PeanutsFromHeaven

This weekend, baseball returns to the Twin Cities: in OPERA FORM!
 
"The Fix" is the latest in the Minnesota Opera's long running endeavor to bring new and distinct modern voices to an art form often seen as antiquated. It tells the story of the 1919 Chicago "Black" Sox, who conspired to lose the World Series in exchange for payoffs from a gambling syndicate. It's a dark chapter in the national past time's history, one that claimed the careers of both rookies and veterans, wise souls and dumb kids. It's a great story and boasts a tremendous score, cast, and design.

But! We Peanuts are discouraged. Sure we love baseball. And yes, we love opera. But why let the White Sox (even the historical type) cruise to victory on Minnesota Opera stages? Why not mount a second baseball opera, one that captures the essence of the Twins themselves with just as much drama and even better connections to the local fan base. We Peanuts have found just the tragic story to tell (albeit with a little dramatic license). With that we propose:
 
KNOBLAUCH!
A tragedy in 4 acts
 
Cast List:
Chuck Knoblauch (Tenor): Twins Second Baseman
Kent Hrbek (Bass): Twins First Baseman
Kirby Puckett (Tenor): Twins Center Fielder
Jack Morris (Baritone): Twins Pitcher
Tom Kelly (Baritone): Twins Manager
Nike (Soprano): Goddess of Victory/Advertising Agent
George Steinbrenner (Bass): The owner of the New York Yankees
Derek Jeter (Tenor): Yankees Shortstop
 
Act 1:
It is Game 7 of the 1991 World Series at the Metrodome. Members of the Twins (Knoblauch, Hrbek, Puckett, Morris, Kelly, and chorus), sing of the tension, the drama and the hope of the game as it enters the bottom of the 10th and Dan Gladden doubles to lead off the inning. Chuck Knoblauch returns to the dugout after bunting Gladden along and laments that his best contribution in this pivotal game would be just a bunt. At this moment, Nike enters to offer Knoblauch a vision of the future. As she sings, she paints him a picture of the future where he is a great player, an all-star, a local legend, (and the recipient of a lucrative endorsement with a sports apparel brand that shall remain nameless). However, he can only have this if he is willing to suffer with the team and the fans. As the winning run scores, Knoblauch agrees to the deal.
 
Act 2:
July 1997, Knoblauch enters the clubhouse alone and rages at the emptiness. The team has lost again and his patience is running thin. In the show's central aria he sings of his despair as fleeting images appear before him and the audience. He mourns his ailing father, remembering and mimicking a game of catch long past. His memories take him through the farewell songs and cheers for teammates past (Puckett, Morris, Hrbek). He cannot understand the love and support they receive despite their failings (on the field and off) while he carries on alone. Desperate, he cries out to Nike to release him from his pledge, to let him feel joy on the field again, and to bless him with the chance to play for a winning team. Nike appears to take mercy on him, but warns him of the consequences: his play will decline, his status will fade, and he will lose his legendary status if he leaves now before the vision comes to pass. Unable to take it anymore, Knoblauch pleads to be released from his bonds, and is granted them in the form of a Yankees jersey.
 
Act 3:
September 2000. Knoblauch is surrounded by indifferent fans at Yankee Stadium. They pass by him without a glance, singing praises for Derek Jeter, and occasional laments that there is no one better to play with him in the infield. Stung by this dismissal, Knoblauch addresses George Steinbrenner, requesting reassurance, but Steinbrenner insults him and moves on. Adrift and unsure, Knoblauch calls out again for Nike, but she is seen at a distance singing a love duet about Derek Jeter (with Derek Jeter), both of them ignore Knoblauch's increasing frenzy and fear until he cannot sing any more due to a case of hiccoughs. Silenced, Knoblauch picks up a ball to play catch, but that too betrays him, his throw going wildly afield
 
http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YVPRsJqJqNQ/TuZI744iVkI/AAAAAAAABkg/ixRcqAq5CWU/s320/kelly+befriends+chuck.jpg
Act 4:
May 2 2001: Returning to the Metrodome field 10 years after we last saw it, Knoblauch hears the echoes of his old rage, but directed at him from the chorus in the bleachers. He stands alone in Left Field singing a quiet song of isolation and annoyance as garbage, batteries, and hot dogs surround him. Tom Kelly briefly appears to offer him condolences, but Knoblauch only wishes fans would get over it as the garbage builds to his knees. Nike appears, on her way to sing to Jeter, and reminds Knoblauch of the promise he broke to her. Knoblauch scoffs, certain that he'd never have had support as the garbage reaches his waist. Nike provides him with a final vision: another title, the jeers turned to cheers, a statute of him by a new stadium as the young players drafted during bad years come of age, with Knoblauch as their mentor. Nike leaves him as the garbage continues to pile up and Knoblauch defiantly declares his strength until he is tragically buried in dollar dogs.
 
CURTAIN

This weekend, baseball returns to the Twin Cities: in OPERA FORM!
 
"The Fix" is the latest in the Minnesota Opera's long running endeavor to bring new and distinct modern voices to an art form often seen as antiquated. It tells the story of the 1919 Chicago "Black" Sox, who conspired to lose the World Series in exchange for payoffs from a gambling syndicate. It's a dark chapter in the national past time's history, one that claimed the careers of both rookies and veterans, wise souls and dumb kids. It's a great story and boasts a tremendous score, cast, and design.

But! We Peanuts are discouraged. Sure we love baseball. And yes, we love opera. But why let the White Sox (even the historical type) cruise to victory on Minnesota Opera stages? Why not mount a second baseball opera, one that captures the essence of the Twins themselves with just as much drama and even better connections to the local fan base. We Peanuts have found just the tragic story to tell (albeit with a little dramatic license). With that we propose:
 
KNOBLAUCH!
A tragedy in 4 acts
 
Cast List:
Chuck Knoblauch (Tenor): Twins Second Baseman
Kent Hrbek (Bass): Twins First Baseman
Kirby Puckett (Tenor): Twins Center Fielder
Jack Morris (Baritone): Twins Pitcher
Tom Kelly (Baritone): Twins Manager
Nike (Soprano): Goddess of Victory/Advertising Agent
George Steinbrenner (Bass): The owner of the New York Yankees
Derek Jeter (Tenor): Yankees Shortstop
 
Act 1:
It is Game 7 of the 1991 World Series at the Metrodome. Members of the Twins (Knoblauch, Hrbek, Puckett, Morris, Kelly, and chorus), sing of the tension, the drama and the hope of the game as it enters the bottom of the 10th and Dan Gladden doubles to lead off the inning. Chuck Knoblauch returns to the dugout after bunting Gladden along and laments that his best contribution in this pivotal game would be just a bunt. At this moment, Nike enters to offer Knoblauch a vision of the future. As she sings, she paints him a picture of the future where he is a great player, an all-star, a local legend, (and the recipient of a lucrative endorsement with a sports apparel brand that shall remain nameless). However, he can only have this if he is willing to suffer with the team and the fans. As the winning run scores, Knoblauch agrees to the deal.
 
Act 2:
July 1997, Knoblauch enters the clubhouse alone and rages at the emptiness. The team has lost again and his patience is running thin. In the show's central aria he sings of his despair as fleeting images appear before him and the audience. He mourns his ailing father, remembering and mimicking a game of catch long past. His memories take him through the farewell songs and cheers for teammates past (Puckett, Morris, Hrbek). He cannot understand the love and support they receive despite their failings (on the field and off) while he carries on alone. Desperate, he cries out to Nike to release him from his pledge, to let him feel joy on the field again, and to bless him with the chance to play for a winning team. Nike appears to take mercy on him, but warns him of the consequences: his play will decline, his status will fade, and he will lose his legendary status if he leaves now before the vision comes to pass. Unable to take it anymore, Knoblauch pleads to be released from his bonds, and is granted them in the form of a Yankees jersey.
 
Act 3:
September 2000. Knoblauch is surrounded by indifferent fans at Yankee Stadium. They pass by him without a glance, singing praises for Derek Jeter, and occasional laments that there is no one better to play with him in the infield. Stung by this dismissal, Knoblauch addresses George Steinbrenner, requesting reassurance, but Steinbrenner insults him and moves on. Adrift and unsure, Knoblauch calls out again for Nike, but she is seen at a distance singing a love duet about Derek Jeter (with Derek Jeter), both of them ignore Knoblauch's increasing frenzy and fear until he cannot sing any more due to a case of hiccoughs. Silenced, Knoblauch picks up a ball to play catch, but that too betrays him, his throw going wildly afield
 
http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YVPRsJqJqNQ/TuZI744iVkI/AAAAAAAABkg/ixRcqAq5CWU/s320/kelly+befriends+chuck.jpg
Act 4:
May 2 2001: Returning to the Metrodome field 10 years after we last saw it, Knoblauch hears the echoes of his old rage, but directed at him from the chorus in the bleachers. He stands alone in Left Field singing a quiet song of isolation and annoyance as garbage, batteries, and hot dogs surround him. Tom Kelly briefly appears to offer him condolences, but Knoblauch only wishes fans would get over it as the garbage builds to his knees. Nike appears, on her way to sing to Jeter, and reminds Knoblauch of the promise he broke to her. Knoblauch scoffs, certain that he'd never have had support as the garbage reaches his waist. Nike provides him with a final vision: another title, the jeers turned to cheers, a statute of him by a new stadium as the young players drafted during bad years come of age, with Knoblauch as their mentor. Nike leaves him as the garbage continues to pile up and Knoblauch defiantly declares his strength until he is tragically buried in dollar dogs.
 
CURTAIN

It's been a hard fall for me to write in these spaces. Every evening I try to sit down to write, I find a dozen other things to do. There are papers to grade and recommendations to submit and people to actually be married to. So while I love to write, and even though I want to write, it slips through my fingers more often than I like.
 
This past week, I had the time, I had the energy, but every time I opened up this page, I stopped and stared. And as the feeds from North Minneapolis streamed into my phone, as people I love and trust engaged in louder and louder protests for more pressing matters than quality sports analysis, I couldn't find it in myself to write.
 

So as I sat in front of the screen, I could think of nothing to say that wasn't horribly, dreadfully irrelevant. And when I went in to work, to discuss issues of the day with young people who lived blocks from the fourth precinct, who spent all night raising their voices for justice, all I could think was how insignificant it would be to write down potential snarky nicknames for Byung-Ho Park or warmed over jokes about how I liked St. Vincent and the Grenadines better when it was Bill Murray and a light syrup.
 
What reason could I have for publishing my millions of minor notions about these silly little games, while a senior boy--a young man I've worked with for four years, an academic on track for college and a major in architecture, a person I would trust to rule justly and fairly as Grand Poobah of the Universe-- while this friend of mine confessed his intense fear that the last thing he would ever see would be the somebody's boots on the curb, and the last thing he would hear would be the cocking of a gun, as he lay on the street with his hands behind his back?
 
The truth is, I (and many people like me) have the privilege of turning off the news, of tuning out the rhetoric, of tending to our hobbies and interests, because we don't live near the fourth precinct or worry that our lives will end with a bang and a brief, perfunctory, utterly unsurprised comment on the local news.
 
