WWFFS?

If you saw our twitter feed yesterday (or on the right hand nav there) you'll see that we went to Target Field yesterday...and not just Target Field...an Event Suite in Target Field.

While this was probably a one time occurrence (unless a lottery ticket pays off or we write the great American novel in our spare time, it was absolutely amazing to sit back and soak up the joys of a day at the ballpark, with friends, family and 40,000 fellow fans. As if it wasn't enough to appreciate all that, we got to do it from an air conditioned box with plenty of hot dogs, complimentary popcorn and more cookies & brownies than even a rampaging horde of teenagers could consume.

This, my brother Simon would tell you is America at it's best. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Watching TC bounce around the field in his Uncle Sam gear, and cheering Brian Duensing's surprising shut-out (not to mention Danny & Cuddy's long-ball-a-palooza), left me to wonder...what would the founding fathers say [WWFFS] if they could see how we celebrate independence today?

Then I imagined this conversation in the seats around me:

George Washington: I cannot tell a lie! This is totally awesome!!

James Madison: True General! Who would have thought that our humble nation would expand thus westward, stretch yea skyward, and develop diversions so rapturous as to ensorscle the mind and senses?

Thomas Jefferson: I would have...I bought this place.

James Madison: Thomas, just because you bought Lousiana doesn't mean you bought...

Thomas Jefferson: Excuse me? I knew that our ever expanding populace would need more land to exercise their freedom and liberty. Therefore I purchased this land from Napoleon, therefore people explored and settled on it, therefore I am responsible for all of this awesomeness that you see...me...myself...I.

James Madison: But...

Thomas Jefferson: T-JEFF IN THE HOUSE!!!

George Washington: Who is that grandfatherly chap who keeps drinking milk on yon jumbotron? He exudes the fortitude of character and strong bones of natural leader.

Thomas Paine: That is Ronald Gardenhire, General. I should know...he is also a man of Common Sense! Ha HaHA! Ha.......Dost thou get my jest?!?

George Washington: Of course Thomas, but pray, don't be that dude, the Adamses are bad enough.

John Adams & Sam Adams: [Drunkenly staggering around] Red SAAWWWWXXXXX!!!! $*%& YOU DAMON!!! $*%&ING TRAITOR!!! BIG PAPI'D KICK YER AAAASSSSSSS!!!!!!!

John Adams: Get anudder beeeear Sammy.

Sam Adams: You get it...I made it...

John Adams: I was President...

Sam Adams: Yeah...fer just FOUR YEARS!! [John and Sam Adams start fighting]

George Washington: My but it's fun to watch that Revere lad run, wouldn't you say?

James Madison: Indeed sir, I wonder if he's any relation the Boston silversmith?

Thomas Paine: Unlikely James, Mr. Revere had an altogether different complexion

Thomas Jefferson: Yeah...they couldn't possibly be distantly related through forbidden love...

John & Sam Adams: Paul Revere's a #*%&!#_%&%!#%*^!@*&$^!@*%&

James Madison: OH MY! Did you see that play by Master Cuddyer! He leapt like an antelope and snared it with inestimable grace!

Thomas Jefferson: Indeed, it was rather impressive...though not quite as impressive as my invention of the dumbwaiter, which inspired the elevator which brought our fine catered meal to us this evening!

Thomas Paine: Thomas...

Thomas Jefferson: Do you doubt me? Have you forgotten that my quill coined the phrases that we honor this day? Have you forgotten that I begat the public university system from whence our youths have continuously developed their wisdom and the architectural schema of this very coliseum? What have you done to led our nation to this moment, T-Paine, other than write a dull pamphlet and invent auto-tuning?

Thomas Paine: Actually...that was the other T-Pain.

Thomas Jefferson: I thought so...now if you'll excuse me...[walks towards next box] Hello ladies, you can call me T-Jeff, what digits might I use to call you?

James Madison: It's okay, Thomas, you know T-Jeff...he's...well...

Ben Franklin: He certainly is. Now come men, you should eat more of these fine Hessian sausages. I had expected more Francophile cuisine to survive through the ages. But apparently the French, like my aphorisms, stink after 200 hundred years or so. What say you General Washington?

George Washington: I swear this Thome fellow used to deliver my morning news when he was a lad!

In case it's not clear from this rather silly set of dialogue, I'm a big nerd who not only loves baseball but also American history, and gently ribbing the founding fathers (they didn't want to be kings or nobles, I think they'd allow it).

A Country for Old Men

Since I'm back in Ohio and Stinky is vacationing in Montana, we must turn to our embedded reporter/columnist: Merlin the Wonder Dog for this post:

--August 18, 2010

Who says we don't respect our elders anymore?

Let's be honest here, I'm a dog, so a lot of this seems silly to me as an outside observer. Why are all you humans having a hullabaloo over a 40-something grown man playing a children's game. The cheers, the screams, the wall-to-wall media coverage, what gives? And why haven't you given me some food yet? But every once in a while, when an old dog rises to the occasion, we can't help but smile and cheer and become illogical puppies again.

