback achieved. Twins sweep the Royals. I feel worn out from getting worked up over the game. I cook up some supper, get my daughter ready for bed, and relax. There are a lot of baseball games in a season. The Twins will need me to monitor the games closely, wherever I may be.
 

Being a hero means spending time in the abyss, mired down and challenged in every way. Royce Lewis has the potential for being a hero, but for now he’s spending a season in the abyss - in this case, staying patient in AAA. He’ll have to grow and add skills during this time, which is how heroes make their way back into the light. To stay a hero, he’ll need to transform into an even greater version of himself. If his brief time in the majors was any indication, he should have no problem doing that.
                Right now, Byron Buxton has emerged as a hero. The fate of a hero often depends on the whims of the universe, and so far Byron must not have angered them this year. Buxton is on the field more regularly, even with his limit of 100 games. He’s staying healthy. He’s adapted from his time in the abyss and matured as a player.
                In mythology, heroes often have supernatural help along the way. An elf or wizard adds their magic to the mix. A Greek god puts the wind into their ship’s sails. Baseball players seem to change through attrition, smoothed to perfection by water and time. The only player I can think of on the Twins’ team that had supernatural help was Chris Paddack. Richie the Rally Goat wasn’t enough, in the end, as he’s already had his second Tommy John’s surgery. The goat let us all down.
                As an aside, the goat let me down on a personal level. I bought my own rally goat to join in the fun. I made the mistake of showing it to my five-year-old daughter. She pushed the button for herself, listened to the thing bleat, and giggled. Then, you couldn’t get her to stop pushing it. She wanted to take it to bed with her. I imagined waking up in the middle of the night to that goat screeching at me. Anthony Hopkins asking me if the goats have stopped screaming yet. Too much. We put the goat on top of her dresser and we’re hoping she forgets about it.
                So, abandoned by his fate and fortune, Paddack heads back into the abyss. He is joined there by Alex Kirilloff and Miguel Sano. Fans seem less hopeful these three will rise and become heroes. Of course, before the season began, fans were less than hopeful about Royce Lewis. He had missed two crucial seasons (one due to COVID, one due to a torn ACL). Lewis grabbed hold of his opportunity. Now fans are almost disappointed All-Star caliber short stop Carlos Correa is coming back to replace him.
                Heroes take what they’re given and build themselves up. Unfortunately, if time in the abyss has crushed them from smooth stones into gritty sand, there may not be enough left to rebuild. Like the man says, there’s a last time for everything. Heroes either leave on top or fall down one more time than they get up. The fact that some achieve this kind of greatness, even for a brief while, is enough.
                The abyss waits. It is misunderstood; without its pressure and challenge heroes wouldn’t find the resistance to build strength. It takes away from many, but it gives to those gifted, resilient, and lucky. Buxton is here. Royce Lewis will return. Paddack, Sano, and Kirilloff must do the best they can with what they have.