It's particularly easy for those of us who love sports to see successful people of color in our community, to cheer for their successes, wish them the best and forget that people like them in our community are struggling. We can bleed purple with Adrian and Teddy and dream on the futures of Byron, Miguel and Byung-Ho. We can debate the upside of Towns and Wiggins and marvel at the cross-cultural partnerships of Ibson and Alhassan and remind everybody that we loved Maya Moore and Simone Augustus before it was cool to do so. We can, and do, hold our local heroes close whatever their background, even though--as fans in the stands--we have always looked more like Killebrew and Mikan than Hunter and Garnett.
 
http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTE2WDcxMg==/$(KGrHqRHJCgE8fjuOpMTBPNG5TYvCg~~60_35.JPG
But what's dangerous is if we start to feel that, because we know the men (and women) who wear jerseys emblazoned with Minnesota, we don't need to know the men and women, the fathers and mothers, the sons and daughters who walk the same streets, work in the same buildings, and attend the same institutions that we do.
 
If we confine ourselves to watching the games from the comfort of our couches and our big screens, we miss the joy of watching together. If we insulate our passions to the podcasts on our headphones or isolate our opinions to small talk with family members and friends, we turn our very public institutions into extremely private pleasures. But, if we insist on sharing our loves, if we make a point of socializing around the colors and emblems and players that we adopt as "one of us," then these silly little games can unite us in a way that few other things can.
 
Right now, with the ways we consume sports changing rapidly, it's easy to isolate ourselves in our fandoms. And for those who attend games on a regular basis, it's even easier to forget that what you see on the field or the court or the ice isn't reflected in the stands (even adjusted for our metropolitan demographics).
 
As mere fans, there's little we can do. No championship trophy is going to unite us all or solve the systemic problems that have left so many so desperate for change. We can't have one good conversation at a sports bar, or over the water cooler and end injustice.
 
What we can do is be open. What we can do is to talk about what we love and learn what others think. What we can do is use sports as the icebreaker, as the gateway, as the conversation starter, to come together and build a better community.
 
We might have to go out of our way to find new opinions. We may need to visit a bar on Lake Street rather than in Northeast to watch a Champions' League match. We may need to share more than a nod with a neighbor or coworker who wears team gear after a big win. We can invite them to watch the game on Sunday (or Saturday, or whatever day). We can take an extra ticket that a friend flaked on and try to pass it on to someone different rather than just resell it. We can donate to the team funds that make attending a game easier for others. These things won't bring justice or peace, but they will bring us a little closer together.
 

I talk about sports, even at times like these, not because I want a distraction from work or the worries of the day. I talk about sports because it reminds me of how great it is to be part of something bigger than myself: bigger than my job, bigger than my worries. Sports reminds me of what it is to be part of a community of fans, and how much better we are together than we are alone.
 
I'm not sure when I'll have time to write again, or if it'll be about sports when I do, but I know I'll ask the boy from over North--the one who still wears a Mauer jersey through every snorting laugh from his friends--what he thinks of the bullpen for next year; I'll ask the girl from Lake Street who moons over Ronaldo if she's seen Christian Ramirez up close yet. And after we talk about that, we'll talk about the next thing, and the next, and the next, until we stop being two individuals talking and start being a pair of fans in community.

It's been a hard fall for me to write in these spaces. Every evening I try to sit down to write, I find a dozen other things to do. There are papers to grade and recommendations to submit and people to actually be married to. So while I love to write, and even though I want to write, it slips through my fingers more often than I like.
 
This past week, I had the time, I had the energy, but every time I opened up this page, I stopped and stared. And as the feeds from North Minneapolis streamed into my phone, as people I love and trust engaged in louder and louder protests for more pressing matters than quality sports analysis, I couldn't find it in myself to write.
 

So as I sat in front of the screen, I could think of nothing to say that wasn't horribly, dreadfully irrelevant. And when I went in to work, to discuss issues of the day with young people who lived blocks from the fourth precinct, who spent all night raising their voices for justice, all I could think was how insignificant it would be to write down potential snarky nicknames for Byung-Ho Park or warmed over jokes about how I liked St. Vincent and the Grenadines better when it was Bill Murray and a light syrup.
 
What reason could I have for publishing my millions of minor notions about these silly little games, while a senior boy--a young man I've worked with for four years, an academic on track for college and a major in architecture, a person I would trust to rule justly and fairly as Grand Poobah of the Universe-- while this friend of mine confessed his intense fear that the last thing he would ever see would be the somebody's boots on the curb, and the last thing he would hear would be the cocking of a gun, as he lay on the street with his hands behind his back?
 
The truth is, I (and many people like me) have the privilege of turning off the news, of tuning out the rhetoric, of tending to our hobbies and interests, because we don't live near the fourth precinct or worry that our lives will end with a bang and a brief, perfunctory, utterly unsurprised comment on the local news.
 
It's particularly easy for those of us who love sports to see successful people of color in our community, to cheer for their successes, wish them the best and forget that people like them in our community are struggling. We can bleed purple with Adrian and Teddy and dream on the futures of Byron, Miguel and Byung-Ho. We can debate the upside of Towns and Wiggins and marvel at the cross-cultural partnerships of Ibson and Alhassan and remind everybody that we loved Maya Moore and Simone Augustus before it was cool to do so. We can, and do, hold our local heroes close whatever their background, even though--as fans in the stands--we have always looked more like Killebrew and Mikan than Hunter and Garnett.
 
http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTE2WDcxMg==/$(KGrHqRHJCgE8fjuOpMTBPNG5TYvCg~~60_35.JPG
But what's dangerous is if we start to feel that, because we know the men (and women) who wear jerseys emblazoned with Minnesota, we don't need to know the men and women, the fathers and mothers, the sons and daughters who walk the same streets, work in the same buildings, and attend the same institutions that we do.
 
If we confine ourselves to watching the games from the comfort of our couches and our big screens, we miss the joy of watching together. If we insulate our passions to the podcasts on our headphones or isolate our opinions to small talk with family members and friends, we turn our very public institutions into extremely private pleasures. But, if we insist on sharing our loves, if we make a point of socializing around the colors and emblems and players that we adopt as "one of us," then these silly little games can unite us in a way that few other things can.
 
Right now, with the ways we consume sports changing rapidly, it's easy to isolate ourselves in our fandoms. And for those who attend games on a regular basis, it's even easier to forget that what you see on the field or the court or the ice isn't reflected in the stands (even adjusted for our metropolitan demographics).
 
As mere fans, there's little we can do. No championship trophy is going to unite us all or solve the systemic problems that have left so many so desperate for change. We can't have one good conversation at a sports bar, or over the water cooler and end injustice.
 
What we can do is be open. What we can do is to talk about what we love and learn what others think. What we can do is use sports as the icebreaker, as the gateway, as the conversation starter, to come together and build a better community.
 
We might have to go out of our way to find new opinions. We may need to visit a bar on Lake Street rather than in Northeast to watch a Champions' League match. We may need to share more than a nod with a neighbor or coworker who wears team gear after a big win. We can invite them to watch the game on Sunday (or Saturday, or whatever day). We can take an extra ticket that a friend flaked on and try to pass it on to someone different rather than just resell it. We can donate to the team funds that make attending a game easier for others. These things won't bring justice or peace, but they will bring us a little closer together.
 

I talk about sports, even at times like these, not because I want a distraction from work or the worries of the day. I talk about sports because it reminds me of how great it is to be part of something bigger than myself: bigger than my job, bigger than my worries. Sports reminds me of what it is to be part of a community of fans, and how much better we are together than we are alone.
 
I'm not sure when I'll have time to write again, or if it'll be about sports when I do, but I know I'll ask the boy from over North--the one who still wears a Mauer jersey through every snorting laugh from his friends--what he thinks of the bullpen for next year; I'll ask the girl from Lake Street who moons over Ronaldo if she's seen Christian Ramirez up close yet. And after we talk about that, we'll talk about the next thing, and the next, and the next, until we stop being two individuals talking and start being a pair of fans in community.

It's been a hard fall for me to write in these spaces. Every evening I try to sit down to write, I find a dozen other things to do. There are papers to grade and recommendations to submit and people to actually be married to. So while I love to write, and even though I want to write, it slips through my fingers more often than I like.
 
This past week, I had the time, I had the energy, but every time I opened up this page, I stopped and stared. And as the feeds from North Minneapolis streamed into my phone, as people I love and trust engaged in louder and louder protests for more pressing matters than quality sports analysis, I couldn't find it in myself to write.
 

So as I sat in front of the screen, I could think of nothing to say that wasn't horribly, dreadfully irrelevant. And when I went in to work, to discuss issues of the day with young people who lived blocks from the fourth precinct, who spent all night raising their voices for justice, all I could think was how insignificant it would be to write down potential snarky nicknames for Byung-Ho Park or warmed over jokes about how I liked St. Vincent and the Grenadines better when it was Bill Murray and a light syrup.
 
What reason could I have for publishing my millions of minor notions about these silly little games, while a senior boy--a young man I've worked with for four years, an academic on track for college and a major in architecture, a person I would trust to rule justly and fairly as Grand Poobah of the Universe-- while this friend of mine confessed his intense fear that the last thing he would ever see would be the somebody's boots on the curb, and the last thing he would hear would be the cocking of a gun, as he lay on the street with his hands behind his back?
 
The truth is, I (and many people like me) have the privilege of turning off the news, of tuning out the rhetoric, of tending to our hobbies and interests, because we don't live near the fourth precinct or worry that our lives will end with a bang and a brief, perfunctory, utterly unsurprised comment on the local news.
 
It's particularly easy for those of us who love sports to see successful people of color in our community, to cheer for their successes, wish them the best and forget that people like them in our community are struggling. We can bleed purple with Adrian and Teddy and dream on the futures of Byron, Miguel and Byung-Ho. We can debate the upside of Towns and Wiggins and marvel at the cross-cultural partnerships of Ibson and Alhassan and remind everybody that we loved Maya Moore and Simone Augustus before it was cool to do so. We can, and do, hold our local heroes close whatever their background, even though--as fans in the stands--we have always looked more like Killebrew and Mikan than Hunter and Garnett.
 
http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTE2WDcxMg==/$(KGrHqRHJCgE8fjuOpMTBPNG5TYvCg~~60_35.JPG
But what's dangerous is if we start to feel that, because we know the men (and women) who wear jerseys emblazoned with Minnesota, we don't need to know the men and women, the fathers and mothers, the sons and daughters who walk the same streets, work in the same buildings, and attend the same institutions that we do.
 
If we confine ourselves to watching the games from the comfort of our couches and our big screens, we miss the joy of watching together. If we insulate our passions to the podcasts on our headphones or isolate our opinions to small talk with family members and friends, we turn our very public institutions into extremely private pleasures. But, if we insist on sharing our loves, if we make a point of socializing around the colors and emblems and players that we adopt as "one of us," then these silly little games can unite us in a way that few other things can.
 
Right now, with the ways we consume sports changing rapidly, it's easy to isolate ourselves in our fandoms. And for those who attend games on a regular basis, it's even easier to forget that what you see on the field or the court or the ice isn't reflected in the stands (even adjusted for our metropolitan demographics).
 
As mere fans, there's little we can do. No championship trophy is going to unite us all or solve the systemic problems that have left so many so desperate for change. We can't have one good conversation at a sports bar, or over the water cooler and end injustice.
 
What we can do is be open. What we can do is to talk about what we love and learn what others think. What we can do is use sports as the icebreaker, as the gateway, as the conversation starter, to come together and build a better community.
 
We might have to go out of our way to find new opinions. We may need to visit a bar on Lake Street rather than in Northeast to watch a Champions' League match. We may need to share more than a nod with a neighbor or coworker who wears team gear after a big win. We can invite them to watch the game on Sunday (or Saturday, or whatever day). We can take an extra ticket that a friend flaked on and try to pass it on to someone different rather than just resell it. We can donate to the team funds that make attending a game easier for others. These things won't bring justice or peace, but they will bring us a little closer together.
 

