Rime of the Ancient Mariner-Killer

There is something which has been a source of some embarrassment to me for a while now, and I'd like to get it off my chest:

I own a Lew Ford jersey.




I know, I know. I won't even try to defend the awful year he has had, or the awful year he had last year. Wearing the cursed thing in public it felt not like a piece of cloth, but rather a dreadful albatross of shame hung about my neck for the ages to recognize and heap scorn upon my woeful deed. Despite the flattering navy home alternate design, it stinks of the acrid odor of failed dreams and faulty ligaments. That and two and a half summers' worth of spilled beer and pickle relish. Wearing it to games was worse. Lew Ford? Though a favorite to all those fans who think the Wave is the coolest thing about a ballgame and who can easily come up with a creative cheer for anyone whose name rimes with "oooooooooooh", those who followed the game with stats and charts and something about a saber - you may have noticed their inner children hanging around the lost-and-found station outside the gates of the ballpark - saw beyond the goofy smile and the particular brand of hustle that only comes with someone desperately lacking in natural ability or talent. The looked at me the same way as they would at someone with the words MEARES, STAHOVIAK, or RIVAS across their back. Little do they know I was once like them.

To what do I owe this memorabilia of the damned? Way back in 2003, we actually had a pretty decent backup outfielder in No. 20, and in 2004, when Stewart Shannon went down with that pesky plantar fasciitis, he handled the starting left field job for most of the year to the tune of .299/15/72, even garnering two votes for AL MVP (Hartman and Souhan, I'm looking at you) but somehow getting robbed of that award by Vlad Guerrero. Which brings us to 2005. The Soul Patrol remained intact again for a while, limiting Sweet Lew to sporadic DH and outfield duty, where he was still doing a respectable job, until Torii lost a fight with the wall at Fenway and went out for the season with a broken ankle, thrusting our protagonist into the starting center field job. At a weekend game in August against Seattle, I was arguing with a friend of mine about Ford's merits. He had homered in the previous night's game, and I forget exactly how the argument went, but here's how it ended:

"If Lew Ford hits a home run tonight, I'll buy his jersey and wear it to the game tomorrow."


After the Twins gave up six runs in the bottom of the tenth, Lew comes up and puts one in the left field seats before the Mariners closed out the loss. A man of my word, I had to go out and cash the check my big mouth had written. It was not a good sign that it took me trips to three stores before I actually found a Lew Ford jersey, but I was there the next day and he went out and fucking hit another one. That weekend was probably the peak of his career, save for maybe his 2006 walkoff against - naturally - Seattle. Either way, it's been downhill from there, and me and my No. 20 jersey have been there to witness every looking strikeout, basepath rundown, and fly ball route that looks more like evading enemy mortar fire. But still, as the clamors rise daily on blog comments and message boards for Lew's trade, release, or head on a platter, I can't help but hope that he'll stick around. Not just for the sake of my jersey not becoming even more worthless, but I can't help now but think, after all we've been through these last two years, that we share a kind of bond, an alliance against those who think that Terry Ryan will really cobble together some sort of trade that doesn't involve an over-the-hill DH or starting pitcher. Yes, he's not getting any younger nor his numbers any gaudier, but the last couple of weeks seem to have seen our boy put together some impressive clutch hitting, and I can't help but wonder if there can be a resurgence, something to let me wear the blue No. 20 again with pride. Hey, at least he's doing better than Kubel.

Diversions for an Off Day: Poor Wand'ring One

For the past two years, I have had a bit of a tradition with one of my former college roommates, who lives in Pittsburgh now, to go out there for a weekend to enjoy, among other things, a Pirates game. While last year I visited while the Twins were in town and of course had to cheer for them, the opposite was true this year, as the Buccos took on the Chicago White Sox. While my hatred of all things South Side blinds me to little else, it nonetheless dawned on me this weekend that if I had to pick a National League team to cheer for, the Pirates are pretty close to as perfect a pick as there is. Sure, they haven't had a winning season since Saved By The Bell was on and cell phones looked more like this, but the following factors make the Pirates a team worth the trip every year:

PNC Park



After spending my entire life watching ballgames in a cold concrete cave where the right field wall is named after a trash bag, setting foot in one of baseball's true gems really took my breath away. Can anybody else picture the Minneapolis skyline looming above those cheap bleacher seats?

