Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Puppy Love

What up world,

I was unreasonably excited about the Timberwolves yesterday. Sure they had lost the last six games by an average of 30 points per games, half of the team is out with injuries, and they've already been mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, but they were coming to Southern California. They played the Lakers last night and there is a station in San Diego that is 100% dedicated to Laker basketball. I was going to be able to watch my Wuffies live!

I scheduled my evening in order to watch the game. I was going to do a little cleaning, make some dinner, and settle down for a night of mediocre basketball.

And then, sometime during my drive home, these plans were wiped from my memory. I ran some errands, talked with the gf, and headed to play some pick up soccer. It was only when I was leaving the soccer field that I was reminded of my original intentions. I flipped on sports talk radio, heard the waning moments of the game, and nearly punched myself in the face. Not only had I missed the opportunity to watch the team, but the game was actually close. I almost got into an accident when Corey Brewer nearly broke his skeletal frame with a dunk, bringing the Wolves within four. I couldn't believe that I was missing the excitement.

Of course the Wolves lost. The thought of them winning never crossed my mind. I was happy that they had actually made it competitive. I would have been content if they kept the winning differential less than 50 points. I finished listening to the game in the car, and immediately checked the game recap when I got home.

The first thing that jumped out at me was Kevin Love's night. I couldn't believe it, convinced that it was a typo. 24 rebounds? Was that possible for a slow white guy, with a chin strap beard, that runs like an agitated duck? No, it couldn't be correct.

I checked again. 24 rebounds and 23 points? He outrebounded his points? I was amazed. I was immediately launched into a Kevin Love frenzy. The Sota Love research team was put into action. Here are a couple of interesting things that the research team found:

- Love has played 227 minutes so far this season.
- He has 42 offensive rebounds
- He has 64 defensive rebounds
- This means that every 2.14 minutes that he's on the court, our somewhat-tubby hero is gathering a board.

He is also scoring 17.6 points per game, killing it with the ladies, and writing his own blog. All extensively researched and factually accurate. I will post a link to the inappropriately titled, "Love Will Tear Us Apart" in the sidebar. I would have encouraged him to title it "Love Will Keep Us Together", but I'll bite my tongue until we are best friends and hanging out on a nightly basis. Seriously, Kevin, let's hang out. I'm good at ping pong and making up drinking games. It will be super fun.

There is some slight tension between my boy and my coach, but I'm guessing that will simmer down a bit as the season goes on. With nights like last night, Kevin is stating his case for increased playing time. Even if his defense is grosser than a burrito that's been left out for several hours, I have faith that it will improve.

Keep getting better Kevin. Keep getting better T-Wolves. Let's leave behind those 40 point blowouts and make those small glimmers of hope more prevalent.

Countdown to 15 wins: 1

-Sota

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Hope...

What up world,

Tonight is a big night. A BIG night. Tonight marks the beginning of something special in the state of Minnesota. No longer will Minnesotans flounder in despair. Not in the least. For hope is beginning to shine through the darkness of our impending winter. Minnesotans, let your heart be full with the promise of something better....

...because tonight marks the start of the Timberwolves season!

That's right! No longer will you have to dwell on the playoff exit of those miserable Twins, or the wilting expectations of your football Vikings. Forget about Joe Mauer and Brett Favre. In the Timberwolves you have a team that won a staggering 15 games last season. 15 games!!! Imagine if they were an NFL team. 15 wins would be a dominant season.

What's that? 67 losses? Of course you had to mention the losses. So what? We got rid of the problems from last year. Namely Al Jefferson. So what if he scored 17 point and grabbed 10 rebounds per game? We don't need them. Or his low post moves. Or favorable contract. Or good attitude in the locker room. Good riddance, you troublemaker.

Plus, Al was holding back the development of our savior. No, I'm not talking about Kevin Love. I'm talking about the Super Serb. The Darkness. A Millie. This guy.




Former Number 2 overall pick, Darko Milicic. He might not have worked for the previous four NBA teams, but he is definitely going to work for us. So much so that we offered him $20 million over the next four years. This can't fail!

Oh, and let's not forget about Demarcus Beasley, or Martell Webster, or Luke Ridnour, or even Nikola Pekovic. No other teams wanted them. Who cares? Collectively they will be something special. Guaranteed. A group of castoffs put together to form the most dominant team in NBA history. It's the basketball version of Goonies. With Kevin McHale playing the part of One Eyed Willy.



The good news is that it will be difficult for the team to be worse than last year. 15 wins isn't exactly setting the bar high. They already had 6 wins in the preseason. Plus, I have an entire roster to get to know. It's a blogging gold mine.

So, Minnesotans, let's get behind this team. Let's cheer them on in a half empty Target Center. Let's applaud the work of David Khan. Let's hold onto the glimmer of hope that we have at the onset. Because that's most likely the last glimmer that we're going to have for a long time.

-Sota

Thursday, October 21, 2010

A Leaky Ship

What up world,

Over the last couple of years, as I've blogged intermittently, I've noticed that I don't write much about the Vikings. I've written inane articles on Timberwolves players, discussed the inner workings of Lil Nicky Punto's mind, and even wrote a piece on classifying gymnasts as a different species, but I don't find that I have much to say on the Vikes.

I don't know why this is. I love the Purple. I've fiercely defended the actions of the team against my heathenish Green Bay parents. I've mirrored Chris Carter's touchdown celebration during numerous beer pong games. I even called into a sports talk radio show to discuss the team (the lowest point of my life).

Disappointment. It's the only thing that I can think of. I haven't cheered for any other team that has had a consistent shot at being great. The Timberwolves had one season of greatness (single tear. I miss you KG). The Twins have made the playoffs on a regular basis, but I've never thought of them as a legitimate contender. We never even think about a national championship for the Badgers. We set our sights on the Rose Bowl, but are really just happy to have a moment of greatness every once in a while. Like beating #1 last weekend. What! Suck it Ohio State.