I talk about sports, even at times like these, not because I want a distraction from work or the worries of the day. I talk about sports because it reminds me of how great it is to be part of something bigger than myself: bigger than my job, bigger than my worries. Sports reminds me of what it is to be part of a community of fans, and how much better we are together than we are alone.
 
I'm not sure when I'll have time to write again, or if it'll be about sports when I do, but I know I'll ask the boy from over North--the one who still wears a Mauer jersey through every snorting laugh from his friends--what he thinks of the bullpen for next year; I'll ask the girl from Lake Street who moons over Ronaldo if she's seen Christian Ramirez up close yet. And after we talk about that, we'll talk about the next thing, and the next, and the next, until we stop being two individuals talking and start being a pair of fans in community.

It's been a hard fall for me to write in these spaces. Every evening I try to sit down to write, I find a dozen other things to do. There are papers to grade and recommendations to submit and people to actually be married to. So while I love to write, and even though I want to write, it slips through my fingers more often than I like.
 
This past week, I had the time, I had the energy, but every time I opened up this page, I stopped and stared. And as the feeds from North Minneapolis streamed into my phone, as people I love and trust engaged in louder and louder protests for more pressing matters than quality sports analysis, I couldn't find it in myself to write.
 

So as I sat in front of the screen, I could think of nothing to say that wasn't horribly, dreadfully irrelevant. And when I went in to work, to discuss issues of the day with young people who lived blocks from the fourth precinct, who spent all night raising their voices for justice, all I could think was how insignificant it would be to write down potential snarky nicknames for Byung-Ho Park or warmed over jokes about how I liked St. Vincent and the Grenadines better when it was Bill Murray and a light syrup.
 
What reason could I have for publishing my millions of minor notions about these silly little games, while a senior boy--a young man I've worked with for four years, an academic on track for college and a major in architecture, a person I would trust to rule justly and fairly as Grand Poobah of the Universe-- while this friend of mine confessed his intense fear that the last thing he would ever see would be the somebody's boots on the curb, and the last thing he would hear would be the cocking of a gun, as he lay on the street with his hands behind his back?
 
The truth is, I (and many people like me) have the privilege of turning off the news, of tuning out the rhetoric, of tending to our hobbies and interests, because we don't live near the fourth precinct or worry that our lives will end with a bang and a brief, perfunctory, utterly unsurprised comment on the local news.
 
It's particularly easy for those of us who love sports to see successful people of color in our community, to cheer for their successes, wish them the best and forget that people like them in our community are struggling. We can bleed purple with Adrian and Teddy and dream on the futures of Byron, Miguel and Byung-Ho. We can debate the upside of Towns and Wiggins and marvel at the cross-cultural partnerships of Ibson and Alhassan and remind everybody that we loved Maya Moore and Simone Augustus before it was cool to do so. We can, and do, hold our local heroes close whatever their background, even though--as fans in the stands--we have always looked more like Killebrew and Mikan than Hunter and Garnett.
 
http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NTE2WDcxMg==/$(KGrHqRHJCgE8fjuOpMTBPNG5TYvCg~~60_35.JPG
But what's dangerous is if we start to feel that, because we know the men (and women) who wear jerseys emblazoned with Minnesota, we don't need to know the men and women, the fathers and mothers, the sons and daughters who walk the same streets, work in the same buildings, and attend the same institutions that we do.
 
If we confine ourselves to watching the games from the comfort of our couches and our big screens, we miss the joy of watching together. If we insulate our passions to the podcasts on our headphones or isolate our opinions to small talk with family members and friends, we turn our very public institutions into extremely private pleasures. But, if we insist on sharing our loves, if we make a point of socializing around the colors and emblems and players that we adopt as "one of us," then these silly little games can unite us in a way that few other things can.
 
Right now, with the ways we consume sports changing rapidly, it's easy to isolate ourselves in our fandoms. And for those who attend games on a regular basis, it's even easier to forget that what you see on the field or the court or the ice isn't reflected in the stands (even adjusted for our metropolitan demographics).
 
As mere fans, there's little we can do. No championship trophy is going to unite us all or solve the systemic problems that have left so many so desperate for change. We can't have one good conversation at a sports bar, or over the water cooler and end injustice.
 
What we can do is be open. What we can do is to talk about what we love and learn what others think. What we can do is use sports as the icebreaker, as the gateway, as the conversation starter, to come together and build a better community.
 
We might have to go out of our way to find new opinions. We may need to visit a bar on Lake Street rather than in Northeast to watch a Champions' League match. We may need to share more than a nod with a neighbor or coworker who wears team gear after a big win. We can invite them to watch the game on Sunday (or Saturday, or whatever day). We can take an extra ticket that a friend flaked on and try to pass it on to someone different rather than just resell it. We can donate to the team funds that make attending a game easier for others. These things won't bring justice or peace, but they will bring us a little closer together.
 

I talk about sports, even at times like these, not because I want a distraction from work or the worries of the day. I talk about sports because it reminds me of how great it is to be part of something bigger than myself: bigger than my job, bigger than my worries. Sports reminds me of what it is to be part of a community of fans, and how much better we are together than we are alone.
 
I'm not sure when I'll have time to write again, or if it'll be about sports when I do, but I know I'll ask the boy from over North--the one who still wears a Mauer jersey through every snorting laugh from his friends--what he thinks of the bullpen for next year; I'll ask the girl from Lake Street who moons over Ronaldo if she's seen Christian Ramirez up close yet. And after we talk about that, we'll talk about the next thing, and the next, and the next, until we stop being two individuals talking and start being a pair of fans in community.

As we tip toe to July, we know that inevitably Twins fans will start to imagine all manner of favorable scenarios, dream sequences and wishful thinking that leads the GM Terry Ryan to make all the right moves and deliver a winner to Target Field.
 
We Peanuts from Heaven are nothing if not imaginative, but rather than prognosticate any remotely feasible trade scenarios, allow us to write another in our on-going series of creative scenes played against a backdrop of the Twins 2015 season (apologies if you find these scenes tedious...it's what you get from a blogger who's a wannabe playwright/novelist).
 
[Interior: Terry Ryan's office, as the sun sets on a fine June day with Target Field sprinklers running in the background]
 
Secretary: Mr. Ryan? Flip Saunders is here to see you.
 
Terry: Thank you. [Flip Saunders enters, Terry's joy bubbles in his voice, like an impressed grandfather] Flip! Old buddy, ol' pal, how are you!
 
Flip: Uhh...I'm fine Terry, fine...How are you?
 
Terry: Pretty good, pretty good! I saw you had a great night during the draft!
 
Flip: Yeah, we're pretty happy about it.
 
Terry: Wooowhee! Karl Anthony-Towns and Tyus Jones! Well, I tell you, every one here's just as pleased as punch. Very excited, very excited indeed.
http://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/f5165edfa19bcf273643df7b3770f5690bca06dd/r=x404&c=534x401/http/cdn.tegna-tv.com/-mm-/8f34608b555ec32dd768545f79953f0d1ac02edc/c=1-0-1022-768/local/-/media/2015/06/26/KARE/KARE/635709175776399451-Jones-and-Towns-skyway.jpg
Flip: Thank you Terry.
 
Terry: Yes, siree-Bob, you're a smart man Flip. And you sure seem to have a way with those fellows from Cleveland. Yup, it's almost like magic...
 
Flip: Uhh...well, you know how it is Terry, you hang around this business long enough, you build certain relationshi--
 
Terry: [Cutting Saunders off, Terry now sounds terse and demanding, a hard nosed boss at last] Can the bull Flippy-boy! What do you have on Cleveland? How do you get them to make these asinine trades?
 
Flip: What?
 
Terry: Don't play dumb. I've been in this business since before you first sniffed a speed dial. You've got some sort of pull on Cleveland, and I want to know what it is!
 
Flip: Terry, I assure you, I--
 
Terry: "Assure me", what an "Ass-U-Are" Flip! I want details and I want them now.
 
Flip: [Sighs, defeated] Alright, alright, I'll tell you. The magic word is Cumquat.
 
Terry: Cumquat?
 
Flip: Yeah, Cumquat. See, at the last GM meetings, I took David Griffin to see this hypnotist, The Great Gaspini. Anyway, I slipped the guy a fiver and he gave Griffin a private session. Anyway, in between making him cluck like a chicken and memorize the entire dance to Single Ladies, he implanted the idea that any time he heard the word "Minnesota" followed by "Cumquat" he would agree with whatever someone was saying.
http://41.media.tumblr.com/b8b5aaf726b2dde7e721ac7d51429884/tumblr_ml0cy7n6DQ1qfyo3so2_1280.jpg
Terry: So that's how you got Wiggins, Bennett and Jones for 1 Season of crappy Kevin Love and a pair of second rounders?
 
Flip: To be fair...yes...yes it was...I guess I am a genius.
 
Terry: Brilliant, brilliant! So I just need to get this Gaspini-guy to do the same thing for me with Shapiro and Antonetti!
 
Flip: Actually...well...what with this whole West Loop partnership thing we've got going on these days, Glen Taylor, Bill McGuire and the Pohlad boys paid for Gaspini to pull the same thing over on the Indians and AFC Cleveland.
 
Terry: Not the Browns?
 
 
Flip: Pssh...c'mon Terry, they're the Browns, they'll screw themselves anyway. Plus, this is a West Loop deal, so Ziggy can lump it for all I care.
 
Terry: Hehe, yeah, West Loop Pride. [Calls into the hallway] Dorothy! Get me Chris Antonetti on the line! [Pause] They've got soccer in Cleveland?
 
Flip: I'm as surprised as you are.
 
Secretary: Antonetti on line one!
 
Terry: Just say Minnesota first and then Cumquat? [Flip nods, Terry picks up the phone] Chris, my-boy! How are you?! Terry Ryan here in...Minnesota! Listen, we've got a bit of a pitching log jam here, so I'm thinking it might be time to make a trade: how about you guys take Ricky Nolasco and his contract and we take that short stop of yours, Francisco Lindor?[Pause] Oh, don't be so quick to count me out Chris, after all, Nolasco's no...cumquat!...[Pause] Yeah, I thought you might reconsider. Tell you what, I'm feeling generous today, so if you toss in Trevor Bauer, I'll send you Mike Pelfry and Shane Robinson, how about that....?
 
[Scene]

As we tip toe to July, we know that inevitably Twins fans will start to imagine all manner of favorable scenarios, dream sequences and wishful thinking that leads the GM Terry Ryan to make all the right moves and deliver a winner to Target Field.
 
We Peanuts from Heaven are nothing if not imaginative, but rather than prognosticate any remotely feasible trade scenarios, allow us to write another in our on-going series of creative scenes played against a backdrop of the Twins 2015 season (apologies if you find these scenes tedious...it's what you get from a blogger who's a wannabe playwright/novelist).
 
[Interior: Terry Ryan's office, as the sun sets on a fine June day with Target Field sprinklers running in the background]
 
Secretary: Mr. Ryan? Flip Saunders is here to see you.
 
Terry: Thank you. [Flip Saunders enters, Terry's joy bubbles in his voice, like an impressed grandfather] Flip! Old buddy, ol' pal, how are you!
 
Flip: Uhh...I'm fine Terry, fine...How are you?
 
Terry: Pretty good, pretty good! I saw you had a great night during the draft!
 
Flip: Yeah, we're pretty happy about it.
 
