On Words and Numbers

Anyone who seeks out more writing about the Minnesota Twins, clearly cares about the team. They have opinions aplenty about the best direction the franchise could take. They think about it, they weigh pros and cons, and they argue with passion when they feel like they are right.

In that regard, there's very little that separates blog readers from the Twins front office. But in the last few weeks a font of frustration has welled up, particularly as regards recent roster decisions. I am no kind of astute baseball analyst (I mean, a large number of my posts turn in to abstract satires of North Korea...), but I think I know why this is.

It all comes back to a key division between baseball fans: the fans of words, and the fans of numbers.

Fans of words like the story telling aspect of the game: the heartwarming narrative of a player coming into his own or coming back from injury; the mythical prowess of a 100 mile per hour pitcher or a Ruthian Home Run machine; the emotional love of the game.

Fans of numbers like the statistical and factual aspect of the game: the value a player brings to the field, their role in creating runs and wins, their failure to avoid defeats, the logical appreciation of the game and its players.

While I normally think about the separation between fans within the stands, the same split occurs when we try to evaluate players, and can be expanded to apply to when anyone evaluates someone else.

Think of it like this: if you work in a job where you get performance reviews (and I'm struggling to think of a job where you wouldn't), your boss might highlight your productivity by saying something like this:

"Wow Johnson, your coworkers and supervisor have been telling me all the great things you're doing this year. They rave about your contributions to the Snarflebargle Project and from what I've seen of you during meetings, I think you're ready for a step up."

Or they could highlight it by saying something like this:

"Wow Johnson, you've been incredibly productive this year. You've been averaging 50 hours of work a week, and the Snarflebargle Project has contributed to a 32% increase in our Doohicky sales alone! I think you're ready for a step up the ladder." 

But in reality, they probably have a mix of both the words that colleagues use to describe you and the statistics that they can measure. (As a school teacher I admittedly have no earthly clue what business meetings sound like, but I do know that I'd rather be judged by both comments from other teachers and student performance on standardized tests rather than just one. I suppose I'm hoping that other people have similarly rational evaluations.)

That's really what we argue about when we talk about who is ready and who isn't ready for the major leagues. We're used to the Twins scouting department (a more word savvy crew) running the show, basing judgements off of what they see in the minors and what the manager sees during Spring Training. Meanwhile, many of the fans (including those who seek out articles to read on-line) are hungry for a more number-friendly crew. But for as much as we talk about the Twins' statistical analyses (or lack thereof) as a catchall for the team's failings, we have to remember that there are benefits and drawbacks to both ways of evaluating people.


Word lovers may be able to accurately describe a person's character, demeanor, attitude and potential, but they risk falling so in love with a concept of performance that actual performance means nothing. (After all, if word lovers like me ran teams, somebody would be feeling a nine man team of Air Buds)

Number lovers may have a more accurate measurement of a player's performance on the field, comparisons with others their own age, and insights into areas for growth, but they risk turning an individual strength or weakness into a career defining fact. (After all, if statistical measurements of skills were 100% infallible, Moneyball favorite Jeremy Brown would have been an All-Star, and Ryan Leaf would have proven more mature, intelligent and effective than Dan Marino).

The best case scenario is as old as Aristotle: moderation in all things and extremity in none. Evaluations should mix words and numbers, and while there's certainly anecdotal evidence to suggest the Twins could use more numbers, that doesn't mean that words are totally irrelevant to evaluating a player.


There is far more that unites we Twins fans and the team management than divides us. Fans and management want a good team. We may have different ways of approaching that goal, but just as we accept both written and statistical performance reviews in our own jobs, just as we enjoy a beer with fans who talk about VORP as much as those who talk about "intangibles", we are better when we use both together.

Paying to Anticipate: An adventure in baseball cards

I finally did it. I told myself I ought to. I explained all the ways why. I made sure that I actually could do it, and then I did it.

I sold a large chunk of my baseball card collection.

It wasn't doing anything, it was sitting in a box in my attic. When my neighbor set up a yard sale and offered me a chance to sell some things, I went to get them. Sure enough, old DVD players, printers, and stereo systems...passed...a couple hundred 1988 baseball cards...gone in a flash.