Every season, however, I look to the Vikings to do something extraordinary. I get my hopes and expectations up, and am usually bitterly disappointed by season's end. The beginning of the 2010 season was no different. After getting to the brink of the Super Bowl last year, I thought that we had a legitimate chance at being dominant from the start. Bring back Favre. Bring back Purple Jesus. Hell, even Chili can come along for the ride. Breeze through the regular season and bring on that championship banner.

The last time that I felt this confident about the team was the beginning of the 2005 season. My boy, Duante Culpepper, was coming off of an amazing season. The majority of the team was back, our defense was getting better, and I was convinced that the departure of Randy Moss would allow the team to gel. I was ready for Duante to take the team in his tiny hands and lead us to glory.

The team started 2-5, Duante's knee was dismantled, and the Vikings ended up not going to the playoffs. In addition, a little incident called "The Love Boat" occurred, leaving me not only disappointed but also ashamed. Ugh, Bryant McKinnie, you are a dirty dude.

Which brings us to 2010. The Vikings are 2-3, and look as coordinated as a newborn deer. Watching our offense makes me want to punch children and kittens. My thoughts of domination have dissolved into hopes of getting to .500.

And scandal has reared its ugly head once again (no pun intended). Brett's penis made its Internet debut last week and discussions of his harassment have run rampant. Our QB is already battered and out of sync with our receivers. Let's add some embarrassment and marital troubles. Sounds like a plan!

It has gotten to the point that I don't want to think about the team throughout the week. I'm trying to guard myself against the pain. I don't want to get my hopes up any longer, only to have them crushed. It's not a great way to go into Packer week.

Pull it together Vikes. I want to love you and dream of a purple championship ring. By the way, I'll be in Dallas for the Super Bowl. It would be fantastic if you could show up as well.

Sincerely,

Sota

Monday, October 11, 2010

Damn Yankees

What up world,

I haven't seen the play "Damn Yankees". However, I have watched the Twins lose nine playoffs games in a row to the "F-ing Yankees", and I've read the wikipedia page regarding the play. As such, I feel that I have the authority to dive into a comparison between "Damn Yankees" and the poop-fest that I watched over the last week.

The story takes place in Washington D.C., where the main character, Joe, is a fan of the local baseball team, the Washington Senators. Note that those Senators eventually moved to the Twin Cities in 1960 to become the most adorably frustrating baseball team in history.

Joe hates the Yankees and thinks that the Senators could beat them if only they had a long ball hitter. A salesman arrives at his doorstep while he's having these thoughts, offering him a chance to be the savior of the franchise. The only catch is that Joe must provide his soul. He can opt out of the contract, but it has to be before his last at-bat at the conclusion of the baseball season.

If I were Joe, I would probably be skeptical of the salesman that arrives at my door requesting my soul as compensation. I would think that he was either the devil or nuts-crazy. Either way I probably would avoid his offer...and direct eye contact. I'm not saying that I wouldn't consider it. It is the Yankees.

Joe accepts the offer, begins crushing balls, and moving the Senators up in the standings. He is loving life and Senator fans are loving him. Nothing could be better, except that Joe gets all sally-pants on us, and starts missing his wife. Come on Joe, this is the Yankees that we are taking about! The Yankees!!! Stay focused.

At his final at-bat, Joe is left with two fates. He could either crush a home run and win the pennant, losing his soul in the process, or he could reverse the deal and get his wife back. At the last moment he asks to be let go and returns to his normal self.

How selfish can you be Joe? Don't you know that there are young fans all over the country that are cheering you on? In particular, a young, handsome, charming fan living in San Diego, that wants nothing more than a single victory in the playoffs? You and your stupid wife.

But there is a twist. Even after declining his powers, Joe ends up hitting a home run anyway. He's just a normal guy swinging some big lumber. The Senators win the pennant, he gets his wife back, and the devil/travelling salesman is left with nothing.

I think that we've learned our lesson here Twins fans. Someone out there has to throw out the offer. Put your soul in escrow for the length of next season, but make sure to include the opt out clause. When the playoffs role around, simply renege on that promise. As long as it ensures a victory over that pompous, overpaid, arrogant team from the Bronx.

Thank you for the season Twins. Lets see if we can find our Souless Joe for next year.

Go Rangers

-Sota

Monday, October 4, 2010

Rich Kids

What up world,

162 games in the books. No need for the 163rd. Playoffs are here and I couldn't be more excited. Target Field is polished up and ready. Twins fans are working themselves into a frenzy. October has arrived, and with it, the hopes of a championship run. Now, let me check the schedule to see who we're playing...

The Yankees? What!?!? Again??? Well, poop...

The F-ing Yankees. I couldn't hate the team more. It's a strong statement, but I don't see any way that I could hold a greater level of resentment. Unless, they hailed from Northern Wisconsin and wore hats that looked like cheese. That would be my nightmare.

I think of the Yankees as the preppy kids from 80's movies. You see them pop on screen, displaying smarminess and feathered hair, and the desire to punch them in the face rises exponentially.



But the problem for our hero (the Twins in this case) is that they are stuck mowing lawns in order to pay for the cool car or sweet sunglasses. They don't have the luxury of daddy's trust fund. The preppy kids have all of the cool parties...



get all the hot girls (Hello, Minka Kelly)



and constantly hold the regular guys down.



It's the worst. It's not a level playing field. Our hero starts the movie with the odds stacked against him. There's no way the pretty girl next door is going to go to prom with him. Unless...

Maybe our hero wins the big ski race. Maybe he gets her to give him a makeover and they pretend to be in a relationship, but they end of falling in love anyway. Maybe they get stuck in detention together, and realize that this whole popularity thing is dumb anyway. Maybe, when all else fails, the Twins hold a boom box over their heads outside the World Series' house. How could she say no to that?




So bring it on Biff, or Miles, or the Yankees. We're ready for you...

-Sota

Thursday, September 30, 2010

I Heart Target

Target is fantastic. It’s like a candyland for adults. Ooo, look over here! It’s a packet of boxer briefs! Oh, and do you see those? Digital cameras! Did you hear that they have groceries now? Why would we ever leave? What else could Target possibly do?