Terry: Wooowhee! Karl Anthony-Towns and Tyus Jones! Well, I tell you, every one here's just as pleased as punch. Very excited, very excited indeed.
http://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/f5165edfa19bcf273643df7b3770f5690bca06dd/r=x404&c=534x401/http/cdn.tegna-tv.com/-mm-/8f34608b555ec32dd768545f79953f0d1ac02edc/c=1-0-1022-768/local/-/media/2015/06/26/KARE/KARE/635709175776399451-Jones-and-Towns-skyway.jpg
Flip: Thank you Terry.
 
Terry: Yes, siree-Bob, you're a smart man Flip. And you sure seem to have a way with those fellows from Cleveland. Yup, it's almost like magic...
 
Flip: Uhh...well, you know how it is Terry, you hang around this business long enough, you build certain relationshi--
 
Terry: [Cutting Saunders off, Terry now sounds terse and demanding, a hard nosed boss at last] Can the bull Flippy-boy! What do you have on Cleveland? How do you get them to make these asinine trades?
 
Flip: What?
 
Terry: Don't play dumb. I've been in this business since before you first sniffed a speed dial. You've got some sort of pull on Cleveland, and I want to know what it is!
 
Flip: Terry, I assure you, I--
 
Terry: "Assure me", what an "Ass-U-Are" Flip! I want details and I want them now.
 
Flip: [Sighs, defeated] Alright, alright, I'll tell you. The magic word is Cumquat.
 
Terry: Cumquat?
 
Flip: Yeah, Cumquat. See, at the last GM meetings, I took David Griffin to see this hypnotist, The Great Gaspini. Anyway, I slipped the guy a fiver and he gave Griffin a private session. Anyway, in between making him cluck like a chicken and memorize the entire dance to Single Ladies, he implanted the idea that any time he heard the word "Minnesota" followed by "Cumquat" he would agree with whatever someone was saying.
http://41.media.tumblr.com/b8b5aaf726b2dde7e721ac7d51429884/tumblr_ml0cy7n6DQ1qfyo3so2_1280.jpg
Terry: So that's how you got Wiggins, Bennett and Jones for 1 Season of crappy Kevin Love and a pair of second rounders?
 
Flip: To be fair...yes...yes it was...I guess I am a genius.
 
Terry: Brilliant, brilliant! So I just need to get this Gaspini-guy to do the same thing for me with Shapiro and Antonetti!
 
Flip: Actually...well...what with this whole West Loop partnership thing we've got going on these days, Glen Taylor, Bill McGuire and the Pohlad boys paid for Gaspini to pull the same thing over on the Indians and AFC Cleveland.
 
Terry: Not the Browns?
 
 
Flip: Pssh...c'mon Terry, they're the Browns, they'll screw themselves anyway. Plus, this is a West Loop deal, so Ziggy can lump it for all I care.
 
Terry: Hehe, yeah, West Loop Pride. [Calls into the hallway] Dorothy! Get me Chris Antonetti on the line! [Pause] They've got soccer in Cleveland?
 
Flip: I'm as surprised as you are.
 
Secretary: Antonetti on line one!
 
Terry: Just say Minnesota first and then Cumquat? [Flip nods, Terry picks up the phone] Chris, my-boy! How are you?! Terry Ryan here in...Minnesota! Listen, we've got a bit of a pitching log jam here, so I'm thinking it might be time to make a trade: how about you guys take Ricky Nolasco and his contract and we take that short stop of yours, Francisco Lindor?[Pause] Oh, don't be so quick to count me out Chris, after all, Nolasco's no...cumquat!...[Pause] Yeah, I thought you might reconsider. Tell you what, I'm feeling generous today, so if you toss in Trevor Bauer, I'll send you Mike Pelfry and Shane Robinson, how about that....?
 
[Scene]

Though the Twins' offense has struggled to generate many runs in the month of June, their tremendous success in May and the method of their outburst against the White Sox yesterday reminds us all of what has worked for the team all year: Hit Clusters.
 
Now, the Twins, along with local business partners in the breakfast cereal industry are out to share the secret of their winning ways with the populace at large in this new advertisement for a special Twins Centric Cereal!
 
[Our first shot is of Twins clubhouse where a dejected looking Kennys Vargas and Byron Buxton sit at the team breakfast table]
 
Kennys: It isn't easy to be a big leaguer...
 
Byron: Yeah, and you'd think they'd be able to afford something better than simple toast for us too...
 
[Brian Dozier enters, with a big smile and, if possible, animated unicorns and ninjas]
 
Brian: Are you guys tired of your boring breakfasts and wishing you could score more runs?!?
 
Kennys: That is literally what we were just saying.
 
Brian: Try HIT CLUSTER CEREAL! A joint venture of the Minnesota Twins, General Mills, and Malt o Meal! The official Cluster-Based Cereal of the Minnesota Twins!!
http://www.350sweets.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/whitchocclusters2.jpg
 
Byron: Do we have an Official Non-Cluster-Based Cereal?
 
Brian: Don't change the subject Rookie!! HIT CLUSTER CEREAL contains all the valuable nutrients you need to connect hits together for a big inning!!
 
[A series of other smiling Twins players appear with the cereal]
 
Torii Hunter: It's got Single Almonds!
 
Trevor Plouffe: It's got Double Granola Granules!!
 
Eddie Rosario: It's got Triple Fiber Flakes!!!
 
Brian Dozier: Not to mention Home Run Flavor!!!!
 
Joe Mauer: Sometimes, when I really want to cut loose, I even have some with vitamin rich Milk.
 
Torii: For the last time Joe, don't flaunt your decadent party life style in front of the kids!
 
Joe: Sorry...
 
Brian: C'mon Guys! Try a bite!!
 
Kennys: Wow! That taste sure comes through in the clutch!
 
[All the Twins Laugh heartily before the final Voice Over]
 
VOICE OVER: Hit Cluster Cereal is available for a limited time only, and is part of a balanced breakfast with other great Official Minnesota Twins foodstuffs like "Base on Balls Bread" and "Orange (You Glad We're Facing White Sox Pitchers) Juice"

Though the Twins' offense has struggled to generate many runs in the month of June, their tremendous success in May and the method of their outburst against the White Sox yesterday reminds us all of what has worked for the team all year: Hit Clusters.
 
Now, the Twins, along with local business partners in the breakfast cereal industry are out to share the secret of their winning ways with the populace at large in this new advertisement for a special Twins Centric Cereal!
 
[Our first shot is of Twins clubhouse where a dejected looking Kennys Vargas and Byron Buxton sit at the team breakfast table]
 
Kennys: It isn't easy to be a big leaguer...
 
Byron: Yeah, and you'd think they'd be able to afford something better than simple toast for us too...
 
[Brian Dozier enters, with a big smile and, if possible, animated unicorns and ninjas]
 
Brian: Are you guys tired of your boring breakfasts and wishing you could score more runs?!?
 
Kennys: That is literally what we were just saying.
 
Brian: Try HIT CLUSTER CEREAL! A joint venture of the Minnesota Twins, General Mills, and Malt o Meal! The official Cluster-Based Cereal of the Minnesota Twins!!
http://www.350sweets.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/whitchocclusters2.jpg
 
Byron: Do we have an Official Non-Cluster-Based Cereal?
 
Brian: Don't change the subject Rookie!! HIT CLUSTER CEREAL contains all the valuable nutrients you need to connect hits together for a big inning!!
 
[A series of other smiling Twins players appear with the cereal]
 
Torii Hunter: It's got Single Almonds!
 
Trevor Plouffe: It's got Double Granola Granules!!
 
Eddie Rosario: It's got Triple Fiber Flakes!!!
 
Brian Dozier: Not to mention Home Run Flavor!!!!
 
Joe Mauer: Sometimes, when I really want to cut loose, I even have some with vitamin rich Milk.
 
Torii: For the last time Joe, don't flaunt your decadent party life style in front of the kids!
 
Joe: Sorry...
 
Brian: C'mon Guys! Try a bite!!
 
Kennys: Wow! That taste sure comes through in the clutch!
 
[All the Twins Laugh heartily before the final Voice Over]
 
VOICE OVER: Hit Cluster Cereal is available for a limited time only, and is part of a balanced breakfast with other great Official Minnesota Twins foodstuffs like "Base on Balls Bread" and "Orange (You Glad We're Facing White Sox Pitchers) Juice"

There's been a lot of cyber ink spilled over the ejection, tirade and now suspension of Torii Hunter for arguing balls and strikes on Wednesday. Rather than debate the justifications for it, or weigh in on the great "inspiration"/"childishness" debate, we'd like to imagine how this little event will affect future Twins franchises.
We take you now to a tape room in the Twins' Fort Myers training compound, some March day in the not-so-distant future. A crew of young prospects, chatter anxiously awaiting the appearance of the franchise legend who will address them today. A hush falls as he enters the room, but the nerves are set at ease when he flashes his trademark mega-watt smile:
 
"Hey guys! What's happenin'"
 
"Good morning, Mr. Hunter," they squeak in unison.
 
Unphased, Hunter sits backwards on a chair, "listen y'all, you can relax. This isn't a big talking too. I'm not gonna lecture you, we just want to go over some of the finer points of your game.
 
"You've been coming along nicely for a little while now. I know one of you led the Midwest league in homers, and I saw another one hit 97 on the gun yesterday. Real good, man, real good. But to make it to the bigs you've got to know how to lose your cool properly....
 
"I mean, I've seen the tapes of you guys when you're upset, groanin' and shakin' your heads. That doesn't do anything man! You gotta get wild! You gotta make a point! So let's look at the tape here.
 
http://stream1.gifsoup.com/view8/20150611/5218708/baseball-tantrum-o.gif
 
"First, ya gotta start with the little things, light weight stuff, elbow guards, wrist guards, you know, easy stuff. Warm yourself up! You there, McGillacuddy, you're a big fella, but if you start chuckin' the bat and the helmet and everything right away you could strain a forearm, a muscle, how's the manager gonna feel if you have to rest a day because you couldn't be bothered to warm up first?"
 
"Uhh...not very good..."
 
"Your damn right not very good!
 
"Now secondly, don't lose track of your point in this, everything you throw you have to punctuate with another yell, turn back to the ump, the crew chief especially, because that's the umps boss, let him know that it's a protest, it's not a performance, it's a political statement. Yes Diaz?"
 
"What should we say to them? Should we reemphasize the rule with references to the section and subsect--"
 
"Nah, they can't think logically about it at that point, just say what's in your heart...let the coaches and the lawyers talk specifics, you do you man, you do you.
 
"Alright, finally gentlemen, the climax: the jersey toss. Now some might say it's over the top, some might say it's foolish, but this is a special move. It's the point of no return, and think about it, if you want to continue to emphasize your protest what else could you throw?"
 
"Your shoe?"
 
"No, Moskowitz, that's a protest common to Iraq and the Arab Peninsula. Do we play on the Arab Peninsula?"
 
"No, sir"
 
"That's right, the Bagdad expansion franchise isn't coming in for another three years. Who else?"
 
"Your belt?"
 
"Your belt? Stop for a second a think there, Henderson, how exactly is a little ol' Minnesotan lady in the stands gonna feel if you start strippin' down out there?"
 
"Oh yeah..."
 
"What about equipment from the dug out?"
 
"Not a bad idea, Van Nostren! But that's a little played out, and remember you've got teammates and fellow pros out there, don't want to risk anybody's safety. That's why I recommend the shirt toss, it's soft, it's light, it flutters down beautifully after a long throw, its arc and trajectory gives you more time to shout at the umps, it's perfect."
 
A tentative hand rises from the front row, "But Mr. Hunter--"
 
"Yeah?"
 