I don't need more baseball cards (no one does...really), but I still make an annual pack a special ritual for myself. A reward for a year worth of teaching, a method of keeping my place in a mountain of books. As I've done before, I thought it might be fun to write about the process of opening up my packs (both a regular and a heritage set)

First the flashy new deck, as my dog sits at my feet, hopefully looking at me like I've unwrapped a treat for us both to eat. No luck pup.

Paul Goldschmit leads off...I know him, power hitter prospect, okay...then Hiroki Kuroda who excites me as a fan of good pitching, and churns my stomach as a symbol of Yankee wealth. Michael Brantely and Jonathan Pablebon follow, so far a solid crew.

There we go: Yordano Ventura...do you know who Yordano Ventura plays for? Did you know there was a person in the world named Yordano Ventura? Apparently he was a September call up who has an active twiter account (#LetsThrowFire)--I wonder what the old cigarette companies who started this tradition would have written on the back in lieu of twitter: "When walking down the street, King Kelly shouts out: 'I ATE A PASTRAMI SANDWHICH, POUND SYMBOL YUM!' Oh that Kelly, always a fan favorite."

Back in the swing of things, an old school Buster Posey card...the same psuedo style as a lot of the cards I just sold...perhaps the universe is giving me a sign to track down the buyer and steal them back. No, wait, Francisco Liriano follows him up, that's a sign that you should just appreciate your memories, lest the regret eat you alive.

Ahh...and here they are, at the back of the pack...the also rans: Wily Peralta, Nick Hundley, Eric Sogard, Scooter Gennett and Jack Hannahan. The only who remotely stands out is Scooter...and it's far more for he fact that his name is Scooter than anything else.

What about the classic pack, fewer cards, classier stock than the ultra shiny newbies, a little more price. Perhaps here will be the bonafide stars, the exciting pack of a full blown team of all-stars I wouldn't trade for a Byron Buxton rookie...oh who am I kidding, they're just cards...

Opening it up, I swear I could smell that old cardboard gum, the stuff that made my jaws hurt as a kid, but that I stubbornly ate, piece after piece, because I felt bad turning down the gift of gum each company had so thoughtfully inserted for me. (I admit it, I've always been naive).

Andres Torres tops the deck, glum and dead-eyed, then Jayson Werth with a more manageable beard than usual...Aha, a bulky Prince Fielder in his new Rangers uniform...just what I was hoping for, and just what Rangers fans were hoping for...a positive image, regardless of the injuries and disaster that lay ahead.

John Neise is alright, but Darin Ruf makes me wonder if these cards are all that special...apparently he had a strong power swing for the Phillies at the end of the season...but I'm not sure I buy it. Just like I didn't buy in to  most "Impact Rookie" cards Topps chucked into my packs as a kid.

Darin Ruf? Really?

A throwback Jim Plamer card reflecting on his 1965 debut (the year the heritage pack is emulating), is solid and nice to imagine as a rookie card slipped among your mom/dad's old belongings. Travis Wood and Brett Lawrie won't have the same effect on my kids I'm sure. Finally a card of AL ERA leaders Annabelle Anibal Sanchez and Bartolo (Semi)Colon. 

That's it. I confess myself disappointed*. 21 cards and not a single Twin. I pick out a few I'd like to hold on to--both for the fun of bookmarking my pages and on the off chance they develop into something special (Gennett, Kuroda). But there were no Twins. No favorites. And I wonder if it wouldn't have been better to save my money and wrap a random selection of my old cards in paper for the same illusion.

It's silly to repeat this ritual, silly to spend money (any money) on an easily abandoned, quickly forgotten distraction. But I'm not really paying for a long term investment. I'm not even paying for short-term distraction. I'm paying for a certain feeling, a memory of childhood, and a reminder that potential is so much more fun than reality, like dreaming on what Prince Fielder can accomplish in Texas before he plays a game. (I mean, if I had gotten a Brian Dozier, I wouldn't give a fart about the deluge of relievers and middling talent). I love the moment of anticipation, the wait, the hope, the discovery. Like seeing runners in scoring position with less than two outs, I have all manner of hopes and wishes for how they score, or how the pitcher dances out of danger. It doesn't matter if it lives up to my expectations or not, it's the thrill of the not knowing that gets me every time. 

