Brendan Kennealy

Download attachment: Rodriguez_Alex_laughing_US_720.jpg With all the recent developments in the latest PED scandal, it remains to be seen which players (if any) will receive suspensions and how those penalties may or may not impact the Minnesota Twins. While MLB is busy trying to procure documents, names and testimonies from now-defunct Biogenesis and its shady former owner Tony Bosch, countless athletes such as Ryan Braun and Alex Rodriguez are once again finding their names in the headlines for suspicion of using performance-enhancing drugs.[PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] Winning Bosch as an ally in the fight against PEDs doesn't exactly help MLB here. Make no mistake, these players and many others may have cheated, but without any new evidence, positive tests or further proof linking these players to PEDs, MLB may be no closer to identifying and punishing the guilty parties. By relying on documents and testimony instead of positive tests to dole out suspensions, the players union will have legal grounds to contest every penalty. Furthermore, instead of convincing the public and media that MLB has a handle on its generation-long war against PEDs, the ever-growing list of suspected players may have the opposite effect. The question must be asked: is it possible that MLB's anti-drug policy isn't working? Take the case of Melky Cabrera, for example. After testing positive for a banned substance and serving a 50-game suspension in the 2012 season, the Blue Jays rewarded Cabrera this past off-season with a 2-year, $16-million contract. There's no doubt he would have earned even more money as a free agent had he not been caught cheating, but it stands to reason that countless athletes (and the general sports-watching public, if given the opportunity) will continue to risk public scorn and temporary penalties for long-term financial security. For teams that sign these players, increased revenue and great on-field performances continue to outweigh the risks and they will keep trying to the careers of players guilty of even the worst offenses. It is clear that 50-game suspensions (or the threat of 100-game suspensions and lifetime bans for 2nd and 3rd-time offenders, respectively) are not discouraging players from using drugs to gain a competitive edge. Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that MLB is no closer to identifying how or why certain players cheat, nor have they been able to get ahead of the science that allows cheaters to fool drug tests. The MLB anti-drug policy is solely reactionary and, as a scare tactic and perhaps nothing more, it isn't succeeding at preventing the use of PEDs. So long as athletes can count on 8-figure salaries even after having been caught cheating, they will continue to look for the competitive advantages, regardless of the (relatively minor) consequences. Click here to view the article

I remember the first time I saw Bull Durham. It was 2004 and I was still living in mom and dad's basement. I was drinking cold bottles of Miller High Life with my buddy Al, and we were flipping channels when we stopped just in time to see Susan Sarandon – who was still in Vintage Babe Form back in the late 80s – walk out of her house and into a minor league ballpark. She delivered an A+ monologue to start the movie, and I was hooked as soon as she mentioned that there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and 108 stitches in a baseball. I've since learned this is an outright lie, albeit a poetic, beautiful tiny lie, but even so, her claim cemented for me a relationship between spirituality and baseball that I had always felt but had never been able to express. She called it The Church of Baseball. Even if the rest of the movie weren't wonderful, even if it rested on the laurels of its opening monologue and Kevin Costner's passable home run swing, I would have loved it still. Thankfully, the movie goes on to hilariously and sincerely portray the difficulties of love and friendship, as well as the beauty and tragedy of the sport. Just as Harbach's The Art of Fielding isn't just a book about baseball, Bull Durham isn't only a baseball movie; like Millie says of Ebby Calvin "Nuke" LaLoosh, it's "sort of all over the place." [PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] My buddy Kirk and I are ushers at Target Field. We've known each other since we were ten and in little league together. We've had jobs in the same mall, gone camping, grown up, gotten married and found Stephen Colbert together, but even with all of that history and all of those memories, our time at the ballpark may be the part I treasure most. On the average summer Sunday morning, when most people are either asleep in bed or snoring through Church, instead of listening to a sermon about Baby Jesus' namesake or Peter, Paul and/or Mary, we head to Target Field in his Impala or my Crown Vic, windows down to let in the cool breeze, with the radio tuned to manager Ron Gardenhire's weekly talk radio