Bobbleheads for All


Despite not being nuts over the whole bobblehead craze of the last five or so years (which the Twins did quite a bit to propagate in the "Get To Know 'Em" days), I was impressed that, upon walking through the gates at PNC a half hour or less before the first pitch, there was still a great big stack of Logo Guy bobbleheads left. I soon found out that they give out promotions for the whole stadium, so no one in Pittsburgh has to look their spouse in the eye and tell them that they're camping out overnight to receive a nodding ceramic doll shaped like Bill Mazeroski.

I Mean, Just Look At 'Em



Come on, can you really not cheer for this scrappy bunch of young talent? Honestly, at first glance, they remind me of the 1999-2001 Twins just before they started to win. As far as perennially losing NL teams, they've got Chicago beat for likeability and clubhouse chemistry, Washington for upside, San Fransisco for youth, Colorado for name recognition, Milwaukee for being a place you'd actually want to visit, Cincinnati for lack of Wayne Krivsky, and Florida for anybody giving a damn.

Diversions for an Off Day - If Classic Baseball Movies Had Taken Place Today

The Pride of the Yankees (1942)

Lou Gehrig rises to the status of legend by becoming baseball's "Ironman", raising speculation about possible steroid use. In a World Series game, after promising two home runs to a dying boy in the hospital, he delivers both as Joe Buck and Tim McCarver literally explode in the press box. However, facing nervous degeneration as a result of ALS, Gehrig is forced to retire. In the movie's climactic scene, he addresses the Yankee Stadium crowd. Speaking from the owner's luxury box, he announces that the disease has miraculously receded, and he will be returning to play for the Yankees a third of the way through the season for a pro-rated $28 million.


The Bad News Bears (1976)

Washed-up alcoholic Morris Buttermaker turns a misfit Little League team into a champion, raising speculation about possible steroid use. Though it appears the Bears' fortunes will turn around with the arrival of ace pitcher Amanda Whurlitzer and bad-boy Kelly Leak, Whurlitzer is pulled from the team by her father when pictures of the attractive teenager flood the Internet and mainstream publications and are commented on obscenely by lecherous, Net-surfing sports fans/perverts. Leak has his own problems: after being forced from the team upon discovery that he is actually 22, he sends threatening text-messages to his wife and is arrested for marijuana possession during a traffic stop.


Major League (1989)

A team of washed-up ballplayers, crazy hacks and convicts bring Cleveland its first division title in 34 years, raising speculation about possible steroid use. When the team's owner is eaten by starting pitcher C.C. Sabathia, his ex-stripper wife hopes to sabotage the team's season, forcing it to leave Montreal Cleveland for a warmer climate and larger market like, say, Washington DC. After a slow start in which team chemistry is disrupted by pretty-boy third baseman Roger Dorn, who is caught by the media cavorting with an unknown blonde who isn't his wife (next day's headline: STRAY-ROGER); and the team's sole black player, Willie Mays Hayes, accusing Major League Baseball of a racist conspiracy, the club eventually unites against its owner and goes on to win the division crown. Of course, no one gives a shit since it's Cleveland, and ESPN gives more airtime to its exclusive WNBA draft coverage.


Field of Dreams (1989)

A voice in a cornfield inspires Iowa farmer Ray Kinsella to build a baseball field on his property, raising speculation about possible steroid use. Miraculously, members of the 1919 White Sox (more like Black Sox!) emerge from the corn to play their favorite game. A benches-clearing brawl ensues when A.J. Pierszynski attempts to spike Shoeless Joe Jackson.


Rookie of the Year (1993)

12 year-old boy Henry Rowengartner, through a freak accident, is able to throw 100mph pitches, raising speculation about possible steroid use. He is spotted by the Cubs' general manager, who instantly gives him $200 million to pitch for his hometown team. Ignoring the mangled bodies of Mark Prior and Kerry Wood decomposing in the corner of the dugout, Rowengartner goes on to pitch 500 innings in his first year. The movie's climactic moment comes when he strikes out his Mets nemesis Alejandro Heddo, who is fooled by the ball approaching while still attached to Rowengartner's entire forearm. The win secures an unprecedented 70-92 record for the Cubs, and the North Side celebrates by bitching about some goat.

The Curly Kind

I was at tonight's game, and I have very little to say about it besides the following:

• I love Louis Castillo's entrance music. Love love love it. Makes him seem almost as badass as Jason Tyner.
• Despite seeing yet another 100 CC's of Dong from Dr. Morneau, the highlight of this series so far was watching Tony Batista (AKA T-Fat!) being thrown out at second trying to extend a single - off the Baggie.
• Not actually observed at the time, nor even from tonight, but a stellar dick joke from last night by your favorite broadcaster and mine, Mr. Bert Blyleven:

I've never been hit by a train, but I've played someone who did onstage

AP Photo: Carlos Silva winds and delivers during

tonight's 8-5 loss to the Washington Nationals

I've ridden the Minneapolis Light Rail about four times in my life, and today happened to be the day that some poor old lady got herself waxed at the Franklin Street station, meaning a long detour by bus and a lot of people with edgy nerves and tempers. Still, the beautiful weather and the fact that it was a free Friday afternoon kept my spirits high as I commuted home from my first day at Real World work.


