The Battle over Torii Hunter

He's back. Torii Hunter is back, and in the 7 hours of his official presence in a Twins line-up again there are two clear camps in response to his return.


In the blue corner, weighing in at 140 characters, 140,000 grey hairs in the last four seasons and 140 million liters of digital ink are the analytically minded, podcast savvy, SABR-metrical, writers, critics and yes...fans who wonder what the heck the Pohlad's were thinking.

"This is not the Torii Hunter we fell in love with," they remind readers, listeners, viewers and random passers-by.

He is not the defensive wunderkind we saw steal homers from Barry Bonds, he's not even the workman-like defender we saw handle Eduardo Escobar pop outs in Anaheim and Detroit. He has struggled lately, and one thing the Twins outfield does not want for is corner outfielders who struggle defensively (see: Arcia, Oswaldo; Willingham, Josh; Nunez, Eduardo Freaking)

The Torii we came to know and love was prone to gaps in his approach at the plate, always good but never quite great. While that also changed in the years he was away, 39 year-old Torii may not be able to maintain that production. And as younger talents vie for playing time, the curious sight of an aging corner outfielder with declining production and defensive value getting constant playing time and clinging to his no-trade clause becomes all the more questionable.

This is not the mega-watt smiling, do-no-wrong, clubhouse hero either. One afternoon worth of press coverage seemed to confirm that. Claiming that "whoever believes in that SABR-metric stuff never played the game" (despite the successful A's GM/former first round draft pick/former Minnesota Twin Billy Beane being a leader in the field) did not allay the fears of the analytically minded writers in the room and at home. Hunter then proceeded to call Mike Bernadino of the Pioneer Press, "a prick" four times, because Bernadino asked about how his opposition to gay marriage may have affected his free agency and may yet affect his leadership. Only Kris Humphries had a shorter honeymoon.

So, says the camp in the blue corner, "this is not the Torii Hunter we fell in love with." Defensively, offensively, socially: it's different now. But there is another side to this.

In the red corner, weighing in at $221 million dollars in revenue, 73,000 household wide television audience, and four straight 90 loss seasons is the Twins front office who wonder "what the heck's the problem?"

Loathe as we writers may be to admit it, the front office can see and know these issues. They may not believe in defensive metrics, but they know a 39-year-old outfielder is going to be less effective than the 32-year-old they last had in uniform. They may not project many stat-lines, but they saw enough of Jim Thome (not to mention Tony Batista, Shannon Stewart, and Dave Winfield) to know that a 39-year-old hitter isn't a 32-year-old hitter. And while Hunter's not keen to talk about his beliefs, the ownership isn't exactly shy about theirs (leading the list of contributors to the anti-gay marriage amendment in 2012).

Heck, they'd probably take mummified
Torii Hunter

The Twins brass knows that this is not the old Torii Hunter, and they do not care, they want this Torii Hunter.

Bear in mind, the Twins are not just in the business of fielding a winning baseball team, they're in the business of making money. To be sure, the best teams make the most money, but even the worst teams can make some.

If you're a business and you know your most loyal customers will come back again and again even when they are dumbstruck and aghast at your decision making, you know that you can make "dumb" and "ghastly" decisions again and again. Their opinion doesn't matter. They'll keep coming--even if only to complain.

What matters is the undecided, the ambivalent, the apathetic customers, ones that you may have lost in the lean years and can bring back (even briefly now). Last year the biggest crowd at Target Field (36,952 to watch the Yankees on July 4th) wouldn't have been in the top 8 home crowds of the 2013 season--when the team was even worse. Sure a great team would solve that problem, but we aren't going to get a great team over night, so let's appreciate what we can have: a beloved local legend on a farewell tour (you saw the crowds for Jeter/Rivera? Torii might only get a tenth of that...but that's a lot better than the Twins have drawn recently).