spot. http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tfCRv8w43iE/T2QbZrjkJKI/AAAAAAAAB64/1DLiPSTMeNI/s320/2011-05-29_16-52-43_912.jpg We both love going to the games and standing in the sun, giving a hard time to the the beer guys and the visiting fans, and tossing balls from batting practice to the little kids in Cuddyer t-shirts. I love the green grass, the fat blue sky, the sun that burns my bald head and the smell of sausages and onions on the grill. I can't speak for Kirk, but just like many of our co-workers claim, I would happily work at these games for free. I would give up my extra paycheck not because I'm rich and don't need the money, and not because it's such terribly easy work – it can be difficult, it really can, especially when you're tired and it's late and it seems the game will never end – but I would do it for free because, as Kirk would agree, the stadium is a cathedral. During our drives downtown, we talk about faith and the importance of having it. We talk about perseverance and rising to the occasion, and sometimes we even talk about baseball. We listen to Gardy talk about his bullpen and his infielders, and we wonder, too, which guy is going to swing the big bat or strike out the side when it counts. We talk about everything. But the one thing we always come back to is our love for that ballpark. The Church of Baseball. The fastball, the sun and the home run trot. Everyone who has been to a game at the Dome or Target Field knows how it feels to sit among a crowd of 40,000+ screaming fans. Some have been fortunate enough to know the hushed excitement and anxious fear that consumes a playoff crowd. Even fewer yet have felt the adrenaline course through their own blood during a potential rally at a World Series home game. I would love one day to attend a World Series game at Target Field. I would probably be willing to give up, again, that extra paycheck I earn at the ballpark, or even an arm or a leg. But there is one thing I wouldn't give up. It's something only a select few are able to experience, and Kirk and I can barely talk about it without dramatically (and comically) wiping away tears and adopting the wistful tones of the very elderly as when they talk about the way things used to be. http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IaCpg-laZw0/T2QgExr_gxI/AAAAAAAAB7A/Sz-W5OrPqgg/s320/IMG_5957.JPG I'm talking about an empty ballpark. And I don't mean the type of empty ballpark you find in Tampa or Kansas City even during a home stand. What I mean to describe is the ballpark as it exists before the game, before batting practice even, when the seats are empty and covered in shadows, when all is quiet and still and clean. It is foreplay at its finest. An empty ballpark may sound depressing, boring or even pointless to you – they are, after all, built specifically to house the team and its fans – but I assure you, the silent, unobstructed communion that occurs in an empty ballpark between your soul and something greater is exactly what Sarandon must have been talking about when she described the healing powers of The Church of Baseball. Now, of course the park is never truly empty when Kirk and I are there. Security is always on the clock. A few other staff members are scattered here and there, wiping bird crap off seats and turning on soda fountains. Down on the field, the grounds crew prepares the dirt and chalk, the border separating the brown crushed granite from soft grass. The pitchers play long toss, the infielders take grounders, and the outfielders dance their way through their stretching drills. Then the guests line up outside the gate, ready to come in and replace solitude with community. But until those gates open, until the people rush in and quicken the pulse of the place, the concourses are wide open, the sightlines are unobstructed and there are no distractions. Until the gates open, you can stand at the bottom of the 43rd step, the one right next to the padded wall and the left field foul line, and you can look out at the downtown skyline. You can smell the gasoline of lawn mowers and admire the cross-cut pattern of the grass, its individual blades rolled and pressed into alternating directions so they reflect light and 100 varying shades of green. You can enjoy it and take it in without any interruption, just like a kiss before the big show. Just like Susan Sarandon said at the beginning of Bull Durham, "The only church that feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball." Nowhere is that nourishment more readily digestible – in the form of fresh air, silence or even a hot dog covered in mustard – than in an empty ballpark. I'm very grateful I don't have to experience it alone. *Views are my own and do not represent those of my employer* Click here to view the article