"Sir, I was just wondering, wouldn't it be safer not to say anything at all and just file an appeal after the game..."
 
Torii blinks, and stares back at the player. "What's your name, son?"
 
"Uhhh...Middlecamp"
 
"Uh-huh, Middlecamp....well you're not on my sheet here, son, I think you might be looking for Joe Mauer's Seminar on Increasing your Midwestern-ness, that's room 203 not 302..."
 
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," says Middlecamp, gathering his belongings and heading for the door.
 
"Its okay, man, its okay, it may be helpful some day. Now the rest of you, let's talk about how much to tip the batboy after he picks up the stuff..."
 
 
*AND SCENE*

In an effort to get back in the swing of writing about the Twins consistently, I'm going back to an old well: Cliff-Notes. After all, I end up checking the cliff notes of everything book I teach for plagiarism, I figure this is just getting ahead of the curve. (For the start on cliff-notes I made before September crushed my baseball loving soul click here)
 
With that, let's start looking at Volume 2 of the Twins' Cliff Notes
 
Chapter 1: "April"
Plot Summary:
With the traditional exposition of some vague optimism and pledges to change, the Twins opened the season with a crushingly grim display of flaccid and ineffective play culminating in a cascade of boos during the home opener.
 
Faced with trying times, the Twins responded with muted resolve. They continued down the pre-ordained path, changing players only when forced by injuries rather than performance. New leader Paul Molitor remained enigmatic, occasionally catering to long standing pleas from fans (eg. for platooning, against myopic use of closers), but frequently maintaining longstanding habits (eg. valuing experience over upside, offering limited knowledge of advanced statistics).
 
The players themselves were similarly nonplussed. The biggest news seemed to be that heroic Joe Mauer had grown a beard. Phil Hughes pitched well but failed to win enough games to earn the undying affection of the faithful. Returning favorites such as Torii Hunter, Glen Perkins and Brian Dozier were solid but not sensational. Promising prospects such as Danny Santana and Kennys Vargas regressed. New team members like Blaine Boyer and Shane Robinson did not win any fans or burn any bridges.
 
At the very end of the month a silver lining emerged, the Twins beat their rival White Sox handily. They beat the White Sox best pitcher (Chris Sale) emphatically. And in the eyes of fans throughout Twins Territory a small glimmer shone as if to say, "well, at least there was that"
http://stmedia.startribune.com/images/883*549/08-584722%202TWIN050115.jpg
 
Main Character Development:
With so much affirming of the way things have been (from Terry Ryan to Joe Mauer to Phil Hughes) and too little to develop a complete assessment on new people (Molitor, Boyer, Robinson), the greatest development came from an unlikely source.
 
Trevor Plouffe was not terribly impressive, but he was, also, not terrible. His consistent growth into a consistent presence has been satisfying, not sensational, but satisfying. His defense is competent, his pitch selection is solid and his willingness to meet league wide standards is gratifying. For a man whose errant throws and questionable swing choices led many to beat their heads against their coffee tables at home and their seat mates at the stadium, this is impressive growth.
 
He has, in effect, completed the same transformation as Neville Longbottom does in the first four Harry Potter books: from punchline to consistent presence. This is the first significant step on the road to heroism, whether it happens with us or with another team is a matter for Chapter 4 (July/the Trading Deadline)
http://media23.onsugar.com/files/2011/07/28/2/301/3019466/0e6c50e05413f3b1_Neville-before-and-after/i/Matthew-Lewis-Pictures.jpg Trevor Plouffe as a rookie (L), and in
two years ®
 
 
Key Quote/Stat Explained:
SO/BB v.s. W-L. Phil Hughes' Strike out to Walk Ratio in April was 13, that's two K's better than his record setting 2014. Yet over that time his record was an underwhelming 0-4. While these bloggers are often preaching to the choir, it doesn't take much to acknowledge that Hughes pitched far better than his record would suggest and that, popular though they are among lay-fans, a pitchers' record has very little to do with their over all performance.
 
Literary Term to Impress English Majors:
If you've ever willingly hung around self-important pseudo intellectuals you've heard people talk about how cliche certain things can be. Basically criticizing anything so overused and overdone that it loses all meaning: like how inspiring teams begin from humble beginnings or how self-important pseudo-intellectuals always call things "cliche".
http://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/darkandstormy_5013.jpg
 
 
The Twins opening a season with a run of terrible play was certainly cliche for a team with four straight 90 loss seasons, the baseball equivalent of starting a novel with the line: "it was a dark and stormy night". But a cliche can have power if, instead of following the familiar pattern (team grows, learns and overcomes the odds to win), it inverts things (refusing to change, continuing to struggle, willingly accepting mediocre play to gain the ultimate rewards of change--either in personnel or in management). So, yes, the Twins played cliche ball in April, which means they've got us exactly where they want us.

Three years ago, we Peanuts adopted a prospect. A delightful prospect we thought could grow into an intimidating reliever...or at least his beard could. A guy we cared for, and supported through thick and (more frequently) thin, until finally, we waved good bye as he ran joyfully through a field upstate, where all the released prospects go when they're released.
 
We spent a year in mourning, but we're ready to re-open our hearts, to another prospect. And to that end, we've adopted another in the long line of promising potential relievers. Who may make it themselves, or may be cobbled together by Terry Ryan in some sort of Genetically Modified "SUPER RELIEVER". But enough context, let's meet our guy!
http://m.twins.mlb.com/assets/images/1/0/6/97201106/cuts/twins_mbbal9a2_yyci6gxa.jpg
 
This is JT Chargois
 
JT Chargois (pronounced SHA-gwa) was born in Sulphur, Louisiana, where he was a Golden Tornado just like former major leaguers "Jocko" Thomas, Pat Rapp and former Twin Casey Daigle.
 
JT was recruited by and joined the Rice Owls when he left High School in 2009, though apparently he didn't need much convincing to join Rice since his dad praised both their athletics and their academics. Still, he left the Owls after his impressive Junior year when the Twins drafted him (as well as fellow Owl Tyler Duffey) in the second round of the 2015 draft. Many were excited about him as a nearly developed prospect, while my traditional 5 word analysis was: "Spikey" Curveball helps: in ROLLERBALL!!
 
(An explanatory note: Major League Baseball's capsule on Chargois during the 2012 Draft described his curveball as "Spikey". Not knowing exactly what that meant or looked like, I did what any responsible blogger would do and ignored the opportunity for research in order to make a lame joke about a 1970s James Caan Sci-Fi Sports Flick.)
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7WL8YT7JOT0/S48syMkUc8I/AAAAAAAAFv4/7cwWYlU_cUQ/s200/Rollerball%2B-%2BOutlast%2BThe%2BGame%2BFront.gif
DEEP CUT!
 
After a strong debut at Elizabethton (where he finished 8 games, had a 4.4 K/BB ratio and a sub 1 WHIP), Chargois came to spring training 2013 ready to rise quickly. But elbow soreness sent him to extended spring training, then rehab, and finally in the fall of 2013 Tommy John surgery. Having missed the entire 2014 season, Chargois has done well in instructional league and this year's spring training and has started the year with the Ft. Myers Miracle (where he already has one save to his credit). While he's a year older than most High A players, he's also in a good position to rise quickly.
 
That all makes this a critical year for JT. If everything goes great, he'll move fast and may even be a potential September call-up (assuming Twins relievers implode...a crazy notion I know). If it goes well, it would be reasonable to see him hit AAA and force the Twins into a tricky decision (as Seth already outlined), either putting him on the 40 man roster or risk losing him through the Rule 5 draft. If it goes poorly, the risk of not putting him on the 40-man Roster will plummet, and JT will be facing an even more pressing season coming up. At least so far it looks very good (as this video with the mix of his fastball and curve shows).
 
 
So why should you care about JT Chargois? Besides his tremendous upside, he seems like another excellent candidate for our "SUPER RELIEVER" project. His Curveball may be the kind of devastating secondary pitch a reliever needs. And also, if I can make it happen, he has excellent nickname potential. "SPIKE" Chargois anyone?
 
We'll keep up the bi-monthly updates in the forum, and will continue to work out a monthly major update

Anyone who seeks out more writing about the Minnesota Twins, clearly cares about the team. They have opinions aplenty about the best direction the franchise could take. They think about it, they weigh pros and cons, and they argue with passion when they feel like they are right.
 
In that regard, there's very little that separates blog readers from the Twins front office. But in the last few weeks a font of frustration has welled up, particularly as regards recent roster decisions. I am no kind of astute baseball analyst (I mean, a large number of my posts turn in to abstract satires of North Korea...), but I think I know why this is.
 
It all comes back to a key division between baseball fans: the fans of words, and the fans of numbers.
 
Fans of words like the story telling aspect of the game: the heartwarming narrative of a player coming into his own or coming back from injury; the mythical prowess of a 100 mile per hour pitcher or a Ruthian Home Run machine; the emotional love of the game.
 
Fans of numbers like the statistical and factual aspect of the game: the value a player brings to the field, their role in creating runs and wins, their failure to avoid defeats, the logical appreciation of the game and its players.
 
While I normally think about the separation between fans within the stands, the same split occurs when we try to evaluate players, and can be expanded to apply to when anyone evaluates someone else.
 
Think of it like this: if you work in a job where you get performance reviews (and I'm struggling to think of a job where you wouldn't), your boss might highlight your productivity by saying something like this:
Or they could highlight it by saying something like this:
But in reality, they probably have a mix of both the words that colleagues use to describe you and the statistics that they can measure. (As a school teacher I admittedly have no earthly clue what business meetings sound like, but I do know that I'd rather be judged by both comments from other teachers and student performance on standardized tests rather than just one. I suppose I'm hoping that other people have similarly rational evaluations.)
 
http://www.gstatic.com/tv/thumb/dvdboxart/30400/p30400_d_v7_aa.jpgThat's really what we argue about when we talk about who is ready and who isn't ready for the major leagues. We're used to the Twins scouting department (a more word savvy crew) running the show, basing judgements off of what they see in the minors and what the manager sees during Spring Training. Meanwhile, many of the fans (including those who seek out articles to read on-line) are hungry for a more number-friendly crew. But for as much as we talk about the Twins' statistical analyses (or lack thereof) as a catchall for the team's failings, we have to remember that there are benefits and drawbacks to both ways of evaluating people.
 
 
Word lovers may be able to accurately describe a person's character, demeanor, attitude and potential, but they risk falling so in love with a concept of performance that actual performance means nothing. (After all, if word lovers like me ran teams, somebody would be feeling a nine man team of Air Buds)
 
Number lovers may have a more accurate measurement of a player's performance on the field, comparisons with others their own age, and insights into areas for growth, but they risk turning an individual strength or weakness into a career defining fact. (After all, if statistical measurements of skills were 100% infallible, Moneyball favorite Jeremy Brown would have been an All-Star, and Ryan Leaf would have proven more mature, intelligent and effective than Dan Marino).
 
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/ae/Aristotle_Altemps_Inv8575.jpg/765px-Aristotle_Altemps_Inv8575.jpgThe best case scenario is as old as Aristotle: moderation in all things and extremity in none. Evaluations should mix words and numbers, and while there's certainly anecdotal evidence to suggest the Twins could use more numbers, that doesn't mean that words are totally irrelevant to evaluating a player.
 
 
There is far more that unites we Twins fans and the team management than divides us. Fans and management want a good team. We may have different ways of approaching that goal, but just as we accept both written and statistical performance reviews in our own jobs, just as we enjoy a beer with fans who talk about VORP as much as those who talk about "intangibles", we are better when we use both together.

