Mining for Misery

The Twins are coming home 6-3, and with the seasons we've suffered through they might as well all strut onto Target Field wearing uniforms designed to mimic John Travolta's white suit from Saturday Night Fever. They should have a "Pinch 'n Slap" booth at each entrance to help fans confirm they are not dreaming. Ice cream in mini batting helmets should come with six cherries on top.

But we're all gonna talk about losing that series to Detroit, and we're especially going to talk about Byron Buxton striking out like he was trying to take Sally Field's Oscar from Norma Rae.

-- Is there any actual strike in that movie? If not, I'm just counting on the fact that Twins Daily readers like me - they REALLY like me! That should get me past the facts.

The dread moments of baseball aren't reserved for when your team loses a number of games that would be good to score on the wheel in The Price is Right. Dread's the bitter coffee you have while watching a beautiful sunset. It's the bowel movement caused by that coffee when you sit on your throne and watch videos of another Sano home run. Dread may be a little gross and personal, but we always put it on the menu.

By the end of August, every goldurn one of you will have a player you can't stand. And you will follow this player more closely than the players you like. You'll pray for them to get demoted, traded, or even forced into real estate. When one of those outcomes happens, you'll cheer and splatter ink praising the end of the great awfulness all over your social media. Then, before your head hits the pillow, your brain will seize the next player you'll hate by one ankle and begin brewing barrels of spite.

I think this happens because we all really believe we're just a bend in the road away from true happiness, and we could fix it if someone just gave us the chance. Proving we can fix the destiny of our favorite baseball team reinforces the idea we'd be living like princes and princesses if the damned bastards of the world would just listen to us.

For me, life would be fine and dandy if the White Sox went away and Trevor May got healed by Roma Downey in Touched by an Angel (or some retro Michael Landon miracle-making). Will this amount to anything? Well, Brendan Harris isn't going into the Twins' Hall of Fame any time soon. But the human animal I am can't just watch the game without grounding my teeth and dreading the unholy idea that no one cares what I think.