Here's the truth. Both of us peanuts love Ron Gardenhire. We know that we're in the minority there...especially after the last four years...but c'mon, he looks like a little garden gnome. He's ADORABLE!
Seriously though, thank you for the support you provided and the lack of lawsuits you threw our way Gardy. You're a cool dude.
But now our attention turns to the real focus of the hour. Who will replace Gardy on the top of the Twins dugout step?
Maybe without the glove...
Right now the fan base seems split into two camps:
1--Someone in house who can carry on the "Twins Way" and maintain the loyal, disciplined, do the little things right mentality that helped Kelly and Gardenhire lead the Twins to seven more postseasons than they ever had before. (More postseason berths helped that too.)
2--Someone from outside the organization who can provide a fresh perspective, a new way of doing things and maybe, just maybe, EVEN MORE POST SEASON WINS!!
But why not split the difference and choose someone who has been loyal and integrated in the Twins for the last fifty-or-so years, AND is not yet part of the organization? Someone who knows "The Twins Way" AND can approach problems in a way that no manager has ever done before?
That's why my pick to be the next Twins manager is...MY MOM!!
Yes, I think my mother should be the next Twins manager and before you scoff, allow me to deliver the following points in her favor.
She's a life-long Twins fan, a former member of the knot-hole gang in Bloomington, homer-hanky waver from Montana, and loyal knitter/shouter from her current home in Minneapolis.
She has over three decades of experience tending to unruly boys who don't know what's best for them
She's an excellent cook (so the Pohlad's can save on wasteful post game spreads in lieu of post game potlucks!)
She has better nicknames for players than most managers do, and can lead rally-chants like "Mientkiewicz, Mientkiewicz, Make me a Sandwich!"...which will be particularly useful if Douggie M. is her Bench coach.
She is wise enough to tell players after critical errors: "Don't do that!" in the kind of stern, but loving tone that players will definitely respond to.
She speaks French which is kind of like Spanish...
She knows enough social media to engage with fans, but not so much that she would get distracted (unlike Ozzie Guillen)
I'm sorry, I'm sure you're nice people But No...just No.
Hiring her would give young female fans something to aspire and relate to OTHER than being a Fox Sports North Girl.
She's a state championship knitter, which would be killer at charity auctions and events ("Bid on this award winning sweater from the Twins manager")
She's an excellent Mezzo-Soprano, so our national anthems will forever be on pitch!
She's working to understand SABR-metric statistics, but still appreciates a good RBI.
I know that many will prefer to debate the merits of Manny Acta versus Terry Steinbach, and others will say that managers don't make much difference anyway...but I don't care. I'm fully on board with this.
Yes, all you loyal readers out there (which blogger seems to think is in the 1,000 range and I know is much closer to the 1.000 range), I have won something, because the Twins (in turn) won something!
With their victory last night over the Detroit Tigers I have triumphed over both my wife (and fellow blogger) and my father-in-law to accurately predict that the Twins would win about 70-71 games this year
YAY! Someone we've never met has won a prize for doing nothing
more than making a slightly more accurate guess than other people!
YAAY, MR. PEANUT!!
Clearly, the Twins did this to thank me for my years of selfless blogging on their behalf. My positive attitude and enthusiasm. Still, it was a team effort, with a host of victories being tallied courtesy of a surprisingly strong Eduardo Escobar (justifying the love I gave him back when he used Grease as his walk up music), an unusually potent second baseman, a bullpen that didn't struggle until recently, and Phil Hughes' New Years resolution to give up walking people.
However, clearly the most important person was me, which is why I've been saying that "I" won, rather than "we" won. Although, to be true to myself, it seems only right that I offer the Twins a sip of my scotch. So come on over, Ricky Nolasco! Come on over, Oswaldo Arcia! Come on over, Kyle Gibson and Anthony Swarzak, Ryan Pressley and Brian Duensing, Kurt Suzuki and Trevor Plouffe, Danny Santana, and Kennys Vargas (assuming you're actually old enough to drink), you can even come on over, Joe Mauer: The Drinks are on Me! (Or more accurately, my wife and father-in-law who graciously don't see this as bragging!)
And now the only question is--Balvenie Portwood, or Laphroig 25?
As the Twins celebrate the workers of the world by beating the crab-cake consuming, wanna-be Lords of the American League, Baltimore Orioles (in a game punctuated by Joe Mauer exploiting Delmon Young's defense like the cold blooded despot that he is), it's time to check back in on our annual scotch bet.
Yes, it's been 10 games since my last update which means that we are now down to just 25 games left in this season and this year's scotch bet. So where do we stand?
Gouger's Bet: 75-87 or better Smelly's (my) Bet: 70-92 to 74-88 Stinky's Bet: 69-93 or worse 2014 Twins 60-77...on pace for 71 Wins
Yes, I'm still, marginally ahead here...thank you very much Chairman Mauer for absolutely annihilating Orioles pitching today, and no thanks to you bullpen for beginning the overworked implosion that you have so rightfully earned.
Here's how the Twins need to fare in their last 25 games for us each to win
If the Twins win 9 games or less, Stinky wins
If the Twins win 10-14 games, I win
If the Twins win 15 or more games, Gouger wins.
Things are looking up...get it? Get it?