Being a hero means spending time in the abyss, mired down and challenged in every way. Royce Lewis has the potential for being a hero, but for now he’s spending a season in the abyss - in this case, staying patient in AAA. He’ll have to grow and add skills during this time, which is how heroes make their way back into the light. To stay a hero, he’ll need to transform into an even greater version of himself. If his brief time in the majors was any indication, he should have no problem doing that.
                Right now, Byron Buxton has emerged as a hero. The fate of a hero often depends on the whims of the universe, and so far Byron must not have angered them this year. Buxton is on the field more regularly, even with his limit of 100 games. He’s staying healthy. He’s adapted from his time in the abyss and matured as a player.
                In mythology, heroes often have supernatural help along the way. An elf or wizard adds their magic to the mix. A Greek god puts the wind into their ship’s sails. Baseball players seem to change through attrition, smoothed to perfection by water and time. The only player I can think of on the Twins’ team that had supernatural help was Chris Paddack. Richie the Rally Goat wasn’t enough, in the end, as he’s already had his second Tommy John’s surgery. The goat let us all down.
                As an aside, the goat let me down on a personal level. I bought my own rally goat to join in the fun. I made the mistake of showing it to my five-year-old daughter. She pushed the button for herself, listened to the thing bleat, and giggled. Then, you couldn’t get her to stop pushing it. She wanted to take it to bed with her. I imagined waking up in the middle of the night to that goat screeching at me. Anthony Hopkins asking me if the goats have stopped screaming yet. Too much. We put the goat on top of her dresser and we’re hoping she forgets about it.
                So, abandoned by his fate and fortune, Paddack heads back into the abyss. He is joined there by Alex Kirilloff and Miguel Sano. Fans seem less hopeful these three will rise and become heroes. Of course, before the season began, fans were less than hopeful about Royce Lewis. He had missed two crucial seasons (one due to COVID, one due to a torn ACL). Lewis grabbed hold of his opportunity. Now fans are almost disappointed All-Star caliber short stop Carlos Correa is coming back to replace him.
                Heroes take what they’re given and build themselves up. Unfortunately, if time in the abyss has crushed them from smooth stones into gritty sand, there may not be enough left to rebuild. Like the man says, there’s a last time for everything. Heroes either leave on top or fall down one more time than they get up. The fact that some achieve this kind of greatness, even for a brief while, is enough.
                The abyss waits. It is misunderstood; without its pressure and challenge heroes wouldn’t find the resistance to build strength. It takes away from many, but it gives to those gifted, resilient, and lucky. Buxton is here. Royce Lewis will return. Paddack, Sano, and Kirilloff must do the best they can with what they have.

The Twins won two out of three in their series against the Guardians. As luck would have it, we managed to go to the game they lost. It would’ve been much more fun if we attended the game where the Twins put up twelve and Royce hit his first home run, but we did not. We got the low scoring game, where the teams went into extra innings tied one-all.
The cliché holds true, though. A bad night at the ballpark is still a good night. I went in good company and enjoyed the conversation. The weather was nearly perfect – just a little cold when we staggered into extra innings. The skyline, and the pale blue sky above it, deepened into darkness in a beautiful, natural way.
Target Field is home for me. Now that we only get to one or two games a year, I have to drink in all of the experience and savor it for months. I will hold on to memories, like the cheeseburger and root beer I missed Urshela’s solo shot while buying. Seeing Rocco Baldelli get ejected after a Guardian baserunner crashed into Miranda and went bam-kaboom down into the dirt. Rolling my eyes when fans tried to start the wave and refusing to clap along with clap-along songs – Are there two clap-along songs now? Terrified of Kris Lindahl’s stretchy, seventh-inning arms. Wondering what that woman was doing, waggling a stuffed fish near the Twins’ dugout. Taking pictures of Duran, who I just found out is referred to as the “Durantula,” and I like that. Being annoyed with fans who walk in front of me while the ball is in play.
I’ve noticed I have a very specific response to good plays. I yell “yup!” and clap my hands a few times. Same word, same claps. Same vocal inflection. Nice and understated, like a Midwesterner should cheer.
As Meat Loaf said, two out of three ain’t bad. But it wasn’t enough to wash the taste of that Astros sweep from my mouth. Especially because of the game we watched. The Twins got hits. They put people on the bases. They just couldn’t get them across home plate. My wife said they didn’t have a lot of pop, and as she is in most things, my wife is right. This is a good team. They just need to get better at administering the coup de gras when they have the chance.
Of course, there were a lot of young players on the field last night. Buxton didn’t play Saturday night, even though I wished really, really hard he’d show up to pinch hit in the ninth or tenth. Correa is still out. I find myself silently willing Miranda to start hitting well. Like he’s my younger brother. I just don’t want him to get discouraged. We need to all chip in on a basket of muffins or something.
Now it’s time to take the Twins show on the road. We’d better do well against Oakland, even though the games will start too late for an old man like me to listen to. I’ll hold onto my memories and check the scores in the morning.