Maybe I'll find someone to give me two bucks for the cards at another garage sale, or maybe they'll get chucked by my wife in a burst of spring cleaning. I'm not concerned about what happens to the opportunity lost, I'm already dreaming about the opportunities to come. If that doesn't make me a baseball fan, I don't know what does.

*Though I do pause to fulfill another fun distraction--imagining the best line up I can make with the cards I was dealt--Pitcher Palmer, than Posey-2; Fielder-3, Gennett-4, Lawrie-5, Sogard (out of position)-6, Torres-7, Brantley-8, Werth-9...Underwhelming as they are, I'm pretty sure they could beat the Astros.

Why I'll Always Come Back

Copyright Betsy Bissen

It hasn't been easy being a Twins fan the last few years (though if you're committed enough to the team to find my little corner of the blogosphere, I hardly need tell you that).

It's been even less easy to be a positive Twins blogger, to dedicate time and energy to finding the silver linings in a team that often looks outmatched in almost every facet of the game. My writing life would be easier, and probably more pleasant, if I could just sign off from the blog, let it wither and dry up like the husk of so many other abandoned websites in internet ghost towns, and find something else to occupy my time.

But I keep coming back. I can't seem to stop. No matter how long I go between posts, I keep turning up to write something. Just like I keep turning up at Target Field to see something, anything that resembles baseball.

My father-in-law, the Gouger, had tickets for last night, and I was, as ever, excited to go. But with Mrs. Peanut off in Los Angeles studying to become a yoga teacher, my Parental Units (Mr. No-Ass and The Knitting Queen) in a jet lag stupor after a 40th anniversary trip to Barcelona, my little brother exploiting his fraternity, and my best dude friend on a date, it was just the pair of us. Weaving our way through a packed downtown, we were both grimly aware that the Twins, these Twins, were as likely to provide an evening's entertainment as the stand-up comedy stylings of Joe Mauer. ("Hey, have you ever noticed how things are...you know...things?")

Heading down to Target Field plaza, we saw a mother shepherding a pair of logo-bedecked boys into an elevator. The boys were glowing with excitement, all smiles and bouncing knees. Gouger asked "are the Twins going to win tonight?" The littlest boy replied "YEAH!!" with the kind of absolute certainty that you only hear in children and religious fundamentalists. We could have shaken our heads, or muttered something, but instead we high-fived, and cheered and headed on to the gates.

Tasty

Since we arrived an hour early (preemptive parking before the Wolves and Twins fans descended en masse), I actually had time to peruse the clubhouse store, and all the food offerings I wanted. Part of me always thinks that, as fun as baseball can be, working in baseball (or at least in a baseball stadium) could leave you tired and dismissive. And yet I found myself hearing cheery recommendations from the beer vendor (Day Tripper APA: solid and satisfying after a long week), getting sincere service from the food vendors and sharing jokes and memories with clubhouse store cashiers. Everyone had a smile on their face, everyone seemed excited to see you, and more than willing to pause their work to appreciate a little sunshine and the promise of baseball ahead.

So hopeful...so, very hopeful...

And while the top of the first put me in mind of a long, bumpy road ahead (Pedro Florimon's sudden apathy had something do with that), it was easy to push that aside and appreciate the little things: Jason Kubel chugging as only Jason Kubel can on a triple, Josmil Pinto's big screen photo looking like nothing so much as a forlorn Teddy Bear, Joe Mauer's robotic RBI delivery system and awkward 1st base chatter, Kyle Gibson finishing a fine performance with a strike out and a standing O, Brian Duensing dropping the hammer, Kurt Suzuki joining a long list of players whose early performance pauses any cranky critique I could make.