Now, you can start to see the challenge here...my father-in-law needs the Twins to post a winning record over the final month of the season, in the heat of a playoff race, at a time when the bullpen is exhausted, the starting pitching is inconsistent and the opponents are desperate not to have any bad losses.
Good thing he's such an optimist.
So...Who do we play for the next 10 games? Chicago at home for 2, the Angels at home for 4, the Indians on the road for 3, and one spare game in Chicago. Who has the edge? Call me crazy, but I'll say me. The Twins have a winning record against exactly one team left on their schedule...and it's the White Sox. If they grab two of those three and one from the Indians, they'll be in a good place for the next set of ten (featuring more White Sox, more Indians, and the surprisingly Twins-averse Tigers). Provided that the Angels don't crush our souls, I could well be on my way to sweet, sweet scotch.
Welcome back, Gulf of Tonkin
What matters most this week? It has to be the bullpen. With the offense by turns effective and exhausted, and the starting pitching in "Gibson, Hughes, prepare to lose" mode, it rests on the increasingly underrested bullpen arms to save the day. So here's hoping that Logan Darnell, Lester Oliveros, Michael Tonkin and AJ Achter are up to the challenge.
Game 57 Twins 3 - Royals 0
Right after we honored him as Mr. Peanut for the past two weeks, Ryan Doumit kept it going all Magic Mike Style, bringing sexy back as only he can.
Or like one other person can...because Samuel De-dude-bro joined in the party, rockin' the Royals like it ain't no thang. Proving that the Doumit/Deduno Combo plate is dangerous to opponents...not to mention, the ladies...
Game 58 Royals 4 - Twins 1
In an effort to make games faster, the Twins and Royals agreed to decide the outcome of the game in the first inning. Making Daniel Lough's RBI double the difference maker. Unfortunately, they were still forced to play 9. [Cue sad trombone] Game 59 Royals 7 - Twins 3
I was all set to make another Mike Pelfrey crack since he gave up a one run lead in the sixth (as per the usual), but he ended up not giving up the go ahead run (an honor that went to Jared Burton instead). So it's progress! Let's have some celebratory Nickleback for Mike Pelfrey!!
Game 60 (Rained out)
There was a real honest-to-goodness hurricane near Washington DC Friday. So not playing was probably a wise choice (though Aaron Hicks did miss a chance to be sucked up and plopped down in the magical land of Oz..instead that happened on Sunday when he got injured) Game 61 Twins 4- Nationals 3
I recapped this game in my previous post about being a brother. But I'll just add this in a special aside to Nationals' fans. Ryan Doumit does not like being called "donut", your ineffective jeering was justly punished.
Ball Park Food Haiku: Nationals Dog
Preparation, Expectation, Joy
Oh, it's still just a hot dog
like laws, don't show me.
Game 60 (Replay of Friday's Rain-out) Nationals 7 - Twins 0
The Twins were able to update their scouting report on the Nationals' starter after the game. It now reads: "Jordan Zimmerman can pitch baseballs very, very well. :( " Game 62 Nationals 5 - Twins 4 This series was the first reunion of the Twins with their favorite centerfield ninja of years gone by: Denard Span! There were plenty of laughs, lots of smiles, a few choice hummings of our "Save Big Money at Denard's jingle" and plenty of great bonding (not unlike the previous road trip's bonding with Carlos Gomez).
But sadly, Denard. So perhaps we shouldn't have been surprised when he tripled in the tying run and finished the series with a 6/13 (.465) record against Twins pitching. But really, Denard, did you have to kitana slash Aaron Hicks' hammy? Oh, right you're a ninja, you probably did have to.
does play for another team now, and he continues to have this crazy fixation with "playing well" Game 63 Twins 3 - Phillies 2
Speaking of former Centerfielders: Ben Revere returned to town with his new team the Phillies at the start of the week! (Also Delmon Young returned...[crickets chirping])
Meanwhile Justin Morneau decided to once again bring the badassery back to the batters box. By encouraging Josh Willingham and Oswaldo Arcia to join him in a Double-Hitting-Conga-Line, then swatting a game winning single in the 8th. Bravo Mr. Hotpants, bravo. Game 64 Twins 4 - Phillies 3
The first game that both Mrs. Peanut and I were able to attend together this season was a mixed bag. The couple innings of drizzle were less than cool. Mike Pelfrey surprisingly lasting six whole innings was alright. But our easy winner for Thing of the Day: Eduardo Escobar walking to the plate to "You're the One that I Want" from Grease. You have to be a whole lot of something to get pumped up by that song.
Additionally, special kudos to game hero, Clete Thomas. Most people assume that Clete is short for Cletus...but in reality it's short for Cletington Aberforth Thomas VI. (I know this because once I called him "Cletington" he started getting hits.
Game 65 Phillies 3 - Twins 2
Once upon a time, in 2010, the Minnesota Twins wanted a starting pitcher and really liked a young man with the Seattle Mariners named Cliff Lee. Cliff Lee was strong. Cliff Lee was tough. Cliff Lee had a record for not caring about big cities or major contracts (having gone from Cleveland to Philadelphia to Seattle with a smile on his face). So the Twins set out to get Cliff Lee offering top prospect Wilson Ramos for him...the Mariners said no. Cliff Lee went to Texas and took them to the World Series. The Twins got Carl Pavano and got bounced in the first round of the playoffs (again).
