Oh Percy, Percy Me

What up world,

Did you see what I did there? With the title? Very creative, right? I'm chuckling to myself, and humming Marvin Gaye, as I write this. Regardless of your thoughts on the title, or of me in general, this is the perfect time to introduce you to my newest man-crush on the Minnesota Vikings. That's right! It's WGTKY, the Percy Harvin edition!!!!



For those that are not regular readers of Sota Love, a WGTKY (Wanna Get to Know You) segment delves into the world of a specific Minnesota sports figure, prior to their time in the Great White North. Here are a few of the initial characters that we've focused on in our WGTKY segment:

-Rodney Carney
-Kevin Love
-Ryan Gomes
-Joe Mauer
-Brendan Harris
-Orlando Carbrera

I would like to continue this fine tradition with none other than William Percival Harvin III. This future phenom of the Vikings was born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, to his mother, Linda, and father (you guessed it) William Percival Harvin, Jr.

Percy has been fast, and elusive, from the moment of his birth. As rumor has it, he began life by sprinting out of his mother's womb, eluding the grasping hands of the maternity ward doctors, scoring a touchdown, and hooking up with, not one, but two members of the nursing staff, before settling into the welcoming arms of his mother. Percy was born to fly.

Throughout his childhood, Percy demonstrated his propensity for domination. He won a Pop Warner National Championship at the age of 13, a state championship as a junior in High School, and a BCS Championship for Florida both as a Freshman and Junior. He is widely credited with scoring every touchdown and accounting for every yard for each team that he has played with. He played defensive lineman for a period of time in high school, destroying opposing quarterbacks with 104 sacks over the course of the season. There was one game, in his last season at the University of Florida, in which Percy was the only player on the field on both offense and defense. Final score; Florida Percy's 76, Tennessee Volunteers 3.

As with many superheroes, Percy possesses one distinct weakness. Even with all of the domination on the football field, the countless hours he spends performing charitable acts, and his part-time job as an astronaut, there is still a less desirable side to this superstar. It's hard to believe, but Percy has a thing for weed.

I'm sorry to bring it up, but it was something that I felt was necessary. You demand full disclosure, and I'm here to deliver. Percy tested positive for marijuana at the NFL combine, hurting his draft status, allowing him to fall to the Vikings as the 22nd pick in the 2009 draft. I've had numerous conversations with Percy regarding these events since they occurred. He regrets his actions, and offered me a brief explanation.

1) Percy Harvin moves at such lightening fast speeds, that without the help of marijuana, football games would be unfairly tilted in his team's direction. The weed slows him down to a somewhat human-like speed. He would be like that kid from The Incredibles without it. He doesn't want to crush the spirits of the opposing team too badly.



2) His desire to play for the Vikings was too strong. He had run out of options, and chose to get caught with marijuana in his system. Percy is far too intelligent to be apprehended for something this ridiculous. It was an intentional move, made to be a part of the purple and gold.

3) He was listening to Bob Marley, while watching the sunset, after spending the day playing Frisbee-Golf. It was the logical next move.

So, while testing positive for marijuana does not improve his perceived character in the eyes of the public, it was mostly justifiable. I've told him that he can continue his smoking habits if he wants, provided that he keeps it out of the medias' hands for the duration of his stay with the Vikings. He's agreed, possibly hinting that he might stop altogether, to focus on embarrassing every other team in the NFL.

I'm sure that all of us can agree that this is the best course of action. With Purple Jesus as our running back, Old Man River as our QB, and Percy "Sexual Healing" Harvin in our receiving corp., I see only good things for the rest of the season.

It's good to get to know you Mr. Harvin. Help me forget about the pain that T-Jack inflicted upon my heart last season. Continue on with your dominating ways.

-Sota

It Hurts

What up world,

I wanted to take a quick moment and remind everyone out there that the Twins are still playing. What's that? Who are the Twins, you ask. They are a professional baseball team that plays in Minneapolis. Still nothing? They're the most successful team in the 2000's among the major sports franchises within Minnesota. No? Not even a glimmer?

I'm sorry. That's right. The Vikings have started playing. There's that new quarterback in town, right? Jesus has returned in the form of a running back, who delivers God's stiff-arms of fury among all non-believers, correct? My apologies. I should have considered that prior to my opening statement.

Once the NFL's regular season, not to mention the college football season, begins, everyone starts to forget about the other team that inhabits the Metrodome. Especially during a disappointing baseball season. We can forget the pain of late-inning losses and the prevalence of ass-bats by turning our attention to more promising endeavors. It makes the mediocrity of the Twins season easier to bear.

But hold on fair reader. The Twins season is not over quite yet. As I write this, they are sitting 4 games behind the Detroit Tigers (although it looks like it may be 4.5 in the next couple of minutes). They have 7 head-to-head games left in the season, and the Tigers have not looked like world beaters in the past couple of weeks. There is still a chance. While the Vikings are beating up on the Browns and the Lions, the Twins are slowly creeping back into the pennant race. With a couple of breaks here and there, and a healthy lineup, there is no stopping us!

What did you say? Not healthy? Of course we're healthy. Justin Morneau is still swinging lumber... No? Broken back?!?! Done for the season?!?

Okay, that's okay. We still have our giant off-season acquisition, Joe Crede... Really? Broken back also? No!

Still, we have a strong collection of starting pitchers that can bring it home down the stretch. Them too? Here is how we started the season:

Scottie Baker: Still holding it together.
Saint Francisco: Dead arm. Too tired from trying to hold up giant expectations. Now firmly entrenched in the bullpen.
Kevin Slowey: Currently possesses a wrist that is more machine than human. Done for the year.
Glen Perkins: Shoulder tendinitis and general suckiness has landed the Perkolator in the minors and is likely done for the year.
Nick Blackburn: Rob Nick has been up and down all season. Generally more down than up, but at least he doesn't have a broken back.

So, at this point, we have virtually no starting pitchers, no power hitters, and an infield of awfulness? It doesn't look good. There is still a chance, but it will somewhat miraculous if they can pull it off. I'm not entirely sure that I want to get my hopes up. Paying attention to them down the stretch might just lead to further heartache...

Maybe I'll see what those Vikings are up to.

-Sota

The Beginnings of the End

What up world,

There are certain things that I love about living on the West Coast. The ocean, delicious burritos, temperate weather, among other things. However, with the start of football season, I am reminded that there are certain issues that will cause me to eventually move back to the midwest. Namely, the start times of football games.

I am not a morning person to begin with, but with my current employment status, I have rarely been awake prior to noon in the past couple of months. I live a vampire-like lifestyle. Any sunlight that creeps into my room in the early morning hours is met by hissing and grumbling emitting from my lips. The situation is only worsened on Saturday and Sunday mornings, as I've typically spent a significant portion of the late night hours serving drinks and cleaning bar room floors during the previous evening.

To further compound the situation, my favorite teams are rarely broadcast on local television. Although it is a travesty, most residents of San Diego don't care about the Badgers or the Vikings. The result of this, is that I often have to travel to a specific bar to watch my teams live.

This means that I have to be awake by approximately 9 am, and travel to an offsite location, to watch the football teams that I really care about. This might not seem that ridiculous to many of you, but for me, it's pure torture. 4 or 5 hours of sleep is not enough for me to generate enough energy to properly cheer for my Badgers or my Vikes. I watched Purple Jesus' 60 yard touchdown run on Sunday, but was unmotivated to jump and run around the room, as is my usual reaction to something so amazing. I saw Favre tackle Percy in the endzone after his first Viking's touchdown pass, but shed no tears of joy. I couldn't muster the support that the Vikes are going to eventually need for tougher games later on in the season.

