Adios Hermanos

Hi guys-

Sorry about the lack of posts as of late, but as I wrote in my Happy Fun-Time Live Blog, I'm headed out of the country for a month to sing and spread the good news of Garza & Co. to foreign lands. Or just spend a lot of time answering the question, "what's a Minnesota? Is that by New York or Disneyland?"

So now I'll sign off, and hope to come back mid-September to a team still in at least the wild-card race. Feel free to leave some love in the comments. And before I leave, one last clip of goodness to keep you entertained until my return:

A Quick Hypothetical...

What would you look like if you a major league pitcher who, in six starts, held down a 1.70 ERA, but whose offense only gave him enough support for 1 win?

My guess is something like this:

You ever dance with the devil by the pale moonlight?

Let's score some runs, shall we boys? Silva's been doing a lot of coin-flipping in the dugout lately.

Here Comes A Live Blog!

So in a week and a half, the worldly editor of this humble blog will be leaving for a month overseas, and likely will be unable to update much during that time. The time between now and then will also be taken up by a number of other time commitments, so it may be hard to keep up the recent pace of updates then as well. Therefore, today I thought I would do something special for the "official" going-away party: a live blog of today's Twins-Cleveland matchup, since, after all, it's not like anyone else does live blogs around here. The game's not for another couple hours, so sit back, crack open the Sunday paper, listen to this week's excellent installment of A Prairie Home Companion, and tune in here for the first pitch at 1:05pm Central time.



PREGAME

Here I am again, all wistful and teary-eyed because this week's PHC contained a lengthy segment from the broadcast of several years ago from my recent alma mater. The episode was taped before I even went there, but I was there in the audience, and it was the first time I really realized that there wasn't any doubt I'd go there. But, as they say, there's no crying in baseball, so let's focus on today's game with big bad Fausto Carmona. As much as this guy has owned us this year, it's hard to argue that he has the baddest-ass name in baseball. Now that Scott Baker seems to be wearing his man pants, this ought to be a good matchup. Anyone wandering through, please feel free to let me know how it's going in the comments. Here we go...


TOP Of 1ST

Dick points out early on that we have "a Buscher, a Baker, but no candlestick maker" on the field. Baker hears this and, not knowing where else to take out his anger, plunks Dreamboat Sizemore in the right thigh.

Mauer guns down Dreamboat, Baker promptly issues another free pass to Lofton, and Casey smacks it to Buscher for the 3-4-5 DP. Baker owes his entire infield a big hug for allowing him to face the minimum despite a walk and a HBP.


BOTTOM OF 1ST

Two ground ball outs and frankly, I think we got hosed on that last one. Bartlett was half a step past the bag when Garko caught the throw.

Mauer tells Fausto to stuff his sinkerball, but Cuddyer, who apparently didn't get the memo about trying to work this guy's pitch count, pops up to short on the first pitch.


TOP OF 2ND

Travis Hafner looks like he should be a garbage man or construction worker or something. I wouldn't be surprised to see him show up for one of these games in a Day-Glo green and orange vest. Two on, none out, might be another long day for the bullpen.

I swear this lineup has been constructed specifically to frustrate Twins pitching. All they need is to bring in Coco Crisp and Nick Swisher to complete the all-time roster of funny-named light hitters who absolutely demolish us.

Tyner does his best impression of that dude who almost broke both his ankles making a foul catch on a bullpen mound the other night. That thing needs its own warning track.

And Baker pitches pretty admirably out of the inning. Well done, and the Sox are even beating the Tigers again. Smell this one.


BOTTOM 2ND

An inexplicably funny shot of Jerry White and Scott Ullger standing five feet outside of their respective coaches' boxes. Shouldn't they have gotten an electric shock or something?

Morneau down swinging. What the hell has happened to this guy the last few weeks? He looks at too many pitches, takes some really awful swings, and basically exudes zero confidence or intimidation. Could he maybe use the dreaded "day off to clear his head"?

Hunter strikeout, Kubel single, Buscher popout. Twins haven't had a man beyond first base, or on base earlier than two outs. Guh.


TOP 3RD

A moment of silence for my departed bro Lew Ford.




OK, yeah, he sucked. Hopefully he'll be back in September with a fire under his ass.

Is there a reason that historic home runs always seem to be uncharacteristic and disappointing? I remember Big Mac's being a line drive that barely eked over the wall, A-Rod's 500th yesterday was a glorified, wind-aided popup, and I don't remember ever seeing Bonds go opposite field before yesterday. I think it shows that you're incapable of hitting normally when you're under that kind of pressure, and when it does happen it's a bit of an accident.

Oh, and three popups to get Baker out of a 1-2-3 inning.

BOTTOM 3RD

Does anyone else remember when the Twins didn't have a single damn lefthanded hitter, and all everybody wanted was one, just one? Well, be careful what you wish for; now we have Mauer, Morneau (all right), Kubel, Buscher (eh), Casilla and Tyner (ugh), just in today's lineup.

Man on first second with two outs, and Mr. Dugout Doll coaxes a walk out of an 0-2 count. Cuddyer once again decides to go after the first pitch and bounces to third. Calm down dude, you'll survive taking a pitch or two.


TOP 4TH

I think I'd need a new set of dishes if I were a Cleveland fan this weekend, between yesterday's 800 men left on base and today's 50 popups in foul territory with a double play thrown in for good measure. Seriously, the Indians have hit six popups in a row. Is this like a bizarro sinkerball that Baker is throwing?


BOTTOM 4TH

Whew, leave it to me to choose a pitchers' duel for my first live blog. Get some men on base, boys, for my sake.

Carmona appears to be intimidating Twins batters with the dreaded "Peek-a-boo" setup. How are you supposed to hit off of a pitcher who ceases to exist until he's already into his windup?