What’s that? What did you say? Target has a field? I know that there is some sort of Target Center, but there’s nothing there but a nuclear waste zone. Talk to me about this Target Field.

It’s a baseball stadium? You don’t say. Who plays there? The Twins? But I thought they played in a giant marshmallow. No? They moved? When? This year? How did they do?

They won the AL Central with giant bats, good defensive play, and what…

No, I don’t believe it. He was so awful after the trade. I cried for a full 162+ plus games whenever I saw the Rays play. You’re telling me that the Delmonic had a good season? He can actually hit? He still runs like someone surgically replaced his lower half with chunks of wood and duct tape, right? Okay, that makes me feel slightly better.

What else happened?

Thome? Jim Thome? He’s back again? I thought he retired in 2003 and was being fed grapes by supermodels and ruling small countries with his massive forearms and pull power. How did he do? 25 home runs?!?! How many at bats? Only 271? Dear Lord! I say that we make him honorary governor or at least put his face on the state flag. It’s the least that we can do.

Tell me more…

Pavano…I know that I know that name, but I’m not sure where I’ve heard it before. Carl Pavano… Wasn’t he a Yankee? Yeah! Wait, you’re telling me that a player went from the Yankees to the Twins? That’s not how it’s supposed to happen. Yankees – Indians – Twins. Oh, okay. That makes a little more sense. He has a 3.60 ERA and he’s our number 2 starter? Awesome. Obviously our savior Saint Francisco is our number 1, right?

There’s more? You’re telling me that Carl Pavano has a mustache, which earned him a nomination for the ”Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year” award, and prompted Little Nicky Punto to grow a mustache of his own? I love the Pavstache idea, but I’m not so sure about the Punto sized stache. How can something so manly be associated with something so cute and cuddly? That would be like a bunny shooting a handgun, while chewing, and riding a motorcycle. It doesn’t seem right.




So the Twins, who are now playing outdoor baseball, have won the AL Central and are heading to the playoffs with an awesome lineup, a halfway decent rotation, and homefield advantage through the ALDS? Why the F am I still in California?

I love you Target. Your massive selection, somewhat clean stores, and amazing baseball team is enough reason for me to move back home. Now, if you could just convince my girlfriend…

-Sota

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

The Return Game

What up world,

Well, dear me. There’s so much to report, I’m not sure that I even know where to begin. Do I start with the Twins and their awesomeness? Or the awful play of the Vikes? Do I discuss the NBDL team that David Khan has assembled? My overrated Badgers? Maybe I can talk about my intramural soccer team? There is too much happening at once and too much to discuss. My brain is on sports overload. I may cross over into coma-ville if I don’t slow down for a moment.

Alright, I’m going to take on one thing at a time. In that way I think that I can give every one of my loves the attention that they deserve (yes, I love my intramural soccer team. What of it?). My first object of affection is, of course, the Twins…

-Sota

Did you think that I was going to write something now? Come on. It’s been months. I need to get back into the swing of this crazy thang. Give me some time…

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

WGTKY - Ol Dirt Doggy

What up world,

I saw that one of my faithful readers posted a comment in my last post. After considerable investigation I discovered that the commenter was none other than my father. Good work Dad! This interwebs stuff isn't so tough, right?

If you were lucky enough to read this comment, you would notice that my father has developed a certain level of fondness for the Twins new second baseman, Orlando Hudson. And I can't fault him for that. I will admit that I haven't paid much attention to the newcomers. It's difficult to see the contributions of players like Orlando when you are watching game updates on ESPN. In an effort to push my familiarity further, I've decided to welcome him to the team with a segment I like to call "Wanna Get to Know You".

Without further ado: WGTKY - Orlando Hudson Edition!!!!

Name: Orlando Hudson
Age: 32
Birthplace: Awesome Town
Nickname: O Dog

I have an issue with this. Why O Dog? There are so many other potentially great nicknames for our new second baseman. Let's think about this. First name, Orlando. What happens in Orlando? Disney does. Could he be a Mouseketeer? No, that's a little juvenile. Plus, Mouseketeer Hudson doesn't flow that well.

Let's keep thinking. Orlando has a lot of syllables in it. We'll shorten it to "O". O Hudson. Where can we find a Hudson? There's the river. Oh, and the bay. Where's the bay? In Canada. That's it!!! We'll call him O Canada!

Hold on...Let's think about this again. We already have the Mountie in Justin Morneau. We don't want to anger him. Back to the drawing board. What else happens in Orlando? Hmmm... Got it! The Magic. The Orlando Magic. Orlando Hudson = The Magic Man!!! Boom!!! Nickname solved.

Position: Second base. While watching the game, I noticed that another newcomer, my boy JJ, was taking the day off. In his place was Alexi Casilla, our second baseman from last year. Watching Alexi hit soft ground outs caused me to remember what is was like watching him last year. Yes, he did have a clutch hit every once in a while, but he rarely got the ball past the pitchers mound. I loved you at one time Alexi, but I have a new crush. It's because he does things like this:

Break dance fielding!!!


Alexi, there are times that you make spectacular defensive plays, but there are also times that you do things so stupid that Gardy poops himself in frustration. We can't have those errors or those soiled manager uniforms. It's too much strain on the team.

Special Skills: Talking

According to my father, The Magic Man is a fast talker. He talks to opposing base runners, to his defense, to the media, and even to the umpires. Actually, he butters the umpires up so much that he gets invited to their "umpire-only" barbecues. This gets him a smaller strike zone, beneficial foul calls, and a warm welcome at home plate. This can only help us.



In conclusion, I would like to thank my dad for pointing out The Magic Man's awesomeness to me. Without the comment, I may have continued to ignore our new second baseman for the entire season. Instead, I managed to hang out with him for a bit, even taking a picture*:


*not actually me

Welcome to the Twins, Magic Man. Keep on doing what you do.