"I mean, it's great, just so so great. He just...GOD...he makes me feel like I could do it myself" says Ron, his head shaking and his white hair shining in the light. "He deserves all the praise he gets and more!"

"I wanna be like him when I grow up!" said little Danny, a wide-smiling kid taking a break from Bieber fever to notice the brilliance of days gone by. "Only...maybe not so wrinkly!"

"Of course I'm happy, but don't you boys hit him too hard! He has a bad back!" said one of our local knitting champions.

Even out of towners know they're seeing something special

"Awesome. That's all there is to say about him, he's just awesome" says an unnamed grizzled southern farmer who had come to Minneapolis on business. "I don't follow sports much, but I mean, how can you not know about this guy! Pretty amazing stuff"

Ozzie from Chicago simply said: "Oh my jebus! You're a talking dog! What the *@#%&#^$!"

Despite the fact that yes, I am a talking, writing, dog, I think we can all agree (except Ozzie) that Jim Thome is the most important figure on the Minnesota sports scene. That his dedication and honesty can serve as a humble beacon after years of scandal and disrepute. That he is all that is good about sports.

Sports can inspire us (even the animals who force you to stop watching the game so we can go to the bathroom...though if you potty train us we can all stay inside...just saying). Sports can lift us up. It can show us what was old is new again, that perseverance pays off, and that even old dogs can learn new tricks.

--Merlin

*In other news, some guy...Farvruh...Favor...Favoray? Whatever, he's so inspired by Jim Thome that he will come and play for the local futbol team. So...I guess that's exciting.

Quickly

Before tonight's big tilt against the White Sox, I have to say you know that baseball is news when the paper of record (The New York Times) has two baseball stories on it's main page.

The first is sad news: Bobby Thompson (Bobby "Shot-Heard-Round-the-World-Giants-win-the-pennant!-Don-DeLillo-will-make-me-immortal-in-fiction" Thompson) died today at the age of 86. With Thompson's passing one of baseball's most legendary moments just became a whole lot more legendary. As the grainy film, scratchy radio and fading memories attest, what was once beautiful in the grand old game is sadly hard to hold on to. But Thompson's gentility, class and humility allowed the story to be told and handed down and loved by generations of dorks like me. Corny as all this might sound, I grew up reading old baseball stories, and Thompson's passing reminds me that all that I love about today's game will someday be as technologically inaccessible as the old radio broadcasts of the 40's and 50's. And it will fall to me, and Stinky and all of you to keep telling stories to grandkids and great-grandkids who will never know see the awesomeness that is Kirby and Mauer.

Okay, morose moment over. Serious moment at hand: the Times also reports that brain trauma's can have effects similar to ALS (commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease). Why does this matter? Well, consider that (according to the article) Gehrig--though Columbia educated--received great credit for "toughing it out" and "playing through the pain" of not only dings and dents, but a number of concussions. Which brings us to our first baseman: Justin Morneau and the troubling, baffling, anger at Morneau for being cautious with his return from concussion.

To be sure it would be great to have Justin in the line-up, but if, as this study suggests there's a heap of deleterious health considerations connected to doing anything but resting following a concussion, then I think all baseball talk needs to be put on hold and the man needs to rest up. So, why so many fans have taken intense umbrage at Morneau and the Twins for keeping him off the field leaves me dumbstruck. (To be fair there are many people defending this decision, and many more--smarter people--who don't read message board comments at all, but I digress.) If your passion for baseball is so intense that you cannot understand the need for a player to consider their health and well being--then you need to stop watching baseball and seriously reconsider your values.

Okay: Rant mode disengage. Enjoy the game tonight!

Heartbroken...kinda

Earlier this week Mark McGwire tearfully announced that he had indeed used steroids throughout his career, finally confirming what many have long suspected. I, Scruffy, was rather non-plussed, I remember the summer of '98, and how much I enjoyed the home run chase. (Though I was, admittedly a Sosa-man.) However, my love of the game came not from the chase alone, but from watching Ken Burns' epic documentary with my brother, playing "home-run-derby" in the driveway of our home, rereading "The Boys of Summer" and just generally reveling in the awesomeness of sport.

As cool as it was to watch those dingers fly, I tired of it quickly, and turned my attention thereafter to teams...first the Mets (since they were in contention) and then, back to the Twins when I moved to Minnesota. I learned to love the hard-nosed scrappy play--free from those titanic blasts, but full of the grit, determination and pluck which appeals to anyone who roots for underdogs. As more was said about steroids I cared less and less about homeruns and the men who hit them--I had Torii, I had Johan, I had Joe and Justin and Cuddy...what did I care what happened to Barry, Mark and Sammy?

So McGwire admitted it...and? I still love baseball, and I always will regardless of anything stated in an embarrassed press release by an erstwhile "hero" of the game. But I'm not alone in this, so what does Stinky think? Well...why don't we ask her? Stinky?