It was a beautiful night, feeling warm and welcomed, watching a solid game of baseball and finding, five seats down, a likeminded fan in our old pal Betsy Bissen (her photo graces the top of this post...unless she tells me not to use it, in which case, I'll delete this sentence). Seeing her and talking (in person) for the first time in years, I got to hear all about her life as a photographer in the well, her stories about cupcakes and curveballs, pranks and--above all--positivity: why she always stays optimistic about the players, why the only people who drive her nuts are the people who can't stop complaining (and occasionally those who use ipads to take pictures), and why I should keep on keeping on with quirky little photoshops and random observations.

The whole night was a long, joyful reminder of why I come back to baseball and blogging again and again. It's easy to get sucked into my own private world: my house, my Netflix queue, my scotch bottles. But baseball makes sure I remember everyone around me: the little kids abuzz with excitement; the random strangers who have a smile, handshake and piece of advice; the players who become constants in your life; the other writers, photographers and talkers who share in the silliness with me; and the family who are always there.

Gouger said it at the start of the night. There's no where else in sports where you can feel as tied into the community as you do you do at a baseball game. There's no where else I feel like my writing has as much chance to connect with like minded readers and thinkers as in this baseball blog.

It's not easy to be a Twins fan right now. It's not easy to be a Twins writer right now. But no matter how hard it gets, it's worth it, to be tied in to a community of the excited, the kind, the constant, the silly and the family that makes baseball great.

The Grim Goodbye

Nice sandwich, buddy

I've written before that one of the things I like best about baseball is the sense of family that surrounds a franchise and a team and a community. You can draw a direct line through the annual rosters: from my mother watching Tony Oliva in the bleachers at Met stadium as a kid, to my grandfather enjoying box seats with Rod Carew and Roy Smalley in the infield. From my brothers and I getting our first taste of big league ball with Kirby and Kent Hrbek under the dome (and still loving an annual game when the "stars" were Chuck Knoblauch and Matt Lawton), to the perpetual October excitement on my college campus as Torii led the rejuvenation and then passed the baton to Morneau and Mauer.

It feels like the Twins are a part of my family and when you see Tony O. smiling next to his sandwiches and Hrbek pouring beers and Torii gushing about the best pancakes in town, it's easy to forget that not every relationship with beloved stars ends like this. Growing up in the mountain west it was easy to cheer for Karl Malone and the Utah Jazz...now they may not even want to be mentioned in the same sentence. Peyton Manning seemed likely to be buried in a blue and white Colts jersey and now the media is ablaze with rumors about where he will land next. Oh, and speaking of ablaze...

Thing is, you don't really see that at Target Field. We've said goodbye to our share of stars, but next season you'll see plenty of "Hunter 48"s and "Santana 57"s and "Cuddyer 5"s dotting the stands. And in ten years--when we sit back and reminisce about our run of division championships in the aughts--it's easy to imagine each alumnus throwing out a first pitch, sitting next to Dick Bremer for an inning, being polite and proudly cheered whenever they turn up.

So is that we don't care enough? That our players are so aware of our mild-mannered Minnesota-Niceness that they don't feel a need to get hot and bothered either? That the media is so ambivalent about our "small-market" that Joe Mauer could launch into an obscenity laced tirade against umpires, Bud Selig and TC Bear, without prompting so much as a three-second drop in on Sportscenter?

Actually, I think it's just that we haven't been forced into the situation that the Jazz and the Colts have faced. In each case there was a superstar athlete, a career-long member of the family who, for one reason or another, felt that management didn't want them around any more; and who, for one reason or another, management pretty much...didn't want around any more. It is as close to a sports divorce as you can find.

Strange but true

After all those years of adulation and affection to suddenly hear that your services are no longer required is a rough business. And it's not surprising that premier athletes, who have had every reason to be confident in their greatness from the age of 17 on, believe they can go another season and another and another. But when that belief contradicts management's assessment the battle for custody of the fan's affection begins. If the fans side with the player, there is a good chance of bronze statues and special ceremonies for your twilight years; if fans side with management...well...you get Hank Aaron the Brewer and Greg Maddux the Dodger. The Twins haven't had any of these bad breakups, we allow players in their prime venture out in search of wealth and fame and fortune; sad to see them go but grateful for the time we had together.