As promised, an update on the residence and employment situation: As mentioned above, I started my first day of work today, taking calls for a Minneapolis consulting agency. Apparently, it works like this: Corporations hire this company to handle customer-service matters during things like mergers and class-action lawsuits, which in turn hires out lowly temps like myself to do the dirty work of dealing with elderly folks wondering why they got a letter about an insurance policy they don't remember because it was drawn up in 1937 or small-business owners furious that they received a whopping cent from a class-action settlement that cost them nothing.

As far as location: After a month of traveling abroad in August and September, I plan on moving to the great city of Memphis, home to one of my favorite book/movies (starring an man so transcendent of film, he has since come to be known as more than an actor but an icon and legend of our time). Why uproot myself from the land I've called home all my life? Good question, but I can tell you what it's not. All I can say is that there will be a couple of good college friends, hopefully more than a couple Stubby Clapp sightings, and if nothing else a year or two in an environment more foreign to me than Germany has become. And now, just for the hell of it, something everyone needs to see lest they begin to wonder why they ever went to college:

Obsession.

I realize that the posts have been pretty Twins-centric in my short blogging stint, but there's just so darn little else going on out there. I left my car this afternoon for a physical therapy appointment with the hapless Twinkies down 4-0 and all but ready to be swept by the team with the 2nd-most underrated mid-90s baseball movie and by the time I got to another radio Michael Cuddyer, Nick Punto, and Jason Bartlett, of all people, had all launched home runs and the Twins were leading 7-5. My first call goes out to the good folks at The Hardball Times to figure out, in their statistical brilliance, what the probability was that those three would all homer in the same game. My guess is that C-3P0 has recited more optimistic numbers about surviving the flight through an asteroid field.

Never tell me the odds, Lew!

So now we're at a point similar, but not quite so bad, as we were at this point last year. Coming off a disappointing West Coast road trip with a slumping slugger, but with spirits salvaged from what could be a momentum-turning win. Last year, the kids came home down 11 1/2 games in the AL Central and laid an old-fashioned three-game whoopin' on the visiting Red Sox, going on to win their next 20 of 21 games. This year, down a mere 6 1/2 games to the only team with Wahoo! Messenger, we host another East Coast team in red, with another Dominican ex-Twin who has put up some better numbers since being kicked to the curb by Terry Ryan & Company...

"Big Crazi"

Bring on the Nats.

The case for Torii

The big debate these days in Twins Territory (besides whether or not Joe Mauer should keep his DL beard) is over the matter of Torii Hunter's impending free agency. Some look at Hunter's contract-year numbers (as of tonight's game .305AVG, 11HR, 45RBI, 17 doubles), his perennial Gold Glove-caliber defense, and longtime loyalty to the franchise and say he ought to be patrolling the center field grass of 3M/Target/NWA Field in 2010. Others say that the offensive numbers are more of a fluke than an enlightened plate approach, his defense has lost at least a step, and the centerfielder of the future awaits in Denard Span of AAA-Rochester.

As if to make a point, as I write that last sentence Hunter belts the first pitch he sees from Jared Weaver over the centerfield wall.

Though I am tempted now to call this a sign from God and end the argument right now, there was another reason I was just about to get to that we ought to hang onto this guy. As much as I will attempt not to make this sound like last year's Jeter-for-MVP argument, it's hard to quantify the effect that Hunter has on the Twins' clubhouse. Consider:

Gardenhire: "We had their young guy on the ropes a few times and ..."

Hunter (from another part of the clubhouse): "Aargh!"

Gardenhire: "... if we just worked a little bit better, I think we could have put a few runs on the board. We also chased pretty bad and ..."

Hunter: "Aargh!"

Gardenhire (pausing): "... not a good game for us ..."

Hunter: "Aargh! You're kidding me!!"

Gardenhire (after another pause): "Very nice Torii. ... So a disappointing day for us."

Hunter: "Aaaargh!!"

Gardenhire: "... so we ..."

Hunter: "AAAAARGH!!"

Gardenhire (giving up): "That pretty much describes it right there. That's how we feel."