I remember the first time I got the wind knocked out of me. I was climbing a tree at my grandma and grandpa's farm. I missed a step, saw foliage tumble before my eyes, and landed on my back. I couldn't breathe. Then, when the oxygen came back, I sprinted into the house. I was more afraid of the sensation than I was hurt. I didn't know know my body would do that to me.
By the time the Astros swept the Twins, I knew the feeling all too well. Life likes to suckerpunch you. My last blog post described the joy of victory and then, knocking us right out of the tree, the Astros served us the agony of defeat. They scored the runs. Our bats stayed quiet. We're injured and beaten. 
To be sure, we're far from done. There's lots of baseball left to play. A series like this was inevitable. It just keeps you off of the tallest branches of the tree for a while. 
Because the Twins have been playing well outside of this series, it's easier to get back to climbing. There are young players out there, showing they've got the skills necessary to play in the majors. New milestones are being recorded. Fans are forming attachments to players they'll cheer on for years to come.
If we're being completely honest (and I do try to tell you the truth in this blog), I was tensed and ready for a gut punch in this series. The Astros are a very good team. We're heavily injured. Our pitching was due to be drug back into the muck. Maybe a little grit will do us a good. 
Plus, Justin Verlander.  I just assume the Twins will lose when he's pitching against us. Would love to have seen that man in a Twins uniform, fighting for the good guys for a change. 
So the Guardians come in to town, ailing in their own ways. We find a branch close to the ground and hoist ourselves up. There's a new series starting, and it's time to get excited again.

I remember the first time I got the wind knocked out of me. I was climbing a tree at my grandma and grandpa's farm. I missed a step, saw foliage tumble before my eyes, and landed on my back. I couldn't breathe. Then, when the oxygen came back, I sprinted into the house. I was more afraid of the sensation than I was hurt. I didn't know know my body would do that to me.
By the time the Astros swept the Twins, I knew the feeling all too well. Life likes to suckerpunch you. My last blog post described the joy of victory and then, knocking us right out of the tree, the Astros served us the agony of defeat. They scored the runs. Our bats stayed quiet. We're injured and beaten. 
To be sure, we're far from done. There's lots of baseball left to play. A series like this was inevitable. It just keeps you off of the tallest branches of the tree for a while. 
Because the Twins have been playing well outside of this series, it's easier to get back to climbing. There are young players out there, showing they've got the skills necessary to play in the majors. New milestones are being recorded. Fans are forming attachments to players they'll cheer on for years to come.
If we're being completely honest (and I do try to tell you the truth in this blog), I was tensed and ready for a gut punch in this series. The Astros are a very good team. We're heavily injured. Our pitching was due to be drug back into the muck. Maybe a little grit will do us a good. 
Plus, Justin Verlander.  I just assume the Twins will lose when he's pitching against us. Would love to have seen that man in a Twins uniform, fighting for the good guys for a change. 
So the Guardians come in to town, ailing in their own ways. We find a branch close to the ground and hoist ourselves up. There's a new series starting, and it's time to get excited again.

I remember the first time I got the wind knocked out of me. I was climbing a tree at my grandma and grandpa's farm. I missed a step, saw foliage tumble before my eyes, and landed on my back. I couldn't breathe. Then, when the oxygen came back, I sprinted into the house. I was more afraid of the sensation than I was hurt. I didn't know know my body would do that to me.
By the time the Astros swept the Twins, I knew the feeling all too well. Life likes to suckerpunch you. My last blog post described the joy of victory and then, knocking us right out of the tree, the Astros served us the agony of defeat. They scored the runs. Our bats stayed quiet. We're injured and beaten. 
To be sure, we're far from done. There's lots of baseball left to play. A series like this was inevitable. It just keeps you off of the tallest branches of the tree for a while. 
Because the Twins have been playing well outside of this series, it's easier to get back to climbing. There are young players out there, showing they've got the skills necessary to play in the majors. New milestones are being recorded. Fans are forming attachments to players they'll cheer on for years to come.
If we're being completely honest (and I do try to tell you the truth in this blog), I was tensed and ready for a gut punch in this series. The Astros are a very good team. We're heavily injured. Our pitching was due to be drug back into the muck. Maybe a little grit will do us a good. 
Plus, Justin Verlander.  I just assume the Twins will lose when he's pitching against us. Would love to have seen that man in a Twins uniform, fighting for the good guys for a change. 
So the Guardians come in to town, ailing in their own ways. We find a branch close to the ground and hoist ourselves up. There's a new series starting, and it's time to get excited again.