With all the recent developments in the latest PED scandal, it remains to be seen which players (if any) will receive suspensions and how those penalties may or may not impact the Minnesota Twins. While MLB is busy trying to procure documents, names and testimonies from now-defunct Biogenesis and its shady former owner Tony Bosch, countless athletes such as Ryan Braun and Alex Rodriguez are once again finding their names in the headlines for suspicion of using performance-enhancing drugs. Winning Bosch as an ally in the fight against PEDs doesn't exactly help MLB here. Make no mistake, these players and many others may have cheated, but without any new evidence, positive tests or further proof linking these players to PEDs, MLB may be no closer to identifying and punishing the guilty parties. By relying on documents and testimony instead of positive tests to dole out suspensions, the players union will have legal grounds to contest every penalty. Furthermore, instead of convincing the public and media that MLB has a handle on its generation-long war against PEDs, the ever-growing list of suspected players may have the opposite effect. The question must be asked: is it possible that MLB's anti-drug policy isn't working? Take the case of Melky Cabrera, for example. After testing positive for a banned substance and serving a 50-game suspension in the 2012 season, the Blue Jays rewarded Cabrera this past off-season with a 2-year, $16-million contract. There's no doubt he would have earned even more money as a free agent had he not been caught cheating, but it stands to reason that countless athletes (and the general sports-watching public, if given the opportunity) will continue to risk public scorn and temporary penalties for long-term financial security. For teams that sign these players, increased revenue and great on-field performances continue outweigh the risks and redeem players of even the worst offenses. It is clear that 50-game suspensions (or the threat of 100-game suspensions and lifetime bans for 2nd and 3rd-time offenders, respectively) are not discouraging players from using drugs to gain a competitive edge. Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that MLB is no closer to identifying how or why players cheat, nor have they been able to get ahead of the science that allows cheaters to fool drug tests. The MLB anti-drug policy is solely reactionary and, as a scare tactic and perhaps nothing more, it isn't succeeding at preventing the use of PEDs. So long as athletes can count on 8-figure salaries even after having been caught cheating, they will continue to look for the competitive advantage, regardless of the other (relatively minor) consequences.

With all the recent developments in the latest PED scandal, it remains to be seen which players (if any) will receive suspensions and how those penalties may or may not impact the Minnesota Twins. While MLB is busy trying to procure documents, names and testimonies from now-defunct Biogenesis and its shady former owner Tony Bosch, countless athletes such as Ryan Braun and Alex Rodriguez are once again finding their names in the headlines for suspicion of using performance-enhancing drugs. Winning Bosch as an ally in the fight against PEDs doesn't exactly help MLB here. Make no mistake, these players and many others may have cheated, but without any new evidence, positive tests or further proof linking these players to PEDs, MLB may be no closer to identifying and punishing the guilty parties. By relying on documents and testimony instead of positive tests to dole out suspensions, the players union will have legal grounds to contest every penalty. Furthermore, instead of convincing the public and media that MLB has a handle on its generation-long war against PEDs, the ever-growing list of suspected players may have the opposite effect. The question must be asked: is it possible that MLB's anti-drug policy isn't working? Take the case of Melky Cabrera, for example. After testing positive for a banned substance and serving a 50-game suspension in the 2012 season, the Blue Jays rewarded Cabrera this past off-season with a 2-year, $16-million contract. There's no doubt he would have earned even more money as a free agent had he not been caught cheating, but it stands to reason that countless athletes (and the general sports-watching public, if given the opportunity) will continue to risk public scorn and temporary penalties for long-term financial security. For teams that sign these players, increased revenue and great on-field performances continue outweigh the risks and redeem players of even the worst offenses. It is clear that 50-game suspensions (or the threat of 100-game suspensions and lifetime bans for 2nd and 3rd-time offenders, respectively) are not discouraging players from using drugs to gain a competitive edge. Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that MLB is no closer to identifying how or why players cheat, nor have they been able to get ahead of the science that allows cheaters to fool drug tests. The MLB anti-drug policy is solely reactionary and, as a scare tactic and perhaps nothing more, it isn't succeeding at preventing the use of PEDs. So long as athletes can count on 8-figure salaries even after having been caught cheating, they will continue to look for the competitive advantage, regardless of the other (relatively minor) consequences.

