dcswede

I cannot claim original ownership of this, I merely stumbled across this the other day.  However as we embark across another Spring with thousands of players readying themselves for the most humbling game I know of on this earth, I thought I would like to say a small prayer for our boys.  Not just our beloved Twins, but ALL young men who's drive and passion for this game bring us such profound and indelible feeling, emotions, and memories.  "God is in the details". A phrase that to this day holds a place preeminent in the baseball pantheon of lore.   My son's favorite phrase is Philippians 4:13 (it's even stitched into his glove).  
I realize that not everyone feels the same way, and I immensely respect that.  Faith is a truly personal journey and must be for each and everyone one of us to approach and accept in our own way.  To me, this is why faith is such an immense part of the game.  A person may choose to not be part of God, but God will never choose to NOT be part of us and the game.  He is simply part of the fabric of the game and life that makes it what it is.
"I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me"
Php 4:13

"Baseball means dealing with failure. “There is more Met than Yankee in all of us,” as Roger Angell has poignantly wrote in The Summer Game.
Every person who has ever played the game of baseball has been a consistent failure. It has been more than 70 years since the Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams, finished the 1941 baseball season with a .406 batting average. Williams' failure rate of 60 percent means that he failed less often than any batter in the seven subsequent decades. In fact, only five other players in the live ball era (since 1920) have matched the success of his 60 percent failure rate. Babe Ruth, known for hitting 714 home runs, struck out 1,330 times in his Major League Baseball career. The Cy Young Award is baseball's most coveted honor for the game's best pitcher each season, yet the award's namesake lost 316 games as a major league pitcher.
Even the unofficial anthem of baseball, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” is a celebration of hope in the midst of managed failure. Singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the 7th inning stretch is a communal baseball rite of passage. Timothy A. Johnson notes how the song celebrates failure both musically and lyrically, “Instead of celebrating a run or a victory, the song celebrates the act of striking out, the batter’s utter failure. He continues, “There is no spectacular hit to drive in runners—no heroic walk-off home run, no victory for the home team—and the structural melodic line . . . aptly reflects this failure. Striking out is represented musically in a deep structural way, by the failure of the melodic line to reach it’s rightful goal—it’s home, it’s origin—through a proper descent to the tonic” (“I Never Get Back: How ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ Succeeds in Celebrating Failure,” The National Pastime [2008], 143).
The reality that baseball is a game of managed failure for every player, even the great ones, is one of the reasons the game imbedded so deeply in the fabric of American culture. Baseball became the national pastime because it reflected the national character—a collective team endeavor that called consistently for individual responsibility and personal sacrifice for the greater good. John Updike asserted that baseball is “an essentially lonely game.” Once the batting order is set, there is nowhere to hide; a turn at the plate is coming. The fact that the whole team is counting on the each batter produces the possibility of personal exultation or humiliation. Unlike other youth sports, baseball doesn't permit a game to be dominated by a star player whose teammates are simply along for the ride.
I fear that one of the reasons for the waning popularity of baseball in American culture is not because the game has changed, but because we have changed. It takes time and patience to understand the game of baseball, and becoming a proficient player is difficult—very difficult. Natural physical gifting and innate athleticism are not predictors of baseball success. In fact, the baseball Hall of Fame extols the virtues of the game's greatest players, and the shocking reality is not the amazing size, strength, and speed of the game's heroes, but the almost comical diversity of body type and physical ability. The game's greatest players have been tall and short, skinny and fat, slow and fast, muscular and flabby, intelligent, and well, not so intelligent. But, they all have one thing in common; every one of them developed the emotional capacity to persevere in the face of frequent, chronic failure and occasional humiliation.
If my suppositions are correct, what was once seen as a part of the glory of baseball, learning to persevere in the face of consistent failure, is now perceived to be a reason to avoid the game. Parents simply looking for ways to keep their children busy and happy will choose sports that do not include the pressure and individualized responsibility that baseball has always demanded. Baseball requires a kind of moral courage that keeps persisting in the face of inevitable repeated personal failures. That is the sober, unalterable reality for Miguel Cabrera and every little leaguer as well. Thus, baseball demands a huge time commitment for fathers, not simply in teaching and repetitively practicing the fundamentals of the game, but also calling sons to the kind of moral courage the game demands. Rarely ever will a boy persist in baseball if his dad has little interest in the game. As Diana Schaub avers in her essay “America at Bat,” “Without fathers, there is no baseball, only football and basketball.”
Baseball does not fit well with the current trend of sports leagues that do not keep score and where the goal is for everyone to be successful and know that they are always a winner. Such a notion does violence to a game that is structurally committed to constant reminders of the participant's finitude and allows no room for such utopian fantasies. One of the reasons baseball has been so slow to embrace instant replay in the sport (and rightly so) is that a game marked by chronic managed failure propagates no delusions of human perfectionism in its players or its umpires. When a baseball purist asserts, “Bad calls are a part of the game,” he is saying something about the warp and woof of the game.
Only genuine baseball fans understood the reaction of Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga during the 2010 baseball season when he was one out from throwing a perfect game (there have only been 23) and veteran umpire Jim Joyce made one of the worst big moment calls in baseball history. Joyce, inexplicably, called the batter safe at first base. When the next batter was retired, Galarraga was saddled with the most disappointing one hitter in the history of the game. How did Galarraga respond to the injustice? When it happened he offered a stunned grin and after the game he said, “He is human. Nobody's perfect…. I want to tell him not to worry about it.” That moment was a beautiful window into what makes baseball unique.
No baseball player can survive and thrive without hope. When Henry Aaron was asked if he arrived at the ballpark every day knowing he would get two hits his reply was, “No. What I do know is that if I don't get 'em today, I'm sure going to get 'em tomorrow.” Babe Ruth was fond of saying, “Every strike gets me closer to the next home run.” Persistent, daily plodding in the face of chronic managed failure, driven by future hope sounds a lot like my daily Christian walk."
The Apostle Paul wrote, “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate” (Romans 7:15). But he went on to write, “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! … There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 7:25a, 8:1). The reality of his persistent failure and limitations did not paralyze him because he knew his story fit into a larger picture of the story of Christ. In the Kingdom of Christ, “all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose” and those who love God are being conformed to the image of Christ (Romans 8:28-29).
As players prepare for Opening Day, every one of them knows perfection is impossible. No team will win 162 games; no one will bat 1.000, and no regular starting pitcher will go undefeated. Nevertheless, they practice with a sense of hope that this just might be their year. Despite their constant failure, if they keep stepping up to the plate and heading out to their position in the field, it all might work together for something special, and if not, there is always next year.
The very existence of another baseball season, another 162-game, seven-month exercise in hopeful, managed failure is a faint echo of the glorious promise James offers to all who have put their faith in the Lord Jesus Christ: “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness” (James 1:2-3). Everyone has the tendency to compare the highlight reel of others' successes to our daily failures and lose heart. But baseball, for those of us who love it, provides a constant reminder that everyone (even the superstar) strikes out, but the game still goes on.
Like most years, I think this just might be the year for my beloved Atlanta Braves to win it all. But whether they do or not, I am thankful that the chill of winter is giving way to spring and umpires will soon yell, “Play Ball!” Angell was right, “There is more Met than Yankee in all of us,” and there is a glimmer of a greater glory that the Mets keep taking the field.