Carl Pavano is out of the majors. The Twins have had two 90 loss seasons in a row. And Cliff Lee is still awesome (as evidenced by his strong performance this night).
This has been another random story that some people think indicates the Twins' incompetence, but is actually just a set of facts. Game 66 Tigers 4 - Twins 0
Despite the many fevered protests of Ron Gardenhire, the umpires refused to count every inning but the sixth and the Twins were thusly shut out. We cannot confirm at this time whether or not the umpires commented on how adorable Gardy gets when he's angry. "Like an apopleptic garden gnome! Just SO CUTE!!" Crew Chief John Hirshbeck is reported to maybe have said.
Game 67 Twins 6 - Tigers 3
Annabelle Sanchez
The Twins roughed up Anibal Sanchez and Darrin Downs en route to win against the division leaders. Meanwhile, in Bert Blyleven's mind "Annabelle" Sanchez was on the mound for the Tigers, because apparently "Ann-i-ball" is too phonetically difficult. Once Sanchez left the game early, this may have been what Annabelle wrote in his diary.
Dear Diary, Oh my stars, how utterly horrid I feel today. I fear I have caught the shoulder vapors from that flying contraption Colonel Leyland insisted we use to come to Minnesota. But I musn't let the Colonel know, he frets so! I long for a return to my beloved Comerica Park, with its bushes and fountains and parasoles gaily dotting the seats. These Minnesotans are so unsporting! Rather than offering me a sun hat, or a glass of lemonade they made me throw a ball around like an animal! I simply had to leave the mound, even though it was a fine day, I couldn't stand the cruel barbs that Canadian Savage, "Morneau" I think it was?, hurled at me on the field. I shall try to regain my composure, but I'm simply too frail to endure these epithets. Heavens me, diary! Annabelle
This has been another Bert Blyleven mispronunciation induced goof-off session. Game 68 Tigers 5 - Twins 2
The Twins clearly felt the pressure of impressing their dad's on Father's day, though it couldn't possibly have been as intimidating as trying to please the most withholding father of all time: Tywin Lannister.
Unimpressed.
A sampling of Tywin-esque dad responses to Twins players
"Of course I thought you pitched well, Samuel...it's just that Doug Fister was better than you in every conceivable way...also you probably killed your mother and ruined my life."
"Yes, that was a nice home run Brian. But it wasn't a game winning home run now was it. So it might as well have been a strike out. Also, you probably killed your mother and ruined my life."
"No, Cletington I don't care about your RBI. I'm a little busy winning a war, running a nation and gutting this elk for our barbecue. Run along and play your little games with your prostitutes."
etc.
P.s. Congratulations to former Twin and long time Peanut favorite Torii Hunter on his 300th homerun!
Mr. Peanut: Glen Perkins (It's partly a function of his job, but he's not giving up leads...so that's a plus!) Nutty-Buddy: Scott Diamond (Hey, Scott, Remember when you were the only good thing last year...we have more good things this year...be one of them)
Yesterday for mother's day I helped honor the woman who taught me how to irrationally love a bunch of wild, punk kids...she had practice with my brothers and I, and it's clearly served her well as a baseball fan too.
My mother is a die-hard, eternally loyal and unflaggingly optimistic, and permanently enamored of the Twins. She cheers for Mauer when others boo, she cheers for Nishioka when others leave him for dead, somehow-someway, she even cheers for Matt Capps. But over mother's day brunch yesterday, after I told the whole table "we're rebuilding this year," she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Thank God!"
We can't believe it either Ron (Credit Pioneer Press)
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Truth be told, I still find it hard to fathom that it IS like this. I mean...for a decade the Twins average record was 89 and 73, their average runs scored was 775 while giving up only 720 (that +55 is well above the league average). We had two sluggers still ascending into the prime of their careers who hadn't had a WAR under 3 since they were punk kids. Did last year stink? Sure! But it seemed like a one-off aberration, a trick of the light or the ghosts of pine trees or something.
That the Twins are the worst team in baseball right now is staggering. Last in runs scored. Last in home runs AND home runs allowed (we don't hit them and our opponents do). Last in total bases. Last in ERA. Last in strikeouts per 9 innings. Last, Last, Last.
It is, as the cliche puts it, a very short trip from the penthouse to the outhouse, but the Twins didn't so much take an express elevator as they took a Wil-E-Coyote Style Face plant to the bottom of the standings.
Could we spend time analyzing how and why it all went so wrong? Second guessing signing Jason Marquis, triple guessing the Nishioka deal, dectuple guessing Bill Smith's Santana trade? Yeah, but why bother? It happened. It can't un-happen. Move on.
I'd say Joe looks sad but I don't Have much to compare it to. (Credit: Sam's Spam)
Could we spend time fixating on the failures of certain players we've come to expect more from: the sudden aging of Carl Pavano, the power outage of Joe Mauer, the utter debacle that is Senor Francisco Liriano? Yeah, but again, why bother? I'm not as intelligent in analyzing such matters as others (see Nelson, Nick; Bonnes, John; Strohs, Seth; Hageman, Parker; Walter, Peter; Christie, Cody, etc.) so I doubt that the players, coaches or fellow fans would gain much from reading my thought that "boy, Danny Valencia sure does stink, eh?"