-Sota

Friday, April 30, 2010

Return of the Saint

What up world,

Well, crap. For the first time this season, the Twins lost a series. I was okay with the lack of sweeps provided by the team, as long as we continued to win the majority of the games. I envisioned an entire year of series wins (including something I like to call the playoff series), but now that dream has died. Thanks a lot, Twins.

Although this is just one series, and the Twins are still in first place, there are more troublesome signs that are starting to emerge. The Mountie's back is starting to hurt again, Lil Nicky Punto discovered his groin and promptly strained it, and Scottie Baker is as scared of opposing hitters as he is of the monsters under his bed. After a rather exciting start, I'm starting to get a little nervous.

I need something to restore my faith. Something to help me believe that this hot start is not just an aberration. What could it be? Maybe Jo Jo Ma's beautiful bat music? The increased on-base percentage of The Delmonic? Jon Rauch's emergence as the Undertaker? While all of these things help in their own small way, they aren't enough to sustain my belief in the team. I need some sort of miracle worker...

Enter Saint Francisco.



That's right! The Saint has been brought back from the dead. He has risen! Who needs properly working ligaments in their throwing arm? Not The Saint. He has been absolutely nasty (in a holy way - of course) throughout the start of the season. After three years of fighting against his inner demons, he's back to fight against his outer demons. Namely the heathenish Tigers of Detroit.



This is the Return of the Saint theme song. Entrance music anyone?

I'm convinced that he never properly descended from heavens before this season, due to the Teflon roof preventing his reentry. All we had to do was build an open air stadium for him to make his return. If we build it (with tax payer money), he (The Saint of 2006) will come!!!



Thank the Lord for Target Field. Thank the Baseball Gods for Saint Francisco.

-Sota

Monday, April 19, 2010

Popping the Balloon

What up world,

Before the start of the series with the Royalty of Kansas City, everyone in Twins Land was feeling good. Maybe a little too good. The team had just come off of series wins against the Angels, White Sox, and Red Sox, Target Field replaced Aphrodite as the most beautiful thing in history, and the team was starting to make some bold statements.

Hot Carl Pavano described the team as "great". Kubear said that he thought the team was capable of getting to the World Series and winning it. Scottie Baker said that his mom thought the Twins were the best team in baseball, and that she's very proud of her little boy.

Gardy sat back and listened to the ovations of the fans, his player's comments, and the rumblings of his stomach. He was nervous. Gardy doesn't like to be in the spotlight. He prefers the relatively anonymity of the upper midwest and the solitude of his personal booth at TGIFridays. All this attention and overconfidence was making him uncomfortable.

He decided to meet the problem head on. He held a players only meeting prior to the start of Sunday's game against the Royalty.

Gardy: Guys, we have to lose this game.
Guys: Awww, noooo.
Gardy: I'm sorry boys. We're getting too much attention. Fans heads are going to start exploding soon if we don't do something. They're going to be sitting in Target Field, watching us win again, and then...Boom! Brains everywhere.
Scottie Baker: Gross
Justin Morneau: Awesome.
Gardy: We are going to have to let this one go. Hot Carl?
Hot Carl Pavano: Yeah skip?
Gardy: We need you to throw them some meatballs up there.
Hot Carl: Come on. Really? I'm trying to impress Mrs. Baker.
Scottie: What?
Hot Carl: I've been meaning to talk to you about this Scottie. It looks like I might be your new dad.
Gardy: Sorry, Hot Carl. You'll have to do it another day. As for the rest of you, we need you to be awful. You're going to be on base, but we can't have any clutch hitting. I repeat, no clutch hitting. If you get an RBI, you're going to have to do sprints in our new treadmill pool.
Guys: Awww, noooo
Gardy: I'm sorry guys. We're too hot right now. We need things to cool off a bit. So lets get out there and make Kansas City look way better than they actually are!

With that the Twins proceeded to give up 10 runs (thank you Hot Carl) and leave 11 runners on base (thank you Morneau and Thome). Disaster averted. No exploding brains, no inflated expectations, and no unhappy Gardy's.

The Twins are hosting Cleveland for the rest of the week. Despite Gardy's misgivings, I want a sweep. Lets show him that Twins Land can handle the success.

-Sota

Monday, April 12, 2010

A New Hope

What up world,

Target Field. At long last. I'm watching the Twins play outside in the crisp air of a Minnesota spring. It's a field that I don't recognize, but one that has brought about a extreme level of fondness for me. It's like my first born child. Right now it looks a little funny. Kind of wrinkly and purple, but I can't seem to take my eyes off of it.

In honor of the opening of the new stadium, I've decided to create a running diary of today's game. Without further ado:

1st Inning: Okay, this isn't quite live. I missed the top half of the first inning. Job interviews got in the way of my blogging, yet again. I did catch the Target dog sitting behind home plate. It was a bit ridiculous, and it only confirms my belief that Target is slowly taking over the world.



Bottom half: Hit, hit, Joe Mauer introduction. I'm guessing that the sound system in Target Field is much better than it was in the Dome. Mauer is introduced by TI. The entire stadium rises in ovation. I have chills. This is awesome.

A couple of bloop singles from Cuddles and Kubear, and the Twins are up 2-0.

2nd Inning: Bud Selig has appeared, looking as creepy as ever. In my very first blog, I compared Selig to Count Chocula.



I still think that the comparison is valid, however, I think I've found something better.



These are the creatures from The Dark Crystal (greatest movie of all time?). I'm pretty sure that Selig was the motivation for the movie's make-up artists. Now, Bud is discussing contraction and how it really wasn't his fault. I want to throw things at his face.

Bottom half: Lil Nicky Punto arrives at the plate. Nicky is making the adjustment to outdoor baseball by applying excessive amounts of eye black. It might be a regular application, but on his teeny face it looks a little bit ridiculous. Punto gets on base, and steals second a few plays later. In the process of stealing, Nicky's belt pops off. There is a little man, holding his broken belt high in the air, and I am giggling. I heart you Lil Nicky.

Just a few plays later, Nicky crosses home plate. Twins up 3-0.