There’s a great scene in the first season of Ted Lasso. Coach Lasso is sitting and mulling over end of season strategy with his assistant, Coach Beard. Lasso realizes that his approach with his players might not give the team the best shot at winning, but smiles and reassures Coach Beard that “winning ain’t how we measure success.”
Coach Beard turns red. He slams his fist on the table and hollers, “DAMN IT, IT IS!”
Winning matters. Which brings us, ironically enough, back to the Minnesota Twins. In the last 18 years of baseball, only two MLB teams have failed to win a postseason game. One of those teams, the Seattle Mariners, are a virtual lock to win a Wild Card spot. That may soon leave the Twins alone at the bottom of the postseason winning heap for this stretch. Last in success, out of all 30 major league teams.
“C’mon,” you’ll argue. “Stop blowing this out of proportion. Just look at those division pennants waving atop Target Field. One of them is even as recent as 2020. That’s success.” Sure, I know they’re there. I just can’t shake the feeling that they just don’t matter all that much. Sure, the Twins have had some success in a weak division - the children’s table of baseball - building up midseason leads and slipping ahead of marginal competition. But when the heat is on, when the top teams are in town, when the playoff bunting flies, the Twins aren’t much of a ballclub. They don’t win when it really counts, when it would generate excitement, when it would really bring the state together. They are a professional organization run and staffed by what seem to be genuinely decent and otherwise competent people. 
But they don’t win … and that matters.
In 1986, I fell head over heels for the Minnesota Twins. They were a bad ballclub, but I loved the game and I loved the team and I loved the Metrodome (yeah, I know). My dad took me to ten games or so that year, taking time from a very busy work schedule to indulge me. He even took me to Fan Appreciation Night, where Bert Blyleven apologized to the crowd for a disappointing season, adding that he saw the core of a talented club that could bring a World Series to Minnesota in 1987.
My father audibly groaned. “It’ll never happen,” he said. 
“What if it does,” I asked.
“Look, if the Twins go to the World Series next year, I’ll buy us both tickets. But it won’t happen, kid.”
You know the rest. Like magic, it did happen. And we were there. And my father, a serious man, hooted and cheered and waved like a kid. He loved the Twins more than I had realized, and he’d waited his life for this. When they won Game 7, he paraded me through the streets of Minneapolis on his shoulders. We hugged and high-fived strangers and police officers. We celebrated the success of our local team, a scrappy small market underdog. 
“Enjoy it” he told me. “Because it’ll never happen again.”
We did not buy tickets to the 1991 series. We watched all the drama from the comfort of home. But I grew up with an embarrassment of baseball riches. More than that, I have memories of my father - the stoic US Navy veteran and successful man of business - that are priceless. I got to see my father become a kid, just like me, bursting with joy over the game of baseball.
The years are wearing on him now, and it's hard to know how much time we have left together. We don’t talk Twins much anymore, my father and me. He never watches games and rarely reads the box scores. I tried to sit him down to watch the 2019 Twins take on the Marlins on TV. I hyped him up for the “Bomba Squad” and chose an opponent I was sure the Twins could beat. I wanted him back on the bandwagon with me. I thought a special season was coming together again.
Newly acquired Sam Dyson blew the lead. Buxton injured his shoulder. The Twins lost 5-4 in extras. But my dad didn’t see it end - he had gone to the garage to tinker with the lawn mower engine. Somehow, he knew that team wasn’t anything special. “Wake me up when they look like a winner again,” he told me.
So here we are, three years removed from the 2019 season which ended in another postseason whimper. The consolation at the time was that the Twins appeared on the cusp of a breakout - a potential string of AL Central dominance that might lead them deep into the playoffs. Instead, we’ve just witnessed an absolutely epic late-season collapse that will leave them in third place and likely below .500 for the second straight year. Worst to third in the AL Central, particularly after signing the #1 free agent in baseball in the offseason, hardly inspires much hope.