So, if I'm not going to analyze and critique management, and if I'm not going to whinge and bellyache about players, what else is left to do for a losing ballclub? Clearly, now would be the time to turn tail and run. To shut down the blog, to cut the cable cost, and to hide away until the Twins are once again competitive and then reemerge claiming that "I knew it all along!"
That might be the intelligent thing to do...but, and here's a shocker...I'M NOT VERY SMART. So I'll keep writing, keep finding little things in the game to make myself laugh, keep looking for players to root for and reasons to get excited. I'll plug away little by little, because that's what the Twins themselves are doing. I'll keep hoping and wishing and appreciating the little things, saving up for the cheapest season tickets available, and loving every minute of fresh air, sunshine and baseball.
My mother raised me right. Play nice. Work hard. Make dumb jokes if it makes you happy. And above all else: love everybody (even when it's tough). She loved me when I was an insufferable teenager, and no matter how bad the Twins are they aren't pubescent teens.
So, as mind-boggling as this boondoggle of a season is. I'll keep going, just like my mom will. Just like the Twins will.
First and foremost we learned that Arizonians like to boo things, anything really: Ben Revere, Divisional Rivals, Non-Divisional Rivals, Yankees, Non-Yankees, adorable puppies, you name it and people in Arizona will boo it.
Second, Moneyball starring Brad Pitt comes out September 23rd.
Third, I learned that my father takes his prepositions very seriously. After LaVelle E Neal tweeted "Cliff Lee in for the Phillies", my father, looking over my shoulder said..."Actually, it should be Cliff Lee, of the Phillies coming in for the national league" and went on..."puts his toes on the rubber and serves up a gopher ball to Adrian Gonzalez of the Boston Red Sox for a solo home run, to put the American League on top 1 to 0." (Clearly I've inherited some nerdiness from the old man.
We also discovered that Justin Timberlake, was able to give voice to America's common rage and tossed a little smack talk at Joe Buck. "You're calling a great game Joe...just GREAT!" may replace "Heckuva Job Brownie!" as America's favorite sarcastic compliment. OH, also...Justin Timberlake has a movie coming out soon, but it will come out before Moneyball debuts in theatres September 23rd.
My mother learned of the existence of the MLB Fan Cave, but was thoroughly disappointed by the fact that it seems to be an all boys club. C'mon baseball, ladies like the sport too! So, Major League executives, please consider giving my mom a job in the Fan Cave next year. This would both make her happy and give all of America access to the excellent television of my mother knitting David Ortiz a hat, scolding Brian Wilson to shave his beard mid-interview, and wagging a finger at any player who disputes an ump.
Sixth, no one told Heath Bell that the All-Star Game was a serious business, so he slid into the mound while coming in to pitch. What do you think this is Heath Bell? Some kind of game?!?? What in the name "All-Star Game" would make you think that it was a "Game" to be "played" as though you were child-like and carefree?!?!? Seriously! Some people...
Seventh, Oh yeah...the NL won, their second all-star win in a row. After winning 2 of the last 3 World Series AND increasing their win total in interleague play for three straight years, it might be time to stop thinking of the National League as the inferior league.
And finally, even though he flew out on the first (and only) pitch he saw, Michael Cuddyer gave me a great idea for a new tv show. Cuddy would play a straight laced, All-American do-gooder doctors (with an adorable magic hobby) and Brian Wilson would play his wacky, goofball, nonsequitur-spouting, anti-establishment partner (who still gets results). I can see it now: THURSDAYS on TNT after Rizzoli & Isles and Franklin & Bash it's Cuddyer & Wilson...two men who play by their OWN RULES...and the rules of Major League Baseball! {It could even debut before the September 23rd release of Moneyball on September 23rd!)
The second half of the season starts tonight with the Twins taking on the Royals. And if you want to mull over the Twins chances to make the playoffs look no further than the next two weeks as the Twins will play 16 games against 4 teams, including 12 against Central Division rivals (all at home). And if you just want to sit back and watch baseball...well, you can do that too.
I admit, I've got a chip on my shoulder when it comes to the A's. Being a baseball fan in the early part of this millennium you couldn't stop hearing about the baseball genius of the Bay Area, and how he was taking a plucky bunch of unwanted players and turning them into a winning force! There were almost monthly magazine profiles, there was a best selling book, there was a cult following around the executives (?!) who built the team, and then there was that team itself, the only team that plays in gold and green, bringing long hair and surprising swagger to the role of scruffy underdog .
Only problem was, I (like most of the people who read this blog) was a fan of that other scruffy underdog filled with a plucky bunch of unwanted players who turned themselves into a winning force. Only we did it with out the magazine profiles, best sellers, cult followers and long hair. We did it with old fashioned, boring, fundamental baseball. Catch the ball, take the extra base when you can, scratch out any hit available to you and don't swing for the fences, pick up your teammates.
So it was with a pang of jealousy that I watched the A's get the credit while the Twins toiled in anonymity. I know that the "Moneyball" concept was more about making an intelligent investment in underutilized resources than any one man; but I felt like "mastermind" GM Billy Beane developed a bit of an ego around all this adulation, as though he personally had somehow made baseball a better game and deserved all the credit for crunching the stats, turning a beautifully complex game into an inevitable end of a mathematical equation.* (And never mind the fact that it was up to the players {several of whom have been linked to steroids} who were doing the actual work, and winning the actual games.)