Thank you, My 29, for that shot of Fausto sticking his hands down his pants.

Who writes those Simpsons episode synopses that Dick reads on every Sunday broadcast? It always sounds like someone watched about 30 seconds of the first scene and tried to guess the rest of the plot based on that clip.

Another two-out single for Kubel. That and 50 cents will get you a cup of coffee and a benching from Gardy the next time a lefty appears in the bullpen.

Casilla rears back and squeaks, "I'm not Castillo!", and dumps the ball over Kenny Lofton's head for a double. Too bad they put extra Flubber in the FieldTurf for this game and it bounced into the seats, or else it would've scored two.

Tyner, meanwhile, decides that he in fact is Castillo, and grounds out to second.


TOP 5TH

On the other hand, scratch what I said about the Flubber, because it probably saved an inside-the-parker after another ill-advised dive by Torii.

Nice play by Baker fielding the grounder and holding Garko, and Bert can hardly contain his glee. Yes, we all know they're the best athletes on the field, even Dennys Reyes.

Peralta chases the high cheddar. and Scotty's one out away from pitching around that pesky double.

Nicely done, Scott. I was there for last year's infamous Nutty game, and I never thought he'd recover. Way to show that jock strap who's boss!


BOTTOM 5TH

Poor Cuddyer, can't seem to ever get it right. After getting outs by swinging at the first pitch in his first two at-bats, he chooses to watch two juicy fastballs go by and hack at an inside slider. Keep chasing that rainbow, Dimples.


6TH INNING

Lofton listening to his own personal Harvey Keitel, but maybe it just turned out to be Colonel Klink. Either way, he's gunned down at 2nd, and Mauer gets another hug in the dugout, along with possibly the 3nd base umpire.

A Jesse Crain sighting! I've actually never been happier to see the guy. With Roids 'n Homers Rincon still at large, we could probably use Jesse's well-sculpted facial hair in the bullpen.

Kubel draws a 2-out walk just to shake things up a bit, and Buscher has a chance to make something happen. Hopefully wearing Dave Winfield's old number will provide some inspiration.

Almost, but 400 feet to dead center later, it's an out in front of the warning track. Congratulations, Brian, on the hardest-hit ball of the afternoon.


TOP 7TH

And it's official: Chicago over Detroit. Barring unforseen circumstances or a Rincon appearance, OFT might just be headed to 4 1/2 back in this race.

Cue the Benny Hill music as three fielders chase Hafner's popup behind third, and it's Bartlett who tumbles to the turf with it.

As we head into the 7th inning stretch, has anybody else noticed that last year at this time, Puckett was getting a tribute in every home game for the duration of a whole chorus of "What a Wonderful World", while this year Herb Carneal gets about three seconds before Idiot Cam comes on the Jumbotron? I mean, certainly not to take anything away from my childhood hero, but Herb was calling games here for 50 years, at least give him a little better montage here.


BOTTOM 7TH

Tyner draws a free pass on four pitches, and Rafael Perez gets loose in the Cleveland bullpen. He's a lefty, so let's look for what wacky lineup changes Gardy will enact. Seriously, it's like a Chinese fire drill whenever a southpaw comes in.

What the hell, the Twins executing a hit-and-run? Next thing you know they'll be laying down bunts in fair territory.

Let's see what Cuddyer can do after the IBB to Mauer...

Well, you can't be too mad at him after putting together a pretty decent at-bat, fouling off a bunch of close pitches. He grounds out on a defensive swing that likely should've wound up as another foul, but the bottom line is no one crossed the plate. Baker coming back in, but Fausto won't be back; he's off to watch game tape with Mephistopheles.


TOP 8TH

Ugh, good innings never begin with bloop singles. Thankfully the Indians can't put down a bunt either.

Scott Baker with your #1 Web Gem of the day. That's actually gotta be a play of the year candidate for this team.

Wow. It took a hell of a long time, but Minnesota loves Scott Baker again. Couldn't have happened to a better guy.


BOTTOM 8TH

Defensive replacement Nick Punto does his best to keep the lead close after Kubel draws another walk, and we're headed to the showdown you all wanted to see anyway. Nathan coming in to close out the ninth and save the win for Baker.


TOP 9TH

Good afternoon, Grady Sizemore.

Good evening, Kenny Lofton.

What the hell, Casey Blake, you're screwing up my clever post...

Oh, goodnight, Victor Martinez.


POSTGAME

As recently as July 23, OFT was 9 1/2 games back in the AL Central, but thanks to an earlier-than-expected collapse by Detroit and Cleveland, that deficit is down to 4 1/2. Though the offense still has plenty of its own issues to work through, they've managed to get some big hits when they need to, and of course both ends of the pitching staff have been nothing short of lights-out. Remember what I said last week about Scott Baker being close to in the running for Team MVP of the season? Well, he certainly didn't hurt that campaign today. Right now there's not a guy I would rather have facing the Yankees in the playoffs.

Well, it's been lovely putting together this little game diary, and I must give a hearty tip of my TC hat to the fine folks at Pulling a Blyleven for doing these things for damn near every game for almost a year. Come back quick, boys...but don't hurt yourselves.

Minnesota Twins: America's Team?

As the Twins return to the Metrodome tonight for another critical series that could set the tone for the last two months of the season, I can't help but wonder whether or not we will start seeing increased national media coverage of OFT in the wake of the disaster that took place less than a mile from their home stadium, and how they'll fare if said national media anoints them with the "America's Team" status experienced by the 2001 New York Yankees, the 2005 New Orleans Saints, and already the 2007 VT Hokies. Obviously Wednesday's bridge collapse doesn't have anywhere near the far-reaching magnitude of September 11 or Hurricane Katrina, nor the dramatic societal implications as the VT massacre; it was, after all, a random architectural failure that neither discriminated between its victims nor is likely to become any great symbol or rallying cry for the masses. But it nevertheless may have the same galvanizing effect on the city in that the crisis brought out the best in those it involved, with images of commuters in suits and fans in Mauer jerseys working alongside uniformed rescue workers to search in muddy water and through great chunks of concrete for trapped cars with any signs of life likely to resonate in Minnesota's (if not the nation's) collective conscience for generations.