(Stinky takes over): True, I wasn't really shocked when McGwire admitted to using steroids. It's like Joan Rivers admitting she's had plastic surgery. But, it did make me sad. It made me sad for the players who never used steroids, who might have gotten more recognition had it not been for guys like McGwire, and for great players like Joe Mauer, who will now have to feel like their sudden ability to hit for power will put their honesty and integrity into question. And it also made me feel a little sad for McGwire himself, who honestly didn't seem to realize that what he'd done was cheating.

Back to Scruffy.

In a fit of late night awesomeness, Stinky and I have been enjoying some popcorn, humming some Sondheim and some hulu when we came across the following clip from our oft quoted (and occasionally plagiarized) friend Stephen Colbert. (We edited it to the germane part)

And just when you'd given up on the sport of Baseball altogether, you remember this guy. Honus Wagner: Professional Badass. Everyone knows it...even Stephen Colbert. It shall go down in the annals of history.

G'night everyone.

P.S. Dear Joe Mauer, since I gave you a shoutout can you give me a contract extension in return? Please...? We're waiting.

THE Official Peanuts From Heaven Podcast

So. We've been gone for a little while, but have we been lax in our devotion to the Twins? OH NO MY FRIENDS, oh no. Every morning Stinky checks her interweb for news on the Joe Mauer contract saga, every afternoon Scruffy clicks on a "Target Field Seat View" half way hoping that there will be snow on the diamond (to amuse him with the thought of Punto and J.J. Hardy building a snow infielder to supract opposing batters).

We have also been hard at work in our secret lair creating the newest entry in our epic tale of nerdy awesomeness: A PEANUTS FROM HEAVEN PODCAST.

But this is not just any mere, nerdy people who love baseball podcast, oh no, we don't talk about stats and signals and the season ahead (but to be fair, how often do we ever really talk about those things?). Instead, we here at Peanuts from Heaven have crafted a Podcast in the manner of an old-timey radio show set in the Old West. Who will be the hero of our podcast, you ask? HONUS WAGNER of course. Because nothing says "old-timey western" like a large german baseball player from the early 1900's. Below is the limited edition Episode I photoshop, and here are two ways to access said podcast.

If you just want to listen to it on the interweb you can click here to be diverted to a special webpage.

If you want to DOWNLOAD IT TO YOUR ITUNES (yes, we are officially that nerdy) you can click here and the "subscribe" button in your Itunes will give you regular access to our amuements.

Whichever you prefer we hope you enjoy our podcast.

Sincerely,

Peanuts from Heaven

Before the battle...

I know that we're about to play 3 against the team we're chasing (and that victory will mean new hope, while defeat will mean planning for 2010) and much as I would like to spew invective and cranky whatnots, I am not now, nor will I ever (hopefully) be a cable news pundit.

So instead, how about the best of the best from the voice of the Tigers, and something we can all agree on.

"A Game for All America", by Ernie Harwell (1955)

Baseball is President Eisenhower tossing out the first ball of the season; and a pudgy schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm. Its the big league pitcher who sins in night clubs. And the Hollywood singer who pitches to the Giants in spring training.

A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard from his dugout -- that's baseball. So is the big, fat guy with a bulbous nose running out one of his 714 home runs with mincing steps.

It's America, this baseball. A re-issued newsreel of boyhood dreams. Dreams lost somewhere between boy and man. It's the Bronx cheer and the Baltimore farewell. The left-field screen in Boston, the right-field dump at Nashville's Sulphur Dell, the open stands in San Francisco, the dusty, wind-swept diamond at Albuquerque. And a rock home plate and a chicken wire backstop -- anywhere.

There's a man in Mobile who remembers a triple he saw Honus Wagner hit in Pittsburgh 46 years ago. That's baseball. So is the scout reporting that a 16-year-old sandlot pitcher in Cheyenne is the new "Walter Johnson."

It's a wizened little man shouting insults from the safety of his bleacher seat. And a big, smiling first baseman playfully tousling the hair of a youngster outside the players' gate.

Baseball is a spirited race of man against man, reflex against reflex. A game of inches. Every skill is measured. Every heroic, every failing is, seen and cheered -- or booed. And then becomes a statistic. In baseball, democracy shines its clearest. Here the only race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is the rule book. Color is something to distinguish one team's uniform from another.

Baseball is Sir Alexander Fleming, discoverer of penicillin, asking his Brooklyn hosts to explain Dodger signals. It's player Moe Berg speaking seven languages and working crossword puzzles in Sanskrit. It's a scramble in the box seats for a foul -- and a $125 suit ruined. A man barking into a hot microphone about a cool beer, that's baseball. So is the sportswriter telling a .383 hitter how to stride, and a 20-victory pitcher trying to write his impressions of the World Series.

Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words. A carnival without kewpie dolls.