3rd Inning: Hot Carl Pavano issues a walk, but is otherwise dealing. Span makes a couple of plays in the outfield, and we're out of the inning.

Bottom half: The Delmonic has taken a walk and ripped an opposite field single already. I'm not going to do it, Delmonic. I'm not going to buy into your potential! You can't fool me. Even if you have lost weight and have sweet flame tattoos on your forearm. Unless you get another hit during the game... Then I might change my mind.... What? I'm easy to please. Don't judge me.

4th Inning: Okay, I'm back to not believing in the Delmonic. Although it was a tough catch against the wall, I would have felt a lot better if he made it. Instead, it's an RBI double for Big Papi. Red Sox take one back. Twins still up 3-1.

Bottom half: I love steals. I love rolling singles up the middle. Does a Joe Mauer/Denard Span scoring play lead to true love. Yes. Yes it does. Twins up 4 -1.

5th Inning: How did that ball fit? Mike Cameron crushes it into left, and somehow it fits between the limestone and foul pole. I thought we were going to have our first interaction with that Minnesota limestone, but instead it slipped into a foot-wide gap. Side note: That limestone is scary. Someone is going to die from a ricochet. I'm convinced.

Bottom half: Kubear is angry. He is an angry buddy that is hungry for fish and high fastballs over the plate. Stay hungry you kinda gross looking bear. We'll need you.

6th Inning: Punto totally redeems himself from his previous inning antics. He scurries after a slow roller to third base, and throws a dart to first for the out. Not only was it incredibly athletic, it was incredibly adorable. His eye black is still ridiculous, however.

Bottom half: Span hit, Span steals. Oh Keiunta. Such a warrior.

Side note: The flower boxes look a little weak right now. They look like I've been taking care of them. I'm hoping that they fill out a little better.

7th Inning: Hot Carl leaves the game after six, giving the game to Brian Duensing. Pedro Gomez gives another report on Target Field from the Budweiser party deck. He says October about 8 times in two sentences. I like the way he talks. Maybe if all Twins fans in attendance say a minimum of ten "October's" per home game, we'll be in the postseason once again.

Bottom Half: Grrrr. Kubear growls and hits a bomb to right! First home run in Target Field!!! I thought that the old logo was supposed to do something, but all I saw was some flashing lights around the sign's border. Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of hand shaking?

The Delmonic tries to match Kubear's effort. I thought it was gone, but it died near the track. My affection would have returned if he had gone back to back. Alas, my lack of belief still exists.

Twins up 5-1.

8th Inning: I'm not sure why ESPN keeps having some sort of death rock playing over game highlights when coming back from commercial break. I'm happy and smiling while watching the game and then I'm suddenly scared.

New double play combo finishes the inning after the Twins give up one. Twins up 5-2.

Bottom half: It looks like Matt Guerrier finished pitching the top half, and decided that he wanted to pitch the bottom half as well. He changed into a Boston uniform, and it says Schoeneweis on the back, but I'm convinced that it's our boy Matty. Oh, he can apparently throw left-handed also. Crap, my assertion is falling to pieces.

Joe Mauer is awesome.

9th Inning: Jon Rauch is frightening. It feels weird to be in the ninth and not see Joe Nathan, but I'm happy that we have a scary looking closer instead. I like that. We don't want to have a cutesy looking pitcher up there. Everyday Eddie was alright in his time, but he was far too adorable to really fit into that role. Rauch makes me wet my pants a little bit from the comfort of my couch. Not from excitement. Because I'm scared. Okay, maybe a little bit from excitement.

Lil Nicky scampers into foul territory for out number two. I giggle whenever I see him do something. Hilarious.

A pop-up for the third out! Twins open the new field with a solid win. My happiness cannot be contained. I'm all smiles and butterflies. A great way to start something amazing.

-Sota

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Striking Out

What up world,

I had my first opportunity to watch the Twins this afternoon. While flipping through channels, contemplating watching the Tool Academy finale (again), I discovered that Time Warner San Diego was carrying the game. My excitement levels were turned up to an 11. New season, new lineup, new uniforms, all in front of me in live action. I was going to watch the Twins first sweep of the season, and I couldn't have been happier.

I started watching in the top of the sixth, with the Twins still up by one. Nick Blackburn was going strong and I had the utmost confidence in the team. A blog entry about the team last night was not going to jinx them going into today. I would have been free to write about the team as much as I wanted.

Everything was going smoothly until the bottom of the eighth even though the Sux had tied up the score. A couple of singles led to two men on base, with the corpse formerly known as Andruw Jones at the plate. In my mind, there was no way that he was going to get a hit. Not with Joe Mauer look-a-like, Nick Blackburn dealing. A single to left field later, and the White Sox were up by one.

Still, I wasn't worried. We're a powerhouse team in 2010. Chicago closer Bobby Jenks is overrated. We were going to score a run. No doubt.

After a couple of outs, JJ Hardy got on base, bringing up Mr. Incredible. After a couple of pitches, Thome launched a shot into left field. For a moment I thought it was gone. I stood up from my couch, ready to throw orange peels around the living room in celebration. At some point in its trajectory, however, the ball died dramatically and hit against the outfield wall. My excitement tempered, I sat back down, waiting for the next batter to approach the plate.

For some reason, JJ Hardy did not have the same reaction. Instead of calmly staying on third, he opted for the role as hero. He rounded the base and headed for home. I stood up again, yelling at him to stop, but he didn't seem to hear me. He was about half way down the base path when the ball arrived at home plate. JJ jumped into AJ's arms in what appeared to be some sort of victorious celebration. I was left with my mouth agape, watching the Sux celebrate the victory.

Ozzie Guillen reacted with a smirk on his face. He couldn't believe what happened either. The entire White Sox team was laughing and high fiving each other. I had seen this reaction before, but I couldn't place it at first...

And then it hit me. Last Tuesday I had been asked to fill in on a softball team for a friend. Before we take this journey together, let me say this: I am not a softball player. I play a few times throughout the year, and my performance is generally very disappointing. I regard myself as something of an athlete, but that assertion is not displayed on the softball diamond.