Yet here we are, a decade later, and while the Twins are poised to make their 6th post season trip in 10 years the A's have slowly slipped into irrelevance, buried alive under lofty expectations and an inability to keep up with shifts in the market. But hey, Brad Pitt's going to play Billy Beane in a movie...so I guess that's as good as being competitive, right?
I know I shouldn't gloat, I should hope that more talented players bring a storied franchise back into relevance and offer some entertainment to those loyal few who keep turning up in Oakland (especially for the upcoming series with Chicago...the A's definitely deserve to win that series), but if from time to time my jealousy and stubbornness gets in the way, I hope you A's fans/players/executives forgive me...I'm clearly not as smart as Billy Beane, so what do I know?
Oh yeah, I know that we won yesterday.
The Rube
P.s. I'm also not as smart as my father, who, on labor day made the following prediction: "The sox have run out of magic and will go 2-9 over their next 11 games." I laughed, surely a team who had just finished winning 7 straight wouldn't do that poorly against the Tigers, the Royals and us?...Tigers record over their last 11 games: 2-9. Maybe Brad Pitt should play my dad in a movie? Or at least, Clooney...yeah...Clooney's got the right salt and pepper hair thing.
P.p.s.*If I'm wrong and Beane is a genuine sweetheart of a guy, I'm sorry. It just doesn't come across in the press.
Gotta admit, any night spent with a pennant race is a fun night, but last night, after hours of thesis work, that game was particularly enjoyable. Managing to mute Hawk Harrelson was fun; calling my parents and hearing their play-by-play several seconds ahead of the MLB.tv feed was even more fun and over the course of the night I learned several things about my parents:
My dad (NA) and I are pretty comfortable swearing in the middle of a play (Beckham's dropped force out), but not at all in casual conversation. (I might be a masters candidate, but that doesn't mean he can't give me a whupping if he so chooses.)
My mom (The Knitting Queen) roots according to her moral compass, as is evidenced by her "c'mon Jesse strike out Ramirez and sit all these Chicagoans down. CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER!!!!"
NA's love of Yoga-based serenity still allows him to laugh at the karmic retribution of Rios dropping Span's double.
The Knitting Queen is quite techno-savvy (she even learned how to follow a certain Tweeter whose re-emergence from her bat-cave bring much happiness to our souls!)
But despite all this joy, and the win I want to again remind everyone that IT'S NOT OVER YET! so cool your jets ESPN, Star Trib, Chicago Tribune, and all manner of other punditry. As our man Denard said: "We still have business to finish." What is that business Denard? "we've got to hopefully...kill their dreams"
If anyone can kill dreams, I'd put money on Denard, skulking in the shadows of White Sock minds, pouncing while the White Sox are happily asleep, dreaming of Bud Light with Lime waterfalls, and new disgusting ways to grow facial hair. Once inside these dreams, Denard will triumph...for he is our ninja:
On last night's broadcast Dick & Bert referenced a statistic that in 18 opportunities to sweep the opposition the Twins had only done it 6 times. Last night that percentage went up slightly, but still, it appears that we just lack that killer instinct (as evidenced by Matt Capps continually giving the other guys just enough runs to make it close).
Maybe we're all just too Minnesota Nice to break the spirit of the opposing team. Maybe when we're playing host we feel like the gracious thing to do is to let the opposition go with a parting gift, and we just can't summon the gumption to give them a gag trophy like the one at the right. Maybe the music playing on the clubhouse boombox has a subsonic subliminal message recorded by all the players' mothers repeating over and over again: "You play nice now! Don't be rude! Nobody likes a showoff!"
Maybe one or all of those things are true, maybe, as former manager Leo Durocher said: "Nice guys finish last", and maybe we need to have the killer instinct if we want to go farther in the post season. But if a team is a reflection of their home town, then by gum the Twins ought to be nice because Minnesotans are nice. We're the Mary Tyler Moore town for crying out loud! Cruelty just isn't in our DNA, and speaking personally, I like it better that way.
So call me a "weenie" or a "fwaydie cat!" or a "@#$%!@#%!!!!" if you want to. Just don't call me a Yankpire.
Okay--so this last week has been a little busy here on the ol' home front. So let's try to do this as best we can:
Here's the last week in Minnesota Twins action
Wednesday the 4th--Delmon Young continued a ground balls hit just hard enough to avoid rally killing double plays and adding to his RBI total and our win total
Thursday the 5th--While Stinky worked at a--what do you call it: Job?--Scruffy felt a terrifying sense of impending doom. (Ron Mahay's alien arm will do that to you) Then Scruffy's mom (the Knitting Queen) made two predictions:
1) "The baseball gods, in their infinite wisdom, will not allow the Twins to lose this game when they so clearly should have won it. Sure, we may have gotten deprived of other games, but this one we clearly deserved to win and so...win it we will."
2) "We will score two runs in the 9th. I don't know how, but we will."
And low and behold we did score two runs, thanks to a suprising/distratcing double off the catwalk, The Knitting Queen was proved prescient, Scruffy no longer felt doomed and Stinky got a welcome distraction from work
Friday the 6th--Bad waitress, bad game. No more to say about that.