A housewife in California couldn't tell you the color of her husband's eyes, but she knows that Yogi Berra is hitting .337, has brown eyes and used to love to eat bananas with mustard. That's baseball. So is the bright sanctity of Cooperstown's Hall of Fame. And the former big leaguer who is playing out the string in a Class B loop.

Baseball is continuity. Pitch to pitch. Inning to inning. Game to game. Series to series. Season to season. It's rain, rain, rain splattering on a puddled tarpaulin as thousands sit in damp disappointment. And the click of typewriters and telegraph keys in the press box -- like so many awakened crickets. Baseball is a cocky batboy. The old-timer whose batting average increases every time he tells it. A lady celebrating a home team rally by mauling her husband with a rolled-up scorecard.

Baseball is the cool, clear eyes of Rogers Hornsby, the flashing spikes of Ty Cobb, an overaged pixie named Rabbit Maranville, and Jackie Robinson testifying before a Congressional hearing.

Baseball? It's just a game -- as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, business -- and sometimes even religion.

Baseball is Tradition in flannel knickerbockers. And Chagrin in being picked off base. It is Dignity in the blue serge of an umpire running the game by rule of thumb. It is Humor, holding its sides when an errant puppy eludes two groundskeepers and the fastest outfielder. And Pathos, dragging itself off the field after being knocked from the box.

Nicknames are baseball. Names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki and Home Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy.

Baseball is a sweaty, steaming dressing room where hopes and feelings are as naked as the men themselves. It's a dugout with spike-scarred flooring. And shadows across an empty ballpark. It's the endless list of names in box scores, abbreviated almost beyond recognition.

The holdout is baseball, too. He wants 55 grand or he won't turn a muscle. But, it's also the youngster who hitch-hikes from South Dakota to Florida just for a tryout.

Arguments, Casey at the Bat, old cigarette cards, photographs, Take Me Out to the Ball Game -- all of them are baseball.

Baseball is a rookie -- his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat -- trying to begin fulfillment of a dream. It's a veteran, too -- a tired old man of 35, hoping his aching muscles can drag him through another sweltering August and September.

For nine innings, baseball is the story of David and Goliath, of Samson, Cinderella, Paul Bunyan, Homer's Iliad and the Count of Monte Cristo.

Willie Mays making a brilliant World Series catch. And then going home to Harlem to play stick-ball in the street with his teen-age pals -- that's baseball.

And so is the husky voice of a doomed Lou Gehrig saying, "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth."

Baseball is cigar smoke, hot-roasted peanuts, The Sporting News, winter trades, "Down in Front," and the "Seventh-Inning Stretch." Sore arms, broken bats, a no-hitter, and the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner.

Baseball is a highly paid Brooklyn catcher telling the nation's business leaders: "You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you, too."

This is a game for America, this baseball!

Good use of company time

This is what I do when my brain hurts from making powerpoints.

So...last night wasn't as good as it could have been.

You would think that with the bases loaded and one out, and Kubel and Crede batting, that we'd be able to bring in at least one run.

You would think that. But you would be wrong. I had the strange urge to dig my eyeballs out with a dull, rusty spoon, which would probably have been less painful than watching Crede ground out to first.

... I may have exaggerated slightly. But you get the point.

Just to clarify: I kind of like the Pirates and if forced to live on the East Coast, I'd probably adopt them as my new team.

I approve of the Pirates for the following reasons:
1) Their mascot. As we all know, pirates are totally bad-ass.
2) Honus Wagner. Also totally bad-ass. First, there's this post; there's also the book Crazy 08 which, although it was really about the Cubs, made me want to root for Wagner and the Buccs instead. I actually have a picture of Wagner on my living room wall, which is right next to a picture of Ty Cobb. If these pictures came to life like in Harry Potter, they'd probably maul each other. I may or may not have thought about this when I was deciding where to hang the photos.
3) Their fans are pretty cool. Scruffy went to a Pirates game in Pittsburgh last year, saw them win and had a great time. We also made some new friends (frenemies?) over at Honest Wagner who let us hang out on their blog even though we're fans of the other team. Apparently they drink beer and say "shit" a lot. I can get behind that.

The only problem I have with the Pirates really is Delwyn Young because come on, that's just confusing.


Tiebreaker today - maybe the best man win!
(We're obviously the best man but shh.... don't tell the Pirates fans! ;)

Ready for the (Alternate Universe) Season

Frequent readers of this space no doubt recall the attempts of the Alternate Universe Twins to compile the greatest collection of total badasses ever to put on a Twins uniform. That collection of talent was completed today with the addition of Center Fielder Kirby Puckett, and the official taking of the team photo capturing their souls.

(From Left to Right: LF: Ty Cobb, 3B: Pepper Martin, 1B: Jackie Robinson, CF: Kirby Puckett, 2B: Frankie Frisch, RF: Frank Robinson, SS: Honus Wagner, Manager: Earl Weaver, C: Yogi Berra)

During the taking of the team portrait the following conversation was overheard.

KIRBY: Thanks for letting me join the team guys, this is totally cool.

