Bummed Darin Mastroianni got sent to minor league camp. My unpleasant mood has nothing to do with strategy or intellect. I am bummed because my friends who got autographs from him said he was a great guy. Mostly, I am bummed because I liked to pretend he was secretly a stubbly private investigator in a lesser known horror film directed by Dario Argento.

Baseball, appreciated from the keen and reasoned eye of a scientific scholar, moves like a beautiful piece of clockwork machinery. I admire this viewpoint, though I suspect I will never quite master it.

For my 2014 Twins season, I cannot be bothered to try to to see the baseball machine's cogs and gears selected and put into play with a jeweler's precision. In 2014, I say "8th Grade Mentality or Bust!"

From this point forward, I am willing to believe pitchers are just magical instead of streaking or benefiting from good defense. Sam Deduno, you magical UFO son of a gun, make something happen.

I will continue to enjoy the imaginary backstories and theme songs for players my wife, friends, and I invent. After all, just because no one has laughed at my Kubel/Guerrilas in Da Mist mash-up does not mean I should stop rapping it every time his name is mentioned. Every. Single. Time.

I will relish nicknames. I shall delight in each Gardyism. I shall not jinx no-hitters by talking about them, and I can find it inside my heart to believe in rally hats again.

I draw the line at doing the wave.

My brain loves the brilliance of baseball, but my heart needs to be healthy, too. Bring on the dingers, and load me up on nasty hot dogs and nachos that follow the point under the "Twins" script on my shirt straight to my shorts and sneakers. May I sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" each and every time I hear it.