I had transitioned from a vampire to a zombie in a relatively short amount of time. I'm not happy about it. I can't see any solution to this problem either. You might be thinking to yourself, "Why don't you just go to sleep a bit earlier?" That's a ridiculous proposal. How dare you even imply something so preposterous.

No, the only thing that I can think of, is to make the move to a location that is more conducive to my lifestyle. A magical location where college games don't start until 11, and NFL isn't played before noon. Someplace that will show the Badgers and Vikings on broadcast television on a weekly basis. A place known as the Central Timezone.

I might tough it out through the rest of this season, but I'm not sure if I can make it through another. Sota Love might be making a return trip before you know it. This might be the beginnings of the end of my time in California. Unless, of course, the Vikings move to LA. Then it's a whole new ballgame.

-Sota

Jilted Affection

What up world,

It's time that I address the biggest news story out of Minnesota since...well...

there was that bridge thing...

and there was that wrestling governor...

and that mall...

But each of those things seem to pale in comparison to the recent developments in Eden Prairie. The events that occurred Tuesday will impact the state, and myself, in ways that will be difficult to comprehend hundreds of years from now. We will be able to look back at August 18th, 2009 as the day that the Minnesota Vikings mattered again. It was the day that number 4, Brett Lorenzo Favre, finally donned the purple and gold.

Brett and I have had a difficult relationship throughout my lifetime. Since I became conscious of sports, and the amazing highs and lows of fandome, Brett has always been there to crush my dreams. Since the fall of 1992, I've watched Favre continuously beat up on the Vikings. I cursed his name, cheered his interceptions, and prayed for injury, while watching him lead the Packers to two Super Bowls and multiple MVPs. I would sit, alone, in the basement of my parent's suburban Minneapolis home, seething at the sight of Brett, running around the field after yet another touchdown pass. It was awful.

But there is something that I have not disclosed earlier. The thing is...I'm sorry, it's difficult to say....It's just that.....I was raised by a pair of Packer fans.....

I know! Don't judge me for it! Don't immediately close your internet tab. I didn't ask for this. It was the hand that I was dealt. There were so many Sunday nights that I fell asleep, hoping against hope, that I would wake up in a Vikings friendly household. Unfortunately, God never listened to my prayers, and I continue to be tormented by the choices that my parents made.

But wait, there's more...

In addition to my parents, my entire extended family are fans of the Cheese. My grandparents have owned season tickets for approximately 100 years. My aunts, uncles, cousins, even sisters are Packer fans. I went to the University of Wisconsin-Madison for college, and even became friends with other Packer fans. It's awful, I know. I'm a small glimmer of Purple Pride in a sea of Green and Gold.

So, for years, I've watched the Packers destroy the Vikings. I watched as Brett became a folk hero among Wisconsinites. Number 4 jerseys chased me around campus for five years, providing reminders of the most recent failure of the Vikes at the hands of the Pack. I would watch Packer games with my family and friends, trying to injure Brett with the death lasers that were being emitted from my eyes. I made fun of him when he lost games, ridiculed his acting skills, and made endless comments about his appearance during the "Braces Years". I despised Brett Favre.

At least that was what I said to the Packer fans that surrounded me. However, on the inside, in the deepest, darkest corners of my heart, I loved him. He represented everything that I wanted in a quarterback. He took risks, was a leader, and seemed to enjoy himself every time that he took the field. While I was trying to cheer for Dennis Green, Daunte Culpepper, Mike Tice, Randy Moss, the entire Love Boat crew, and every other shady character on the Vikings, Green Bay was winning games with my secret crush at the helm.

So, for years, I've studied Brett from afar. I would make comparisons to him with every quarterback that we drafted over the years. Here is a list of our drafted qb's since 1992, the year that Brett took over the starting job:

1992: Brad Johnson
1993: Gino Torretta
1995: Chad May
1999: Daunte Culpepper
2006: Tavaris Jackson
2007: Tyler Thigpen
2008: John David Booty

I have not loved any of these men. I had a bit of affection for Brad Johnson, early on. Daunte was a giant tease. I wanted to love T-Jack, but he never delivered on any of his promises. Compared to Brett, none of these men stood a chance.

And then, Tuesday arrived. After years of torment, the one person that I had desired for so many years, was in my house, wearing my uniform, and throwing to my receivers. It was like the plot of an 80's romantic comedy.



I'm willing to look past the waffling. I don't care about his giant ego, or need to let everyone know that he is a "normal" guy. Bring the wife, Brett! Bring the kids! Win us some games, and all of your past sins will be forgiven. I promise. At least from all the Minnesota fans. I can't imagine how the Packer fans feel about this...

Ok, I can, because I have heard it. From my family. From my friends. They may be a little upset right now. Maybe a little angry. Livid even.

But that's okay, Brett. Don't worry about them. You are in good hands now.

Welcome to Minnesota!!!!

-Sota

Losing Faith

What up world,

It's come to this. After 116 games, I'm willing to admit that the 2009 Twins are not the team of destiny that I had dreamed of in April. They are 5 games below .500 and 6 games behind the division leading Tigers. They have lost consecutive series against the Royals and Indians, and are currently getting crushed by the Texas Rangers. Our starting pitcher tonight is none other than Saint Francisco. Even in all of his holiness, he can't manage to string together a quality start. Things are starting to look extremely bleak.

For months I've been ignoring the writers and bloggers of Twin Nation. I've always maintained hope that something would happen. That something would click. That a light would turn on. That we would turn the corner. And any other number of cliche sport's phrases that you can think of, but the team never seemed to come together. They never gelled. They didn't form a cohesive unit. They didn't pick each other up. They spelled team with an "I". They were a group of individuals...

Sorry, it's a tough habit to break. Moving on...

Throughout the last couple of seasons, there has always been a point that I've realized that things have grown hopeless. It's depressing each and every time. After months of following box scores, watching the team on tv or in person, and hoping that the White Sox limbs will fall off, when you realize that you are going to have to wait through another offseason, it crushes the spirit.

It not only signifies the end of the baseball season, it also means that summer is coming to a close. Having a post-season bound baseball team can provide some distraction from the ever cooling winds of fall. Not that I have to deal with these changing weather patterns in the idealistic world of Southern California, but I can still sympathize with the citizens of my home state.

For anyone reading this, I would like to offer my most sincere condolences. Baseball, and summertime, are coming to a close for 2009. However, I would like to offer each of you a small glimmer of hope. While everyone has been focused on the increasingly poor play of the Twins' starting pitchers and the miserable performance of our infield of tiny superheroes, there has been another team gathering and preparing for the start of their season.

That's right! The purple clan heathens of Scandinavia have landed on the shores of the Minnesota River, in a small town called Mankato. For almost a month, they have been raping and pillaging this sleepy metropolis, preparing to make the move up-river to Minneapolis. It just a few short weeks, led by a hairless, socially awkward chieftain, the Vikings will take up residence in the current home of the Twins, preparing to wreak havoc among the entire National Football League.

Monday, October 5th. There will be green and gold blood running through the streets of downtown Minneapolis. The Vikings are hungry for cheese and overweight women. Beware Green Bay fans. I can hear the war horns of the Vikings, even here in the southwestern portion of the country.

So, while one season is slowly dying, faith is renewed in the birth of another. Bring on football!

-Sota

The Drug Trade

What up world,

As promised in my last post, I am still planning on reviewing the past year that Sota Love has spent with other Minnesota franchises. However, due to time constraints, I am going to have delay those posts for another day. Additionally, there is some news coming out of the dungeons of the Metrodome that is too great to ignore. Prior to the trading deadline last Friday, the Twins were able to acquire Orlando Cabrera from the Oakland A's, hoping to improve the miserableness of our middle infield hitters.