Throughout the game, I hadn't done anything to help the team. On the other hand, I hadn't done anything that was extremely damaging. I hadn't revealed my terrible, "I'm awful at softball" secret. I had hidden it away under the protection of playing catcher and batting last in the lineup.

Our team was trailing the entire game. The last inning arrived, and I approached the plate with two outs, two runs down, and two men on base. All I had to do was get on base for our comeback to continue. I stared down the pitcher and made up my mind that I wasn't going to swing the bat. I planned to put the responsibilities of victory on our next hitter.

I milked the count to three balls and two strikes without taking a swing. The last pitch began arcing towards me, and I was convinced that it was going to land off the plate. There was no way that it was long enough to make it anywhere close. I wasn't going to swing. I was going to take a walk and move onto first base...

I should have swung. I realize that now. I needed to protect the plate. But, in that instant, I stood frozen. I couldn't move. I watched the ball fall in the middle of the plate, heard the umpire call me out, and saw the reactions of the opposing team. They had that same bemused look on their face as the White Sox did this afternoon. You can't get the last out at home in baseball or by a backward K in softball. It's unacceptable.

I don't think that I'll ever get asked to play with the team again. I can accept that. My terrible secret was revealed. I don't think JJ will suffer the same fate. I like that he plays a good shortstop, can hit pretty well, and uses a double initial for a first name. I want him to continue playing with our team, provided that he cuts down on the overly aggressive baserunning.

-Sota

Weather Delays

What up world,

I intended to write something earlier in the week. In fact, I was hoping to reach 100 blog posts prior to the start of the Twins regular season. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to write anything due to a couple of outside factors:

1) I was dealing with an infestation of time-sucking stress-bots. These awful robots have no regard for outside events that are occurring in one's life. All they care about is making your brain hurt and ensuring that you have no time to discuss the Twins. If there was stress-bot insurance, I would definitely pay for coverage.



2) I discovered that my parents are no longer checking my blogs. This awful realization was almost too much to bear. They make up 87% of my fan base (don't worry about the math. I'm an accountant). It was difficult for me to come to grips with this truth. Like a White Sox fan that just realized the awfulness of their franchise.

3) I was tricked by Time Warner Cable. On opening day, my cable menu said that FSN would be carrying the Twins - Angels game. I scheduled my day around this event, fighting off the stress-bots and devastating news about my parents, only to find that the game wasn't being aired. There was no explanation for the illegal toying of my emotions. I finally found the game on the local sports radio station and proceeded to sit in my car for half an hour. After a few innings, I noticed several tweaks in the broadcast. Weird computer noises were coming in over the top of the announcer's commentary, and the occasional ESPN commercial would come blaring through my car's speakers in the middle of a big at-bat. The production staff was either new, drunk, or had given up on life. It got to the point that I was frustrated enough to come inside and watch periodic updates through ESPN's website.

Instead of reaching my century mark or providing excellent analysis to my remaining 13% of fans, I'm just offering excuses. I apologize. On the other hand, the Twins have been on a tear. Could it be that no blogging leads to an increase in wins? I guess we'll see. Even with a series win against the White Sox, I would still like to completely crush their dreams. Lets go for a sweep! With a loss, this whole blogging thing might just curl up and die. Like the White Sox should do for the rest of 2010. (Bam! Two burns of the White Sox in one post! Suck it!)

-Sota

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Working Into a Frenzy

What up world,

My excitement is reaching dangerous levels. My heart beat is erratic, I'm randomly breaking into episodes of sweating, and I'm constantly on the verge of a Justin-Bieber-sighting screaming attack. Here are three reasons why:

1) Jo Jo Ma loves us (and money): Mauer signed an 8 year contract to stay with the team. He will be conducting sweet symphonies from behind the plate for the majority of my 30's. He and I are going to grow old together. It's like he gave me a promise ring, with the engagement and the Hall of Fame soon to follow. Yipee!

2) The end of Spring Training: Spring Training is always a tricky time. I'm constantly looking for updates on the team, whether it's in the national media or the local electronic papers. The problem is that the national media isn't always discussing the team. There may be a mention here and there, but I wish that they could forget about the Red Sox, Yankees, and Rays and dedicate all their attention on the Twins.

To get my Twins information fix, I turn to the Strib. There's nothing wrong with that except that there can be a certain amount of inflated optimism prior to season start. There are reports of Jim Thome's springtime dominance, stories about the giant leaps of little Twinky prospects, and testimonials of Saint Francisco's 1,000 mph fastball and devastating slider. I flip from story to story with mini-explosions occurring in my brain. I'm worried about my continued brain functions.

3) Target Field: Let me say it again. Target Field! Not quite there. One more time. TARGET FIELD!!! Oh my God. Just writing it caused me to start shedding tears. Not tears of sadness. I do not miss the Metrodome in any way. These are tears of pure joy. Two winters ago, I sat with a friend outside of the partially completed stadium, staring into the field and discussing important life matters. It just seemed like the place to do such a thing.

That friend, we'll call him Nathan L, just texted me from the confines of said stadium. Here is the transcript of that text:

"Target Field is uber-orgasmic, which is even better than orgasmic."

After the first game yesterday, I spent an hour reading the Strib articles about the stadium experience. I watched video, looked at pictures, and read reader comments. The desire to get in my car and start driving north was unbearable.

Although I live in the corner of the country, have no job, and am running desperately low on money, I'm still making plans to get home for a game (if not several) this summer. The more that I see and hear about the team and the field, the stronger the magnetic pull to my homeland becomes.

For now, however, I will continue sitting in my apartment, working myself into an even greater frenzy. Bring on Opening Day!

-Sota

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Return Migration

What up world,

Over a year ago, as I was trying to get acquainted with the 2008-2009 Timberwolves roster, I discovered the presence of Brian Cardinal. At the time, he was the third highest paid player on our roster. I couldn't believe that we were paying someone so much for so little production. His contributions to the Timberwolves roster were about as much as this blog's contribution to the internet: Unbridled enthusiasm and very few good points.