And even if you don't see this as a cold, callous and calculated business decision, you can appreciate it as a comfortable move at a time of great uncertainty. There's a new manager, a bevy of new talent in the wings, the team is in flux and adding one familiar face, beloved by the front office, admired by the layman fan base, is a way to ease the transition from one regime to the next.

You may not believe the "clubhouse leadership" lines, you may not buy the "mentorship" lines, but what you buy and what you don't is moot now. The Twins bought Torii Hunter 2014, not 2011 or 2007, and they wanted to do that. If it fails, it fails, but if it excites a few absentee fans, if it eases the transition and if it supports the next generation of outfielders, then it's worth it.

Call it Twins Teri-Torii, call him Torii-Wan Kenobi, but above all else, call it what it is. A decision that was made (past tense), as fiercely as we may fight about it, argue about it and debate it, the results won't be known until next spring and summer. (Even then since the arguments are being made in different directions, there not be a winner. Maybe Tori'll be terrible and bring in fans/make the clubhouse brighter, or maybe he'll be great on the field and as insignificant as Jason Bartlett in the annals of Twins reunions gone by. We can all be right, we can all be wrong!)

Put your hands together for Joe Mauer!

Since returning from the disabled list, Joe Mauer has been quietly reassembling himself, like a hitting terminator emerging from the blazing hell fires of suckitude, back into the consistent--if robotic--man we all know and respect.

Mauer mid-rehab stint

While the hitting was something we all thought could return, we're glad to see that Mauer's defense has also been less terrible than in the past. We like to imagine that the reason for this is that Mauer has finally taken our advice and begun using his prime position at first base to develop his chops in a second career: stand-up comedian.

His time on the Disabled List was clearly beneficial to crafting a solid two minute set, and we at Peanuts from Heaven are proud to imagine the totally fake, and utterly made-up Joe Mauer comedy set, so everyone, please welcome to the Target Field first base bag....Joe Mother-Loving Mauer!

Mauer: Hello, it's a real pleasure to be here tonight. You seem like a, uhhhhhhhhh, very nice, you know, group of people. I'm going to say some things that I find comical, and I, uhhhh, hope you like them.

Okay. Start out with a classic here...

Knock-knock....

....

knock-knock...

....

It'll be faster if I do both parts, so, uhhh, who's there?

...Joe Mauer...

....Joe Mauer who?...

...My name's Joe Mauer and, ummmmmm...I'll be your first base comedian tonight...

.....

....

okay...

...

Have you ever noticed how much fun it is to play baseball?

.....

I have.

....

Do you know what I like about playing first base?

...

When guys in the clubhouse talk about girls, I can say that I've just been to first base with a lot of people....

...and it's not a lie...

...because lying would be wrong....

....

That's uh....that's...that's pretty great, you know.

...

Thank you.

...

So I, uhh, I had some milk before the game today.

...

Do you like milk?

...

You should try some, it's really great. and uhh...helps you build strong bones.

...yeah...

...

I was uhhh, on the disabled list recently you know?

And the thing about the disabled list is that it's sort of like being on the naughty list with Santa.

Except instead of a lump of coal, you get a massive radiating pain in part of your body and a tidal wave of insults from fans who think you're an overpaid cry baby.

...

Okay, that's my time...Your next comedian is Brian "You might be middle-infielder" Dozier.

A Game of Cold Weather and Hot Stoves Part III

Lately I've enjoyed toying with the idea of Game of Thrones mastermind George RR Martin would write about key events in the baseball offseason. With the Twins more or less moribund this time of year, it's the best way I can think of to be writing and giggling to myself. (More of the same are available at the sporting outpost Simon and I have set up [http://mackenzielowbudgetsports.tumblr.com/] including the Robinson Cano/Jay-Z Fanfic you've all be waiting for)

This week, George RR Martin writes the Masahiro Tanaka signing

The flickering of the fire off the pin-stripe cloaks armor was inspiring. It glittered and danced most dangerously, reminding all assembled for the royal audience that the king was both wealthy and powerful...and surrounded by a bunch of guys who could kill you just as soon as look at you.