The remaining question is, then, do we want the attention? Should Twins games be featured on ESPN three times a week and lead each BBTN broadcast? Should we hear Joe Buck every Saturday from now through September (or October) telling us how patriotic these Minnesotans are for going out and doing the job they get paid (very handsomely) to do every day? Should we have to endear the dreaded celebrity influx, capped off with PR-rehabbing"Prairie Home Companion" movie alum Lindsay Lohan wearing the TC hat in her next drunken nightclub sighting? Most of all, do we really want our Twins consistently on the same national stage where they can seemingly do nothing but embarrass themselves? The though of this last one alone is enough to dread the notion of the whole country turning into Twins Territory, and to make me think that just maybe this time we would be better of shunning the bright camera lights of Bristol. If this tragedy is the thing that finally gives the team a sense of purpose and push them through the playoff race, then great. If it becomes just another burden and the final impetus to set their sights on next season instead of salvaging this one, I wouldn't blame them.. If either of these scenarios came about by way of being "America's Team", we would never know if it really should have been that way, or if the spotlight lent an invisible hand to make or break the season. I would be much more comfortable, and would feel that much more lucky, to be instead rooting for simply Minnesota's team.

Great Merciful Crap

Listening to the game tonight, I couldn't imagine how Gordon and Gladden found it within themselves to call a baseball game. I tuned in after the fourth inning, but the only mention I ever heard of what was going on a mile from the Metrodome was a brief reminder that tomorrow's game and groundbreaking ceremony have been postponed. Everything else was laughing and reminiscing about last year's playoff run and about 1987; even the game going on hardly seemed to matter.

I realized then that it was probably the only way they could make it through the broadcast. In The Barber of Seville, Figaro says something along the lines of, "I make a point at laughing at life, otherwise I'm afraid it will make me weep." In that spirit, since I am incapable of giving a sincere-sounding or appropiate elegy to the victims of a massive, indiscriminate failure of concrete and steel, I instead give you: Dan "The Dazzle Man" Gladden.

Trade Deadline Passes

Look familiar to you? Perhaps this will jog your memory. Notice the date on there? That's right, it's 2005. AKA the last year that the Twins didn't make the playoffs.

I was all set for (and indeed headlong into writing) a vitriolic rant about how dumb a move this was by TR, what a hopeless message it sends to Twins players and fans about this season and beyond, and how he must be either crazy or out-and-out lying through his teeth to do a thing like trade a consistent veteran bat in a still-manageable playoff hunt and subsequently try and assure everyone that he's not giving up on them. But it's already been done. If you want piss and vinegar and name calling, go read the comments in Joe's blog. The only bit of that you'll find here is that Terry Ryan shall henceforth be known as Teri Ryan, until he grows a pair of balls. Trading Castillo was a sensible, businesslike move that probably won't in itself cost us any wins and will in essence stick a newer, younger, cheaper version of Castillo in his spot a few months earlier than planned. But as a wise man said, Teri, don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining. You deserve to do business as you see fit, but we, the fans who have invested in this team's near and distant future, deserve at least a little credit not to be taken for suckers.

Instead, I'd like to take a look for the future's sake at the player OFT acquired in last year's deadline trade, Zach Ward. You may remember this trade better as the one in which the Twins finally scuttled the derelict S.S. Kyle Lohse, but Ward, considered at the time a very solid young pitching prospect but remaining currently in A-ball, nevertheless has in interesting story to tell from his stats (courtesy of Baseball America):

W	L	ERA	G	GS	CG	SV	IP	H	R	HR	ER		SO	WP	AVG	WHIP	STR%
2	14	3.03	23	15	0	1	101.0	94	43	3	34		84	7	.242	1.17	.250

The W-L numbers are not a typo; he really is 2-12. Neither is the ERA; it really is 3.03. And of 43 total runs, 9 are unearned. This guy's team must have some sort of wicked vendetta against him; either that or he makes his starts against teams solely comprised of major leaguers on rehab assignments. Prior to a July 12 Fort Myers Miracle Ramblings, post, Ward's teammates scored a whopping 12 runs in 12 starts (8 runs in the previous 11), getting shut out 5 times. Since then he has two more losses and his ERA is 0.11 lower, so I assume the story has gotten no better. The rest of his numbers are fine if not overly impressive for an A-ball pitcher. The most promising stat at this point has to be HR allowed at just 3 in 101 innings; it's at least encouraging to think of a prospect who won't let the ball fly out of the ballpark at a Slowey-esque rate. Hell, at this point we could probably bring him up to the big league club just to give Garza, Baker, Silva and Santana someone to talk to about getting hosed by your offense.

So what happens now? The players will just have to keep playing; hopefully every Twin can bring out his inner Jason Tyner this week, put this front-office unpleasantness behind him and hit the baseball where a fielder can't catch it. The fans will still be rooting for the home team; we don't need some guy at a press conference to tell us we're in a playoff run, do we? And Teri Ryan and the front office had damn well better have a plan in case another one of our players go down. Grow, thumb, grow!