Saturday the 7th--Then Jason Kubel hit a home run to remind us all that running is stupid, and Carl Pavano's (and his mustache) saved the day again.
Sunday the 8th--Instead of watching the game, Stinky and Scruffy went to see Inception. Presumably the Twins beat the Indians by invading Shin Soo-Choo's dreams and convincing him to spin a top...or something...
Monday the 9th--Day-off in Chicago, the Twins snuck into a posh restaurant in enemy territory by posing as "Abe Froman: Sausage King of Chicago"
Tuesday the 10th--To celebrate the birthday of Scruffy's older brother (Chicago resident/Twins Fan) Scruffy arranges for fireworks set off by the Twins line-up. Unfortunately the team assumes that this was a metaphorical request and therefore only hits home runs rather than actually lighting fireworks.
Wednesday the 11th--Despite the haunting quack of "Swarzak" the Twins use Glen Perkins in the middle of a playoff race--the result is a foregone conclusion.
Thursday the 12th--Deprived of television, Stinky and Scruffy listen to the radio and are forced to chew their fingernails throughout Francisco Liriano's Bogus Journey in the 5th and 6th innings...but victory is achieved and all is made well.
And that brings us up to today. The Knitting Queen is off to the game tonight, and Scruffy, Stinky and Scruffy's little brother will be off to the game tomorrow night. Then Scruffy returns to Ohio and Stinky heads to Montana...but we'll be here...maybe not every day, but as often as we can be.
With Stinky taking an accounting mid-term, I'm back again, but sadly I did not watch much of the baseball this weekend and so will rely on the reports of the Knitting Queen to tell you how things happened.
Friday: "That was real good there!"
Saturday: "They were hitting early, but then Hudson played the hero with a homer"
Sunday: "It was better that you weren't watching."
So we won another series (4 in a row) and all seems to be right with the world as we celebrate our off day, but all is not right, oh no my friends it is not. You see, one of our favorite pitchers, a man of substantial importance, a man of great substance generally (even if much of that substance appears to be jell-o pudding cups): Jose "Pretty Princess" Mijares.
Once upon a time, Pretty Princess Mijares was the fairest and most lovely lass in all of Twins Territory. With long lovely hair, a sharp dangerous slider and a badass attitude befitting a take charge modern day princess, Mijares was the kind of relief pitcher everyone would love to have as their local nobility/left handed bullpen specialist.
But this season has not been kind to Pretty Princess Mijares. First, the royal hair gel led to a delay in leaving the far off kingdom of Venice(zeula), next the princess had a hard time reacclimatizing to life in the bull pen (after all, the dread pirate seemed to have retired to Patagonia, there was a strangely familiar man named "Sir Pat Neshek" and a very scary man with a very scary neck tattoo). And yet, Pretty Princess Mijares was eagerly anticipating the return to Twins territory and the loyal subjects who loved their Pretty Princes, the sharp dangerous slider and the badass attitude.
Unfortunately Pretty Princess Mijares had a hard time concentrating with a looming presence above the bullpen. A scary beast with great scaly wings, and fiery breath of pain, and spiky tail of owies. 'Twas Gardy the friendly/occasionally profane gnome who spotted it and announced: "Uh-oh, its the local dragon".
"Who?" asked the Pretty Princess
"The local dragon of Twin Territory, he hovers above pitchers/princesses in danger and inflicts great owies upon them."
"Oh! I heard of him," said the Pretty Princess, "they say his name is St. Rain Edelbow and all pitchers fear him...but I'm not your stereotypical princess, I'm also a badass princess who carries hair gel onto planes without the federally mandated clear plastic bag, I will fight it and regain my mojo."
"I don't think that's a great idea Princess, I mean, it's a dragon and its name is actually..."
"It's name is St. Rain Edelbow, and that is a silly name for dragons are not saints! Have at ye, poopyhead Dragon Face!"
And so Pretty Princess Mijares sought to fight off the dragon with scaly wings, fiery breath of pain and spiky tail of owies. Pretty Princess Mijares failed. And now Pretty Princess Mijares is on the disabled list.
The moral of the story is this kids: Just because you are cool enough to fight a dragon doesn't mean you actually HAVE to fight a dragon!
You see, Stinky and I did not realize that graduate school had these things called: "ho-mwu-rk" I think I'm pronouncing that correctly, but there may be an umlaut in there somewhere. Anyway, when it all builds up, you have to spend many many hours dealing with it, which cuts into one's Twins watching time, which makes for sad bloggers, mad bloggers and quiet bloggers. That is why we are not posting much these days...hopefully all will be well eventually, and until then, I'm sorry.
HOWEVER! This should not distract from the glory that was the opening of Target Field! Nor from the fact that both Scruffy's Mother (The Knitting Queen), Stinky and Stinky's Father managed to attend games during the opening set. It was also against the Boston Red Sox which gave us the opportunity to razz our California friend (and one of our most frequent readers) Sparky! But rather than detail stat after stat after stat let's just go to the picture-by-picture replay in a potentially new feature called: Caption Action.
Game 1:
New Park, Same Universal Truths: Running = Stupid
Twins 5-Red Sox 2
Game 2:
Pedroia [to Mauer while crossing home plate]: Call me the Destroyah!