But something made Ser Ivyn uneasy. He had been raised for this, a younger son of an average house he had no claim to property or title, and knew that his only way to survive in this world was to become handy with a sword and set of daggers, learning to hurl and spin them with deadly accuracy, leaving all those under his charge well guarded from the unwashed masses of humanity that hurl insults and feces with equal relish. 

His focus and dedication led him to the highest court in the land, at Yank's Landing, and earned him the noble title of Ser like many of his boyhood heroes: Ser Myke the Wise, Ser Andrew the Unaging, and Ser Rouger the One with Bacne and an Attitude Problem. Ser Ivyn was proud of all he had done, but, still uneasy.

After all, the recent unrest around Yank's Landing had made the King unpredictable, seeking far and wide for sellswords to add to the King's Guard. Some had made themselves invaluable, like Ser SeeSea, but all too often the king ignored the long nurtured, doubtlessly loyal knights (Ser Filip or Ser Jabba), leaving Ser Ivyn forever uncertain about his own future. 

Now there was a special welcome for Ser Teneka, who had been specially sailed across the wide and roaring seas to Yank's Landing. So great was the threat of the insurgents around him that the King sought out the greatest knights in all the world to protect him. And yet, thought Ser Ivyn, how long could you trust a sellsword to remain true? What was to prevent him from turning against you, as Roby had done just months before, vowing that he would be the King in his own way and galloping away with Ser Hova at his side.

There was danger afoot, and Ser Ivyn was uneasy. 

Let me talk about that some more for about 40 more pages without any other events actually happening...

The Ken Burns Test

In one week, the Hall of Fame will announce who (if anyone) was elected to Cooperstown. There are a privileged few who get to vote for those hallowed halls, but just because most bloggers don't have a say, doesn't mean we can't use our blogs to have a say about literally everything else, including silly little exercises in analyzing Hall of Fame voting.

Last year I offered an economist's sense of how to vote in order to maximize your ballot. This year, as I continue to avoid numbers at all costs, I offer a simpler eye test, or rather a simpler eye and ear test. Theoretically, a Hall of Famer should be a player so exceptional or transcendent that we want to remember them for years to come. Film director Ken Burns has shown many such exceptional/transcendent players in his epic 11 part, 22 hour saga of the game's history. So, theoretically, if a player and their accomplishments sound impressive in Ken Burns black and white tones with tinkling patriotic music and a rich baritone voice over, the player is worthy of consideration.

And so I present: The Ken Burns Test.


Based on that little exercise I feel like I'd be voting for Bonds, Clemens (grudgingly), Maddux, Piazza, Bagwell, Biggio, Mussina, Schilling and Morris (irrationally), which leaves one spot open for the underrepresented--even by me--Tim Raines.

Who would get your vote? Leave a note in the comments below

You say "celebration", I say "celebARTion"

With much of the baseball world fixated on insane gobs of money beginning to plop down in front of the utterly irrelevant (I don't know if John Lackey ever heard about the "Law of Supply and Demand" before...but it is clear that it's better to be looking for a job in a group of below average pitchers, than a group of above average ones), epic trade deals (Halladay for Lee for top prospects for more top prospects for the Gasden Purchase is almost done now) and on recapping the last decade in baseball (hey look it's our old buddy Sidney Fatso!(n)).

But in all that hubbub, some people might have missed the announcement that the Florida Marlins have found a new niche for their ballpark. Today, its' not enough to have your team hit a homerun, you must celebrate it in the most outlandish ways possible. In Milwaukee kids join a mascot for a skid down a slide, in Kansas City, Detroit and LA, geysers or fireworks erupt, in Philadelphia a red white and blue liberty bell gets a-clangin' and coming soon to our very own Twin Cities two neon behemoths will shake hands.