Cardinal's cheeriness remained as the team moved into the current season, however it wasn't quite enough to justify his $7 million salary. In February he was traded to the New York Knicks, who promptly cut him for salary cap relief. According to league rules, he was allowed to sign with any team, except for the Timberwolves. For him to return, he would have to wait for 30 days.

Brian wasn't comfortable being pushed out of the nest. He had not quite learned to fly, or feed himself and was missing the comforts of home. He remained in Minnesota and spent time playing with his children. From the Strib, "He settled into a routine at his Minneapolis home -- teaching his 1-year-old daughter Emery to swim, taking his 3-year-old son Bryson to gymnastics class -- and watched Wolves games on television."

I can admire that. There's nothing wrong with spending time with the family, or with staying in cold-ass Minnesota. What I do have an issue with is the fact that he's taking his son to gymnastics classes. No Brian!!! No!!! I had to go through that hell. My mom would force me to go to gymnastics, where I was in an all-girl class, where I couldn't do a proper cartwheel. It didn't teach me any important life lessons, other than to feel embarrassment at a very early age. Shame on you Brian!

I digress. The fact that I couldn't do a pull-up on the uneven bars still hurts.

Anyway, after his mandatory waiting period, Cardinal was brought back to the Timberwolves. He won't contribute much for the remainder of the season, other than high-fiving players and spreading cheer in the locker room, but at least he's back doing what he loves. This bird, who was forced out too early, is much happier. Instead of comparing him to Big Bird, as I had previously done, he has earned a different cartoon representative.



Welcome back Brian

-Sota

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

WGTKY - Al Jefferson

What up world,

It's been over a year since the origination of the WGTKY segment here at Sota Love. In that time, we've covered several Minnesota athletes, focusing mainly on the Timberwolves. There are several reasons for this, the largest being that the team is terrible and this segment is the only chance I have to get to know the team. Other reasons include:

-Getting to know obscure names like Nathan Jawai (who?)
-Meeting our team's awkward white guys, like Oleksiy Pecherov (again, who?)
-Saying hello to old friends, like Alando Tucker, before they're forced out of the league. (I still heart you Alando)

I've considered writing about each of these players, and nearly every player on the Timberwolves roster, except for one. You might be asking yourself, "Who is this mystery player?" Read the subject line, dummy. It's right there. Did you find it? Good work.

For some reason, even though he is the supposed "star" of our team, I've never felt any affection toward Al Jefferson. I've contemplated why this is the case for quite some time (the 15 minutes before writing this point), and I think I've come up with a reason.

It's not because he's boring to watch or that his defense is worse than a drunk girl at an after-party. It's not because he doesn't get along with Kevin Love, or because he can't stay healthy for a full season. It's moreso because of how he became a member of the Timberwolves.

On July 31, 2007, after playing with the Celtics for two seasons, Al became the center-piece of the Kevin Garnett trade. He, along with a garbage bag full of other players, were traded to the Timberwolves for the first love of my life.

I still haven't gotten over it. I'm happy for Kevin, but the pain of the breakup still lingers. Would I have liked to stay married to him for the rest of my life? Yes. Do I think it was the healthiest of relationships? Probably not. Do I still draw hearts around pictures of KG? It's possible.

Because of this pain I've never been able to fully embrace Big Al. I'm doing my best to move past all of this, as evidenced by the WGTKY piece, but I see him in a Timberwolves uniform and I'm immediately reminded of what we gave up to get him. He's my rebound relationship.

Rebound? Huh. What an excellent segue. Without further ado, WGTKY: Al Jefferson edition!



Rebounds: This season Al set a single-game franchise record for rebounds, with 26 during a triple overtime loss to the Houston Rockets. Since he's been with the Timberwolves, he's been averaging over 11 rebounds per game. Not bad. Not quite KG in Minnesota numbers, but not bad.

Scoring: For the 2009-2010 season, Big Al is scoring an average of 23.1 points per game, which is the highest total for his career. He is considered a "throw-back" power forward because of his offensive game. The majority of his points are scored from post-up, back to the basket sets. Is this incredibly boring? Yes.

Other highlights: There are signs of continued growth for Jefferson. He has career highs in blocks, assists, free-throw percentage, and minutes per game during the current season. Of course, that growth hasn't led to a significant increase in team wins, so I'm not sure what that says about our star.

Drinking: This is a recent development in Al Jefferson's game. On February 28th, after getting blown out by the Portland Trailblazers (the game that I snuck into!), Al went out to get his party on. Nothing particularly wrong with that. I like to drink too.

However, if KG had lost a game in that manner, he probably would have silently left the locker room, driven home, and obsessed over the loss until he reached a near-murderous state. (I'm just saying).

Regardless of whether the post-game partying was appropriate, we can all agree that the decision to drive home was the wrong one. He was pulled over on 394 for speeding at 1 am. He failed a breathalyzer and his subsequent blood test revealed a blood alcohol content of .12. Naturally, I was curious as to how many drinks it would take for a 265 pound man to reach this point. So, I fired up the Sota Love research facility and managed to discover an answer.

I estimated that he had been drinking for approximately 3 hours (post-game to 1 am). I compiled a list of possible drinks that Big Al consumed during that time to lead to a BAC of .12. Here is my list:

1 Beer (to start the night-off and replenish vital fluids)
1 Henessy on the rocks (to get the nasty beer taste out of his mouth)
2 Cranberry and Vodkas (to get his vitamins)
3 Red Bull and Vodkas (to get the party started)
1 Gin and Juice (because the DJ was playing Snoop)
1 Double shot of Jager (to appease the college kids that saw him at the bar)
1 Shot of Tequila (to help him to sleep)

In three hours, that would leave him with a BAC of .118 according to my research. Maybe he had a sip of someone's Long Island to push him up by .002. In summary, Jefferson and the Timberwolves lost a game by 30 points, he got REALLY drunk, made the decision to drive home, and was later suspended for two games. Good work!