Mauer: No, I don't think I will
Pedroia: C'mon it rhymes with Pedroia when you say it with a Boston accent
Mauer: So does "Bok Choy-ya", You're 5'9", I could literally floss with you...you are not a Destroyer, if we're playing Battleship, you're a submarine, a submarine nicknamed "Bok-Choy-ya"
Drizzle Shmizzle...besides we get to see Delmon and Justin in a batting stance duel "Vwwwing Vwwwing Vwwwing!!!"
Red Sox 6-Twins 3
Game 3:
"But I don't wanna be struck out!!! I start on the all-star team (because Red Sox fans without lives stay up all night voting for me)!!! I was referenced in Moneyball! I HAVE A GOATEE!!!! Slider's aren't fair!!! You're not fair you poop...poop...poopy!!!"
Twins 8-Red Sox 0
Series in a nutshell:
Span & Cuddy: HIGH-FIVE FOR AWESOMENESS!!
O-Dog: Hey look...I can do a sun salutation to the actual sun! Minnesota really IS awesome!
So, I don't want to jinx this or anything...but this is precisely what my mother predicted would happen...even after we got word that our big bad Canadian first baseman would be out for the rest of the season.
This raises the question--at what point did knitting ability turn my mom into the Oracle at Delphi...or at least, the Oracle at Lake Harriet?
Okay, deep breath, and Loooooooooooooooowwwww expectations. The Tigers will somehow manage to crash their plane into the Metrodome, thereby winning the division by default. (On the positive side, this will save us from having to endure more Brett Favre shenanigans.
I switched it off, I turned my attentions elsewhere, I could not endure another loss to the Cleveland Indians and their bottom of the table ilk.
Then my father, also known as Mister Poopy Pants (or Senor Poopy Pants depending on whether or not my mother is feeling festive), gave me a call.
"ARE YOU WATCHING THIS?!?" he shouted over the tumultous crowd.
"No," I sheepishly admitted, "not after we fell behind by three runs."
"TWO HOMERS AND A WILD PITCH!!!" He shouted, and sure enough a quick check of the Twins website revealed that we were now, shockingly, ahead. My dad proceeded to recap every at bat, and pitch count--and while I could easily see all of these things via the website, it was more fun somehow to hear him giddily reporting all the wonderful things that had happened.
I have a feeling that, sitting next him there at the dome, my mother smiled at her sagacity.
Thus sayeth the Knitting Queen (my mother) whose prowess with the knitting and purling and what not has been proved again this year--is prescience so far out of the question.
1st game she went to--Kubel's cycle
2nd game she went to--Nathan's blown save
3rd game she went to..........clearly, the cycle should repeat again with something good--this at least is her logic--let us now observe how brilliant my mother is.
More observations from the fourth through the sixth
Damn - I was really hoping we were going to get a more extensive description of the Dominos regionally flavored pizzas.
If there's one way to help a guy get over a social anxiety disorder, it's to talk about it CONSTANTLY. Cause you know, that's very helpful.
Swelling music = heartwarming, swelling music containing banjos = brainweirding
Let's just take a moment here to imagine how fast Carl Crawford would run if he pulled is pants up. Joe Buck did.
I never thought I'd be happy to see Derek Jeter cross home plate--but when it means that Mauer just drove in the tying run: HOT DAMN DEREK JETER!!!
Mr. PoopyPants on the All-Star Game: "ALBERT! ALBERT! ALBERT!!"
Edwin Jackson threw four pitches. What a fine young man he is, not like those lousy Carl Crawfords now-a-days, with the loud music and the sagging pants, it just makes me SICK INSIDE!
Wow--Chase Utley--Wow
Wow--The worst commercial in the world has just been aired--apparently if you have 8 dimes you can buy a taco with meat that is good enough for dogs, then watch breakdancing midgets, bathe yourself in dimes, and roll down the cul de sacs with your hoes.--Wow
Tim McCarver is pouting that he hasn't been tweeted by Joe Buck...awkward relationships come to light
? Jason Bartlett or Ben Zobrist--make up your mind Fox ?
Bald guy! Who the heck was that??!? What the eff????
So... I don't say this often, and maybe I'm completely wrong but the Houston Astros kind of seem like Jerkfaces. I feel like each team has it's own unique aura - the New York Yankees is that of pure evil, the Twins is one of goodness and light and puppy dogs, and the Astros is that of Jerkface.
So perhaps it is the Astros fault that the stench of Jerkfacitude crept into the seats in the Metrodome and infected those seated around us. At first, all seemed well, adorable sprogs free from school roamed the seats while their parents looked on bemusedly. We sat amongst knowledgable passionate Twins fans, hopeful that Kevin "Killthrow" Slowey might dominate and that our vaunted line up might vaunt all over Roy Oswalt's face.
Killthrow did not dominate (but he wasn't bad), our vaunted line up sputtered and lurched (particularly when Jason Kubel's running is stupid campaign pooped all over the basepaths after a lead off double), and beer flowed freely. Then did the Jerkfacedness seep out of everyone around us and concentrate its full fury on Delmon Young.
Now, maybe I'm just a dreamer, but I've always felt that it's not OK to boo someone on your own team. Does Delmon screw up sometimes? Yes. Do we sometimes shake our heads and bury our face in our hands wondering why?? WHY??? Yes. He might be a bit of a wally, but he's OUR wally dammit. If you boo your own guy, you're not a fan of the team, you're a fan of winning and you should just go cheer for the Yankees and leave us in peace.