But none of those things, NONE compare to what the Florida Marlins want to do for their new stadium. No limitations to fireworks or fountains, no gaudy bells or old-time dudes being all friendly like. No, the Marlins need ART. Said Marlin's President David Samson about his team's new celebration: "It's very important to Jeffery [Loria, owner of the Marlins] that our ballpark be a museum of baseball....No one will be able to look at [this] and say, 'is that art or is that baseball?' It's both, it's art in a baseball park."

Click here to see the aforementioned "art". I will wait until you do so...............................

Do you see that art? Do you understand the deep metaphysical meaning? The soul rending suffering that went in to creating three smiley fishes jumping over manic pelicans in a set of devices that closely resembles a high-budget pop-up book? That is the fusion of baseball AND art my friends. Once their stadium is built, attending a ball game in Miami won't just be a "fun, family experience" it will be a culturally edifying adventure into the inner reaches of man's soul so that he can comprehend the intricate dance of life, baseball and cruelty to marine life.

Not to be out done, we here at Peanuts from Heaven will do our best to create our own artistic rendering of the joy that emanates from our soul when we receive comments on our blog. Therefore, whenever we receive comments from five separate individuals on a post we will create an epic testament to the resiliency of the human spirit, the intestinal fortitude of the upper midwest and the awesome power of the peanut, and then share that with the wider blogosphere in honor of your honoring us.

Our artistic genius is churning out new ideas as we speak...bring on the commentary, we beg of you!

Well...now it's a two game series

Thank merciful Jebus that I don't have to writhe in agony much longer.

Let me drop this visual metaphor on you:

The dude on the left represents me trying to watch the game and write Research methods notes in a library, while simultaneously watching the Twins fall behind, come back, screw up some great opportunities, come back, nearly blow it, and then win. Quoth the dude on the left: "it gets me every time."

The guy on the right represents all the peoples of Bowling Green, Ohio who couldn't care two shakes of a lamb's whiskers what happens.

The night was equally tense yet tantalizing, getting updates from a fellow student who had never flown her Twins flag till last night, but is going to the game tonight and is therefore one of my new favorite people ever. Then walking home with my parents and then Stinky giving me play-by-play as we kept it close (no matter what SportsCenter says about Justin Verlander's dominance--a one run win, is keeping it close).

Double headers are a pain, I'm impressed we kept them both close, and ecstatic that we won one, but that leaves two games to pretty much decide whether a) we are tied going into the last weekend, b) we are still two games back going into the last weekend, c) we are eliminated from contention and begin a mental preparation for four more months of Brett Favre saturation...le sigh.

I can dream, I can imagine great things, and a level playing field, but this is a good team we're playing, and we're playing in their house. I'm not giving up on the Twins, and even if we lose, I'll proudly watch the close of the dome, but if the worst case scenario happens, I'll be glad to shake the hands of Tigers fans and say: "In the name of all that is good and decent and midwestern, please beat the Yankees."

(And now that I've mentally adjusted myself, just watch as I go all spazzy again tonight)

P.s. ESPN is giving us and our Bedimpled Badass some love win or lose and apparently the Pohlads and Bill Smith managed to woo someone fairly awesome*.

*Note: Awesomeness of this guy is contingent on him actually being sixteen and not 30 years old with scurvy.

A matter of taste

I understand that Stinky has taken some guff for comments we made about the inappropriate behavior of announcers Ken Harrelson and Steve Stone. Since these inappropriate behaviors have not abated, I will now take my opportunity to chime in.

I will not blaspheme their parentage or personalities, I'm sure that both are very kind gentlemen who tousle the hair of small children, appreciate sad puppy dog eyes and help little old ladies load groceries into cars. But they are now officially my least favorite announcers (outside of Fox).

I'm not saying this out of personal rancor or animosity (as I do with the nattering nabob, nincompoops like Joe Buck and Tim McCarver), I'm saying this based purely on the two announcer's utter lack for decorum or variable behavior. I understand that if you follow a team for every game over the course of a season (or twelve) that you will have a strong personal allegiance to that squad HOWEVER, this does not give you license to behave like an utter knob when another team comes to town.