With all the recent developments in the latest PED scandal, it remains to be seen which players (if any) will receive suspensions and how those penalties may or may not impact the Minnesota Twins. While MLB is busy trying to procure documents, names and testimonies from now-defunct Biogenesis and its shady former owner Tony Bosch, countless athletes such as Ryan Braun and Alex Rodriguez are once again finding their names in the headlines for suspicion of using performance-enhancing drugs. Winning Bosch as an ally in the fight against PEDs doesn't exactly help MLB here. Make no mistake, these players and many others may have cheated, but without any new evidence, positive tests or further proof linking these players to PEDs, MLB may be no closer to identifying and punishing the guilty parties. By relying on documents and testimony instead of positive tests to dole out suspensions, the players union will have legal grounds to contest every penalty. Furthermore, instead of convincing the public and media that MLB has a handle on its generation-long war against PEDs, the ever-growing list of suspected players may have the opposite effect. The question must be asked: is it possible that MLB's anti-drug policy isn't working? Take the case of Melky Cabrera, for example. After testing positive for a banned substance and serving a 50-game suspension in the 2012 season, the Blue Jays rewarded Cabrera this past off-season with a 2-year, $16-million contract. There's no doubt he would have earned even more money as a free agent had he not been caught cheating, but it stands to reason that countless athletes (and the general sports-watching public, if given the opportunity) will continue to risk public scorn and temporary penalties for long-term financial security. For teams that sign these players, increased revenue and great on-field performances continue outweigh the risks and redeem players of even the worst offenses. It is clear that 50-game suspensions (or the threat of 100-game suspensions and lifetime bans for 2nd and 3rd-time offenders, respectively) are not discouraging players from using drugs to gain a competitive edge. Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that MLB is no closer to identifying how or why players cheat, nor have they been able to get ahead of the science that allows cheaters to fool drug tests. The MLB anti-drug policy is solely reactionary and, as a scare tactic and perhaps nothing more, it isn't succeeding at preventing the use of PEDs. So long as athletes can count on 8-figure salaries even after having been caught cheating, they will continue to look for the competitive advantage, regardless of the other (relatively minor) consequences.

With all the recent developments in the latest PED scandal, it remains to be seen which players (if any) will receive suspensions and how those penalties may or may not impact the Minnesota Twins. While MLB is busy trying to procure documents, names and testimonies from now-defunct Biogenesis and its shady former owner Tony Bosch, countless athletes such as Ryan Braun and Alex Rodriguez are once again finding their names in the headlines for suspicion of using performance-enhancing drugs. Winning Bosch as an ally in the fight against PEDs doesn't exactly help MLB here. Make no mistake, these players and many others may have cheated, but without any new evidence, positive tests or further proof linking these players to PEDs, MLB may be no closer to identifying and punishing the guilty parties. By relying on documents and testimony instead of positive tests to dole out suspensions, the players union will have legal grounds to contest every penalty. Furthermore, instead of convincing the public and media that MLB has a handle on its generation-long war against PEDs, the ever-growing list of suspected players may have the opposite effect. The question must be asked: is it possible that MLB's anti-drug policy isn't working? Take the case of Melky Cabrera, for example. After testing positive for a banned substance and serving a 50-game suspension in the 2012 season, the Blue Jays rewarded Cabrera this past off-season with a 2-year, $16-million contract. There's no doubt he would have earned even more money as a free agent had he not been caught cheating, but it stands to reason that countless athletes (and the general sports-watching public, if given the opportunity) will continue to risk public scorn and temporary penalties for long-term financial security. For teams that sign these players, increased revenue and great on-field performances continue outweigh the risks and redeem players of even the worst offenses. It is clear that 50-game suspensions (or the threat of 100-game suspensions and lifetime bans for 2nd and 3rd-time offenders, respectively) are not discouraging players from using drugs to gain a competitive edge. Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that MLB is no closer to identifying how or why players cheat, nor have they been able to get ahead of the science that allows cheaters to fool drug tests. The MLB anti-drug policy is solely reactionary and, as a scare tactic and perhaps nothing more, it isn't succeeding at preventing the use of PEDs. So long as athletes can count on 8-figure salaries even after having been caught cheating, they will continue to look for the competitive advantage, regardless of the other (relatively minor) consequences.

I'm stoked to watch Parm some more. He hasn't let Target Field's pitcher-friendly dimensions and wind tunnels get to him yet, and he has more than enough minor-league experience to warrant a shot at 1B on the big club. I'll be eager to see how his defense improves as he continues to work with TK and the rest of the coaches. Good post.

