How the Twins Became Terrible at Baserunning (Exclusive)

Last year, the Twins were 20.7 runs worse than an average team on the bases, according to FanGraphs. That was the second-worst mark in MLB. They stole (or even attempted to steal) fewer bases than any other team. They took the extra base on hits at a below-average rate, and they made outs on the bases at an above-average rate. 

That has been a pattern throughout the Rocco Baldelli era, too. The team will point out that the whole league is moving away from steals and aggressive baserunning, and that may be true, but the Twins still stand out like a sore hamstring. Since 2019, the Twins have stolen just 134 bases. The Red Sox have stolen the second-fewest in MLB, at 191. The gap between Minnesota and Boston is larger than the gap between Boston and the Yankees, who have stolen the 14th-fewest over that span. 

Baserunning is a nuanced art, and when a team does it poorly, the field staff always gets the heat. In this case, though, it’s pretty clear that the front office is driving the systemic failure. It’s a part of their broader strategy. There are good reasons underpinning that strategy, too. That said, the strategy sucks.

The two free agent signees most on the mind of Twins fans at the moment provide a perfect way to understand what the team is doing. Last winter, they surprised everyone by signing Carlos Correa, albeit on a short-term deal. Correa was and is a premium talent, with a long track record of brilliant play. There’s almost no weakness in his game–almost. 

Correa is a terrible baserunner. He’s actually quite fast, once he gets underway, but he’s so conservative on the bases (and so hesitant, after years of such overcautiousness) that he can’t avail himself of his speed most of the time. While an excellent player overall, he has hurt his teams by hitting into too many double plays and doing too little on the bases in each of the last two seasons.

Why is Correa so careful? The hiccup that triggered the final twist in his second tour of free agency illustrates it. He suffered a significant lower-leg injury running the bases in the minor leagues in 2014, and some reports suggest that the San Francisco Giants’ hangup in reading his physical exam traced all the way back to that injury. 

This is one huge reason for the broader trend away from emphasizing baserunning, and for the Twins’ philosophy of treading lightly. Everyone, and especially the Twins, now views the risk of injury as part of the break-even calculations required when deciding whether to attempt a steal, whether to try to score from first on a double, and even how to instruct players about their mentality on the bases. 

Just as importantly, though, the Twins have arrived at a conclusion similar to the one articulated at the beginning of Moneyball. They think speed is overpriced, and they view it as a secondary skill set. They would rather select players for their ability to authoritatively pull the ball in the air, for instance, than select them for speed or baserunning savvy, because most games are impacted more by what one does in the batter’s box than by what one does on the basepaths. 

That’s why the Twins, even if only fractionally, were more willing than other teams to overlook Joey Gallo’s falling Sprint Speed. Once a comfortably above-average runner, Gallo (whose pull power- and patience-centered approach at the plate fit the Twins’ philosophy like a batting glove) has lost a step over the last few years, and is now about as slow as his huge frame would suggest. He’s still a fine defender, thanks to good reads off the bat and a strong arm, but he’s a below-average runner in either corner outfield spot, and might not be viable in center field any longer. He’s tangibly slower than Max Kepler, whose role on the club he figures to take in 2023.

These things matter, because the Twins’ proclivity for accepting less speed is also why they’re perennially saddled with so many injuries, and why they often feel like a sclerotic, one-dimensional team. While it’s secondary in the degree to which it directly affects most games, speed is a primary indicator of a certain kind of athleticism. 

In baseball, there are two main categories of athleticism, and many players excel in one or the other, rather than both. One type is the explosive, rotational athlete. These are the guys who can throw 103 miles per hour, have excellent Bomba Rates, and generally have a knack for transferring massive energy from the ground, through themselves, and into the baseball. 

The Twins collect these guys. In their farm system, they train guys to be great in this sector of athleticism. They consider the batter-pitcher matchup, with its intensity and its potential for premeditation and tactical aggression, the center of the game, and they put their resources into being ready to win it as often as possible.

The other main type of baseball athleticism is the one people more often mean when they use the word. It’s not about unidirectional energy flow, but about proprioception and hand-eye coordination. It encompasses balance, looseness in the hips, the ability to make last-second adjustments, and comfort doing usual things at unusual angles. 

This is what allows a great hitter, when fooled, to flick the ball the other way for a double. It’s the extra dimension of movement that always seems to let Javier Baez creatively slide around a tag–and the anticipatory quickness that allows Baez to thwart would-be tag evaders when he’s in the field.

Straight-line speed actually belongs to the first category of athleticism, as much as the second. It’s not a coincidence that, as he’s worked out who he is as a player, Byron Buxton has become a lethal power hitter, adept at turning on the ball and driving it in the air. He uses much of the same extraordinary musculature and intuitive sense of leverage to generate both that power and his awesome speed, at full gait. 

Buxton, however, has become a mostly stagnant and ineffectual baserunner, because he hasn’t cultivated the other dimension of athleticism. He gets into trouble when trying to change speeds or direction suddenly. He gets hurt. While pure speed itself comes from the same place as power, speed utility—and the health benefits of being lithe and fast—comes from that second type of athleticism. Buxton, like virtually all of his teammates, is missing that.

The Twins are selecting baseball-specialized athletes too often, and training the guys already in their organization to focus too much on that area. They don’t want to pay for a skill that seems to make up so little of the game, and that helps them keep up with other clubs in the power department. 

The tradeoff leads to all kinds of problems, though, like having two guys with below-average range and quickness on the left side of their infield in the first year without defensive shifts. (Kyle Farmer and Jose Miranda each do what the Twins want hitters to do, but both are insufficient multidirectional athletes if they’re to be paired at their current positions.) 

It also leads to more injuries, because the players they’re acquiring and developing are stretching their bodies to their limits in short, violent bursts, and lack the capacity for the tiny adjustments that can avert disaster. That’s all on top of the most obvious problem, which is this: The Twins let runs go unscored because they simply don’t have guys who can put pressure on defenses and fully exploit opportunities.