To recap: Star player, after a frustrating loss where the team leaves 11 men on base including 7 in scoring position, listens in on Gardy's postgame interview and interjects some well-timed screams of anguish to lighten the mood as well as keep the manager from making excuses for his team when they knew what had gone wrong. This was a critical point in the roadtrip. After getting some good confidence-builder series in against the Brewers, Rangers, Blue Jays and White Sox, a couple of lackluster games at Oakland could lead to another disappointing roadtrip, the kind where watching the team flail at junker lefties and run the basepaths like a short-bus Chinese fire drill makes you consider (gasp) turning off the TV and picking up a book or (scream, faint) leaving it on and switching over to soccer. That's when you know you've hit the lowest of the low; they fight like a seventh grader who just got his asthma medicine stolen. Anyway, the point is that a lot of other stars would have sulked after a loss like that, beating themselves up or even worse, throwing their teammates under the bus rather than absorbing any blame. Torii, like The Dude's famous living room rug, really ties the [clubhouse] together. This team can only laugh their way out of its slump, and what better way to do that now than put in Ramon Ortiz in relief of a man named Boof.

The secret is to bang the rocks together, guys

So last night in my drunken sleep-deprived stupor I forgot to mention which team the baseball-themed section of this here Webslog will be aligned with. Though I consider myself a fan of the entire sport (see, my liberal arts education really does apply to the real world!), a quick stroll down the links to your right shows that we'll be talking about the Twins a lot around here, starting...now.

Ah, for those heady days of 2005. I finished my sophomore year of college, went to Norway for a month, and spent the rest of the summer watching the best pitching staff in the league, anchored by Johan Santana in his bid for a second straight Cy Young award great season, with supporting roles in seasoned veteran Brad Radke and sinkerball wizard Carlos Silva. Silva was particularly impressive in throwing sub-80-pitch complete games, coaxing groundout after groundout even from the streaking White Sox batters. Why, I don't remember but a handful of games where we gave up more than 2 or 3 runs...

If everything in baseball was pitching and defense, we would have won the title that year. And in 2003, 2004, and 2006. But there's a little thing in baseball called hitting, and though our pitching staff seldom let more than 3 runs score, a painful amount of games ended with 3-2, 2-1, or the especially maddening 1-0 finals. Sweet-swinging Joe was coming off a serious knee injury and not up to his batting champion form. Yukon Justin was, after being beaned in the head in the first series of the year, still just a slugging prospect who could hit the snot out of the ball on seldom occasion, but had yet to find a consistent stroke. Torii Hunter, still hacking like Sweeney Todd. And so forth. The reason for this trip in the way-back machine is the feeling I got from last night's slugfest with the A's, which had me acting something like this (without the unfortunate but hilarious twist of an unwanted pregnancy). Silva pitches a 1-run, complete game gem where the one run comes on a double-play groundout for chrissake, and gets one-upped by junker lefty righty Joe Blanton. Two hits for Castillo. One for Morneau. 0-for-everyone else. It was so bad, I turned off the radio in favor of Gamecast and watched Ocean's 12 on CBS (CBS!) instead. Real clever, making Julia Roberts look like Julia Roberts. Congratulations on finding a way to give yourself a blowjob without removing a rib.

In conclusion, how about we reward poor Carlos for his improved season by maybe plating a run or two? I know that Joe will be back soon to calm our fears and ease our pain, but when only three guys on the team can hit it over the fence, the secret is to get more than one hit an inning, guys.

If I could just say a few words...I'd be a better blogger.

Dear Reader,

Good evening, and welcome to our cozy new corner of the Internets, named in homage to the lovable yet tragically unfunny Muppets segments from the first couple of seasons of Saturday Night Live.






Here in the Land of Gorch, we'll be posting about the things nearest and dearest to our hearts, including but not limited to:

• Opera
• Baseball
• ...

Well, that's about all we can think of at the moment, but there must be something out there we're missing. Anyway, do you remember back in middle and high school, when on the first day you would have to fill out six different note cards with your name, phone number, and some inane tidbit about yourself ("Mom says I was raised in the forest by a pack of wild sandpipers!"), just so the teachers could feel like you had a warm, personal relationship without actually having to talk to you or acknowledge your existence? Well, consider this our 3"x5" rectangle of unextraordinary, impersonal introduction. As the summer progresses, we'll be giving periodic updates as to our location and employment situation, updates on the regularly scheduled baseball season (already in progress), and insight and observation on the world around us (like that Jerry Seinfeld! The kids will love it!). And now we'll leave you with what we all came here to see, hardcore nudity!