The only thing more wonderful than a summer in full swing is the very promise of summer. And at no time is that promise more anticipated or electric than on Opening Day. On Opening Day, all those warm nights you'll spend at the ballpark beneath the bright lights and dark sky are like a cold beer not yet tasted; each sip is craved and full of sweet, calming booze. And while even the most bitter beer will be gladly glugged on a hot day in July, there is almost nothing so bad about a lousy baseball team or a lost season that can't be forgotten among dripping ice cream cones and the tuneless songs of the 7th-inning stretch. Opening Day is the one time each year when every baseball fan is able to look forward to all 162 games with equal measures of excitement, hope and wonder. Last season's accomplishments and disappointments don't matter anymore, or not as much anyway. Title winners and cellar dwellers become only memories, some sweeter than others, and for the innocent kid in all of us, the day's game takes precedence. Yesterday is gone; we may talk about it in awe or disbelief as Baseball History dictates, but optimism reigns supreme because the boxscore has not yet been written. Any team can win and the World Series is once again up for grabs. Every team has the chance to be great, and the beer man has a full case. April lays claim to ceremonial first pitches and first hot dogs. Rain delays are upon us. Fresh grass stains cover the knees of MVPs and little leaguers alike. Our hometown favorites and the most-hated visiting players survive early slumps, and we bleacher-warmers chase foul balls and spill our Cokes. Our hands sting for the batted ball that slips through our fingers. But then May and June's warm winds will come to dance across our sweat-cooled necks. The sun will burn our thighs. We'll cover our brats with relish, onions and sauerkraut, and the girls of summer will sport tan lines and tube tops. They'll wear flip flops, sundresses and smiles. There will be perfume enough to make even the strongest among us dizzy with pleasure. Yes, the beer is always cold and sold in every ballpark by a tribe of nasal-voiced, South-Boston transplants. Grandfathers every year struggle to explain the infield fly rule to granddaughters whose tiny fingers are sticky with cotton candy. Sunflower seeds and peanuts sustain us. July's fireworks scream high above and shower down. All-Stars shine and shooting stars streak the sky above. Our hearts rise and fall with every pitch, every Home Run, every must-win game won, every dream dashed by the Damn Yankees. Road trips drag on like the winter you hope never comes. But winning streaks and Pennant Fever grab hold in August. Injury bugs beget September call-ups. Prayers are launched skyward akin to moon-shot Home Runs. There are shoe-ins and long-shots. Heroes and villains. For every Casey, there's a Cobb. For every King of the Diamond, there is a Wild Card. And so the dog days give way to Twi-Night Double headers; mittens and sweaters for Midwesterners. October berths are clinched. Playoff baseball begins. We suffer shortness of breath and see it in front of our faces. Every player's triumph is our own, each failure a punch to the gut. We suffer from heavy eyes and soaring hearts, our knuckles go white, we grind our teeth, pound our fists, kick awake our twitchy legs, let loose our hoarse voices, boos and belly-deep cheers. There are happy tears for some and long, silent walks to the clubhouse for others. Some celebrate with a gleaming trophy and a ticker-tape parade. The rest of us empty the stands and share our front-page disappointment. November rains replace champagne showers. This is where the road leads, every year. But on Opening Day we all get to wonder: will our team win it all? Is this our year? And along the way, as we wait for the superstitious to work their magic and for Lady Luck to come calling, we enjoy the scenery. The uncertainty. The possibility. The sunshine, the perfect green grass devoid of dog's mess. The promise of summer is upon us. Nothing is over. Nothing is written. Baseball is here and it will be great.