The Us. V.s. Them Mentality, the nitpicking, the whining, the complaining--these are signs of a small minded desire to belittle, badger and bully another squad. This is Yankee announcer behavior, this is Mets announcer behavior, this is not solid Midwesterner behavior. I'm stuck here in Ohio, watching and listening a variety of other broadcasts and nowhere have I encountered this personal vitriol. The Kansas City Royals announcers are down right chummy. The Blue Jays announcers relatively nonplussed but occasionally complimentary, Rangers announcers--like the Rangers themselves--totally nondescript.

Why then, White Sox, must you have two men who choose to remain utterly oblivious to Jason Kubel's name and existence (one of the most potent forces on an offense that's beaten them 2/3rds of the year), totally bumfuzzled by Carlos Gomez's defense (did it ever strike you that he might be good?), or completely incompetent at the pronunciation of Jose Mijares' name (Seriously? Me-har-ess, Mientkiewitcz I can understand, Mijares? That's a walk in the park!). {To be fair though, they love Delmon Young, no idea why, they just LOVE Delmon Young.}

To make matters worse I just had to listen to five minutes worth of whining over a bad strike call in the 9th inning. I understand that its frustrating to have a bad call go against you that late in a game, I certainly appreciated Dick and Bert sticking up for our side on that craptasm of poor Umpirery in Oakland. But to cover one bad pitch like it was responsible for the down fall of civilization (it ran the count to 1-2, and AJ swung at an even worse pitch for strike three--how was that Joe's fault?)--that's just dumb.

Finally, I want to say this--in three games I figured out Hawk Harrelson's mannerisms and calls, his home run chant: "Stretch! [Pause] You can put it on the board!", his strike out call: "he gone", and his game ending call: "Once this (comes down/gets to first) the game will be over." I can see the claim that such familiarity is charming, nearly comforting to regular fans of the White Sox--but I almost have to wonder, can't you be a trifle inventive? He seemed to wait for an excuse to say these catch phrases rather than weigh in with anything interesting. For every: "Touch 'em all," John Gordon utters he also spews forth intriguing stats and reminisces about by gone fishing buddies. Heck, Vin Sculley practically invented half the baseball lexicon and he still makes stuff up--he paints a picture, makes you feel like a part of the game--in three games I got the sense that Hawk Harrelson preferred to be the center of the show.

So just to sum up, I understand if these guys are your cup of tea, I understand if you love them with all your heart and mind and soul--but these announcers are anathema to making baseball universally accessible. There' s none of Vin Sculley's charm or Ernie Harwell's passion or Bert Blyleven's child-like glee, it's selfish, self-centered, egotistical, pomposity.

Fittingly--we've punished this poor announcing with a sweep in Chicago, so Pbbbt on you Chicago announcers. Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt!

Hey A$$holes

Dear Steve Stone and Ken Harrelson,

I am in no mood for your shenanigans.

I am up to my ears in business school midterms. I've started talking to my textbooks and dreaming about Barriers to Mobility and the Statement of Cash Flows. In addition, my neighbors have for some reason decided to play Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" super loud at 10pm on a Monday. No idea why.

It isn't pretty.

In my weak mental state, I am even less inclined to tolerate your complete and utter idiocy. I would like to hereby list my grievances against you:

1) You called the Metrodome "The Twinkie Dome." Ooooh. I'm so hurt. I think I'll go cry in a corner now. Jackass.

2) You picked the South to win the Civil War. I wish I'd made that up, but sadly it is a direct quote. This either means that a) you support slavery, b) you're really damn old, or c) you're so completely stupid that you don't realize the Civil War ended a LONG-ASS TIME AGO. Or all of the above.

3) You can't pronounce Kubel or Cuddyer.
Really? I mean....REALLY??? We're only in the same division as you. We've only played you about eight thousand times this season alone. Oh but wait - maybe if we pretend our opponents are irrelevant by mispronouncing their names, they'll realize how inconsequential they are and stop playing well. And then go cry in a corner (see (1)).