The headline here is a reference--if you do not know somehow--to a line from The Big Lebowski. It's the scene in the car where Walter has brought "the ringer" ("the whites") and The Dude loses it on him. The Dude is a very chill guy who smokes pot, listens to CCR, and bowls. But in this scene he yells (editing profanity) "You (screwed) it up! You (screwed) it up!" Walter responds with the quote in the headline.
 
Well it's that time of year when the Twins opening day roster becomes finalized and many, including myself, are screaming what The Dude was screaming in the car. I mean it all seems ridiculous. Maybe not each individual move taken separately, but when looking at the totality--Milone, Pelfrey, Boyer, and Robinson as choices over May, Meyer, Tonkin/Oliveros/Achter, and Hicks/Rosario, on top of the additions of Hunter and Stauffer--it looks like a big roster mistake based on some strange notion of trying to compete with aging guys instead of rebuilding with younger guys.
 
That's all true. I don't think the truth is on the Twins side here. This seems like a bizarre way to approach the season, especially since this doesn't mean merely having the young guys "earn" a promotion to the Twins . . . they are now forced to compete with one another down in AAA and even AA in some cases. It would seem like a rebuilding team promotes the young guys to get a sense of who is going to be worthy of keeping in 2016 and beyond. I cannot imagine any of those six--Milone, Pelfrey, Boyer, Robinson, Hunter, and Stauffer--being on the team in 2016.
 
But screaming about this isn't going to do any good and it isn't good for oneself. It is indeed being very un-dude. Here's a breakdown:
 
A. It's baseball. Baseball isn't like bowling . . . but watching baseball is like bowling in that you do it for fun and you drink beer while doing it.
 
B. There might be value in finding even one of those six guys who puts up a legitimate year that adds wins to the team this year. Stauffer and Hunter are the best bets there. ST stats mean very little. Stauffer is a good reliever.
 
C. Maybe this new focus on the changeup will improve the staff, including Boyer.
 
D. The young guys can all be together and work together and help each other out that way. Rochester suddenly has Rosario, Hicks, and Danny Ortiz in the OF. May and Meyer will be leading the rotation with the likes of Wheeler, Rogers, and maybe Duffey. Tonkin, Oliveros, and Achter are going to be in the bullpen with O'Rourke, Darnell (if I were Darnell, I would advocate for a full-time bullpen role), Hamburger, and Pressly. Rochester actually should be full of prospects, which is rare. It should be good though.
 
E. Nothing is really stopping a mass movement upward. This isn't Gardenhire's team, so we don't really know what to expect. If the oldsters aren't getting the job done, then I do think Molitor will replace them. And this can include a Schafer-Robinson for Hicks-Rosario swap. First, Rosario is going to get some time at second base in Rochester, and thus he still has that going for the Twins as another backup for Dozier. Second, Hunter is going to need days off, as will Mauer, and younger guys like Arcia and Vargas. There are innings and at bats there. Also, with each passing day the Twins are paying Mike Pelfrey less and less. Milone and Stauffer aren't making all that much, and Boyer is making very little. They are all replaceable and will be replaced with one wave from AAA and then another from AA.
 
F. We don't know what is going to happen, so let's just enjoy it. There are still a number of things to be excited about. First, a fully recovered Joe Mauer. Second, Santana and Vargas soph seasons. Third, Oswaldo Arcia is going to go ape this year. I guarantee that. Fourth, Eduardo Escobar is still going to get plenty of at bats and be a doubles machine. Finally, a new manager and pitching coach. This is the most important thing. Those old, ridiculous days are gone.
 
G. Being un-Dude is a terrible way to be.
 
It's understandable that we are "not into the whole levity thing" right now. We have ideas about what should be done and the Twins make mistakes. But it is clear that this is still the beginning of baseball season and that is something to be quite pleased about. I do think that these problems are going to work themselves out. The September roster should be pretty sick. There will be trades made that will help support a minor league system that hopefully is seeing its last top 10 overall pick this year.
 
There are still plenty of good things occurring outside of the decisions regarding players 21-25 on the roster.

Many of you may be looking at the Twins roster for opening day and wondering: "where the hell are the prospects?"
 
Sure, we've been told again and again that we're about to get a huge influx of talent. And sure, we've been told that the children are our future. But the young players coming north: Danny Santana, Kennys Vargas, Oswaldo Arcia, Kyle Gibson...we've seen them all before...and the people we haven't seen: Blaine Boyer? Kurt Suzuki? Tim Stauffer? Are not the world changing prospects we've been asked to bank on.
 
So, you may be a little frustrated. I'm a little frustrated. Until I realized that this is all part of Terry Ryan's Secret Plan.
 
We at Peanuts from Heaven have found a secret ad written, directed and produced by Terry Ryan. What follows is a transcript of that ad.
 
 
TWINS SECRET COMMERCIAL
 
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sHUQsYurfT8/VRsVnQZM0oI/AAAAAAAADHA/325H98WUK7c/s1600/SaneTerry.jpg
[Ext. Day, Terry Ryan, wearing a completely respectable suit is walking toward the camera from Right Field]
 
 
SANE TERRY. Hi. I'm Sane Terry, from Sane Terry's House of Fiscally Viable Veterans here with totally reasonable deals on all your veteran baseball player needs.
 
 
 
[Cut to. Int. Twins Clubhouse, Sane Terry walks past empty lockers]
 
SANE TERRY. For years, the Minnesota Twins have been giving the aging and seemingly ineffective baseball players of America a chance to hit rock bottom. Once they do that, they are ripe for the picking...your picking.
 
 
 
[Cut to. Close Up, Terry Ryan turned to face new camera]
 
SANE TERRY. Are you a team with six valid starting pitchers? Why not trade for one of our many rotation candidates as insurance in case of injury, theft, or spontaneous combustion?
 
 
 
[Cut to. Opposite angle Terry Ryan turned to face new camera]
 
SANE TERRY. Are you a team who wishes their young players could learn from a cautionary example? Why not trade for one of our jaded-former-prospects whose shattered dreams has left them a shell of their former selves?
 
 
 
[Cut to. Original Angle Terry Ryan turned to face new camera]
 
SANE TERRY. You can get all your valuable veterans for low, low prices. Just ask these satisfied customers.
 
 
 
[Cut to Neal Huntington smiling in front of PNC Park in Pittsburgh]
 
HUNTINGTON. Our team used to be a joke, but once we just started picking Terry's discarded pitchers off the scrap heap, we had all the support we could ever need!
 
 
[Cut to Buck Showalter at the dugout railing of Camden Yards]
SHOWALTER. If someone has "former-Twin" on their resume, you can bet that they'll be a below-average starter, but an irrationally great resource for your post season run! Thanks to Sane Terry, I might not be fired right before my team wins the World Series!
 
[Cut to Sane Terry reclining in his office at Target Field, the camera takes in a view of the field]
SANE TERRY. We know you can get brand new ballplayers from many sources. But Crazy Billy's Coliseum of Deals always seems to have ulterior motives, and the next Miami Marlins Fire Sale isn't scheduled until November 2016, so why not come on down to Sane Terry's House of Fiscally Viable Veterans and see what we have on offer?
 
[Cut to, reverse Angle, the camera takes in a view of the hallway]
SANE TERRY. You don't have to give up the farm, just a young kid with upside, or downside, or cash...we like cash. And we like to give these veteran ball players a new lease on life. That's why we'll always have them on the roster, and always have them available, because that's what made us successful all these years.
 
ANONYMOUS INTERN [While walking by Terry's door]. Huh? What do you mean? We haven't been successful. And the older players rarely if ever help us. And when we trade them we almost never get anything of value.
 
SANE TERRY. Well, you know what they say, "the definition of sanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result."
 
ANONYMOUS INTERN. Actually I think that's the definition of insanity.
 
SANE TERRY. Ha. Ha. If that were true, I would be Crazy Terry...and I am clearly Sane Terry. It says so on this ad.
 
ANONYMOUS INTERN. What ad? And who are you talking to?
 
SANE TERRY. Sane Terry's House of Fiscally Viable Veterans. Call now and get Mike Pelfry right before he finalizes his deal with the devil for one more good season.
 
[Fin.]

It's strange to say for someone who has written this blog for nearly seven years, but I've never written in depth about my first Twins game. But I have a good reason for that.
 
I don't really remember it.
 
I've tried to. I've imagined Kirby Puckett legging out a triple. I wishfully think that it was the Orioles so I can say that I saw Cal Ripken in the midst of his streak.
 
But I just don't remember it. Not the day. Not the year. Not the opponent. Not the outcome.
 
But I remember my grandfather, the man who took me there.
 
I remember coming to Minneapolis from Montana, over a single long day's drive. And knowing it we had made it, when I could see the lights on the porch and hear the game on the radio.
 
I remember sitting on a porch swing on summer mornings looking over the box scores with him as he sipped his coffee in an old robe and I peppered him with question after question.
 
I remember holding his hand and walking down the Metrodome's concrete steps to our seats.
 
I remember him point to the turf, and the bases, to see if I was following along, and joining in the "Noooo Smoking at the Metrodome".
 
http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21U64pZLN9L.jpg
I remember him bringing me a swirled sundae in a Twins helmet cup and smiling kindly as the sundae ended up half in my mouth and half on my shirt.
 
I remember his kind questions, "did you like it?", "who was your favorite player?", "what was your favorite moment?"
 
I remember him happily lobbing underhand whiffle balls to my brothers and me, when we asked to play in the front yard that night and many other nights there after.
 
In the years that followed we didn't always go to Twins games, we out grew whiffle ball, and I actually became an adroit helmet sundae eater. But he still asked his questions while he sat in his barcalounger and I sat on the sofa beside him.
 
He still poured over box scores with the morning paper, and watched, and listened and read whenever he could. He had opinions about who was doing well, and how the old players compared and he shared them with me regularly.
 
We talked about Paul Molitor getting hired and remembered seeing him in downtown Minneapolis when I was a boy. We talked about Tony O missing the hall of fame again and how he used to watch the batting practice bombs. We talked about how he was convinced that my college friend should become my wife the moment he found out she was a singer with season tickets.
 
He passed away yesterday morning, after beating back cancer for longer than the doctors had thought he could. I knew he was tough, I knew he was proud, but when he passed I could only think about how kind he was and how happy he must have been with family around him, singing and sharing their love.
 
Just like he shared the game, and a sundae, and his hand with me.
 
Whatever day it was.

In the spirit of the New Year, we have 15 New Years Resolutions to offer for 15 key parts of Twins Territory.
 
The resolutions are available in our New Gallery Album "Resolutions"...which hopefully will turn up as part of this post
 
Any additions you want to make, or suggestions for how to make these resolutions more attainable are always welcome.

In the spirit of the New Year, we have 15 New Years Resolutions to offer for 15 key parts of Twins Territory.
 
The resolutions are available in our New Gallery Album "Resolutions"...which hopefully will turn up as part of this post
 
Any additions you want to make, or suggestions for how to make these resolutions more attainable are always welcome.

For the last three years, the Murphy family has tried to answer a single question: how can we help get Tony Oliva in the Hall of Fame?
http://votetonyo.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/VoteTonyO_Tony_Oliva_Official_Fan_Club-300x200.jpg The Vote Tony O Team
No one asked them to answer that question. Not the Twins. Not Tony himself. They weren't deputized or drafted. They chose to do it themselves, coming together in a kitchen to found Vote Tony O to find out, "how can we help get Tony Oliva in the Hall of Fame?"
 