Besides, every once in a while, just when you think there's no help for old Delmon (or "Delmont" as my dad inexplicably decided to call him somewhere around the 5th inning and no he was not drunk), he does something crazy like hit a line drive straight to center field and somehow get to second base. SUPRACTION SUCKAS!
We could almost hear Delmon from our seats, sulking in the on deck circle as Joe CRE-D drew his walks and gripped his back in pain. We could hear Delmon plotting, scheming, envisioning his Supractalicious acts of Doom.
"Call me a chump [mumblewumble] say I oughta be traded [mumblewumble] You ought to be traded drunk guys in Section 118 Row 9! JUST WATCH THIS!!" So it was thought and so it was Supracted.
Likewise the next inning, when Joe Nathan threw his only bad pitch of the night and Lance Berkman hit a shot to left field we could sense Delmon suddenly realizing that this was his moment. And as he took off in his little mincing run toward the ball we could almost hear him shout: "I GOT IT! I GOT IT! I'M GONNA SUPRACT THE HELL OUT OF THIS ONE!!" All while Carlos Gomez was shouting "BALL! BALL! BALL! BALL! BALL!" And then did they leap, and Delmon shouted "GOGO LET ME CATCH IT! I MUST PROVE MYSELF! I MUST SUPRACT!!!" (he has impressive lung capacity) and Gogo replied "BALL! BALL! BALL! BALL!" And it was caught and it was good and it was.....SUPRACTION
In a startling and beautiful moment of clarity, I have made a command decision.
I am better at analyzing baseball than Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. My parents are better at analyzing baseball than Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. My dog is better than analyzing baseball than Joe Buck and Tim McCarver (and, as he's been dead for two years, that's quite an accomplishment).
In this spirit I'm proud to bring you the analyses of myself, Mr. No Ass, and the Knitting Queen.
*Pregame*
SR: "Following after Tim McCarver's analysis, that the key to victory for the Phillies, is to keep winning games, I would suggest that the key to victory for the Rays is to stop losing."
*1st Inning*
NA: "C'mon! Longoria tagged Rollins out!!"
KQ: "Yeah, I can tell by that picture of the glove half-way up his butt!"
SR: "Fox has to make sure they've got something sexual on at least once an hour."
KQ: "Are they sure they can't get any closer than this?"
NA: "Then we'd be looking at his colon."
*2nd Inning*
NA: "America's other favorite past time?"
SR: "American Idol."
NA: "Pbbbbbbt!"
*3rd Inning*
NA: "Hey, Rays, any time you want to take some pitches, that would be good."
KQ: "It must be a strategy."
NA: "Not a very good one.
KQ: "Just wait, maybe it will be a good strategy..."
NA: "Isn't part of a good strategy, changing it when it doesn't work?"
KQ: "Oh. Yeah."
*4th Inning*
[Crawford connects]
NA: That's gone.
SR: That's gone.
Joe Buck: It's gone.
KQ: What just happened?
...later...
SR: The Rays are just going to keep pitching Howard away, until he proves he can hit it to left
[Howard hits a massive three run home run to left]
NA: He just proved it.
*5th Inning*
Shane Victorino on mic: "I got it, I got it, I got it, I got it!"
KQ: "NO YOU DON'T!"
[Victorino catches it]
KQ: "shoot."
*6th Inning*
SR: "I might complain about his strike zone, but this umpire's strike out call..."
NA: "Yeah, it's emphatic."
SR: "I'm a little afraid he may knock out a left handed hitter with that uppercut."
*7th Inning*
[After two pitching switches]
SR: "The line-up for the Rays goes lefty, righty, lefty, lefty...would you leave the left handed reliever in to face all four?"
NA: "hunh?"
SR: "Did you fall asleep?"
NA: "..."
SR: "Dad?"
NA: "li'l bi-" [Pause...Snore]
*8th Inning*
Joe Buck: "You could make the argument that Pena's foot is about to come off the bag when they double Feliz off of first."
Why can we not catch a break? Why has lady luck decided to spurn our affections so suddenly and randomly? Why can we not win north of the border, or in the state of Ohio, or in a dome not named after the most alliterative vice president in American history? Why do our heretofore indomitable pitchers suddenly lack the ability to get a friggin out? Why do the Rays let a piece of metal on their roof determine the course of the game? In short: what's the dilly yo?
My parents have a philosophy. It is simply this. The Fox network is evil. We have been on national television 3 times. Once we won after losing a lead. Then we lost to the Tigers for no reason whatsoever. And now we cannot catch a break against the Twinkling Shafts of Light. Why? Fox hates us. Fox likes to show pretty rich people at venerable stadia. LA, New York, Boston, Chicago. These will work. The Metrodome. Not so much. It's bad enough they will be saddled with Tampa Bay, but they will not stand for our presence in the postseason.
So Rupert Murdoch hired a gypsy, a voodoo priest, and Miss Cleo, to put a curse upon us. Then used his minions (idiot announcers) to neutralize our brilliant team of Dick and Bert. Thereby removing our mojo and turning our luck as sour as a bachelor's rancid milk.
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!!