Three baseball games. Three consecutive one-run victories. All around Twins territory, fans’ brains are secreting happy hormones. 
Last year was such a different story. I had a dry-erase board at work. I drew the Twins logo on it and then two numbers underneath that logo. One for wins, one for losses. We all remember which number grew the fastest. Every day, it seemed like I’d be adding one to the loss column. “They lost again?” the people I worked with asked. “Your team sucks,” came next. It wasn’t a question. I didn’t argue with it.
I’m so much happier this year. I have a Twins buddy at work.I usually don’t bring up a victory right away. I start with a pleasant greeting, then a little bit of small talk. I’m waiting, though. I’m waiting for the right moment. I’m smiling already. I’m thinking it, and I know he’s thinking it, too.
“How ‘bout them Twins?” I say. And whammo! There we are! Joyously reveling in the glory of another Twins victory. Today, there was a scary side to the victory - Pagan has the potential to give both of us heart attacks. But it’s fun to be a little scared when there’s a happy ending, right?
Meaningful baseball is like a campfire. It brings everyone into its glow. It inspires conversation. In our age, that conversation can happen in person, on social media, or through podcasts. When the message is winning, people want to keep spreading the message.The fire is warm; all fans are welcome. 
Last year, instead of a campfire, we had a desperate fan rubbing two soggy sticks together for warmth. We had cold, raw hot dogs and nothing to talk about. I firmly believe a meaningful summer of baseball adds a whole other level to the season. It’s the B story for the rest of your life. And it’s better shared with other fans.

 

Three baseball games. Three consecutive one-run victories. All around Twins territory, fans’ brains are secreting happy hormones. 
Last year was such a different story. I had a dry-erase board at work. I drew the Twins logo on it and then two numbers underneath that logo. One for wins, one for losses. We all remember which number grew the fastest. Every day, it seemed like I’d be adding one to the loss column. “They lost again?” the people I worked with asked. “Your team sucks,” came next. It wasn’t a question. I didn’t argue with it.
I’m so much happier this year. I have a Twins buddy at work.I usually don’t bring up a victory right away. I start with a pleasant greeting, then a little bit of small talk. I’m waiting, though. I’m waiting for the right moment. I’m smiling already. I’m thinking it, and I know he’s thinking it, too.
“How ‘bout them Twins?” I say. And whammo! There we are! Joyously reveling in the glory of another Twins victory. Today, there was a scary side to the victory - Pagan has the potential to give both of us heart attacks. But it’s fun to be a little scared when there’s a happy ending, right?
Meaningful baseball is like a campfire. It brings everyone into its glow. It inspires conversation. In our age, that conversation can happen in person, on social media, or through podcasts. When the message is winning, people want to keep spreading the message.The fire is warm; all fans are welcome. 
Last year, instead of a campfire, we had a desperate fan rubbing two soggy sticks together for warmth. We had cold, raw hot dogs and nothing to talk about. I firmly believe a meaningful summer of baseball adds a whole other level to the season. It’s the B story for the rest of your life. And it’s better shared with other fans.