That's not an easy question to answer, and as someone who writes more than he takes action, I'm a little worried that I can't do much. After all, baseball writing focuses on providing clear and concise answers to clear and concise questions. Which player won the game? Which team lost the trade? Who's washed up? Who's the future? There's a quick answer to each of those questions and a swath of data to support any answer you give: box scores and power splits, defensive metrics and pitch mapping.
 
But when it comes to addressing Hall of Fame worthiness, things get trickier. For instance one advanced measure, which analyzes an array of statistics and contexts, puts Tony ahead of no-doubt-legends like Joe DiMaggio and Frank Robinson, but behind such faded who-the-hecks as Gavvy Cravath and Harry Stovey.
 
"The numbers are easy", says Mike Murphy, one of Vote Tony O's spokespeople. "[They've] all been a record since 1976, but it's a little bit harder for us to quantify what Tony means to the community."
 
Fuzzy though the quantification is, it's certain that Tony Oliva means a lot to his communities. He is and has been a role model for Cuban players coming to America. He served as a cornerstone of the Twins for the past 50 years as a player, a coach on both World Series winning clubs, and an announcer for our increasingly diverse fan base. Above all, he stands out as an indefatigable ambassador for the game, the team and life itself.
 
Over the years Murphy and his family have seen this more than most people. "Tony loves being Tony. Tony loves being the guy that people want to come up and meet and touch and get an autograph. He loves everybody that comes up to him; he bends over backwards for these people, and it's because he truly enjoys it. "
 
http://stmedia.startribune.com/images/630*359/twin1104oliva.jpg
 
Again, anyone who has seen Oliva around the Twins in recent years knows it. Though the team has hardly been a bastion of good vibes, Oliva is often the greatest source of entertainment. He smiles. He beams. He radiates a love of the game that would insulate an ice fishing cabin in International Falls, and embodies a passion that those who fixate on questions about winning and losing too often forget.
 
But the Murphy's won't forget that passion, because they can't forget one of the rare times Oliva was dispirited rather than optimistic: winter 2011, the last time Tony was up for election. Mike Murphy remembers the push to the ballot. Remembers they day of the announcement. Remembers how "exactly the way you think it would be in your head, [that] was the way it was. You know the clock ticking and nobody talking, then depression sets in.
 
"And the weird thing was Tony wasn't depressed he didn't get into the Hall of Fame. He's at peace with it; he's fine. That part's not a big deal. I'm sure he wants it, but the fact that he isn't in there? He's okay with it.
 
"The part that disappointed him and bothered him was that he felt that he let his fans down...This is 35-ish years after the last baseball game he played. He was disappointed not because he didn't make it, but because he let his fans down."
 
So while others might shake their heads and moved on with their lives, the people behind Vote Tony O have taken up a three year campaign to push for Oliva's induction. They tweet. They promote. And they inundate the Hall of Fame with over 14,000 post cards highlighting Tony's achievements, ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character and contributions to the game. According to Murphy, that has been the real drive of the group, focusing on "the character of the guy, the integrity of the guy, and re-shining some light. Hopefully we can pick up those last four votes and put him over."
 
 
Four more votes, that's all Oliva needs. Twelve out of sixteen members of the veteran's committee. Former colleagues, executives and writers who know the game and its history, who should understand the effect that Oliva has had. And even though the votes belong to those men, and the honor of selection belongs to the players, the Murphy's know that the institution isn't just the property of the gatekeepers or the honorees. "It's a museum. It's a New York State museum. It's a public thing, and frankly as a baseball fan: it's my museum."
 
And even if you dispute Oliva's credentials (or refuse to consider him until after Gavvy Cravath gets his due), the leaders of Vote Tony O believe it's important to speak your mind. "It's our museum," repeats Murphy. "If [fans] feel strongly about anybody on that list be it Gil Hodges or Jim Kaat, I think it's their responsibility to let [the Hall of Fame] know. Nobody is really right and nobody is really wrong. But what we know as a fact is that an awful, awful lot of people think that Tony Oliva should be in the Hall of Fame, and that's what we [want] to share with those 16 guys."
 
So, how can we help get Tony Oliva in the Hall of Fame? Simple: do whatever we can.
 
The Vote Tony O website has a wealth of post cards that you can print and mail to the Hall of Fame (also linked to here for your clickable perusal). The baskets of cards are dumped out in front of the committee members and makes for a rather effective image (as noted by former committee member Tommy Lasorda).
 
So here's what you do
1. Click on the links to find the post card you like.
2. Print one (or preferably more) off.
3. Add a personal memory.
4. Address it to:
Baseball Hall of Fame
 
Attn- Golden Era Committee
25 Main Street
Cooperstown NY 13326
 
5. Attach a stamp to the card.
6. Drop it in the mail.
 
Whether you stood beside him at the Cuban sandwich station at Target Field, or held out a ball for an autograph at the Metrodome, or cheered with the Knothole Gang in the Old Met's bleachers on a Saturday afternoon, I think you'll agree that Tony Oliva is an integral part of what Minnesota baseball is.
http://media.townhall.com/Townhall/reu/d/2011%5C98%5C2011-04-08T182219Z_01_MIN04_RTRIDSP_0_BASEBALL.jpg Thank You, Tony
Whether you appreciated his friendly demeanor, or his clutch performances, or his bad-ball hitting, or his mentorship, or his courage in simply being a man of color in minor league towns that kept him separate and unequal, I think you'll agree it's time to stand up and say "thank you" to Tony Oliva.
 
 
Whether you want to recognize a player who never got his due, or acknowledge the role he played in cementing baseball as an international game, or just want him to savor the game's greatest honor before (like Ron Santo and Buck O'Neill) it's too late, I think you'll agree it's important to call on the Veterans Committee to "Vote Tony O".
 
Do your part: click, print, sign, lick a stamp, and make yours the 14,001st plea for the Veteran's Committee to Vote Tony O.
 
Well...14,002nd. I already sent mine.

A year ago I offered an alternative statistic for measuring player worth--not in wins/losses, but in the far more useful field of entertaining the fan base: Amusement Above Replacement Player (AARP) for short. The statistic is measured in five key categories on a scale of -2 to +2,
Play:
Nickname:
Physical Traits:
Personality/Demeanor:
Oddities:

When added up, these statistics gives us a total AARP somewhere between -10 and +10.
 
Last year, even by the totally made up AARP statistic, the Twins Pitchers were an abysmal crew to watch, the four most notable starters (Vance Worley, Liam Hendricks, Kevin Correia and Samuel Deduno) registered a total 3.9, and none of them will factor for the Twins going forward. While the relievers were more consistently positive, there was some upheaveal there too.
 
So how did the Twins pitchers fare this year?
 
Well, on the field, still not great, but AARP doesn't just measure on the field performance it measures off the field personality and general likeab-ility/fan value, and in that category there are both some sizable gains and some serious problems going into next year.
 
Pitcher AARP (by Innings pitched)
 
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C83eo0aqaoY/UUZ-vejCmRI/AAAAAAAACHI/7Kte_ti1EqQ/s1600/DiscoDuensing.jpg
Still trying to popularize You Make Me Feel Like "Duensing"
Brian Duensing--I have a soft spot for Dozier (what with the similar majors in college and the appreciation for the near impossible job he had starting an elimination playoff game). But the days of the "Duenslinger" shirts at Target Field are pretty far gone, and his peripheral numbers dropped significantly. AARP: 0.5 (Down -0.1 from last year, play didn't help, off field work did)
 
 
Glen Perkins--Perk remains the jolt of life in the Twins bullpen, the local guy who engages with friends and foes alike. While an injury down the stretch cost him the end of the season (and the team a couple of games) he did have possibly the best moment of the year when he and Kurt Suzuki closed out the All-Star Game AARP: 3.6 (Up +1.2 with gains in every category--even nicknames are easier to go with now)
 
Casey Fien--Increasingly the Twins most reliable set-up man, which is a double-edged sword. Nice, appreciated but by no means interesting. If he grew a Snidely Wiplash mustache my nickname of "Dastardly Fien" would be easier to make popular. AARP: 0.6
Jared Burton--There was once a time when Jared Burton and Glen Perkins were dueling for the hearts and minds of Twins fans in the race to remove Matt Capps. Now he's just kind of there... AARP: -0.2
Anthony Swarzak--We'll always love the "Swarzak" Duck quack, especially as he returns to the spot starter role that suits him so well. And while FIP suggests he's better than his ERA, his soft tossing no strike out mentality continues to remind fans of the things they never liked in Twins pitching gone by. AARP: 1.1 (Up +0.5 for both the play and greater appreciation of the "Swarzak!" Quack)
 
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qEu1L9GI8LY/UzlzKeTKLcI/AAAAAAAACTY/vaYtFJ2O1w0/s1600/tumblr_n293ufpNKY1t1lw1qo1_400.jpg
The Old Nolasco Propaganda
Ricky Nolasco--at the start of the season I saw Ricky Nolasco's twitter feed as a sign that he was going to be an energizing force for the team. Instead he turned into both exciting and confusing, less exclamation mark than Interrobang (‽). Though on the plus side, that's his new nickname as far as I'm concerned. AARP: 1.2
Kyle Gibson--Yes, Kyle Gibson has the second most innings pitched in Twins territory this year. And while he was certainly serviceable, he was by no means the most amazing thing on the mound. And while tolerable is a step up for Twins pitchers, it's a long way from exciting. AARP: 0.7
 
Phil Hughes--Ahh Phil Hughes, for every amazing, dumbfounding, refusing to walk a batter performance that Phil Hughes had this year, he also had a "meh" post game quotation to go with it. And while we love any body who can set a pitching record in a Twins uniform (or at least a good record), we'd love a little more personality (we cannot confirm claims he mocked Brian Duensing on Twitter, but can confirm that he has a good enough personality to wear a silly mustache and honestly admit his own failings). AARP: 2.6
 
 
By the lofty standards of AARP you need something above a 5.0 to be a nationally relevant player, and no Twins pitcher is anywhere close to that. BUT, Glen Perkins and Phil Hughes make for a solid combination every fifth day, and if Ricky Nolasco does in fact start using the Interrobang on a daily basis we may be in business.
 
Tomorrow I'll post thoughts on the hitters, but in the mean time:
 
Wonder how the AARP stat got started? Want to give your own AARP numbers or question my methods? ...leave a note in comments, or just yell at your computer screen really loudly...I can totally hear it.

Here's the truth. Both of us peanuts love Ron Gardenhire. We know that we're in the minority there...especially after the last four years...but c'mon, he looks like a little garden gnome. He's ADORABLE!
 
Seriously though, thank you for the support you provided and the lack of lawsuits you threw our way Gardy. You're a cool dude.
 
But now our attention turns to the real focus of the hour. Who will replace Gardy on the top of the Twins dugout step?
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v289/pammyb20/jeUmEPao.jpg Maybe without the glove...
Right now the fan base seems split into two camps:
1--Someone in house who can carry on the "Twins Way" and maintain the loyal, disciplined, do the little things right mentality that helped Kelly and Gardenhire lead the Twins to seven more postseasons than they ever had before. (More postseason berths helped that too.)
2--Someone from outside the organization who can provide a fresh perspective, a new way of doing things and maybe, just maybe, EVEN MORE POST SEASON WINS!!
 
But why not split the difference and choose someone who has been loyal and integrated in the Twins for the last fifty-or-so years, AND is not yet part of the organization? Someone who knows "The Twins Way" AND can approach problems in a way that no manager has ever done before?
 