Goodnight, Sweet Luis

My favorite personal favorite things about Luis Castillo were his badass theme music when he came up to bat, and the Zoidberg crabwalk he broke out whenever he had to track down an infield popup. I don't think it ever fooled a single runner into thinking he had lost the ball in the roof, but it was still endearing and thrilling for everyone else. I was initially upset to learn about this trade, but after the shitstorm that was the comments section after Joe Christenson's blog entry announcing the trade, have decided to reserve judgment just in case something happens between now and the Deadline. We may not be throwing up the white flag just yet, and even if not, there are certainly other good reasons to trade an aging infielder with an expiring contract, but I'll get more in on the potential impact with whatever developments do or don't happen tomorrow.

In the meantime, we didn't make things look especially difficult against what's apparently a pretty good Royals team now, getting a couple of runs early off a better-than-average pitcher and holding on thanks to another world-class performance by Scott Baker; another couple of outings like this and he'll be in the running for team MVP. Castillo's replacement in the leadoff spot had quite a night as well, going 3-for-4 for what up until Saturday night I would have called the Jason Tyner cycle with a single, double, and triple. We'll hope now that OFT can keep winning the games they need to win with Nick Punto once again all but assured of a regular lineup spot.

Three Easy Pieces

After squeaking a couple of wins out from Cleveland this weekend, it appears that the ol' Karma Wheel has swung back in the Twins' favor for the time being. It was only natural to expect that we'd finally be on the winning side of a few of those close games after so many that would have been decided by one or two key two-out hits or the ability to lay down a good bunt, but there still has to be something to account for the maddening inconsistency of Twins hitters in these situations besides the mystic cosmic force that doles out justice based on positive and negative acts.

This team can be divided into two very distinct camps of regular players - for promotional purposes, we'll call them "Sharks" and "Piranhas." The Sharks are the real major-league hitters, with the guns to put the ball over the fence: Morneau, Cuddyer, Hunter, and, for the purposes of this exercise, Kubel. The Piranhas are the well-publicized slap-hitting bookends of the lineup: Castillo, Bartlett, Punto, Tyner, L-Rod, and Redmond. You'll notice that I left Joe Sideburns off both of these lists: he has qualities that put him into both and neither camps at once, which I will go into in a moment. But first, we take a look at the Sharks:

What we have in this category are four players with the ability to put up pretty good power numbers. I include Kubel here because I still believe that he has the upside potential to be a big part of the team if they can only find a place for him to get regular at-bats. These guys all have hot and cold streaks, but they tend to be pretty independent of one another. While one or two are slumping, the others might be knocking the cover off the ball. For example, in the last four games, Justin Morneau has gotten at least one hit (and two hits in three of those) and, despite not hitting any home runs, he has driven in four runs in that time and raised his batting average to .297. In that time, Torii Hunter has gone 1 for 14, and 1 for 17 if you go back one more game. The big and obvious effect of having Cuddyer on the DL is the simple lack of a guy who, on the day he was injured, went 4 for 4 and looked about to start on a hot streak of his own. Add to this Ron Gardenhire's insistence on benching Kubel to "protect" him against lefthanders (What is he protecting him from? Beanings? Getting eaten? I think the no. 1 thing we should be protecting against right now is starting Jason Tyner at DH), and right now we only have two legitimate power bats in the lineup and can only reasonably depend on one of them being reliable at any given time. Even when they're all healthy and in the lineup, it's like flicking on and off random light switches to find your way through a dark house: Only the right combination at the right time is going to do you any good.

Which brings us to the other, larger chunk of the lineup that is the Piranhas. In contrast to the independently streaking Sharks, these guys tend to play as a cohesive unit. No one in the game feeds off of each others' energy as our plucky group of utility infielders does. No one is more thrilling to watch during a rally, with their collection of bunt hits, coaxed walks, seeing-eye singles, and squib doubles down the line can make a pitcher break down and give up a four or five run lead. At the same time, no one is more depressing to watch when the energy once again vanishes as mysteriously as it came and we're back to infield popups and strikeouts after failing to put down a sacrifice bunt. To continue with the dark house analogy, this is like having one big switch that turns on all the lights at once; either it's there or it isn't.

So what happens when Sharks meet Piranhas? In nature, probably something pretty damn cool, the underwater equivalent of Monkey vs. Robot or something like that. On the baseball field, at least this year, not so much. Though this approach was essentially perfected in a game I was at one year ago today and continued throughout the playoff run of late summer 2006, it seems like we've never been able to get the offense going where both parts are using their parts harmoniously. It seems like the middle of the order all this year has been either an island, with good production but not nearly enough to carry the rest of the lineup, or a black hole, where singles rallies go to die at the hands of a sharp grounder to second, 4-6-3.

And where, you ask, does one Joseph Patrick Mauer fit into all this? Well, he pretty much just holds the keys to the whole offense. As the guy right before the Sharks, it's his job, if Castillo and/or Bartlett fail to get on base, to get on so the RBI guys have a chance to bring someone around. And as the figurative "tail"-end of the Piranhas, he also has a responsibility to keep those singles rallies going, and often to put a little more business behind his swing to maybe knock in a couple. So Joe is the vital swing man between little and big, bloop and blast, "swing and a miss" and "SWIIIIIIIING and a miss", and he's the perfect man for the job. He doesn't get dragged down by the low points or jittery and hacktastic during the hot streaks and big moments; all he does is go up there and hit.

So while we probably have the pieces in place to make a run similar to last year's, all this has been a long way of saying that it would take a lot to come together in the right way again for that to happen without adding another consistent bat to the lineup to serve Mauer's purpose on the other end of the order, where the Sharks end and the Piranhas begin once again. And while Twins Geek's take on Terry Ryan's idea of "divine intervention" made me laugh on the outside, it also made me cry a little on the inside, because Jason Tyner hitting one home run that wouldn't have even gone out in the Metrodome is exactly the sort of thing that TR would point to when insisting that we have all we need right here. With just about 24 hours left until the trading deadline, all I can say is, "Prove me wrong, Terry...prove me wrong."