I have watched Orlando over the years, and have been fairly impressed with his performance. He helped the Red Sox to their first championship in 2004, played for the Angels from 2005 to 2007, and, in a clear effort to help the Twins, nearly imploded the White Sox clubhouse last season. In the past, he has been a fairly consistent batter, base runner, and defensive presence. I'm hoping that he will be able to provide more consistency as shortstop than our current rotation of tiny superheroes.

I've known about Orlando for several seasons, as the Twins have flirted with acquiring him for quite some time, but I wanted to know more about the man. Where was he from? What has he experienced in his life that would make him a good fit for our team? Could he singlehandedly destroy Ozzie Guillen and the rest of the White Sox?

In order to answer these questions, I fired up the Sota Love research laboratory. Here is what I found:

Name: Orlando Cabrera
Nickname: O-Cab, The OC
Born: November 2, 1974 - Cartagena, Columbia
Career Numbers: .272 average, 107 hr's, 704 rbi's, 186 sb's.
Distant Relatives: Pablo Escobar

Wait. What?!? Pablo Escobar!!! That's right. O-Cab is the grandson of the infamous leader of Columbia's drug cartel. The Twins now have a connection to the drug trade, possibly adding another revenue stream for our small market team. Will the team start fueling cocaine driven, discoteca parties in downtown Minneapolis? Possibly. If we start seeing sharp dressed Columbians hanging around the corners of Target Field next season, we'll know that we have a problem on our hands.

I'm hoping that The OC ignores the tumultuous past of his relatives and concentrates on hitting gap doubles throughout the second half of the season. After getting swept this weekend, in historic fashion, we need some sort of spark. Something to get the team excited, off the bench, and ready to crush home runs. What could it be? What could provide that instant shot of adrenaline?

Could it be cocaine? No! Stay away from it Gomez! Your head will explode! That white powder is not candy Scottie Baker!

Concentrate on Orlando, guys. He's the only spark that we need.

-Sota

Mid-season Anniversaries

What up world,

My apologies for taking so much time between blog posts. I've been moving apartments, dealing with internet issues, and entertaining friends over the last week, causing me to be negligent in my writing duties. In addition, I've been doing my best to ignore the massive amounts of disappointment that the Twins are heaving upon us on a nightly basis. I was all set and ready to blog on Monday evening, mentally preparing for what I was going to write after a massive victory over the Oakland A's, and then the Twins promptly gave into their sucking tendencies. When you give up 7 runs in the 7th inning, it doesn't often lead to a victory, guys. Let's avoid these situations going forward...

I've now been offering these pieces of advice to the various Minnesota sporting teams for just over a year now. The All-Star game a few weeks ago marked the one year anniversary of Sota Love, giving me a perfect excuse to review some of the events over the past 12 months. I will attempt to break these events into a couple of different categories and different blog posts, beginning with Sota Love's first love; the Minnesota Twins.

Twins:

Throughout the last year, we've delved into the inner workings of the Twins organization, getting to know some of the characters that comprise the team that we've grown to love. Here is a brief list:

Jo Jo Ma: All-Star catcher, composer of beautiful symphonies, and all-around lady killer. Hearts and kisses Jo Jo.



J-Mo/The Mountee/Paul Bunyan Jr: All-Star first baseman, former league MVP, and future prime minister of Canada. J-Mo, although you may not be the greatest writer the world has ever known, you certainly can destroy a baseball. Keep doing that.



Scottie Baker: 12 year old Scottie, along with his favorite teddy bear "Cuddles", has not had the season that we expected of him, however, there is still time. I've been rough of Scottie at times; banning his videogames and not letting him stay up past his bedtime, but it has been out of pure love and affection. I know that he can be a top of the rotation starter, but he has to start believing in himself and not breaking down in tears when he doesn't do well, or when I yell at him.



The Saint: With the return of Saint Francisco at the mid-point last season, the Twins had new life. I was convinced that the Saint would return for 2009, raining sulfur and devastating sliders upon all opposing batters. Throughout the first half, the Saint has looked more loving and forgiving of AL Central teams than the vengeful spirit that we knew a few years ago. I'm hoping that he will deliver the anger of God in the second half, giving the good citizens of Minnesota renewed hope.



Ku-Bear/The Grizzley/More Ku-Bell: Jason Kubell has quietly put together an extremely effective first half of the season. Now that Gardy has allowed Ku-Bear to regularly roam free in the outfield, devouring fastballs and smallish, opposing players, he is beginning to turn into the fearsome beast that we knew he could be.



Lil Nicky Punto: It's hard for me to criticize LNP. He's all hustle, and I can't help but laugh like a baby playing peek-a-boo when he slides into first base. Still, he's been awful this season. Even with his defensive prowess in the infield, he should be spending more time fighting criminals in the Twin Cities at night, and riding the bench during the day. I heart you LNP, but if you don't start contributing on offense, I might have to break off this relationship.



Keiunta Denard Span: Keiunta is a warrior. A slap hitting, fast, defensive genius warrior. I never expected Span to evolve into this type of player, but after a full season in the bigs, I have every bit of confidence in the man, the myth, the soon-to-be legend.



Go Go Gomez, The Delmonic, and Alexi Casilla: I heart all three of you, but you are starting to play with my emotions. I was convinced that you would all continue to get better this season, but you seem to have gotten far worse. Here are a few, brief personal notes to each of you:

Lexi: After your game winning hit over the White Sox late in the season in 2008, I wanted to commission a statue of you outside of the new ballpark. But, in 2009, you can't seem to make those hits, or defensive plays, or anything else productive. I want to mold that statue Alexi, but you have to deserve it first.

Go Go: When I heard that you eat massive amounts of candy, and accidentally hit your face against doorways, and softly kiss and speak sweet nothings to your bats, I wanted to hang out with you more than anything. I wanted you to get on-base and score runs, but you seem to be more concerned with hitting homeruns and striking out. No more of that Go Go



The Delmonic: I've already discussed you in a previous post, and I don't feel like I need to heap any more criticism upon your massive noggin. Let me just quickly say this. Stop sucking. That's all. Nothing more than that. Stop sucking!!!!

Reddog: You are awesome, and old, and often naked. I think that you should accelerate your naked locker room time, your naked batting practice routine, and your general naked harrassment of Brendan Harris in order to spur on the rest of the team. My suggestion: All naked, all the time. Keep partying you dirty bastard.



With the painful end to last season, and the general disappointment with the current season, one would think that my love for the team would be wavering. That couldn't be further from the truth. I can't wait for the team to start their second half run and propel themselves to the top of the Central. I'm fully convinced that something is going to click at some point, causing me to do a little dance every time I hear any news of it. Our 10 game winning streak is going to directly coincide with the signing of Ricky Rubio and Brett Favre, and my head may explode from pure joy.

More on the other franchises of Sota Love in the next blog posting. Stay tuned.

-Sota

Carsten Charles

What up world,

I've been consciously trying to avoid writing about the Twins for the past couple of weeks. I've been hoping that the team would grow desperate for further Sota blog posts, and amid their despair, would start playing better. It has worked somewhat, in that the Twins have finally broken the curse of mediocrity, and are finally a couple of games above .500. They have had good series against the Tigers and Royals recently, but with the Yankees coming into town this week, there is a growing sense of dread that we are headed back into suckville.