The only thing more wonderful than a summer in full swing is the very promise of summer. And at no time is that promise more anticipated or electric than on Opening Day. On Opening Day, all those warm nights you'll spend at the ballpark beneath the bright lights and dark sky are like a cold beer not yet tasted; each sip is craved and full of sweet, calming booze. And while even the most bitter beer will be gladly glugged on a hot day in July, there is almost nothing so bad about a lousy baseball team or a lost season that can't be forgotten among dripping ice cream cones and the tuneless songs of the 7th-inning stretch. Opening Day is the one time each year when every baseball fan is able to look forward to all 162 games with equal measures of excitement, hope and wonder. Last season's accomplishments and disappointments don't matter anymore, or not as much anyway. Title winners and cellar dwellers become only memories, some sweeter than others, and for the innocent kid in all of us, the day's game takes precedence. Yesterday is gone; we may talk about it in awe or disbelief as Baseball History dictates, but optimism reigns supreme because the boxscore has not yet been written. Any team can win and the World Series is once again up for grabs. Every team has the chance to be great, and the beer man has a full case. April lays claim to ceremonial first pitches and first hot dogs. Rain delays are upon us. Fresh grass stains cover the knees of MVPs and little leaguers alike. Our hometown favorites and the most-hated visiting players survive early slumps, and we bleacher-warmers chase foul balls and spill our Cokes. Our hands sting for the batted ball that slips through our fingers. But then May and June's warm winds will come to dance across our sweat-cooled necks. The sun will burn our thighs. We'll cover our brats with relish, onions and sauerkraut, and the girls of summer will sport tan lines and tube tops. They'll wear flip flops, sundresses and smiles. There will be perfume enough to make even the strongest among us dizzy with pleasure. Yes, the beer is always cold and sold in every ballpark by a tribe of nasal-voiced, South-Boston transplants. Grandfathers every year struggle to explain the infield fly rule to granddaughters whose tiny fingers are sticky with cotton candy. Sunflower seeds and peanuts sustain us. July's fireworks scream high above and shower down. All-Stars shine and shooting stars streak the sky above. Our hearts rise and fall with every pitch, every Home Run, every must-win game won, every dream dashed by the Damn Yankees. Road trips drag on like the winter you hope never comes. But winning streaks and Pennant Fever grab hold in August. Injury bugs beget September call-ups. Prayers are launched skyward akin to moon-shot Home Runs. There are shoe-ins and long-shots. Heroes and villains. For every Casey, there's a Cobb. For every King of the Diamond, there is a Wild Card. And so the dog days give way to Twi-Night Double headers; mittens and sweaters for Midwesterners. October berths are clinched. Playoff baseball begins. We suffer shortness of breath and see it in front of our faces. Every player's triumph is our own, each failure a punch to the gut. We suffer from heavy eyes and soaring hearts, our knuckles go white, we grind our teeth, pound our fists, kick awake our twitchy legs, let loose our hoarse voices, boos and belly-deep cheers. There are happy tears for some and long, silent walks to the clubhouse for others. Some celebrate with a gleaming trophy and a ticker-tape parade. The rest of us empty the stands and share our front-page disappointment. November rains replace champagne showers. This is where the road leads, every year. But on Opening Day we all get to wonder: will our team win it all? Is this our year? And along the way, as we wait for the superstitious to work their magic and for Lady Luck to come calling, we enjoy the scenery. The uncertainty. The possibility. The sunshine, the perfect green grass devoid of dog's mess. The promise of summer is upon us. Nothing is over. Nothing is written. Baseball is here and it will be great.

Great graphs! I'm really surprised that the Dome and Target Field don't have a larger difference in HRs, but as you said, it's clearly a large enough difference to get inside the hitters' heads.