It’s not that these things don’t happen in baseball, or in all professional sports. It would be foolish to expect the Twins - a mid-market team - to win back-to-back championships every decade, or to be angered by occasional rough seasons or disappointing endings. It’s not so much that the Twins lose, but how they lose - and that they lose when it matters most and even when they seemingly have what they need to succeed - that is so hard to stomach. It’s a culture of losing that has essentially destroyed fan morale and widespread interest in the game here in Minnesota. 
Here’s what I’m trying to say: It’s not just that the Twins lose, it’s how losing no longer seems to be a problem for the organization. 
No one who represents the Twins really seems disappointed or upset by what's happened this season. There’s no visible sense of urgency or frustration. The club’s director of communication admonishes critics for any negativity and tells fans to “ride with us,” without acknowledging that the club’s trainwreck bullpen failures made getting back in the fandom car seem like a death wish. “We played our game, we played hard,” is Baldelli’s general mantra after bitter losses, as though professionals being paid hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars shouldn’t be expected to “play hard” as a basic condition of their employment. Instead of playoff wins, we’ve gotten endless strings of excuses: injuries, payroll limitations, called strikes that only seem to pinch our batters, and platitudes about being “almost there” and busy “reloading.”
What’s that old saying? Sound and fury, signifying nothing. Though scratch that - what I wouldn’t give for even a little well-placed fury from this club. They endlessly preach process, but seem to have no real interest in results.
Meanwhile, there is an entire generation of young people who have never once seen a Twins playoff victory. They’ve never seen their friends or family members turn giddy at the prospect of coming out on top, of beating the big boys of baseball in late autumn.They’ve never seen the way a playoff run can pull people together and shake up the routine of life. Winning inspires chatter and energy. It changes dull small talk about the weather into tales of late-inning heroics. The perfect throw to the plate to preserve a close lead. The seeing-eye single that brought in the tying run. The walk-off home run that electrifies a city.
Minnesota is a beautiful state. The Twin Cities represent two vibrant metropolitan centers within a short cross-river drive. Greater Minnesota features majestic beauty and kind-hearted communities. At times, we become two very different kinds of people living in the same state. We sometimes lose a common worldview and a common cause. On top of that, we’ve weathered a pandemic, civil unrest, extreme political division and economic instability. Any of the top professional teams in this state that actually commits to winning - and actually does win when it counts - will find that, beyond their own satisfaction, they’ve added a stitch or two to a sense of unity and pride in the state. 
Winning gives people relief and hope - even in small ways - and it gives them moments and stories with those they love. Yes, baseball is only a sport and maybe even a dying one, but winning is symbolic. Winning inspires.
I know I’m cranky. There will soon be any number of articles coming from people who are less cranky about how the Twins had some positive developments this year, and that the FO gave their trades and signings their best shot, and that some prospects took major steps forward, and that winning at the professional level isn’t the only thing that matters. I’m going to shake my head when I read those stories. I may even pound my fist on the table.
Because damn it, it is.
Winning is how you measure success in MLB. Winning is the only thing that matters at this level (and please don’t counter with “playing the game fairly is more important,” because that, too, is a basic professional expectation that should go without saying). And the Twins don’t win when it counts. And that matters. And anyone who does not make this the top priority for this team should no longer be involved with this organization. Find out why injuries keep derailing promising prospects. Find out why high-leverage situations at the plate and on the mound keep resulting in failure. Find out why the team looks like roadkill when the Yankees come to town. Find out why the team lacks fundamental skills on the bases and in the field. Focus less on mundane processes and more on getting situational results. Put the team through high-stress drills. Get the players ready for battle, rather than stocked with excuses when they fail.
Because Coach Beard is right. Winning matters. And it’s been far, far, far too long since the Twins have won anything when it counts.
 