The Yankees, with their pinstripes and Jeters and use of $100 dollar bills as towels seem to intimidate the pants off of the Twins year after year. Those evil bastards are undefeated against us so far this season and have won 16 of the last 22 meetings. Can't they let us have some hope of success? It's not enough for them to steal 12 year old's favorite Twins (Chucky Knoblach) or for them to crush our playoff dreams (2003). They must repeatedly beat us into the ground with every chance they get, causing us to question whether we can really compete in the first division of baseball with our small market tendencies.

With these thoughts in mind, I was dreading the Yankees arrival into Hubert H Humphrey. The feeling of despair only grew when I noticed that their starting pitcher with none other than Fat Mcgee himself. Our old nemesis, Carsten Charles Sabathia.



For years, the Pregnant Man had been tormenting our beloved collection of left-handed batters as an Indian. Even with our repeated attempts to make him bend down to pick up bunted balls, we never seemed to do well against CC. He tried to eat Lil Nicky on several occasions, and generally shut us down.



With his trade to Milwaukee last season, we finally felt some reprieve from CC's evil ways. However, everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before he ended up in New York. Talents of his caliber are always sucked into the dark side of the Bronx, eventually. Brian Cashman and the Steinbrenners build an apartment made entirely of cash for these type of players. Pure gold is injected directly into their blood stream (along with other items. What's up ARod), causing them to forever crave more and more money.

Carsten Charles was no exception. He is currently the highest paid pitcher in the game, and refuses to pitch unless his mound is made of cash and Twins fan's broken dreams. Last night he completed dominated our lineup, intimidated Scottie Baker enough to pitch his worst game of the year, and tried to consume LNP during the seventh inning stretch. We lost 10-2 and fell back to third place in the Central.


CC feeling faint. Must bring up blood sugar...

The only relief I can get from the CC related pain is to repeatedly make fun of him. Although I've attempted to throw out some barbs in this entry, no one could rip apart Fats McGee quite like Bat-Girl. Below is an entry from a couple of seasons ago, discussing the top ten reasons that CC had hit Justin Morneau with a pitch:

10) Sick of own mother shouting, "BOOTY CALL" every time she sees Morneau.

9) Avenging history of Canadian aggression against home nation of Fatassia.

8) Aim off due to finger blister from spending two hours voting for Jordin Sparks after American Idol previous night.

7) Morneau didn't invite him to tenth bday party; had to stay home and "play with his Han Solo."

6) Temporarily taken over by spirit of crazed, obese lefty.

5) Brad Radke's mom called him a pussy.

4) Up all night: Sex in the City Marathon on TBS!

3) Ass rash.

2) Tried to hit fan behind Morneau that was eating a hamburger that he felt was his to consume.

1) He's a dick.

-Sota

Trauma at its Finest

What up world,

Throughout my life, I've experience my fair share of sporting heartache. As I've noted previously, the teams that I choose to cheer for are generally not the favorites to win championships or titles on a year to year basis. It would be so much easier to cheer for the Yankees or Lakers or Patriots, but then I would have to live my life without a soul. Instead, I continue to hope and pray that my sporting heroes will one day deliver success to its fans.

Other than a couple bright spots (87 and 91), I've never cheered for a champion. Most of my team's seasons end in heartbreaking fashion, many times a third or half way through the regular schedule. There are a few, however, that have been more devastating than others.

In this blog posting, I will list the five most disappointing losses that I've experienced in my life. While deciding on the complex rating system that determined the ranking for each of these moments, I found that there was an overwhelming factor that made certain events hurt worse than others. It was this: The amount of effort and attention that I put into each of these selected teams was directly linked to the amount of pain that I experienced. Essentially, the more I cared the more it hurt.

Without further ado (in reverse order), the five worst sporting moments of my life.

5. 1999 Wisconsin Badgers: In my first semester at Madison, I had quickly become fully immersed into the crazy world of college football. Over the first couple weeks of the season, I had learned all of the cheers, perfected my pregame drinking ritual, started envisioning the Badgers in the Rose Bowl, and above all else, learned to hate the Maize and Blue of the Michigan Wolverines.

Although Michigan doesn't realize it, Wisconsin fans consider the Wolverines to be our biggest rival. Not the Gophers, or even Ohio State. Over the years, they have routinely crushed our rose-colored hopes and dreams, and for that, we generally despise them. Our one loss in the previous season (1998) had been to Michigan. 1997 also. We didn't lose to them in 96, only because we never played them.

The Badgers had already lost to Cincinnati by the time the Michigan game rolled around, making a victory all that more important. We were all feeling confident. With Ron Dayne continuing to roll, our collection of "Ann Arbor is a Whore" t-shirts, and the pre-game consumption of enough alcohol to get a small African nation drunk, we didn't think that we were going to lose.



Tom Brady and the rest of the Wolverines had other ideas however. Michigan led by six late in the game, and their defense had held Dayne to negative yards in the second half, but we still had a chance to win. We were driving under the control of a young replacement quarterback named Brooks Bollenger. There was a long pass into the corner of the endzone to a wide open Chris Chambers. It was a sure touchdown. We were going to take the lead, and I began celebrating, jumping up and down on the aluminum seats, yelling like the drunken fool that I was.

Unfortunately, I was premature with my celebration. The wide open Chambers lost the ball in the late afternoon sun, letting it pass through his hands and effectively losing the game over the infuriating Wolverines.

Although the Badgers eventually headed to the Rose Bowl later in the season, at the time, the loss to our perceived rivals caused it to be a miserable weekend.

Pain Scale: High

4. 2009 USA Soccer: As I noted in a posting from last week, I love watching the US soccer team, especially on the world stage. The World Cup completely turns my life around. I will go without sleep, disappear from human contact, and work myself into a general tizzy with every game that they play. Throughout the past week, I watched every one of the US games at the Confederation's Cup, beginning with general sadness at the beginning and culminating in an overabundance of joy with Sunday's arrival.



I met with a few friends at a bar in San Diego to take in the upcoming Miracle on Grass. I had attempted to temper my expectations with each victory that the US attained throughout the tournament. After the Egypt game, I kept telling myself that they didn't stand a chance against Spain. After Spain, I continued to remind myself that they had been soundly beaten in the qualifying round at the hands (and feet) of Brazil. I continued to tell myself, "Don't get too excited. You'll only set yourself up for disappointment."

I had continued with this gameplan until the first goal that the US scored. At the time, I was a couple of beers deep and my high school-girl alcohol tolerance caused me to fully feel their effect. I was light headed and joyous, yet I still attempted to maintain a realistic outlook on the game.

After the second goal, all of these efforts were dissolved. I didn't know whether to stand up or sit down. I couldn't speak for a moment. I was on the verge of stripping off my clothes and running through the streets of San Diego in celebration.

They showed a clip of the Confederation's Cup trophy at half time, and I started envisioning Landon Donovan and Clint Dempsey holding it above their heads after the game. I saw ESPN headlines, and the rebirth of soccer madness in the US. It was all coming together.

And then the second half began. Each goal that Brazil scored ripped a portion of my heart out. After the first goal I still maintained hope. After the second goal, quiet dread started to creep into the bar. After the third goal, there was nothing but utter disappointment. It made me want to curl up in a corner and slowly cry myself to sleep, which is exactly what I did when I arrived home later on in the day.



Pain Scale: Torturous

3. 2008 Minnesota Twins: It has been nearly a year since I started writing this blog. During the All-Star break last summer, I decided to start writing about Minnesota sports, with my main focus being on the Twins. At the time, the team was mired in a similar situation to where they are currently. Late innings bullpen collapses, injuries, tempered expectations, and general ass-battiness occurred throughout the second half of the season, yet somehow, as the season came to a close, the Twins were tied with the worst collection of humans on earth. I speak, of course, of the Chicago Bitch Sox.