4) You called us "The Bad Guys." Are you kidding me? The ONLY team deserving of that title are they who shall not be named (Yankpires). And...really? The Twins??? I mean just look at this guy:

And this guy:

And, well.... :


We make people's hearts melt from too much cuteness. We are not the bad guys.

5) "Nobody has beaten us," you say. "We have beaten ourselves."
As much as I admire your internal locus of control, as you restrain yourself from blaming others for your failure, I have a feeling that your real intent is to insult every other team in the division.


So, Jim Harrelson and Steve Stone, what profound lessons of life can you glean from this small spewing of my sad, jumbled mind?

You went all grade-school playground on our asses. You made fun of our metrodome. You stumbled over "Um..Kubbble and Cuddwagzistein?" like you don't even know who these guys are, in an attempt to destroy our self esteem. You called us meanies. AND WE'RE STILL WINNING.

neener neener neener.

and now back to the high road.

Peace out.

Dear Brendan Harris

Please stop sucking.

We will take away your hat...we are NOT even kidding.

Love,

Peanuts from Heaven, Inc.

P.s. Lets not lose much more, okay guys?

Damn the Man!

I've been watching today's game against the Royals, and have been bamboozled at our inability to crush the Royals into a very fine powder of pathetic-i-tude. 

I mean...Francisco's cruising, and the Royals seem eager to end the season (hence their habit of meekly tapping every other pitch to an infielder). But we seem to be equally interested in getting out of town and going to Baltimore. (Though, why anyone in the world would want to go to Baltimore is beyond me.)

Everyone is swinging, but why? Fortunately, my mother, between knitting one and purling two spotted a problem in the first inning. Quoth the Queen of Chants: "Is that Brian Runge behind the plate?"

Brian Runge. The umpire whose very name co

nnotes gloom, doom and militias from Khartoum is behind the plate.

Brian Runge. The man who got Milton Bradley so mad the outfielder tear his ACL arguing a call. The man who thought Brendan Harris calling time was the same thing as Brendan Harris announcing: "please let the pitcher throw the ball, at my head if at all possible". The man who actually bumped and provoked Carlos Beltran and Jerry Manuel. The man our esteemed and beloved Garden Gnome thinks is a total knob.

Brian Runge. The worst umpire in America.

I'm sure he's a nice man outside of the park. A man his family and friends love. A man who breaks for broods of ducklings that cross the street and bakes pecan pies for elderly neighbors. But in the park he's a terror.

I normally have great patience with umpires. I umpired little league baseball and softball once upon a time and know that there are few jobs more difficult, or more soul sucking. (I know from first hand experience that getting called a "f***ing s***head" at age 13 by a grown man you've never met before is not real good for one's psyche. So just imagine getting that on a daily basis from several thousand people.) But for Brian Runge, his goading of athletes and utterly irrational calls, I have nothing but disdain.

As my mother, award winning sweater maker, noted, Runge seemed to think that every pitch thrown in the first inning was a strike. Even a ball thrown to Joe Mauer which literally went down the chalk line of the opposite batter's box. So why did that turn us into Wild Wavers of Wood?

Think about it: if an umpire's going to call anything thrown any where remotely near your bat, you can either swing at it and have a 25% chance of getting on base, or not swing at it and have a 100% chance of not getting on base. Thus our talented hitters could not do what they have previously done. They could not be patient, and whoop the ever-loving-tarnation out of the Royals...they could not get the Cisco Kid the win he so rightly deserved, they could only lose. Lose because of Brian Runge (and the bullpen...which sucks).

Why does Brian Runge do it? Why did he turn this into the one insane game of the series? Why? Because Brian Runge is the mortal enemy of the Minnesota Twins. A pox on his hotel room I say! A POX!! May the sheets be too tight! And the cable on the fritz! And may there only be wash cloths for toweling purposes! And the pillow mint, slightly moldy! SLIGHTLY MOLDY, I SAY!!