The Twins have been a big question mark all year. Great 2019 performances from players never realized in 2020 except Cruz & arguably Rosario. Although I`m not normal superstitious but baseball is, I never understood why the Twins wanted to bring back the baby blue uniforms to reminisce the "Twinkie" era. the auguration of the baby blues began w/ the Griffin / Carew fiasco. Carew was content to play out his years in MN but this fiasco changed all this & Carew could not leave fast enough.
Following years were at best, mediocre.
The notable thing about the baby blue jersey of old is that the Twins won the 1987 World Series in their first year not wearing the jersey. Their overall record in the years they wore the uniform was 1040-1170, a winning percentage of . 471.
This is not what we want to replicate w/ our promising "Bomba Squad". Bringing back the baby blues started w/ covid19. I say we burn them & never bring them back

A friend of mine passed away over the holiday weekend.
 
We had attended high school together, were distant friends through college, and spent two years as roommates back in the cities after that.
 
When we lived together, he was attending culinary school and the roommates would have the benefit of eating food that is normally not accessible to broke post-college kids trying to repay student loans. He would concoct four course meals and we were more than happy to be test subjects.
 
We’d declare it the best thing we’ve ever eaten and he, being his own worst critic, would inform us that it was garbage and would vow to make it better next time.
 
He modeled himself a bit after Anthony Bourdain. He had a beat up copy of Kitchen Confidential that he constantly implored me to read. I never did.
 
Eventually the house split up. We went separate ways and saw each other less. Everyone my age or older likely has friendships like that. I had a growing family and he was launching a culinary career that took him to Central America and Alaska for work.
 
The relationship became just a bi-yearly message to each other on Facebook, randomly sharing a couple inside jokes and stupid obscure pop culture references. We exchanged one just the previous week.
 
He sent a one-liner: What are we going to do about this hand twin thing?
 
It came from a Friends episode we watched years ago. He had an ability to bring groups of people together and our house used to host viewing parties during the final seasons. The line, delivered by Joey Tribbiani in the bathroom of a casino, always cracked us up. Sharing innocuous lines like that over the years just let each other know you were thinking about them.
 
I spent most of Sunday night reflecting on our time. I spoke with another roommate of ours who had moved out of state as well. We shared memories of the years we all lived together.
 
I realized how much baseball fandom can imprint on our lives.
 
He once hosted a weekend-long party at his college house in Duluth. It was epic, as the kids would say. Thinking back to the revelry, I also remember slipping away to see Matt Lawton hit two home runs in Cleveland.
 
Another time he went to visit a girl in New York City. He returned with a small panoramic of the old Yankee Stadium that he got at a secondhand shop because he knew how much I despised the Yankees. I still have that picture and I still hate the Yankees.
 