The two teams had the exact same records, both home and away, and within the division, and had to play a one game playoff to determine who would be the Central Champion. I had spent the summer watching the activities of the Twins on ESPN Gamecast, writing about them, and willing them to somehow catch Chicago in the standing. Hours spent trying to create nicknames and photoshop various players as superheroes caused this one game to mean more than any other baseball game in my adult life.

I was in Minnesota at the time, and went to a local bar to watch the game with friends. Through 6 1/2 innings, there had been no score. Then, in the bottom of the 7th, the beast known as Jim Thome unleashed a monster home run off of Rob Nick Blackburn, effectively winning the game. I couldn't look at ESPN or the Strib for a week. I couldn't even think about writing anything for a week. Here is a link to the first entry that I made following that game. Re-reading the entry still makes me shed a few tears and hope that the Twins won't put me through a similar experience in 2009.


Ughh...gross.

Pain Scale: Intolerable

2. 2003/2004 Minnesota Timberwolves: I love the Timberwolves above all of my other teams. Attending games throughout my childhood and an unhealthy obsession with Kevin Garnett have caused me to form a bond with the team that can't be broken. Even after every misstep of ownership, management, and players over the years, I will still return every season with hope in my heart.

The apex of my fanaticism for the team began in the summer of 2003. In an effort to bring a championship to Minnesota before the exit of KG, CoacHale (who was GM at the time) made some bold moves. He made trades to bring in Sam "Big Balls" Cassell, Latrell "Feed my Family" Sprewell, and Michael "Bustlicious" Olowokandi to surround Garnett with some amount of talent.

After a slow start, the team gelled throughout the season to earn the top seed in the Western Conference playoffs. Throughout the playoffs, my confidence with the team grew more and more. They soundly beat the Denver Nuggets in the first round, and eventually conquered the Sacramento Kings in an epic game 7 in the second round. At the time, I had all of the confidence in the world that KG and his boys would be able to find a way to win against the Lakers in the Western Finals.



Unfortunately, Sam Cassell's back, hip and groin were injured, causing his leg to fall off at the start of the series. Sprewell didn't intimidate any of the Lakers with his Predator locks and couldn't seem to hit a shot. Olowokandi always sucked, so his performance wasn't out of the ordinary. KG played well, but there was only so much that he could do against Shaq and Kobe.

Although they managed to stretch the series to six games, the Lakers looked in control throughout. I watched each of the games with a growing sense of dread. By the end of game 6, I left my friend's apartment and wandered the streets of Madison by myself, wondering if KG or I would ever see a championship in Minnesota.

Pain Scale: Chopped off limb

1. 1998 Minnesota Vikings: I thought I was ready for this, but I've decided that the pain is still too fresh. I don't know if I'll ever get over that team, or season, or playoff game. Tears are streaming down my face as I write this, and I have the overwhelming urge to hunt down Denny Green.


Why would you kneel?!? Why?!?

Let me just say this; if I ever hear the following phrases, I may revert back into the near catatonic state that I experienced the day of the loss:

-Dirty Bird
-Jamal Anderson
-Gary Anderson
-Playing for Overtime

Ugh. So much pain. A thoroughly depressing way to end a thoroughly depressing post.

Pain Scale: Heart Explosion.

-Sota

The Future Starts Now

What up world,

Tonight marks the beginning of something wonderful for the Timberwolves. With four draft picks in the first round, a young core of players, and a fresh break from Kevin Coachale, the team can only be headed in the right direction, right? No longer will we have to question the drafting abilities of the former management regime, and can begin questioning the drafts of our current one. David Kahn, your move.

The last time the team had the 5th pick (and kept it) was in 1995, when they chose to select my favorite human being of all time; my boy, KG. Although the Garnett years never yielded a championship for Minnesota, they still provided for some highly entertaining seasons of basketball. Since 1995, the draft has not been quite as successful. Here is a list of the first rounders over the last 13 years.

1996: Ray Allen (traded to Milwaukee for Stephon Marbury. Ugghhh, it hurts)
1997: Paul Grant
1998: Rasho Nesterovic
1999: Wally World, William Avery
2000 - 2002: The barren years. Damn you secret contracts!
2003: The one, the only, Ndudi Ebi
2004: No first rounder
2005: Rashad McCants (maybe not a great player, but a great poet nonetheless)
2006: Brandon Roy (traded for Randy Foye and cash. Bleh. Gross)
2007: Corey Brewer (probably should have just acquired a science class skeleton instead)
2008: OJ Mayo (traded for Kevin Love, current man crush)

During these years, the Wolves have drafted some quality players (Allen, Roy), but have quickly, and stupidly, traded them away before they've ever donned the blue and green. Other players have been fairly good in moments (Wally, Love, Foye), but would never, ever, in millions of years, be defined as superstars.

Now, in just a manner of hours, the Wolves have the opportunity to change all that. They have the 5th, 6th, 18th, and 28th picks, and have a chance to pick a slew of quality players. Maybe we get some solid talent with each pick and build a team that is decent from top to bottom in a couple of years. Maybe we will find a diamond in the rough with the lower round picks. Anything is possible.

However, regardless of the selections, if the Timberwolves don't manage to get Spain's Ricky Rubio, I will be livid. I don't care if you have to trade all four picks to move up to #2 or #3 to make that selection. You have to do it, Mr. Kahn. Trade your children. Give Memphis your kidney. Do anything you can to get the 18 year old phenom. If we stay at #5 and select Tyreke Evans or James Harden, I may break down and fall into the fetal position.

I've been watching Rubio highlights on Youtube for almost a full year, salivating at the thoughts of him as our point guard. Dishes to Big Al and Love on the inside, lobs to Rodney Carney for alley oops, and the occasional three pointer have haunted my dreams for months. He will make the team entertaining to watch again. Although I love Big Al's old school moves, you're never going to say that it's exciting to see his drop step or baby hook. Steve Nash-like passes, however, are a totally different story.

So, over the next few hours, I will be reading every piece of rumor that I can find on the internets, hoping and praying that a certain floppy haired Spainard will be headed to the frozen tundra for the winter. Imagine chanting "Rubio, Rubio, Ru...bi...oooooooo!!! from the stands. Never have a been so excited to yell out lines from Hook.

Make this happen David Kahn. Make a splash. Change our awful, forgettable, draft history with one fell swoop. Rubio!!!!!!!!!!

My Heart Goes Wandering

What up world,

The Twins continue to swim in the pools of mediocrity, refusing to capitalize on the opportunities that they've been presented with. Two errors tonight lead to a humiliating loss at the hands of the Brewers. We're never supposed to lose to the f-ing Brewers! Let alone in such an awful fashion. I leave my computer in an attempt to prepare a delicious salad, returning 10 minutes later to find us down a run and losing the game. It's gross. Much like my salad.

In an effort to cheer myself up, I tuned into the US men's soccer game today. They are currently playing in the Confederations Cup in South Africa. I've sat down for each of the games throughout the tournament, watching the team lose miserably to Italy and Brazil, and the subsequent victory against Egypt.

There is no sporting event that creates greater amounts of excitement for me than watching the US team play in international competition. The World Cup shuts down my life for a two week period every four years. I have grandiose dreams of traveling to South Africa next summer to experience the amazingness that the Cup offers.

I played soccer throughout high school, and have continued to play on various intramural teams in the many years since that time. I love playing the game, but this isn't the reason for my adoration of the National team. I think the biggest reason is my love for the underdog.