(EDIT: Yes, I know that the movie is "Five Easy Pieces"; obviously, no one understands the subtle symbolism of Jack Nicholson playing a piano on the back of a truck to the 2007 Minnesota Twins. Also, did anyone notice the crowd shots of the Cleveland game on Sunday? To sum up the experience, they kept going to shots of this toddler who had to be the ugliest baby in Ohio, which has to be something akin to naming the most pretentious Carleton student or the gayest Brady Quinn picture - it takes a little something extra.)

Top Five Moments Of The Simpsons Movie

Along with millions of other Simpsons geeks, I waited with baited breath and not a little bit of anxiety for the release of The Simpsons Movie. My expectations weren't soaring, but there was never any doubt that I would be there for the midnight premiere. The whole day I repeated a silent prayer to Matt Groening for it to pretty pretty please not suck, a fear not alleviated by the apparent need for a full-on blitz marketing campaign. And you know what? It was better than I could have hoped even despite my faith that the show's creators and the crack team of early-season writers wouldn't let it be an embarrassment. And without any further droning on, here were the best moments, in no particular order, all of them the kinds of gags that seemed to come so effortlessly in Seasons 3-8.


"And especially you!"

The movie's opening bit involves Our Favorite Family in a movie theater watching an "Itchy & Scratchy" cartoon (which was surprisingly good in itself), where Homer starts ranting to the audience about going out and paying money to watch what they get at home for free. The direct call-out was a gutsy way to start the movie, and this was the point where I felt it wouldn't let me down despite the weird-looking animation that looks like a hybrid of hand-drawn and CGI. I was already a few belly-laughs into the movie, and this was a good sign.


Bart's Penis

This got the biggest audience response of the whole movie: Bart skateboards naked down the street on a dare from Homer, his shame being covered up in about 30 different clever ways, until all of a sudden, the gag reverses: he passes an object with a slit down the side, and all you see is the little yellow wang going past. The most brilliantly conceived, timed, and executed visual gag I've ever seen; imagine how we'd remember the Austin Powers movies if they'd thought of this.


Spider-Pig

Anyone who has seen a trailer for the movie knows this bit because it's in every single goddamn one, so I was expecting a bit of disappointment here. Not only that, but whenever it was in a trailer, it was the featured moment, where the producers have bet the farm on it being the comedic high point of the movie, where the music suddenly stops and we can hear them scream, "See? You laughed there, didn't you? Even if nothing else is funny for the rest of the movie, you can laugh at this part! Isn't that worth $9?" But here's the thing: That bit only got peoples' attention for the funniest part of the gag, which wasn't in the trailer. The Spider-Pig song keeps going, and it only gets funnier after "Doing whatever a Spider-Pig does..." Well played.


Marge's Farewell

I've never been a Marge fan. I appreciate the subtle way that the writers poke fun at mom humor and mannerisms, as well as all the thankless work she does to hold together an otherwise hopelessly dysfunctional family (an aspect that nobody who derides the show for its poor example for families seems to grasp), but she always seemed underdeveloped in the same way that TV wives have been, cartoon and otherwise, from Wilma Flintstone to Lois Griffin; namely, what is an attractive, smart, morally sound woman doing married to a fat, selfish slob prone to weekly misadventure? The video Marge leaves for Homer after he refuses to go back and save the town he helped to doom may singlehandedly change the plight of underachieving TV women forever. Though she has left Homer before in the show, those cases were all involving Homer screwing up something within the family, and typically came with a concrete condition that he could bring her back by setting right. Here it is Homer's actions upon and subsequent indifference to others that makes her question what has kept the marriage going this whole time, and realize that she can no longer live with his impulsiveness and selfishness. What really makes this scene is the voice acting by Julie Kavner. Perhaps it was intentional or perhaps she had a cold on that day of recording, but Marge's voice had a quality I've never heard from her before; resolved, but with the kind of low, measured, congested tone that only comes after a lot of crying. The significance was not lost by anyone of her speech being recorded on Homer and Marge's wedding video, the one thing she ran back to save from their burning house, but when the speech ends and the wedding dance cuts back in, longtime fans immediately picked up on the meaning of "Why Do Bird Suddenly Appear?", a song originally used as a sort of gag representing the cornball 70's where they fell in love but which became a recurring motive for the young couple's innocence. Could be the most touching moment of the franchise to date, though it would have to compete for that title with the closing credits of Season 7's "Mother Simpson".


Jumping the Gorge

This shot at the end of the movie was set up in almost the exact same way as the classic bit from Season 2's "Bart the Daredevil", where the pan shot from behind makes it look like he's going to make it until he drops beneath the lip of the gorge a good 50 feet short of the other side. I was hoping, perhaps a bit sadistically, that the homage (is it an homage if you're paying tribute to yourself?) would lead to the same painful payoff, but he managed a more fortunate outcome this time. Yet I was ultimately satisfied at the end of the scene with the sight of the same ambulance from that episode smashed against a tree in the background as Homer and Bart embrace back on solid ground. No attention was drawn to it, yet any Simpsons fan worth his salt knew exactly why it was there. Thanks for that one, guys.


In all, they did a hell of a job adapting the show to the big screen. It clearly isn't just an oversized episode like Family Guy's Stewie Griffin: The Untold Story, shown by the relative linearity of the plot and the absence of a B-story; nor is it purely an excuse to crank up the risque dial for what they can't put on TV, like South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut. It takes on a much broader scope, paralleling the family's rise to popularity. It is about everything about the family being now larger than life: Instead of consistently reacting to the circumstances placed before them, they are now, however unwitting, the cause of the action that surrounds them. As far as criticisms, there aren't too many. The environmental message was a little much, but it ultimately wasn't the point of the whole movie. Making Schwarzenegger president made little sense since The Simpsons universe already contains a thinly-veiled caricature of the Governator in Reinier Wolfcastle, and being native-born he'd be constitutionally ineligible to run anyway. And Lisa was even less likable than usual here, never actually reconciling with her dad after being bitterly angry with him, and pursuing an undeveloped love interest by a pretentious musician kid who was Irish for some reason. There was once a time when Lisa could be bright and mature but still be 8, but the more she becomes a mouthpiece for the writers' personal beliefs the less her character is able to stand up on its own.