PEPPER: Cool? I'm boiling up. Why are we dressed like this?

HONUS: Because this officially sanctioned "Badass Gear"

TY: More like..."Sadass Gear"

JACKIE: Dude, what have we said about kicking your ass?

EARL: Guys, calm down!

FRANK: Yeah, come on guys, we can kick ass as a team, and if we kick ass dressed like this, it'll be totally surprising!

FRANKIE: And our clothing will be totally distracting.

FRANK: We'll be utterly unbeatable....If only there were a word for what we would do...

YOGI: Is it just me or am I taller than I used to be?

JACKIE: Way to change the topic Yogi.

PEPPER: So I guess there's nothing left to do but beat all manner of alternate universe teams

KIRBY: Uh...guys...

HONUS: And be utterly badass

KIRBY: Uh...guys...

FRANK: Yup, should be real easy with this massive collection of talent.

KIRBY: Uh...guys...

FRANKIE: Yeah, I mean...is there anything we can't do?

YOGI: I can't dance.

JACKIE: I can't perform liposuctions.

TY: I can't be a decent human being for more than five minutes at a time.

KIRBY: Uh...guys...can any of us pitch?

[Pause]

TY: I knew the M#%(*@#$%^&(@#ers who compiled this roster forgot something.

EARL: Ty...

TY: @$#^#$%&!@#$%!@%$&!#$%!@$!#^!#%!@#$!@#$!!!!

FRANK: Dude, was part of that in German?

HONUS: Romansche actually...but Ty's profanity hasn't solved our problem

TY: No but it did make me feel %)!(%*^!*@&%)*%^!(!*@&%)!#^ better!

EARL: Anyway, who should pitch for us?

HONUS: I vote for Christy Mathewson, he's a decent human being, and an incredibly talented pitcher.

TY: What about Walter Johnson, he used to play for the franchise in Washington, and he actually avoided hitting me in the head, despite the fact that I clubbed his puppy over the head with a shovel...

[PAUSE]

JACKIE: You don't get to talk any more.

PEPPER: As long as we're trying to be surprising and distracting, how about Dazzy Vance, he used to bleach his shirts to match the ball, and blind the crap out of hitters.

FRANK: And Bert Blyleven's farting was so surprising and distracting I still wake up nights sweating.

EARL: Well this is great, we've got four great pitchers, but since the modern game specializes in five man rotations, I think we could use one more. Anyone know someone who totally transcends the game, pitches like a genius, can dance, perform the odd liposuction and stop Ty being totally reprehensible?

[Johan Santana walks by]

JOHAN: Hey guys...cool uniforms.

[Silence]

YOGI: He's perfect...

And so it was that the Alternate Universe Twins completed their roster and began a path towards world domination.

What the World Needs Now:

Is more news from the Alternate Universe Twins, who are proud to welcome Right Fielder Frank Robinson to the clubhouse. A man who actually hits homeruns...a lot of homeruns...and still finds time to run into walls, slide into bases, and spit into faces of authority. What a guy.

Upon joining the clubhouse Robinson and the rest of the Alternate Universe Twins had the following discussion.

HONUS WAGNER: Welcome Frankie.

YOGIE BERRA: Glad you're here, Frank.

TY COBB: [Grunt]

JACKIE ROBINSON: Nice to have you with us, Frank.

PEPPER MARTIN: Hey! Now we've got two Robinsons, maybe you guys are related!! Ha, ha...ha-- [noticing no one has laughed, Martin becomes quiet and looks at his shoes]

FRANKIE FRISCH: It's great to have you on our side, Frank.

MARTIN: Hey! Now we've got two Franks! Maybe you guys are related!! Ha, ha...ha--[again no one laughs, and Martin checks his shoelaces again]

F-ROB: Thanks you guys, it's great to see you. But I suppose I should meet with the manager.... Who is the manager?

[Awkward Pause]

FRISCH, BERRA, WAGNER, COBB: I AM!

COBB: You big, sauer-kraut eating, Herman-Hesse reading, Berlin-Wall spackling lummox! You ain't no manager, ya only done it for 6 games!

WAGNER: It was Pittsburgh, nobody wants to manage in Pittsburgh [grumble of consensus] Besides. I'm the oldest, the wisest and the most German of all of us. So I should do it!

COBB: I should do it! I'm the meanest man in the history of the whole wide world [grumble of consensus] Y'all would do what I say soon as I told ya, 'cuz everybody loves the person they hate!

[Pause, even Berra looks confused]

FRISCH: Ty would you like to have friends on this plane of existence? Then don't say stupid stuff...that's Yogi's job [Cobb gets quiet]. Look this is silly, I'm the one who won a World Series! I should be manager!!

BERRA: But I managed in two World Series!! You only made it to one!! And Two is twice as much as half of one! 

[Pause...Math is stupid]

F-ROB: You know, I've managed more than Yogi, Honus and Ty put together and I've won almost as much as Frankie without the benefit of having good players.