Every team that I've cheered for in my adult life have been underdogs. The Twins, Timberwolves, Vikings, and Badger football and basketball teams have always showed promise, but haven't ever been considered overwhelming favorites. There are no dynasties in the world of my fandome. The only team that was considered to be a championship lock was the 98 Vikings, and everyone knows how that turned out. Even writing "98 Vikings" has caused me to start weeping and cutting myself.

In any competition, I will always find myself rooting for the underdog. Even if I'm watching professional bowling, I'm still rooting for the guy with the dirty mustache and bad polyester shirt, who can't roll a strike to save his life. I may stay to watch the entire contest, just to see an upset in the making.

The US men's team has been underdogs in nearly every match that I've ever watched. Their limited success against European or South American teams over the years have caused me to live and die with every game. Today, I watched as they took on the #1 team in the world, Spain.

I studied in Spain for a semester and saw many of the team's players in different clubs around La Liga. I saw Fernando Torres at Atlectico Madrid, Sergio Ramos in Sevilla, and Cesc Fabregas at Barcelona. I picked them to win the last World Cup in my pool. I love watching them play, and didn't think the US stood a chance against them.

That's why, after the first goal, I jumped off my couch and danced around the house. After the second goal, I ran outside and embarrassingly yelled at the top of my lungs, drawing the attention of my neighbors dogs and a homeless man in the alleyway. I didn't think that they stood a chance after the first two games of the tournament, and now they were headed to the championship after beating the supergiant.

I will be locked in on Sunday, cheering for the underdog once again (they will most likely play Brazil in the final). So, while the Twins continue to waste late inning leads and the prolific season of Jo Jo Ma, one of my teams is taking advantage of the opportunities that they've been presented.

USA!!!

Switching to the NL

What up world,

I love me some interleague play. After digging through the Sota Love laboratories of statistical research (it's very extensive), I've discovered that the Twins are 87 and 48 during interleague play since 2002. That's a .644 winning percentage y'all. And it seems to come at the exact right moment each season. After an April and May of mediocrity, the team starts to come together once the National League comes into town. Maybe it's because teams aren't used to playing under the baggie or on the artificial turf. Maybe it's due to Gardy's management style and our penchant for playing small-ball that causes us to match up well against NL teams. Or maybe it's the teams that we play against that allows the Twins to do so well. Lets examine this last point...

So far this season we have played against the Brewers, Cubs, and Pirates in interleague play, going 7 and 2. We will look at each series in separate parts:

Brewers: We swept the Brewers at home. At the time, the majority of Wisconites were devastated with the news of a possible Brett Favre transition to the Vikings. They were unable to fully support their baseball team, knowing that their childhood hero, God of their state, was about to betray them. Tears were being shed in the streets, Brett Favre statues were being torn down and destroyed, and every child that had been named after Brett was being exiled from the land of cheese. With all of this heartbreak and turmoil, the Brewers were unable to focus, especially while trying to catch fly balls against the baggie backdrop.

Additionally, the Twins love feasting on beer and sausages. Mike Redmond drank a keg of beer by himself. Brian Buscher ate an entire case of brats. Milwaukee really didn't stand a chance.

Cubs: The Twins won 2 out of 3 games at Wrigley Field over the weekend, with a large number of Minnesota fans in attendance. What I haven't revealed prior to this, is that the team contacted me before they made the trip. They knew that I had lived in Chicago for a number of years, and were wondering if I could provide a good itinerary for the team. Here was my Friday schedule.

Day: Win Game
Dinner: Vines on Clark St. Get a BBQ steak sandwich with the seasoned curly fries. Delectable.
Post Dinner: Visit Brent and Megan on Sheffield. Play a couple of games of blong ball on the back porch and enjoy a few drinks.
Bars: Start with a few drinks at Redmonds, the Badger/Vikings bar. They make especially good Jager bombs. When feeling particularly good, head to Matilda's/Baby Atlas down the street. Have a few landminds and dance with the mannequin for me.
Post Bars: Get a few slices from Ian's Pizza on Clark to end the evening. Avoid the T-Bell on Addison at all costs. Hit up Brent and Megan's place again for some late night Mario Kart or possibly some Big Bumping.
Saturday: Sleep it off. Win again.

With proper planning, the Twins were able to enjoy themselves, and were fully prepared for the games. On Saturday night, they decided to go to Big City Tap on Belmont, which I did not recommend, and ended up losing their game. I told them that nothing good happens at the Big City, but they refused to listen to me.

Pirates: I had every bit of confidence in the team as the Pirates came into town this week. Not only were the Pirates not used to playing in the Dome, but they are generally terrible. To add to this, every member of the Twins was allowed to do pirate impressions throughout the week.

For the pre-pubescent members of the team, this was glorious. Scottie Baker, Go Go Gomez, the Delmonic, Keiunta Span, Lexi, and Buscher all that this was fantastic. They took batting practice with triangle hats and eye patches. Redmond kept telling female fans that he was in search of their booty. Joe Mauer showed up in a full Jack Sparrow outfit and continued to be amazing.

So far, so good in the National League. We have the Houston Astros (Slowey like space stuff), the Brewers (more beer and brats), and the St. Louis Cardinals (they're kind of scary) left of the schedule. As of today, the Twins are at .500 and only a game and half back. By the end of June, we will be in first place and feeling good heading into the second half. It has been proclaimed!

-Sota

Sweet Home Chicago

What up world,

I lived in Chicago for three years, most of that time within the shadow of Wrigley Field. I wandered the streets of Wrigleyville, enjoying the restaurants, the bars, and the general atmosphere of the area. Although I never became a full fledged Cubs fan, I will admit to owning a hat and offering my silent support to the team. I desperately wanted the Cubs to advance deep into the postseason, just to see the response of the neighborhood, and to have an excuse to get drunk and party.

I had no issues with the team other than being annoyed with the intoxicated, middle aged white guys that took over Clark St. on game days. They play in the National League, they generally fair pretty well against the Bitch Sox in interleague play, and are a fairly loveable team. Derrick Lee seems awesome. I can admire the scrappiness of The Riot. Ryan Dempster has crazy wrists, and Ted Lilly looks like he's constantly on the verge of tears.

In addition to this, the ballpark is awesome. It looks like it was put together with scraps of various building material and it seems to be constantly on the verge of collapse. However, it's located in the center of the city, with bars across the street, and homes that offer a view of the field of play from their rooftop. Going to a Cubs game is an event for the entire hood. Since moving there, I was always envious that Minneapolis didn't possess a similar feel. I'm hoping that Target Field will come close, but I don't know if you can ever match the atmosphere of Chicago's north side.

Through the magic of WGN, I was able to watch the Twins/Cubs series this weekend. Instead of being overjoyed that I was able to watch the games live, I became extremely jealous. I had heard from a variety of friends that were heading to Wrigley to watch the games. I had lived near the field for two years, and never had the chance to watch the Twins play there. I wanted to be chanting Joe Mauer's name with the rest of the crowd while on the verge of screaming like a pre-teen girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. I wanted to drink Old Style in the bleachers, taunting Milton Bradley for his bonehead play. I wanted to tell Go Go that I still loved him, even though he has a permanent ass-bat, and then go crazy when he hit his home run on Sunday.

Instead, I was dog sitting for friends, trying to formulate plans to see the team in LA. The combination of the Twins at Wrigley, the start of the Chicago dodgeball season, and too many shifts at work caused me to miss the mid-west more than ever before.

To recover from this, I spent the day at the beach yesterday, trying to quell the feeling of homesickness with crashing surf and bright sunshine. Although this helped, I still need to feel a little better. The solution? Maybe a sweep of the Pirates? I think so.