Of course, that may all change soon. After all, we love Justin Morneau, the big walloping Canuck who can hold down first base like a goalie. Heck, Stinky used to plot ways of getting him to her place (this of course was prior to our marriage). But Morneau's about to turn 31, he's missed large parts of the last three seasons with back and concussion issues and at a certain point you wonder if the Twins will say: "sorry big guy, you're done here." Already the drumbeat has started, people hope for the best and then mention, Chris Parmalee as an insurance policy, and hey, Derek Lee's still out there, could we maybe...? We can't help but think about the future and admit (however grudgingly) that this can't last. (I won't even mention the mutterings about the other half of the M&M boys)

Other bloggers can break down the factors that feed into the Twins decision making process; what in house options we have, what other franchises might be willing to take on the salary risk now or in the near future. But I'm not as concerned with that as I am with the franchise's family and with postponing a grim goodbye as long as possible. I want Justin to succeed because he's part of the lineage now and I'd rather keep him for the consistency of the clubhouse rather than wash our hands of him because of recent issues.  What's more, I know that there will be a day when Morneau can be appreciated as a happy memory to be recalled with fondness rather than as a potential lynchpin of our lineup that causes worry and consternation. And when Stinky and I have a child or grandchild sitting beside us in the nosebleeds telling them about the good ol' days and drawing the line from our favorites to the current stars, I hope that, like Tony and Kent, and Torii that Morneau will want to come back, to throw out a ceremonial pitch to the new young guns, to reminisce in sepia tones about the good ol' days.

After all he's part of the family, and who really likes to say goodbye to family?

A Modest Proposal & Feeling a draft

After our sudden, unprecedented four game winning streak (that led to an actual series victory for the first time all year!) I would like to make the following proposal. Let's all quiet down on the whole "gloom-and-doom" palaver on the Twins.

I know that I've been as guilty as anybody about admitting that I would believe a comeback when I saw it, and while four days in June do not make a season better. Wins are great, but c'mon, if you've only been watching for theTwins for the wins I would like to show you the way to the nearest exit (keeping in mind that the closest exit may be behind you on the bandwagon).

A buddy of mine from college (whom I will call Coop-Dogg...because I always protect the identities of people who don't give express written consent to be included in this blog), raised an interesting point today. "Scrizzle Rube-izzle," said Coop-Dogg, "The media's gotta stop the bleeding! They keep cutting the legs out from underneath the boys." I was intrigued and Coop continued, "Positivity always triumphs. [For example] If they stop harping on Mauer and start building a buzz like "we want Joe! we want Joe!" instead of complaining about his salary....shizzle!"

We here at Peanuts from Heaven endorse Coop-Dogg's plan of positivity, and promise to be a little more optimistic and do a little less disbelieving despair in the coming weeks and months. Up first in our quest to do just that, this evening's Major League Baseball Draft!

Personally, I'm a big fan of drafts...both the breezy air on a sweltering Minnesota summer night, and the professional athletic competition variety. The air thing goes without saying, but when it comes to pro-sports drafts, I'm always trying to strategize and analyze and think ahead. My brothers and I have dreamt up drafts with baseball cards and action figures and computer game characters [yes...I was/am a huge nerd], and we've had plenty of fun gawking at the NFL and NBA drafts (even though I only watch those sports when they are on a muted tv at a bar). But I've never seen a Major League Baseball draft, so I'm excited to do just that this evening.

Now, if I were gloomy I might bemoan the fact that GM Bill Smith hasn't exactly done a great job assessing players [see Hoey, Jim; Hughes, Dusty; Harris, Brendan]. But these are the Twins, and they have a pretty solid track record in the draft [see Mauer, Morneau, Kubel, Cuddyer, Span, etc.], and with Coop-Dogg's admonition for more positivity in Twins-related print here goes:

The Minnesota Twins front office staff is full of talented, intelligent individuals who strive to put the best product on the field at all times. They are smart and handsome/pretty and we're very very proud of them. I'm sure they will draft some very talented young athletes, and when those players led us to future victories I will repay them with more kind words or cookies [whichever they prefer].

You know, positivity feels pretty good! So here's to the Twins as they head into Cleveland, and the front office as they head into New York. [Raises imaginary glass.] Godspeed boys, godspeed!