WAGNER: Yet you cried when you took out Matthew/Fatthew LeCroy for stinking at catcher.

F-ROB: [Getting teary eyed] I didn't want to embarrass him, he's a good man, and a tough player and I didn't do the right thing...

COBB: Cry baby

F-ROB: [Punches Cobb in the face] PUNK! Don't you ever make fun of emoting!! It is what seperates us from the animals--

[Everyone argues at once]

JACKIE ROBINSON: Guys...guys...guys!

[Shouting dies down]

BERRA: I like pudding.

J-ROB: Might I make the suggestion that maybe we shouldn't have a player manager. Maybe...just maybe, we should have one guy focus on the managing and the rest of us focus on the playing?

WAGNER: But who could it be?

J-ROB: Well, this is Minnesota. Who ever it would be would have to be wily, crafty, he would have more wins and more pennants than all of you, so you all would respect him, he would have to be capable of great profanity, used to getting thrown out of games, and he would need an impeccable sense of timing.

["We Can Work It Out" begins to play on clubhouse radio. And a man appears in the hallways. He is short, a little paunchy with white hair flying out behind him in his fury as he berates a peanut vendor.]

EARL WEAVER: You call these @^&#$^@ Peanuts!! They aren't salted!! They aren't Heavenly!! You're a &$%^#^%@ing  ^^$%@#er!! [Peanut vendor looks scared] Yeah! Yeah!! That's right..look scared! Cry a little! That'll salt the peanuts just right!! [Wever knocks the peanut bag into the air and marches forward through the tunnels muttering] Rass-afrassing-$%&@^-a-@%%%&*!!!

COBB:...I like him.

So it was that Earl Weaver was made manager of the Alternate Universe Twins. Because on Valentine's Day, what the world needs now is love, sweet love.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Refuge from Malaise

When the biggest addition to your franchise is a new groundskeeper, you may become a little desperate in your dreams for new acquisitions. It is in that spirit that we present another announcement from the Alternate Reality Twins: where classic ballplayers who exemplify the Twins style of play are brought into the clubhouse (and all for an amount the Pohlad's are willing to pay).

Joining outfielder Tyrus Cobb and the already formidable infield of Frankie Frisch, Honus Wagner and Pepper Martin, the Alternate Reality twins offer a warm welcome to new first baseman: Jack Roosevelt Robinson, and new catcher: Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra. 

The following conversation solidified the team:

BERRA: Where da bejeesus are we?

ROBINSON: It's an alternate reality. A place where classic ball players are still alive, steroids have never been invented and tens of people actually read this blog.

BERRA: But whadd're we doin' here?

ROBINSON: Well, the Twins are a scrappy, contact-hitting, slick-fielding, always-running, hard-throwing, dirt-in-the-shirt kind of team. I'm here because that's exactly what I brought to Brooklyn in 1947, and that's the way I always played for my entire career.

BERRA: But whadd'em I doin here?

ROBINSON: Well, rather than doom you to a life under the thumb of George Steinbrenner, where you have to make insurance commercials featuring a talking duck, we've brought you to Twin Cities to fight for truth, justice and make surreal and occasionally stupid statements for comic relief.

BERRA: I heard about them Twin Cities, I heard they're as close to each other as Minneapolis is to St. Paul!

ROBINSON: Um...yeah. Anyway you'll be catching for the team, you think you can handle that, Yogi?

BERRA: Well I heard 'em say it could never be done, but that don't mean it ain't possible!

ROBINSON: Um...yeah. Well, Yogi, you have to know one important thing: we hate the Yankees and everything they stand for.

BERRA: WHA?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

ROBINSON: It's true and if you're going to be part of this team you'll have to despise them too isn't that right guys?

FRISCH, MARTIN, WAGNER: YEAH!

COBB: Or you can be like me and hate everything!!

BERRA: But I got good memories 'bout the Yankees, and my memory ain't so good.

ROBINSON: But Yogi, the Yankees are evil--

WAGNER: They are actually vampires--

FRISCH: They are the cause for all human suffering--

MARTIN: They ran over my cat--

COBB: Then Babe Ruth ate that cat and ruined the American Housing market.

BERRA [With fingers in his ears]: LA-LA-LA-LA-LA If I can't hear nothin', nothin's true!! The fundamentals of our economy are strong! LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!!

ROBINSON [Pulling Berra's fingers out of his ears]: Yogi, it's okay. You're with us now. You aren't like the rest of them.

WAGNER: You are not a prima donna.

FRISCH: You would play any position the manager asked you to.

MARTIN: You actually had a personality rather than being a soulless hitting automaton.

COBB: You're ugly. [Others glower at Cobb] What? The rest of them had a nether-worldly glamour about them. Yogi's a lot of things, but glamorous he ain't.

BERRA: Thanks Ty! I'd rather be a lot of things than just one!

ALL: Um...yeah.

ROBINSON: So what do you say Yogi? 

WAGNER: Do you want to play hard?

FRISCH: Get dirty?