When I was 8 years old, the Twins beat the Braves in the 1991 World Series, and my mom went absolutely nuts. I don't mean nuts in the literal sense – she didn't wind up heavily sedated or institutionalized; I only mean baseball crazy. This kind of crazy doesn't require medical attention or therapy, at least in most cases, but it can still be worrisome. It's the kind that makes you pace and sweat and swear at playoff-overachievers like Mark Lemke on the TV in front of your children. The kind that makes you so nervous that you can't sit still on the couch like a normal person, and so you mop the kitchen floor three times in one night because you just have to be doing something. This is my mom's sickness. It's possible that the 1991 playoffs weren't the first thing to make her go bonkers; it's just the first time I remember witnessing it. Maybe she lost her marbles in '87 when the Twins beat the Cards, or maybe it happened in '65 when Koufax beat Kaat in Game 7. She could have flipped out during any baseball season, really, on any summer day at the old Met or even the Dome for all I know, but I do know I saw her scream and jump and cry in her kitchen in October of 1991 as Jack Morris and Danny Gladden hugged it out at home plate in the Dome. It's all as clear in my mind as my first day of school, my first little-league hit or the first time I high-fived my wife. I remember it because I was screaming and jumping and crying right there with her. We had our own at-home celebration somewhere between the fridge and the stove, waving our tear-soaked Homer Hankies, and I lost my mind over baseball for the very first time. Her sickness became mine. It's been twenty years since we tore up paper towels and junk mail and threw it around the kitchen like homemade confetti. Since then the Twins have been, at times, plenty exciting to say the least. They've flirted with a playoff run here and there, they've thrilled me and killed me, made me wonder why and what if, but nothing has been quite as exciting as 1991. Not their gritty resurgence in '02, not the unbelievable magic of '06, and not even the boozy sunshine that soaked Target Field's inaugural season in 2010 compares. I'm still trying to get back to that original high. It's like I'm dopesick. And since I'm chasing the dragon, it should come as no surprise that I made sure to get my hands on the 1991 World Champs commemorative bobblehead, given away last season by the Twins during their 20th anniversary weekend. And then, one August night, as the Twins played Delmon Young and the Tigers at Comerica Park, I finally had some time to take the bobblehead down to my folks' house so I could show it to my mom. As expected, she took one look at it and started boasting about how Ron Gant was clearly out. She smiled, too, and I think she may have sniffled a little when I told her she could have it. You see, even though she always loved Blyleven and Puck the most, she still has a special place carved out for Hrbek. Shoot, she even gets emotional over Al Newman. Like I said, it's a sickness. [TABLE=class: tr-caption-container] [TD=align: center]http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2iEacZMyn9E/Tks2YV-sbjI/AAAAAAAABQ4/59ypq7ko6G4/s320/IMG_2787.JPG[/TD] [TD=class: tr-caption, align: center]Cuddyer, Nathan and Matty G. have all left, but Mom is still here.[/TD] [/TABLE] But in this shared sickness, some pretty special bonding takes place. Nobody really gets my love for baseball like Mom. Not the countless other Twins lovers across the wide interwebs, and not even my wife, I think, although she is incredibly tolerant, patient and quite fond herself of goofy personalities like Pat Neshek, Mike Redmond and Mr. Jim Leyland. Maybe it's because I'm socially awkward and terribly self-conscious about the intensity of my emotions, or maybe it's because I found my baseball soulmate back in '91 and instinctively knew I'd never find another person who'd cheer as hard for Matty Guerrier and Nicky Punto as they did for stars like Puckett and Nathan. Maybe harder, even. Whatever the reason, there's no person with whom I'd rather watch a ball game. [TABLE=class: tr-caption-container] [TD=align: center]http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IF_lVZdHuug/Tks6-izssxI/AAAAAAAABQ8/HePN8zWxw-k/s320/meg+in+moms+kitchen.jpg[/TD] [TD=class: tr-caption, align: center]OK, my wife's a pretty big fan, too. Here she is in Mom's kitchen.[/TD] [/TABLE] This is all to say that on that night in Detroit when Jim Thome, Masher of Taters, The Big Donkey and Future Hall of Famer, sent career homers 599 and 600 into the left-field seats over Delmon Young's head (in consecutive at bats, no less!) I was glad I was at my folks' house, clapping my hands and hollering with Mom in her kitchen, feeling for just a minute the rush of excitement, disbelief and weightlessness that flooded me in 1991. Of course, I do realize that a couple of milestone taters don't compare to winning the World Series. However, mired as we were in the dog days of a lousy season – a season where the Twins lost Harmon Killebrew, the original Paul Bunyon in Pinstripes, a season where they spent $23 million on two weak legs and had a good shot at losing 90 games for the first time in the Gardenhire era – Thome's achievement stands out as maybe the only reason Twins fans had to just be happy, to celebrate and go crazy. So we went crazy, even if it was just for a little while. Originally published here.