His family would host gatherings at their cabin in northern Minnesota. They were amazingly hospitable people. His mom legitimately made the best sloppy joes. When my daughter wasn’t even a year old, he invited us for a low-key weekend of boating and bonfires. On the drive home, as my little girl slept in the back, I listened to Johan Santana’s 17-strikeout performance on the radio.
 
When the Twins had a weekend series at Wrigley Field, we ran into each other at the Cubby Bear, the bar across the street from the stadium. We took time to share a Cubby Blue Bomb together, update each other on our current lives, and then went back to the separate group of friends we came with into Chicago.
 
The last time we saw each other in person I was handing off tickets to him before a Twins game.
 
We met at The Depot Tavern and played catch up. His seats were on one side of the ballpark and ours were on the other. We vowed to meet on the concourse or somewhere after the game but neither of us followed through.
 
You are not supposed to live with regrets yet we do. I regret not reaching out more, not making an effort to stay connected. I regret not checking in more frequently to hear about his family, fiancee, and other adventures.
 
Thirty-nine is way too young. You feel like you always have more time: There will be some other opportunity to catch up, there will be some other chance to reconnect, or some other time to say those were amazing memories.
 
Looking back, I admired how he followed his passion. We were just becoming functioning adults and he already knew that he wanted to run kitchens and make people happy through food. Someone shared a video of him teaching a culinary class in a Facebook remembrance, making the room laugh in doing so. In a way he did become a version of Bourdain, traveling the world and experiencing cuisine in parts unknown.
 
Maybe now I’ll listen to him and read that book.

There are many things in Nick's article that are incorrect, and some that I agree with. This isn't meant to attack but to show a different viewpoint that he might not see.
 
"Our community is broken. Our country is broken."
We live in the greatest country on earth. Our community/country is not broken. You are stating your opinion as fact. A tragic death lead to a protest which lead to planned riots and anarchists coming to Mpls and many large cities throughout the nation. There are problems with bad police. There are problems with bad media that spreads divide. There are problems with bad plumbers, electricians, bankers, etc... that believe the divide and buy into the hate and anger. Go to most communities and you'll see blacks, whites, brown, you name the color, all get along.People that live in the same community or neighborhood will defend those they associate with regardless of color because of their shared interests or shared sense of community.
"To shy away from this conversation is to contribute to the widespread apathy and complacency that has brought us to this tragic state." "Unaware of what the mask meant."
Why does he need to get involved in the conversation? There isn't one person I've seen in social media whether they be on the left or right that has condoned the former cops horrible actions. He's been condemned in every corner. Believe it or not he doesn't have to post his every thought on social issues. He already got harassed by wearing a blue lives matter face mask. (To those people that shamed him, shame on you. Those officers protect your freedoms and risk their lives every day. A cop in Waseca is learning to walk again because he was shot by meth dealer/addict). There's nothing wrong with supporting the police because 99% of them are good and want to uphold the law. What does the mask mean? It means that police lives matter, too. By saying that police lives don't matter you create the divide that was mentioned earlier.
 
"Racism has no place in our world and I do not in any way support the actions that we all witnessed that led to George Floyd’s passing.”
Max denounced racism. He denounced the murder. He doesn't need to part of a demonstration to make a change. He can do that by backing his friends in his own private way. Because you don't see him out on the streets carrying a sign or screaming at the police doesn't make his statements any less important.
"Not into politics [peace sign]." This is the attitude that has gotten our society to this point: comfortable white people choosing to excuse themselves from the conversation, because it doesn't affect them personally."
Do you actually believe we have a more civil society with the combination of social media and politics? He doesn't need to be into politics...at least no publicly. He can have Walter Mondale buttons or Barry Goldwater signs in his garage for all we know. This murder is not political and murder never should be. "comfortable white" people? Seriously??? If a person isn't interested in politics it doesn't make them a comfortable white person. Would you say the same about someone that's black and not involved in political discourse? You are making a group think statement that everyone must think and act as you.
 