MARTIN: Stop evil?

COBB: And keep being ugly?

BERRA: Ya know what fellahs...when in the course of human events it becomes necessary and-- indeed--salutary for the morally upright and virtuous in the world to raise arms against the nefarious machinations of vampiric cruelty, the defense of truth, justice and Midwestern honor is more than a worthy cause, it's a holy quest, for which I will gladly risk my life.

ALL: Huh?

BERRA: Yes, I'm in.

And so was Yogi Berra turned away from the dark-side to the forces of truth and light.

All that was old is new again

The Alternate Universe Twins are proud to announce the signings of Center Fielder: Tyrus Raymond Cobb, Second Baseman: Frankie "The Fordham Flash" Frisch, and Third Basemen/Utility man: Johnny Leonard Roosevelt "Pepper" Martin, also known as "the Wild Horse of the Osage". 

Why are we proud to announce these signings you ask? Because all these players will compliment already signed Honus Wagner: Professional Badass. And because it enables us to envision the following dialogue.

MARTIN: "So I sez to the guy, I sez: 'If Charlie Chaplin gets a thousand bucks fer fallin' down, ya otta put me in pictchers, I fall down fer free!' "

FRISCH: "Mmm-hmm."

MARTIN: "Wuzza matta skip? don't ya like my stories no more?"

FRISCH: "What's that?"

MARTIN: "Ya ain't payin' no attention to me. Ty likes 'em--"

COBB: "No I don't."

MARTIN: "Yeah, well, Honus does."

WAGNER: "I'm German...I don't like anything but potato salad and Wagner."

FRISCH: "Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?"

WAGNER: "No, I meant Wagner, the opera composer."

MARTIN: "Oh, yeah...I mean who doesn't like quickly shifting tonal centers, and rich chromaticism in their operas?"

COBB: "I don't."

MARTIN: "C'mon Skip, wuzza matter?"

FRISCH: [Sigh] "I don't know Pepper, I just feel like we're out of step in this new baseball world."

MARTIN: "Whatcha mean? Is it that Ty and Honus ain't been colorized yet?

COBB: "I won't ever be colored."

WAGNER: "Ty, we said we'd sign you if you stop being racist. Say anything like that again and I'll punch you in the face."

FRISCH: "Fellas, don't fight, and Ty don't make us punch you in the face."

MARTIN: "So what is it Skip?"

FRISCH: "It's just...I have to wonder if there's a place in baseball today for a bunch of gritty, hard playing guys, who can't hit the ball out of the park but work their butts off on the field?"

COBB: "Yer right, how many players today would get their tonsils taken out by a quack doctor just so they could play that night?"

MARTIN: "Or slide head first every single time, just cuz they like gettin' there uniforms dirty?"

COBB: "Or even think about stealing home?"

MARTIN: "Or drop water filled paper bags out of hotel windows and put pepper in ventilation systems for a joke?"

FRISCH: "You see fellas? We're out of step with the time. I bet there isn't even a manager who gets thrown out of games as often as I did. Gone are the feuds, the fines, the profanity and the fun."

WAGNER: "Sassafrass!"

OTHERS: GASP!!!

WAGNER: "Sorry for my foul language, but it's true. I mean, that's why we're in this dugout now."

COBB: "I thought we were in this dugout because two bloggers thought it would be funny."

WAGNER: "Shut up, Ty. Profane, tirade loving umpires, Frank? Have you forgotten that Ron Gardenhire seems to live only for insanity? Head first slides, Johnny? How do you think Cuddyer and Cassilla keep hurting their hands? Getting tonsils taken out by a certifiable lunatic, Ty? Well...actually...I think that's just stupid."

COBB: "I don't."

WAGNER: "Fine...but if anyone else is that crazy it's probably Carlos Gomez."

FRISCH: "What are you saying, Honus?"

WAGNER: "I'm saying there's a reason we're the alternate universe Twins and not the alternate universe Yankees or Dodgers or Astros. This alternate universe isn't Bizzaro World where everything's the opposite and the Yankees are the embodiment of goodness and light [EVERYONE SHUDDERS]. This is a place where great players of the past come together to embody the true nature of teams today. The Twins are tough, and gritty and profane and a little crazy. They play like we play. That's why we love them. That's why we're their alternate universe dopplegangers."

MARTIN: "You know, fer all the metaphysics, Honus is right."

FRISCH: "Yeah, I think you've got a good point there Wagner."

COBB: "I don't."

FRISCH: "You don't?"

COBB: "No, I do, I just only seem to say 'I don't'."

FRISCH: "Well now that that's settled lets go play us some baseball boys"

[ALL CHEER AND RUN OUT OF THE DUGOUT.]

A Very Special Year End Post

‘Twas the night before New Year’s and in all the dome

Just one creature was stirring, but it wasn’t the gnome

Nor Gogo, nor Lexi, nor ol’ Brian Bass

Nor Mauer, nor Justin, nor his award winning ass.