 

Our bodies betray us.
Let’s say you’re a professional baseball player. You’ve been given tremendous physical gifts that allow you to play the game. Your muscles, tendons, nerves, eye sight . . . All of it coming together to create a ballplayer. A team puts a uniform on you, and suddenly you’re a sight to see. Like an ancient Greek, you represent the highest achievement in human athleticism.
(Note: I realize not every baseball player represents a Platonic ideal of human anatomy. Babe Ruth was not chiseled from marble. Just work with me, okay?)
Then, something breaks down. The machinery of flesh stops performing at an elite level. Often times, catastrophic results occur after fairly routine behaviors. Or, worse yet, for no reason at all. The ballplayer comes down to earth with the mortals.
Byron Buxton has been held back by the limitations of his body for years. For a variety of random reasons, his body has betrayed him. He’s already scared us once this year, but so far our hopes for a strong, healthy hero seem to be holding up.
This is good, because the sky is falling over Twins Territory. Ober’s on the IL and Gray might be coming off of it. Garlick and Sano dropped in to spend some time there. Correa’s got a bad finger, but we may be okay there. On top of that, the COVID virus has descended onto the team, taking away our coach and two players. For now, at least. 
We’re uncomfortable being reminded of the flesh and its random, cruel power. Just look at the ways we discuss Buxton and Sano. Before his contract, people said Buxton was “owwie-prone” or caught the “injury bug.” They were trying to make bad luck quantifiable. We love our ballplayers so much that we’d rather believe in the supernatural elements of personified luck than let that cold, sinking feeling of despair at the randomness of chance into our hearts. 
For Sano, the conversation always comes down to his size. It’s hard to read anything about him without the word “big” finding its way in. I think I’ve even seen “hulking” a few times. This is more than just an act of description; this is evidence of mythologizing. How can someone so huge fail to crush the ball? This feeds the despair fans feel when he’s not hitting. Maybe it’s part of the reason he gets more grief than other Twins players.
In short, everything in baseball rides on a very fallible collection of bones and flesh performing tasks routinely, over and over, without falling into a state of disrepair. Try as we might, we can’t will them into being superhuman. At the same time, I doubt we can will ourselves to stop romanticizing them, either. We’re stuck in between the reality of frailty and the promise of superhumanity.

 

Our bodies betray us.
Let’s say you’re a professional baseball player. You’ve been given tremendous physical gifts that allow you to play the game. Your muscles, tendons, nerves, eye sight . . . All of it coming together to create a ballplayer. A team puts a uniform on you, and suddenly you’re a sight to see. Like an ancient Greek, you represent the highest achievement in human athleticism.
(Note: I realize not every baseball player represents a Platonic ideal of human anatomy. Babe Ruth was not chiseled from marble. Just work with me, okay?)
Then, something breaks down. The machinery of flesh stops performing at an elite level. Often times, catastrophic results occur after fairly routine behaviors. Or, worse yet, for no reason at all. The ballplayer comes down to earth with the mortals.
Byron Buxton has been held back by the limitations of his body for years. For a variety of random reasons, his body has betrayed him. He’s already scared us once this year, but so far our hopes for a strong, healthy hero seem to be holding up.
This is good, because the sky is falling over Twins Territory. Ober’s on the IL and Gray might be coming off of it. Garlick and Sano dropped in to spend some time there. Correa’s got a bad finger, but we may be okay there. On top of that, the COVID virus has descended onto the team, taking away our coach and two players. For now, at least. 
We’re uncomfortable being reminded of the flesh and its random, cruel power. Just look at the ways we discuss Buxton and Sano. Before his contract, people said Buxton was “owwie-prone” or caught the “injury bug.” They were trying to make bad luck quantifiable. We love our ballplayers so much that we’d rather believe in the supernatural elements of personified luck than let that cold, sinking feeling of despair at the randomness of chance into our hearts. 
For Sano, the conversation always comes down to his size. It’s hard to read anything about him without the word “big” finding its way in. I think I’ve even seen “hulking” a few times. This is more than just an act of description; this is evidence of mythologizing. How can someone so huge fail to crush the ball? This feeds the despair fans feel when he’s not hitting. Maybe it’s part of the reason he gets more grief than other Twins players.
In short, everything in baseball rides on a very fallible collection of bones and flesh performing tasks routinely, over and over, without falling into a state of disrepair. Try as we might, we can’t will them into being superhuman. At the same time, I doubt we can will ourselves to stop romanticizing them, either. We’re stuck in between the reality of frailty and the promise of superhumanity.