Is it possible that I've written enough about this movie yet? Fine, I'll give you one more great moment, straight from the classic mid-90's gag book. The fleet of government helicopters approaches, towing underneath the giant glass dome that is to be lowered on Springfield, sealing it from the outside world. As its shadow advances, two crowds appear from the respective doors of the church and Moe's Tavern, which are apparently next to each other now. After a moment of gaping awe, the two crowds scream and disappear through the door of the other building; the barflies into the church and the believers into Moe's. Perfect timing, perfect execution, thank you, come again.

I'll Bet Donaghy Cringes Whenever They Play "Don't Stop Believin'" On The PA

2, 4, 6, 8! What Donaghy did was really great!

...

Great, meaning large or immense! We mean it in the pejorative sense!

Having grown up in an area that didn't even have an NBA franchise until I was 5 or 6, then got one that sucked big time for a decade, choked away a few playoff appearances, then quietly resumed their mediocrity, it's safe to say that I have no affection for professional basketball that runs beyond skin deep, even though it's the sport I grew up playing (and still enjoy doing so). It's hard not to feel for KG for the career he's had and the crappy talent that McHale has rewarded him by surrounding him with, and being the hometown franchise guy I'm obliged to name him as my favorite player, but I honestly can't say he's any more entertaining to watch for follow than a Lebron, Nash, or Arenas, and it's not like I can see much of them outside of the playoffs.

What keeps me interested in the NBA is the great depth of talent that we have devoted to it: Three of my favorite blogs cover the league devotedly as well as the most entertaining sportswriter out there (I know it's trendy to hate on Simmons nowadays, and I've long trained myself to skip over anything Boston-related, but his NBA columns are undoubtedly the best-conceived of the mainstream crew). These, along with the aforelinked Agent Zero, are among my daily stops not because I am a rabid fan of any one player or team, but because of the extremely thoughtful, sometimes even intellectual, culture that surrounds them. I feel that I share this stance with a great number of middling NBA fans, who have to give themselves reasons to watch the remaining teams in May and June when there is literally nothing else interesting going on in professional sports. In 2006, we followed the online antics of Mark Cuban that eventually got him fined. This year, we rooted for the Warriors in their cinematic uprising, howled at the ridiculous enforcement of a post-Malice rule that many thought cost the Suns a trip to the Finals, thanked LeBron for saving us singlehandedly from the dreaded Pistons-Spurs Finals matchup, then bitched after a brutal sweep that Cleveland should've never been there in the first place.

And now, what every fan has thought and muttered under his breath (or screamed, or blogged about, depending on the alcohol level) when a close call went against his team has all of a sudden become a lot more real than anybody would have suspected. No one knows yet how real this is; whether, as Stern insists, this was a bad apple in an isolated case, or if they all get together every Friday night in Salvatore's garage, eat a couple buckets of wings, and discuss the upcoming week's point spreads under green-shaded visors and a cloud of cigar smoke. Nor, however, does anyone really consider it the final death knell for a league that's been barely treading water for virtually the whole post-Jordan era. I strained my link muscle in the last paragraph, but all of those writers and more have all manner of opinions on the issue, my particular favorite being Simmons' cast for the hypothetical movie version. Once again, I sit back all the while as a fly on the wall and take in the pure writing talent that's being thrown around. I hate to say that the game needs an occasional Malice or Kobe's Denver Doldrums or now a Donaghy, but as someone who reads the NBA for the articles, an event with this one's undeniable bigness really shakes the cobwebs off of the current Bonds-era sportswriting with its hybrid character of columnist/moralist injecting each column with a Bayless-esque dose of self-righteousness, and brings to the forefront the brightest minds of the youngest branch of the media. If it takes a handful of serious but nonfatal disgraces to get that branch a wider audience, then by all means: Throw that intentional elbow, follow that nice girl back to her hotel room, and slap down that wad of cash on the over as you fumble for your whistle. These guys will be right here, making sure that no one ever forgets it.

Hey Guys, Did I Miss Anything Good?

Well, that's just great. I take two short weeks off from my strenuous blogging schedule, and the whole damned sports world takes one big-assed Greg Louganis backflip off the diving board of reality. This week I'll be recapping the biggest stories of...last week. OK, next time I promise to get off (on?) my ass and write about this stuff when it happens.

Baseball: Bonds to Break Home Run Record, Block Out Sun With Own Head


As he nears Hank Aaron's sacred mark, sportswriters around the country are turning up the heat on the same old steroids/personality/race angles. What once was cheerfully overlooked became borderline villainy which turned into cartoonish supervillainy. The "feud" between Barry "Gold" Bonds and Bud "The Beast" Selig is already turning into a WWE-caliber matchup; I'm half expecting to turn on The CW on some Friday night and see Bonds F-5'ing Selig, then taking off in his Chevy truck.

To answer your question, Bud, it's about like this.

My view? Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim, and records gotta fall. Though it's unfortunate to see the last laugh go to a surly old juicer who doesn't look like he should be able to get past first base without a walker, in the wise words of Lisa Simpson, you can't create a monster, then whine about it when he stomps on a few buildings. Besides, you have to give the guy credit for sticking around the National League for the past few years where he's had to be propped up in left field every game, lifted in the 7th inning, and sitting out day games, rather than bouncing around the AL, sitting pretty in the DH slot, and probably being one of those players who murders the Twins in every game (cough, cough, Thomas). He'd probably have 300 homers off of Radke alone. For all the talk of this being a joyless slog to 756, the man must have a tiny bit of purity left in him to be out there every day lumbering after fly balls. Maybe he just needs to throw Selig down a generator shaft to realize it.