-Sota

Scottie Gets Busy

What up world,

Scottie Baker is a very good pitcher. This 12 year old boy was projected to be our opening day starter prior to experiencing some soreness in his shoulder in the days leading up to the season. Through all of his troubles; giving up home runs, running into bad innings, forgetting his favorite teddy bear "Cuddles" on road trips, and issues with "nutty", Scottie can still bring the heat.

Every time that Scottie pitches, I always have visions of butterflies and no hitters. Here is a brief recap of the last few games.

6/9 Oakland: 8 innings, 3 earned runs. Took a shutout into the 9th before conceding to the bullpen. 8 strikeouts, 1 walk, and no home runs. Scottie! Good work!

6/4 Cleveland: 7 innings, 2 earned runs. 10 strikeouts, 1 walk, and 1 home run in another win. Dominating performance. This is what we were expecting out of Scottie to start the year.

5/29 Tampa: 5.2 innings, 4 earned runs. 4 strikeouts and 2 home runs. Not that great of a performance, but it was on the road, and Scottie had stayed up all night playing video games and eating sundaes the previous evening. We discussed his behavior, and although there were some tears and some yelling, he's agreed to start going to sleep early before games.

I believe that Scottie has turned a corner this season. He's delivered two very solid performances back-to-back, giving me another reason to love this young, innocent child. Wait, that sounds bad...

Let me explain. Not only is Scottie a promising, young pitcher, but he also provides a wide plethora of nicknames. In just a little bit of research, I've discovered that there are many sides to Scott Baker.

There is, of course, my version of Scott


Then there is the obvious baker comparisons (with a picture of nutty on his chef's hat).



The baker references naturally lead to a wide range of subsequent nicknames. Bake sale, Baker's dozen, Shake and Bake, among others.

Digging a little deeper, I've discovered that Scott has many interests outside of baseball. Although the images may not resemble the pitcher that we've grown to love, I can assure you that they are all, in fact, Scott Baker.

Scott Baker, Assistant Director of Clinical Care - Florida Hospital.



A long time resident of Ormond Beach, Scott Baker joins HospiceCare as our Assistant Director of Clinical Care. In the Florida Hospital System since 1992, Scott comes to us as the former Director of Case Management with Florida Hospital Fish Memorial. He will be responsible for the day to day domination of opposing hitters.

Scott Baker - Coney Island Sideshow



Scott Baker fronts the Coney Island Circus Sideshow as the Outside Talker (known to the uninitiated at the "barker") who talks you into opening your wallet and buying a ticket to the show. Not surprisingly, Scott is a trained Broadway actor with many stage and film credits. When not in Coney Island, Scott often delights audiences with his pitching performances for the Minnesota Twins, wherein he performs many of the most dangerous pitching acts, all on his own.

Lord Justice Scott Baker



Although he looks considerably older in this picture, Scott Baker presided over the Princess Diana wrongful death lawsuit in Great Britain in 2007. In a high pressure, highly public situation, Scott performed admirably and in the proper context of public interest during the hearings.

There is so much about Scott that we don't know. Even with the tremendous pressure we place on him to carry the young pitching staff, he still manages to practice medicine, law, and freakshows. For that young Scottie, I have to offer my respect.

-Sota

Seattle!!!!

What up world,

The city of Seattle and I have a love/hate relationship. On one hand, it's a beautiful city that is the home of my wonderful sister, her husband, and their friends. It's within driving distance of some great skiing, hiking, and camping. I enjoy Alki and West Seattle quite a bit. You can ride Orca's around Puget Sound, and delicious coffee comes out of their taps instead of water. In these ways, Seattle is a wonderful place to visit.

On the other hand, it is also the place that the Twins go to have their hopes and dreams crushed. Seattle welcomes all visitors with open arms, aside from baseball teams from Minnesota, whom are hammered into the ground and beaten repeatedly. Here is a recap from the weekend.

Friday - Twins 2, Seattle 1

It took extra innings, but the Twins managed to steal a win away. The Saint pitched well for the first time in a long time, allowing only one run in 6 innings. Scraptastic Matt Tolbert hit a line drive in the 10th that should have been caught, but resulted in the winning run crossing the plate. Unfortunately, the play resulted in an error, which doesn't help Tolbert's otherworldly .179 average.

Saturday - Twins 1, Seattle 2

Rob Nick Blackburn came to play on Saturday, pitching 7 innings and only giving up 1 run. The entire lineup, however, must have drank too much coffee on Friday night, and were mired in Sucktown during the game. Too much caffiene is bad for your game, guys. Having the shakes and gut rot while you are at the plate is not a recipe for success.

Sunday - Twins 2, Seattle 4

Kevin Slowey decided that he was sick of being awesome and gave up three home runs. The assbats continued to be prevalent for the Twins, especially with runners in scoring position, going 0 for 8 on Sunday. The team is now 7 and 18 on the road, and has 7 more games left in their current roadtrip. Things can only get better right?

After a full weekend of touring the sites of Seattle, going to Pikes Place Market, seeing the Starbucks headquarters, and drinking gallons of coffee and coffee related products, the Twins were simply exhausted when it came to actually playing the game. I understand that. Fortunately, they are headed to Oakland next. Oakland sucks. There are only whistle tips and Raider fans in Oakland.

I still have the faith, Twins. Stop making everything so painful.

-Sota

Superheroes Unite

What up world,

Last week, when our favorite, teeniest superhero was placed on the disabled list, I was concerned for the entire metro area. While, Lil Nicky Punto may not have been doing anything effective on the field, he was actively protecting the good citizens of the Twin Cities. Kittens were being saved, old women were being helped across the street, and Packer fans were being quelled. Without his constant vigilance, the entire state may crumble into a crime-filled mess.

It wasn't until yesterday's game that my fears were tempered. What I hadn't realized was that Lil Nicky had been quietly training his replacement over the past season and a half, both in the field and in the streets. Brendan "Don't call me Brenden" Harris has emerged as the next teeniest superhero to fill our gapingly deficient shortstop position.



Since coming from Tampa Bay as part of the Delmon Young trade, Brendan has been filling in as a utility player in the Twins rotation. He has provided sufficient defense and the occasional timely hit, but he has gone larger unnoticed in my mind. That was until the last couple of games. Not only did he have a run preventing play in the field last night, he also went yard on Sunday against the Rays. For these reasons, I decided to do some investigative work into Harris' background in order to find out for about this mysterious man.


Who are you Brendan Harris?

Unfortunately, there is very little information out there. His upbringing is veiled in secrecy and riddles. Apparently he grew up in Albany, New York, but he has been on the move for several years. He was drafted and played for the Cubs, spent time with the Expos, Nationals, Reds, and Rays before landing in Minnesota.

After several hours of research, I can start to form some conclusions. When he entered into the Twins clubhouse last spring, Lil Nicky obviously saw some potential in Harris. He was a scrappy player that had spent the majority of his career as an unknown. Due to this, Punto decided to take him under his tiny wing to teach him the ways of a Twins superhero.


Chasing down evil doers who place the Twins on their no-trade clause.

Soon, Punto and Harris were working in tandem, patrolling the mean streets of Minneapolis in search of wrongdoers. Punto was dedicating so much time to teaching young Harris, that his play in the field started to suffer. He mistakenly picked up his ass-bat from 2007, and didn't properly stretch in pre-game warmups. Before we could realize that Lil Nicky had stretched himself too thin, he was batting .187 and pulling his groin.