"Kepler's comments come as a slap in the face to a grieving and enraged community where he's supposed to be a leader."
I've spent a lot of time on social media lately and I haven't seen one person clamoring to hear Max Keplers take on the protests/riots. As a matter of fact I haven't seen anyone wondering what any of the MN Twins, Vikings, or any other professional organization is saying. It's not a slap in the face to the community at all. The community doesn't need Max Kepler to say anything. Who appointed him as a leader and what is he a leader of? Most people that I know don't look to baseball players as leaders. They look to him to make plays on the field.
I personally don't care what Chris Cuomo says. I had to get that in only because your news source quote pegs you as left of center. If you had quoted people on both sides of the aisle it adds credibility. That's more of a journalism critique than anything else.
"precisely what perpetuates a lack of change that is destroying us."
Kepler on the sidelines isn't the problem. What's the underlying problem? Is it the people in the city or the people running it. If it's the people in the city then the problem was there long before Max got here. If it's the people running the city you have to look at who has been running the city for decades. The problem isn't new so you're going to have to go back. If people won't vote for a change then the problem will continue.
 
"Kepler and the Twins aren't playing baseball due to a global health crisis that has sadly been framed as "political" by some".
It is sad that a health crisis is political. 80% of the deaths in MN have been in Long term care facilities. A new study out of Max's home country shows that a majority of the people would have eventually died this year regardless. When all the info doesn't come out and people are left in the dark it's going to become political.
"our site's audience is predominately white, and relatively affluent. We are the voices needed most in this fight."
Soft bigotry at it's finest. Our voices our no more important than the poorest minority in the poorest area of Minneapolis/St Paul. I can't speak to their plight, any injustice (real or perceived), or relate to what it's like to get pulled over because of color. I can only advocate for justice for every human being that walks the earth.
 
"a meaningless platitude, copping out with a "not into politics" comment is not an option...."We need to confront these issues seriously,"
It's meaningless to you if you view it that way. To me it means he wants peace and you see, not into politics is an option. I believe what bothers you is he's not into your politics and you want him to be. Politics is a touchy issue. The blue lives matter mask proved it. He plays for 100% of Minnesotans, not just the ones who want him to be politically active.
Everyone - at least caring, logical people, want injustice to end. What really needs to happen right now is justice for George Floyd.

Max Kepler used to be relatively vocal about his decision to avoid an increased launch angle. He wasn’t looking solely to hit home runs, and while his goal was to enter the zone on a level swing path, he was just fine with ground balls. Former Twins beat writer Mike Berardino talked to the outfielder back in the spring of 2018 and Kepler said as much there. Now he’s become one of the best outfielders in baseball, and it’s because he’s changed his approach.
 

 
Baseball has transitioned to a sport where getting lift on the baseball provides the optimal route for success. As the game invokes shifts and the ball is now juicier than ever, lifting the pill over defenders is the most direct path to generating extra-base hits. Although this may not be a direct focus for Kepler, it’s a principle that James Rowson has impressed upon Twins hitters and it’s one Max is putting to use.
 
In 2019 Kepler owns an 18.5 degrees average launch angle. Last year that mark was 16.2 degree and in 2017 it sat at just 12.6 degrees of lift. Launch angle on its own isn’t conducive production, but Max has paired it with an enhanced exit velocity as well. The 90.9 mph mark this season improves upon an 89 mph mark last year and an 88 mph tally the season before. Summarizing it easily, harder and higher is producing the best results of his career.
 
The percentages reflect what we are seeing in the raw data as well. Kepler owns a career low 35.7% ground ball rate and a career best 18.3% HR/FB number. His 42.6% hard hit rate is nearly seven percent higher than his career average and over a five percent improvement from 2018. Despite chasing and whiffing a bit more often, the contact rate is right on par with career norms and contact within the zone is a career best 93.9%.
 

 
Through just 70 games played Kepler has the 7th best fWAR total among outfielders. He’s the second best in the American League trailing only a guy named Mike Trout. Minnesota saw the value in their German native this offseason and extended him for $35 million over five years. Fangraphs estimates his worth as already being over half of that mark ($21.8MM).
 
When you hear launch angle from a place of scrutiny it generally is assumptive of the idea that players are simply swinging up through the zone attempting to get lift. The practice is built around creating hard contact on the bottom portion of the baseball. A level swing can still be utilized with the point of contact being honed in. Combining lift with an enhanced exit velocity is where the power stroke comes from. As balls are being thrown harder than ever, they’re also being put in play at a similarly increasing velocity.
 
Minnesota’s instruction may not have transformed Kepler’s swing plane through the zone, but it’s certainly worked to adjust the contact point and process when putting the ball in play. Regardless of if the baseball leaves the yard, Kepler is hitting the ball harder and longer than ever before. It’s because of that fact he’s experiencing a jump in performance and the Twins look to be the benefactor of belief over the next five years.
 
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