‘Twas Delmon Lou Who, his vision all fuzzy

toddling ‘round in his snug little onesie.

He just couldn’t sleep with the rumors so many

Talk of his failings and Jim Souhan’s envy.

He shuffled from whirlpool to the buffet

But each single step increased his dismay

“I don’t wanna go!” he whined with great fury

But the things that we need have forced me to worry

A third baseman with pop and relievers aplenty

But I may have to leave to get either or ANY!”

“I’m not scrappy like Carlos, or sweet like Cuddy,

I don’t have Span’s arm, or Kubel’s goatee.

Teams want a good hitter, and I could be one

But other teams suck, I wanna have fun!”

“I wanna play somewhere there’s always some action,

Some jokes and some laughs and lots of Supraction!

And you wanna know why? I’ll tell you the reason!

I mastered this art in just one little season!”

“I suprise! I distract! I get the job done!

When you want to win in wildly weird way, why...I’m number one!

So how can I stay here and not have to go?

Won’t someone out there, just let me know?”

So Delmon LouWho sat down in his locker

His head hanging down, and then came the shocker.

“I’ll tell you how,” came a voice from the cool

and out of the shadows stepped Muddy Ruel.

“Who are you?” Asked Delmon in a tone most incredulous

“And why to your words, should I acquiesce?”

“Huh?” stammered Muddy in utter confusion

“stop using big words or you’ll get a contusion.”

“My name’s Muddy Ruel, and I used to play

For this organization back in the day.

We played in D.C., but that doesn’t matter

Senator or Twin, the former’s the latter.

“I’m here to help you remain part of our cast

Because I’ve become The Ghost of Twins’ Past

I’ll explain through a story of one year in our lore

The glorious year Nineteen Twenty-Four.

“I was a catcher, and I did what I could

to help our team win, like any man should.

But the Senators, well, they couldn’t quite hit,

or field, or win...they just played like [Radio Edit]

“But man could they pitch, oh boy what a sight!

They could strike out the side at day or at night.

With Mogridge and Zachary and their truly big gun,

No, not Firpo Mayberry, but Walter Johnson.

“You’ve never seen anyone sling it as fast,

His arm looked just like a fly fishing cast

It swooped and it swiveled, it zigged and it zagged

It quickled and frickled and raggeldyragged

“When Walter pitched for us the team was a force,

But every team needs something extra, of course.

A well timed jolt, to give us some traction,

A little thing we liked to call...............Supraction!”

“When we made the World Series, for the first time in history

Just how we would win, remained a big mystery.

To make matters worse, Walter, he struggled,

he lost both his starts, and our chances were muddled.

“We got to game seven, back in D.C.

But we only had one run, the Giants had three.

Then Walter came in and, with his arm, saved the day

We got the scored tied and went on with play

“Through the ninth and the tenth and eleventh we went

And on to the twelfth, which seemed heaven sent.

They dropped my foul pop, so I ripped a double,

Walter reached on an error and then they had trouble.

“As you can tell, I’m not that athletic.

It’s not my fault, it’s purely genetic.

So to score from second I needed some help

And it came from Earl MacNeely, a rascally whelp.

“He hadn’t played much in the course of the year

The Giants thought they had no cause to fear.

Earl hit a week squib down the third base line

And while Fred Lindstrom closed in, the moment was mine.

“I raced for third and as I sped there

The bouncing ball rose up in the air

So I kicked my leg high and with my big toe

I poked that weak squib off a divot, you know.

“It took a wild hop, and Lindstrom was lost

His error was huge, and oh, what a cost!

If you don’t have the ball, you can’t make a throw

And since there’s no throw, homeward, I’d go.

I dashed ‘cross the plate and thus we had won

for the first time since ever: Washington: #1!!”

“I don’t understand.” Said Del, rather snitty.

“How will this help me stay in the Cities?

Why did you tell me this and take up my time

Worse still, why did you have to do it in rhyme?”

“The point, dear Delmon, is simple my friend.

You’re part of the journey, not just the end.

You’ve got to remember you’re part of a story,

A win for you, brings all of us glory.

“Respect the city, the state and the fans,

Then the cheers will rain down from all over the stands.

Honor your teammates from starters to subs

Help out your pitchers, ya’ understand bub?

And always remember that though you are strong

Some of us were here before you came along.

“Before Opie came Earl, and before Joe there was me

Before Francisco and Blackburn, there was Walter, you see?

Be one of us Delmon, be part of the team

Supract them with rhymes, and your talent will gleam.

With a smile and a wink, Muddy stood up to go

Delmon looked tired, but now he did know

He knew why we all come to watch and be loud. 

He knew how to play and make the team proud

We cheer/play for the Twins not because it’s in fashion,

We cheer/play for the Twins because it’s our passion.

As he walked into shadow, Muddy turned and he said

“It’s been a big day now trot off to bed, 

and what ever you do, don’t ever forget...

SUPRACTION SUCKA!!” *Poof...there he went*