You were right...tell Pedro Gomez...you were right.

Slow Week? Yes, Yes it is.

It may be symbolic, or perhaps just a coincidence that the three worst days of the year can be summed up in three short words: All-Star Break (Is that three words? Or is it a word and a hyphenated compound of some sort, in which case that whole first sentence loses its charming sentiment. Somehow that bit of grammatical knowledge slipped through the cracks of my education: it's all right though; at least I can analyze a 12-tone row or relate some humorous anecdotes of the ancient Romans. Hooray for the liberal arts!). Making it through these three awful days has often been like crossing a vast desert; a long and treacherous trek with less chance of survival than The Oregon Trail. For example:

• One involves deadly outbreaks of cholera and dysentery, where the other has the annual vocal diarrhea of Chris Berman during the Home Run Derby.
  

• One involves going out to shoot 5,000 pounds of squirrel meat of which you can haul back 200lb, where the other has Beckett, Verlander, and Santana facing National League hitting.
  

• One involves the risky, often-unfortunate decision to try and ford the river instead of hiring an Indian guide, where the other has the risky, often-unfortunate decision to leave Aaron Rowand in to hit with two outs and the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth when down by a run instead of bringing in Albert Pujols off the bench.
  

• One has captured the spirit and enthusiasm of generations of American youth who sweat, cheer, and agonize over its outcome, where the other is a baseball game.

But this year, it was different. This year, there was something to pull me through the trying times of Boomer's bay-area suburb name dropping, the NFL/NBA offseason speculation that seems to come earlier every year, and the gigantic Transformers/Chevy/MLB/FOX/Simpsons Movie/7-11 cross-promotional clusterfuck that has even managed to find its way into my quiet, unassuming hometown, where at least it managed to take some headlines from the apparent growing heroin problem (Been meaning to post on this, but it will have to come another day). Yes, my physical and spiritual nourishment of the past three days didn't come from a needle, a jagged metal Krusty-O, nor even a giant shapeshifting robot that apparently wants me to get me into the shoddiest of American automobiles. It has come from four men, expressing hope, joy, and the latest in straw hat and candystripe jacket fashion in the only way they know how: a barbershop version of the original Ewok celebration song. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the fifteenth wonder of the world.




Thanks again to Progressive Boink for the fantastic OT screenshot.

A Short Diary of The 2007 Basilica Block Party

7:00PM: Arrive at Basilica. Never a good sign when people are on the streets outside giving away their $35 tickets.

7:05PM: Does anybody know what the purpose is of the whole ticket system for buying food and drinks? There must be some reason that they make you stand in two different lines to buy a $4 bag of Mini Donuts, but I'll be damned if I can figure it out.

7:40PM: Nice to meet you, cute friend of a friend. Uh, yeah, Lifehouse is really great. Oh, that's your boyfriend. Nice to meet you too. I'll be leaving now.

7:50PM: Is that guy up there really wearing a Yankees hat? I can't tell because he's facing sideways for some reason. Now turned almost towards me. Turn around, you audacious asshole, so I can berate you for that hat I think you're wearing! As you can see, the band is really drawing me in with their performance.

8:00PM: Sending text message to my friend Nick who's in Houston right now: "Lifehouse sucks. Twins score?"

8:05PM: I cannot stress enough what an awful band this is. Every single aspect is directly from the cliche book of jaded performers. The lead guitarist is rushing ahead of the everyone else, the bass guitar is out of tune, and the entire performance from the songs to the lead singer's "banter" to the trashy sorority girls brought up on stage to dance while being ignored by both the band and the Jumbotron lacks any trace of freshness or spontaneity. Thank you, Cities 97, for bringing in another band who doesn't give two shits about playing their own songs. D+ show.

8:10PM: Oh, the guy is wearing an Under Armour hat. Still looks like a tool. OK, time to leave this stage.

8:40PM: Nick calls back, Twins are up 8-0; slow down boys, you're gonna need to save some of those runs for when Boof pitches tomorrow.

8:45PM: There's some kid with a 2005 St. Olaf homecoming shirt. I don't recognize him; he looks about 14 and is hanging out with a group of the douchiest looking kids I've ever seen. I'll bet his brother plays campus golf in sweatpants with one leg rolled up and his student ID sticking out from under his crooked baseball hat. I always made it a point to walk directly in these guys' path, just daring them to hit their damn tennis ball at me like all the sunbathers, cars and pedestrians who happen to be intruding on their "course". Anyway, this kid is wearing an actual Yankees hat, so that's probably enough to say on the matter.

9:00PM: Some guy proposes to his girlfriend in front of everyone on the grandstand. This must have been a tough thing to set up logistically, because he was about as surprised as her when they pointed the camera at him, and his bewildered proposal goes about as gracefully as a Tiger Woods high-five. She says yes, but only after about a ten-second pause and accompanied by a look that says, "you couldn't have at least done this in front of more than 1000 people?" Seriously, the Basilica Block party has to rank somewhere below a minor league baseball game and above the local Friday night fish fry at the Legion on the list of public events to propose at.

9:10PM: Amos Lee finally comes on the main stage; that's what I'm talking about. He played at spring concert this year and rocked the house. His drummer looks like a Muppet Hunter S. Thompson; how can you not be impressed by that?