That's why my pick to be the next Twins manager is...MY MOM!!
 
Yes, I think my mother should be the next Twins manager and before you scoff, allow me to deliver the following points in her favor.
http://www.foxsports.com/content/dam/fsdigital/fscom/other/Images/2013/12/27/122713-FOX-SPORTS-North-Girls-HF-PI-2.jpg I'm sorry, I'm sure you're nice people
But what what if there was a girl...RUNNING things
Hiring her would give young female fans something to aspire and relate to OTHER than being a Fox Sports North Girl. [Nothing wrong with the girls, but rather than having the broadcast focus on appearances and introductions, focusing on a woman's strategy, intelligence and involvement with the on-field action]
She's a life-long Twins fan, a former member of the knot-hole gang in Bloomington, homer-hanky waver from Montana, and loyal knitter/shouter from her current home in Minneapolis.
She has over three decades of experience tending to unruly boys who don't know what's best for them
She's an excellent cook (so the Pohlad's can save on wasteful post game spreads in lieu of post game potlucks!)
She has better nicknames for players than most managers do, and can lead rally-chants like "Mientkiewicz, Mientkiewicz, Make me a Sandwich!"...which will be particularly useful if Douggie M. is her Bench coach.
She is wise enough to tell players after critical errors: "Don't do that!" in the kind of stern, but loving tone that players will definitely respond to. (Honestly, I'm sure Oswaldo Arcia can cut down on his strike outs just by hearing her reprimand him like a mom)
She speaks French which is kind of like Spanish...
She knows enough social media to engage with fans, but not so much that she would get distracted (unlike Ozzie Guillen)
She's a state championship knitter, which would be killer at charity auctions and events ("Bid on this award winning sweater from the Twins manager")
She's an excellent Mezzo-Soprano, so our national anthems will forever be on pitch!
She's working to understand SABR-metric statistics, but still appreciates a good RBI.

I know that many will prefer to debate the merits of Manny Acta versus Terry Steinbach, and others will say that managers don't make much difference anyway...but I don't care. I'm fully on board with this.
 
MY MOM FOR TWINS MANAGER!!

Chs. 4-5: July and August
 
The fledgling, flickering hope alive in the hearts of the Twins and their fans at the end of June was doused with the frigid realization of inadequacy. The pivotal moment established by the previous chapters' foreshadowing was for the "All-Star Game" to be held in the middle of July.
 
 
http://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Kurt+Suzuki+85th+MLB+Star+Game+m2g5VjqmdOnl.jpg Yay! The Party's Over!!
In hosting the party, the Twins had their moment to seize relevance and prominence, to rise up to a stature and status which has so frequently seemed out of their reach. When they threw the doors open to their guests they were confronted with the truth that they cannot hope to compete with the shining stars of the baseball firmament.
 
 
 
 
Like Tom Buchanan in The Great Gatsby or the Narrator in Proust's In Search of Lost Time the Twins are party-goers without an ounce of composure or self-reliance. Hidden away in a corner of their stadium until the final moments, they emerge just in time to see the celebration end. Yet when everyone leaves, the team collapses into a disheartened funk. Pulling themselves out of the doldrums to win just 3 of the next 10 games, leaving their fans disappointed and the team itself broken.
 
 
 
But, in a cruel twist of fate, the team is not allowed to creep back into anonymity, awaiting another spring and fresh start. Instead they are subjected to an extended August road trip, through the repeated self-flagellation of sporadic hitting and consistently implosive pitching. Moments of triumph (including an outburst of 32 runs against a vaunted Tigers team) are tempered by the now blatantly inverted hierarchy of the team's past glory, as former fools and patsies the Kansas City Royals repeatedly batter the squad.
 
 
Character Development
 
Kendrys Morales/Sam Fuld/Kevin Correia/Josh Willingham--These chapters are often paired together because they feature the departures of four previously significant characters. Each of these characters was fraught with contradictions that are both enticing to some readers and maddening to others (witness the previously mentioned Morales and his dualism: i.e. symbol of contender status/presence on a losing team). Tellingly, when each character exits the team clubhouse these moments aren't regarded with celebration, despair, or even much surprise. Instead they appear to be the annual sacrifices to whatever deity drives Twins' Baseball operations: a constant memento mori for their teammates and a simple transaction to their fans.
 
 
http://cache1.asset-cache.net/gc/453420426-kennys-vargas-and-danny-santana-of-the-gettyimages.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=2&d=GkZZ8bf5zL1ZiijUmxa7Qbr3ZJ4V4kmpG%2Bmu7qkubMtcEetrC9464mFqVoA11h8k Bam-Bam & Dan-San
Kennys Vargas/Danny Santana--While all the fixation on veterans around the trade deadline, and in the departure gates of the Minnesota airports serves to bring a glowering gloom over everyone, two of the most prominent replacements offer hope and opportunity. Kennys Vargas and Danny Santana (substituting in for Kendrys Morales/Sam Fuld respectively) also feature prominently in this volume's awareness of cultural differences, shifting the clubhouse away from non-descript veteran white guys to young latino players, a mirroring of the nation's demographics as a whole.
Trevor May--While Vargas and Santana emerge as options within the line-up, May is an intriguing study in the cyclical nature of expectations and reactions. Prior to the expulsion of Correia, a great many fans were clamoring for May's ascendency to the major league roster. Upon his arrival, May sputters, gags, and behaves precisely as you would expect an uncertain young man to behave. In his (admittedly small) sample of performance, he appears to be every bit the mockable man that the aforementioned Correia was, providing the clearest link between this team and the second section of TS Eliot's "Portrait of a Lady"--from which the title came.
Kurt Suzuki--The other figure with the clearest gain from these two months is new catcher Kurt Suzuki. One of the two Twins to attend the aforementioned awkward all-star party, Suzuki parlayed his early success to fondness from fans and a long term contract. However, these moments of growth and personal victory are balanced by the knowledge that many other longer-term Twins signing (including the recently departed Willingham) have collapsed.
 
Key Quotes/Stats Explained
Cumulative WAR for Morales/Fuld/Correia/Willingham-- 1.1
Cumulative WAR for Vargas/Santana/May/Schafer-- 2.7
 
WAR (or Wins Above Replacement) is often the go to quote/stat for fans to trot out, yet the creation of the number is a rather complicated and differ depending on which equation (or translation of the equation you cite).
 
Generally speaking, things that positions players do to create runs (including drawing walks, getting various kinds of hits, and stealing bases) are multiplied by their relative weight or importance (home runs matter more than singles, etc.) and adjusted in relationship to their position on the field (with center fielders/short stops getting greater credit than first basemen and DHs). Those positive numbers are compared to the average player in the league to create a viable means of judging one player against another. [Meanwhile pitchers are judged almost entirely on preventing runs, largely through runs allowed during their innings pitched]. While the best players might have a +8 WAR, the average starter would be around 2, while the average bench player would be between 0 and 1.9
 
Within these chapters the Twins removed four players from consistent play and gave their time to four others. The four who left totaled 1.1 (though Kendrys Morales' -0.7 pulled that down significantly), while the four who stepped up totaled 2.7 (again undermined by Trevor May's -0.9). The broad take away is that, even though it does not translate into immediate results in the "win column", this shift is for the best for the Twins and their team. However, the net gain amongst hitters (+2.5) fails to compensate for the net loss from Correia to May (-0.7).
 
Literary Term to Impress your Teacher/Attractive English Major Friend: http://cmclaughlin658.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/url1.jpeg Mmm...that's a good pastiche
Our recent literary and cultural history has leaned heavily on satire and parody. The Daily Show uses satire to deliver a pointed critique on common styles of tv news programs. The "Scary Movie" franchise uses parody to expand on cliches and tropes in horror movies to the point of making them explode in absurdity. But the Twins' use neither of these, preferring instead to use pastiche, which again uses styles and habits of others, but does so for the purpose of honoring and complimenting the initial creator, rather than mocking them. Like TS Eliot--whose "Portrait of a Lady" poem builds off of Henry James, Christopher Marlowe and Jules Lafourge--these chapters of the Twins' 2014 season pay homage to the wealth of talented athletes who played on the field during the all-star game, and the restarted franchises who regained their talent through creative destruction.

The trade deadline is looming over the heads of Twins fans right now. Like a honed knife's edge, like a hunter's net, like a disapproving parent at the doorway of a kegger thrown by their independent child: it's looming.
 
At least that's my feeling. And I admit it's a weird one. After all the Twins are sellers (again) in a seller's market (witness the hauls for relatively unimpressive talents thus far). We should be confident. We should be beaming with pride. We should be the belle of the ball, fending off suitors for our valuable assets. Sure they aren't that valuable, but who cares? It's the trade deadline, value is inflated and we've got what other teams want.
 
So why does the deadline worry me so much?
 
Because I feel like we need to get something great out of it, far more than any contending team does.
 
Because I feel like we need a win. And if they aren't coming from the field, then they need to come from the smoke-filled rooms where deals are made. (Though I suppose, since smoking bans went into effect the rooms are probably just filled with smug self-importance.)
 
 
It's not that surprising or worrying that the Twins are sellers. It's not surprising that the season is in tatters and we're all debating what they can steal from some desperate rival's hands. What is surprising is that I'm nervous about it, and I'm all too resigned to seeing the deadline pass with another unimpressive whimper.
 
I'm still working on getting pictures to transfer clearly--so If you like pictures with your words you can check out the same post on our personal website.
 
After three years of supporting management's decisions, I'm dumbstruck. I've supported patience and measured responses. I've supported building from within. I've supported the cautious investments in low-end free agents. But now I've got nothing, and I'm desperate.
 
I can't figure out why woefully struggling players trot out to the field long past their sell-by date. I've got no idea why our young players are accepted as consistently inconsistent. And I'm at an utter loss to understand why prospects are left to languish in the minor leagues when there's no better rival for the position in the bigs.
 
In short. I'm a Twins fan. And I am desperate.
 
We need a win here. We didn't just lose 7 games on the home stand. We lost a year of development for Sano. We lost half-a-year for Buxton. We lost a couple months of Meyer and May learning the big league routine. We lost a chunk of cash on Pelfry and Nolasco. We lost the feel good memories of Bartlett, Kubel and Matty G. We lost the hope of a consistent Arcia, a burgeoning Pinto, a resilient Hicks. We are in a constant state of losing Joe Mauer: day by day, sore inch by sore inch, percentage point by percentage point, insult by insult...until, I'm convinced, some day he wakes up and either can't play or can't wait to play anywhere but here.
 
We might be the unluckiest team in baseball, but right now we are definitely losers. And we're starting to feel like we're always going to be losers (hence the widely reported swing towards apathy this last week). This feels like a chance, a golden chance to get a win. But that's the problem with feeling like losers: even when you have a golden chance to win...you start expecting that you WILL LOSE.
 
That's why the trade deadline's looming. This is our chance to turn Josh Willingham and Kevin Correia and Kurt Suzuki into Gold* (See note below). But there's that nagging fear that they'll turn into a flaming bag of poo instead. After all, when you're as desperate as I feel right now, you don't make the best choices.
 
We need a win right now. I want us to win right now. And I have very little confidence that we will.
 
But hey...If I wanted to feel confidence on a regular basis I wouldn't be a Twins fan. If I was on the point of collapsing into apathy or anger I wouldn't keep using the "we" pronoun when talking about a team that has never employed me or asked my opinion about anything.
 
*Honestly, I know they aren't worth gold and no GM would give us gold, but if we could get a couple pieces of bronze, and an opportunity to see a piece of silver from the vault, I'd call that a win.