When I was 8 years old, the Twins beat the Braves in the 1991 World Series, and my mom went absolutely nuts. I don't mean nuts in the literal sense – she didn't wind up heavily sedated or institutionalized; I only mean baseball crazy. This kind of crazy doesn't require medical attention or therapy, at least in most cases, but it can still be worrisome. It's the kind that makes you pace and sweat and swear at playoff-overachievers like Mark Lemke on the TV in front of your children. The kind that makes you so nervous that you can't sit still on the couch like a normal person, and so you mop the kitchen floor three times in one night because you just have to be doing something. This is my mom's sickness. It's possible that the 1991 playoffs weren't the first thing to make her go bonkers; it's just the first time I remember witnessing it. Maybe she lost her marbles in '87 when the Twins beat the Cards, or maybe it happened in '65 when Koufax beat Kaat in Game 7. She could have flipped out during any baseball season, really, on any summer day at the old Met or even the Dome for all I know, but I do know I saw her scream and jump and cry in her kitchen in October of 1991 as Jack Morris and Danny Gladden hugged it out at home plate in the Dome. It's all as clear in my mind as my first day of school, my first little-league hit or the first time I high-fived my wife. I remember it because I was screaming and jumping and crying right there with her. We had our own at-home celebration somewhere between the fridge and the stove, waving our tear-soaked Homer Hankies, and I lost my mind over baseball for the very first time. Her sickness became mine. It's been twenty years since we tore up paper towels and junk mail and threw it around the kitchen like homemade confetti. Since then the Twins have been, at times, plenty exciting to say the least. They've flirted with a playoff run here and there, they've thrilled me and killed me, made me wonder why and what if, but nothing has been quite as exciting as 1991. Not their gritty resurgence in '02, not the unbelievable magic of '06, and not even the boozy sunshine that soaked Target Field's inaugural season in 2010 compares. I'm still trying to get back to that original high. It's like I'm dopesick. And since I'm chasing the dragon, it should come as no surprise that I made sure to get my hands on the 1991 World Champs commemorative bobblehead, given away last season by the Twins during their 20th anniversary weekend. And then, one August night, as the Twins played Delmon Young and the Tigers at Comerica Park, I finally had some time to take the bobblehead down to my folks' house so I could show it to my mom. As expected, she took one look at it and started boasting about how Ron Gant was clearly out. She smiled, too, and I think she may have sniffled a little when I told her she could have it. You see, even though she always loved Blyleven and Puck the most, she still has a special place carved out for Hrbek. Shoot, she even gets emotional over Al Newman. Like I said, it's a sickness. [TABLE=class: tr-caption-container] [TD=align: center]http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2iEacZMyn9E/Tks2YV-sbjI/AAAAAAAABQ4/59ypq7ko6G4/s320/IMG_2787.JPG[/TD] [TD=class: tr-caption, align: center]Cuddyer, Nathan and Matty G. have all left, but Mom is still here.[/TD] [/TABLE] But in this shared sickness, some pretty special bonding takes place. Nobody really gets my love for baseball like Mom. Not the countless other Twins lovers across the wide interwebs, and not even my wife, I think, although she is incredibly tolerant, patient and quite fond herself of goofy personalities like Pat Neshek, Mike Redmond and Mr. Jim Leyland. Maybe it's because I'm socially awkward and terribly self-conscious about the intensity of my emotions, or maybe it's because I found my baseball soulmate back in '91 and instinctively knew I'd never find another person who'd cheer as hard for Matty Guerrier and Nicky Punto as they did for stars like Puckett and Nathan. Maybe harder, even. Whatever the reason, there's no person with whom I'd rather watch a ball game. [TABLE=class: tr-caption-container] [TD=align: center]http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IF_lVZdHuug/Tks6-izssxI/AAAAAAAABQ8/HePN8zWxw-k/s320/meg+in+moms+kitchen.jpg[/TD] [TD=class: tr-caption, align: center]OK, my wife's a pretty big fan, too. Here she is in Mom's kitchen.[/TD] [/TABLE] This is all to say that on that night in Detroit when Jim Thome, Masher of Taters, The Big Donkey and Future Hall of Famer, sent career homers 599 and 600 into the left-field seats over Delmon Young's head (in consecutive at bats, no less!) I was glad I was at my folks' house, clapping my hands and hollering with Mom in her kitchen, feeling for just a minute the rush of excitement, disbelief and weightlessness that flooded me in 1991. Of course, I do realize that a couple of milestone taters don't compare to winning the World Series. However, mired as we were in the dog days of a lousy season – a season where the Twins lost Harmon Killebrew, the original Paul Bunyon in Pinstripes, a season where they spent $23 million on two weak legs and had a good shot at losing 90 games for the first time in the Gardenhire era – Thome's achievement stands out as maybe the only reason Twins fans had to just be happy, to celebrate and go crazy. So we went crazy, even if it was just for a little while. Originally published here.

Published originally at selfproclaimedbest.blogspot.com