9:35PM: The middle-aged man in front of me wearing shants has made it his drunken mission in life to stand directly between me and the stage. It isn't even that crowded, but however far I move to one side, there he is, striking up a conversation with a terrified co-ed or dancing with a lizard-skinned 60-year old with hair four shades past platinum who has either not taken or taken too much of her medication.

9:50PM: Everything that the previous band lacked is present in this concert. The musicians are all connected beyond being all wired to the same sound system. Lee gives background for his songs, shows sensitivity and great appreciation for the relatively small outdoor concert crowd, and says a few good words about Minneapolis without obviously pandering to the crowd. The only thing missing is a few more upbeat tunes; much of the crowd isn't as drawn into this one because the noise level is such that you can hold a conversation with the person next to you without having to scream (though that doesn't stop some folks). B+ show.

10:15PM: Heading out the gates, people are giving away cans and bottles of Volt energy drink. Vendors are discounting their food for people with a leftover ticket or two. Most concert events like this are out to screw you in any way they can (and for the most part, this is no exception), but at the end it was nice to see good Midwestern common sense take over. Or something.

What I've Been Thinking Today

I blame the particularly lousy day I had at work today on waking up and reading this article in the Trib before heading out, which left with me a mental image so horrifying that I couldn't get it out of my head and will probably be the main subject of my nightmares tonight. The part that almost made me lose my Marshmallow Mateys:

According to the report, if a child sits on an open drain, the suction, which can reach several hundred pounds per square inch, can rupture the rectum and eviscerate the child in a matter of seconds.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! PAIN DOES NOT EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE HOW THIS WOULD FEEL! I walked around work today clenched tighter than Barry Bonds when he hears the word "indictment".

And speaking of losing one's guts, I've never seen a team perform so meekly as the Twins when they get on national TV, particularly against a certain team from a city associated with a large piece of fruit (no, not that one). It doesn't seem to matter whether one team is struggling at the time; it's like they just pick up every time where they left of, which is generally with the Twins getting their asses handed to them. Today it was three of the year's biggest Yankee flops (besides Damon and Abreu, who had wreaked enough havoc in the first three games of the series) doing most of the damage in Cano, Cabrera, and Matsui, the last making an already disappointing day for poor Sideshow Pat much worse. As the South Park football PA guy would say, I haven't seen an American have a day like this against the Japanese since Pearl Harbor. Disappointing, especially after yesterday's Coney Island re-enactment of the Battle of Midway. And though I've never been one to blame a loss on the officiating, I'm pretty sure I saw Wally Bell's car keys dangling from his left hand and his golfing gloves hanging out of his back pocket as he rung up Cuddyer's "check swing" strike on ball 4 to end the game. I know the New York rush hour traffic is a beast, but give us a break; it's not like Clemens was on the mound or anything.

It's tough not to see this as a disturbing omen for what will become of Our Favorite Team this year. Even if they do go on a run to catch Cleveland and Detroit and make the playoffs, what good is it if, as in the last three postseason appearances, they go on to get embarrassed by a team that's not necessarily any better than them? Mauer and Morneau are the only players who consistently show poise on a national stage. Torii somehow seems to regress to an even less-disciplined approach to the game. Everybody else, the young guys, show their age more obviously than the 17 year-old at the liquor store counter with a handle of Smirnoff, a wispy moustache, and his older brother's expired driver's license. But still, the pieces may fit. When times get like these, I like to go back and read this classic Batgirl piece from last year's miraculous playoff run, and it inspires me to find hope in this team where raw stats, sabermetrics, and even plain common sense are often absent.

A Case Of The Yips (or, the Chuck Knoblauch Story)

Editor's note: Actual transcription from ESPN's Monday Night Baseball broadcast. In the bottom of the third inning, commentators Dave O'Brien and Rick Sutcliffe are stunned to realize that a strange, non-Yankee pitcher has been occupying the mound. Let's listen in:

Dave: Yip.
Rick: Yip yip.
D: Cleeeeemens.
R: Clemensclemensclemens...Uuuuuhhhh-huh.
D&R: Clemensclemensclemensclemensclemens-
D: (startled) Oooooooohhhhh!
R: Not Clemens.
D: Nope.
R: Nope nope nope.
D&R: Nope nope nope nope nope-
R: Hmmm.
D: Hmmmmmmmmm.
R: Book.
D: Book?
R: Book. Media book.
D: Media book!
R: Media book. Yip yip yip yip.
D&R: Yip yip yip yip yip yip-

(They bewilderedly search the media guide)

D: Uuuuuurhhhh. Bonds.
R: Bonds?
D: Bonds.
R: Bonds. Yip yip.
D: Yip yip yip. Bonds...

(Boof Bonser proceeds to strike out Jeter, A-Rod and Posada in order, causing the terrified commentators to jump back and hide behind their lower lips.)

R: Uuuuuurhhh. Not Bonds. Pitcher.
D: Pitcher?
R: Pitcher. Yip yip yip-
D: Yip yip yip yip. Book.
R: Book.
D&R: Yip yip yip yip yip.

(They go back to the media guide for a few seconds.)

D: Ooooooohhhhh. Dicekay.
R: Dicekay?
D: Dicekay.
R: Dicekay. Yip yip yip yip.
D: Yip yip yip, uuuuuuhhhh-huh.
R: Hello.
D: Konichi-wa...Konichi-wa.
R: Hello...

(a few seconds pass.)

D: Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee, nope.
R: Nope nope nope nope.

(Roger Clemens retakes the mound for the top of the fourth)

R: Uuuuuuurhhhhh. Rocket.
D: Rocket?
R: Rocket.
D&R: Rocket rocket rocket yip yip yip yip yip yip yip...

(Meanwhile, in the MLB.com press box...)

Harold Reynolds: WO-MAN

(This post inspired in part by two brilliant posts at Progressive Boink. Though we have to ask: Where's the love for the Land of Gorch?)

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.