Luckily, the teachings of Punto had sunk in for Harris. He had become a tiny superhero in his own right, and has even begun to spread the Lil Nicky lessons to other scrappy members of the team.


Harris and recent protege Matt Tolbert

Best of luck Brendan. May the scrappy play and headlong dives into first work for you as well as they have for Punto. Actually, hopefully they will work better. Much, much better.

The picture below was captured during the Twins' recent day off. I think he'll do fine.


Saving puppies, saving the Twins, saving Minnesota

-Sota

The Ones That Got Away

What up world,

Even after the pep talk, the Twins continued their road suck-fest on Saturday, losing to the Rays 5-3. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was convinced that we were going to be swept, leading to a serious case of the Mondays on their day off.

Much to my surprise, Rob Nick Blackburn turned in a gem, and the team won 3-2. In addition to the pitching of R.N., the Twins received some power from Brendan Harris and some timely hitting from Go Go. The Delmonic even had a hit! Yay! He also turned in two strikeouts and left a couple of base, but at least it's something.

What makes the win even sweeter was that it was against the spitting machine known as Matt Garza. He and Jason Bartlett were sent to Tampa in exchange for Young and Harris last offseason. It was a move that was hailed by many fans. The Delmonic and his tremendous potential were headed to the great white north to provide some much needed pop to our lineup. He would patrol the left field, send homers in every direction, and steal more bases than Dane Cook steals jokes.

After a season and a half, I can say with confidence that I regret this particular transaction. The Delmonic looks lost at the plate. His upper and lower body look as if they came from two different people. I'm convinced that he had his legs amputated and replaced at some point in his life. I would much rather have an outfield of Span, Go Go, and Cuddles on a night to night basis, with More Ku-bell as the DH.

Meanwhile, Garza and Bartlett have been tearing up the AL East. Garza was the AL Championship Series MVP. Bartlett was voted team MVP for his defense and was hitting .373 with 7 home runs before he was recently put on the DL.

Now, I will admit that I was excited for the trade when it happened. I had gone through some rocky patches with Garza and his poor attitude, and was ready to move onto something fresh and new. I was getting those new relationship butterflies once again. First dates and some evidence of power from Young made me quickly forgot how much joy I had experienced with the Garza/Bartlett tandem. Instead of putting work into what I had, I was moving onto something flashy.

Today, when I see how well my boys are doing on the Rays, it hurts. You never want to see someone move onto something better. You want a Ricky Davis or Dante Culpepper situation. Not what I have now. Currently, I have Garza, Bartlett, KG, Santana, Kyle Lohse, and Randy Moss excelling on new teams. Past relationships that continue to haunt me throughout sports page headlines and sportcenter highlights.

I will move on, eventually. Someone else will tug at my heartstrings. Purple Jesus has already has my full attention. Jo Jo Ma and Justin Morneau as well. Percy Harvin is starting to whisper sweet nothings into my ear. The Delmonic may figure something out eventually, and we might be able to rekindle the fire that was once there.

Only time, and buckets of break up ice cream, will tell.

-Sota

Road Weary

What up world,

Another day, another road loss. The Twins are now 5 and 15 away from the friendly, temperature controlled confines of the Metrodome, giving them the worst record in the league. Worse than Oakland and Colorado. Worse than the Washington Nationals, who have won only 13 games total. It's gross. I understand that traveling can be difficult, but I think with some proper planning, the team could be better prepared. For this purpose, I've decided to talk to a few of the key players, to provide something of a mental checklist for the games. Conversation recaps are below:

Scottie Baker: After giving up another three run dinger last night, you really need to get your act together, Scottie. In the three games that you've pitched on the road, you have an ERA over 8 and you've given up 7 home runs. 7!!! In three games! I'm sorry to yell. No, don't cry. Just make sure that you pack Cuddles and go to sleep as early as possible. You need your 10 hours, Scottie.

Saint Francisco: Your holiness, I'm sorry to have to say this, but you've stunk on the road. Like a skunk that's been baking in the sun for a few days. You have a 7.62 ERA and have given up 20 walks in 26 innings pitched. That's not you. You were supposed to be our ace, and people are starting to question their faith. Remember to bring along your holy water, and take the necessary time to bless the mound before starting the game. I still believe Saint! Show me a sign!

Jesse Crain: I want you to be good. I want people to stand and cheer for you when you enter a game. I want you to throw 1,000 mph fastballs that have some sort of movement on them. I want people to wear fake versions of your dirty goatee, like they do with Jo Jo Ma's sideburns. A great way for this to happen is to not lose games. Especially on the road. My advice: Eat some extra flapjacks with an extra dose of maple syrup at the start of the game (ed. note; he's from Canada).

Mike Redmond: I think that we can both agree that the team is playing a little tight right now. We need wins, but we can't play that way. That's why I'm instituting naked Red-Dog time for every road trip. I will let you decide when and where you would like to present yourself, whether that is during batting practice, in the locker room, or throughout the hotel hallways. What I do know is that naked time needs to happen.

Carlos Gomez, Brendan Harris, Matt Tolbert, Delmon Young: Stop sucking.

Jo Jo Ma: Jo Jo, you are awesome. Can you please spread some of your awesomeness to other members of the team?

I had a conference call with the entire team, encouraging them to remember their toothbrushes and to get a decent amount of sleep. Gomez even agreed to stop making forts in his room until the wee hours of the night.

The situation had grown dire enough that I even decided to post on the weekend. And that never happens. However, after the pep talk and some soul searching, I think that things are going to start turning around, starting with the game this afternoon. Let's be some road warriors boys.

The Ballad of Jo Jo Ma

What up world,

Sorry for the brief absence. I'm back up, and fully functional. Especially after an invigorating visit from the Brew Crew. Thank you Milwaukee for continuing to be our collective whipping boys. Mmmm, you really can taste the hops.

While the Twins persist in alternating between awesome and frustrating, there has been one constant: the beautiful nature of Joe Mauer's game.



Jo Jo Ma has been crafting awe inspiring harmonies for years through the play of his cello. Some say that his parents put the instrument in his crib while he was an infant. There were no teddy bears or nookies, just a bow and the cello. By the age of 4, he was already creating his own melodies and had begun to work on his first full orchestra symphony. And he did it all left handed.

When his fingers were too blistered from playing, he would venture into his backyard and hit a few bombs into other St. Paul backyards. One summer he decided to earn a little extra cash by having a newspaper route. He would stand at the end of his driveway and chuck papers into every home in the neighborhood with pinpoint accuracy. Occasionally, when feeling extremely energized, he would stand in the middle of the street and receive hits from passing cars, just to see if he could hold onto a ball.

But his first love was always the cello. For years, Jo Jo worked on his craft. When he first became a professional, he was still developing some key aspects of his skill. He would lace concertos into the left-center section of the Ordway on a consistent basis. Occasionally he would show flashes of his overall cello game, but it wasn't with regularity. His immense fan base demanded more. They clamored to see Jo Jo Ma in all his glory, wanting him to finally deliver the masterful symphony that they knew he possessed inside of him.

After an offseason of uncertainty and some amounts of doubt, Jo Jo Ma returned this concert season with a briefcase full of sheet music and a newly found power stroke. In 23 concerts, he delivered 11 home runs. Twins fans were singing his name in the streets. Finally, Jo Jo was delivering on the promise of his early career, giving us power while still playing with average.

It's been an amazing month with Jo Jo. Let's all hope that this mastery of the instrument continues throughout the remainder of the season, and that the entire Twins roster can find some sort of consistency in their lineup.

Follow the genius of Jo Jo Ma, boys. Hear the sweet, sweet music...