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