Ok, I know. I'm being a little biased. I just can't get past it. The more that I get to know him, the more I think about Garnett. Yes, Al is much younger and his numbers are somewhat similar, but he'll never replace the Kid in my eyes. Maybe with more time and greater success I'll be able to cheer for Al.

But for now, while the Timberwolves are 14 and 54, in the midst of a 10 game losing streak, and getting crushed by the Phoenix Suns (152 to 114, are you kidding me?), I'm allowed to be a little bitter.

Dear readers, tell me things will get better. Reassure me that the Timberwolves won't descend into a level of suck that creates some sort of black hole in the Target Center. The last thing we need is for the assiness of the team to start infecting their new next-door neighbors. The Twins need all the help they can get, and, Al, that doesn't include late-night drinking sessions!

-Sota

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Worlds Colliding

What up world,

I'm doing my part for the Vikings. Really, I am. Since the turn of the century, when I moved away from my homeland, I've been spreading Viking cheer far and wide.

-In Wisconsin, while working as a bartender, I poured countless "Purple Pride" shots. Especially for patrons that were obvious Packer fans.

-In Chicago, I proudly wore my Vikings wristbands and Purple Jesus t-shirt as I roamed the city streets. I ridiculed Rex Grossman on a regular basis. I cheered as AP scored touchdowns, won games, and crushed Bears fans' spirits.

-In San Diego, I've converted multiple non-believers into fans of the team. There was the Minnesota-born, Arizona-bred coworker that didn't really care, the roommate that had cheered for the Pack his entire life, and the homeless guy that sits in front of the CVS (I yelled "Go Vikes!" to him after the Cowboys playoff game, and he gave me a drug-addled smile).

I can't help but think that my enthusiasm has slowly spread throughout each of these cities. I'm like Haley Joel Osment in "Pay it Forward", except I'm spreading something much more important and meaningful than good deeds: Love of the Purple.

Over time, these whispers regarding Minnesota's amazingness made their way into NFL locker rooms. That's my best guess. In each state, a free agent has left their team and their city in order to join the Vikes. It's not because of the money that Ziggy throws at them or the previous season's successes. No, it's because of my underground support of the team. I'm convinced.

-In Wisconsin, Darren Sharper couldn't help but hear the rumors. We had looked for a reliable, ball-hawking member of the secondary for years. Sharper was disgusted with the Packers, their fans especially. He heard of the loyal support and the lack of orange hunting jumpsuits in the Metrodome, and made his way to Minnesota in 2005.

In 2006, we needed a reliable, aptly named kicker for our team. Ryan Longwell was the best fit in my eyes, and I worked extra hard to get him. Using Sharper, I managed to convince Longwell that the Vikings held the path to future glory and an extended career. He couldn't wait to put on the uniform.

And then, in 2009, after 15 years of work on my part, I finally convinced Brett to join us. It was hard work. It caused me to question my purpose many times, but I always had faith that he would eventually see the light. Since he signed, he has told me repeatedly that he wished he would have converted sooner, but that the citizens of Green Bay had threatened to lock him in a room with their most die-hard, bikini clad, female fans if he ever left. The potential of this horrifying vision was too much for him to bear, and he needed to make sure that he, and his family, were safe before venturing westward.

-While living in Chicago, I sat down with Bernard Berrian to discuss his future. He told me that he had been hearing quite a bit about Minnesota, and was wondering if I could provide any further insight. I explained to him that the entire Bears roster was holding him back. That Minnesotans would welcome him with open arms. I told him that his true potential would never be reached while playing alongside such awful athletes.

By the end of our dinner, he was in tears. He wanted to punch Rex Grossman in the face. I calmed him down, and a week later, he was in Mankato, singing "Skoal Vikings" the entire time.

-I've now been in San Diego for two years. I have nothing against the Chargers. I cheered for them throughout the season. I like certain members of the team. Although the fans can be quite douchey, they aren't nearly as bad as Packer fans. Plus, the Charger theme song might be the greatest piece of music ever recorded. Check out the link below.



There has been a certain Charger that I've admired from afar for his entire career. He's featured throughout this video, and like the players I've mentioned above, has started to hear fantastic things about the Twin Cities. He made a visit there this week, meeting with Brad Childress and the rest of the Vikings administration. From, twincities.com, this is what Chilli had to say about the upcoming meeting;

"I think probably he's coming in, touching and tasting us, and we're doing the same thing to see where his mind is at."

That's right. LaDainian Tomlinson visited with the Vikings. He touched, he tasted, and walked away holding a Vikings jersey. He's flying to New York to meet with the Jets for the rest of the week, but I think we all know that he's going to be wearing our delicious hue of purple next season. He doesn't really have a choice. My pay it forward racket is just too good.

Although LT might not be what he was five years ago, he could still bring something valuable to our 2010 squad. Maybe he'll improve on Chester Taylor's role from last year, maybe he'll teach AD how to properly hold onto a football, maybe he'll make another amazing video like this...



We can only hope.

-Sota

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Death of a Season

What up world,

I'm sad. There's not much more to say than that. However, just saying "I'm sad" would make for a less-than-entertaining blog entry. So, in the interest of all of you in blogland, I will elaborate.

The season hasn't even begun, and yet I'm already writing off the Twins. Is it because Jo Jo Ma's contract negotiation complications? Not really. Is it because of our mediocre starting pitching rotation? Maybe a little. Could it be due to the continued presence of our infuriating left-fielder, The Delmonic? No, I've accepted that fact.

The reason for my sadness is because of the injury news that was blasted across national media outlets throughout the day. Our workhorse, our automatic, our closer is probably gone for 2010, and maybe even longer.

He goes by many names: Twitchy McXanex, The Nathaniest of Joes, The Vice President, Horseface Killer, Joe Nathan. Regardless of what you call him, he was our underrated superstar. He was Mariano Rivera without the New York backdrop, New York media hype, and New York money. Although he showed some signs of trouble throughout the 2009 season, he still had 47 saves in 52 save opportunities, a .171 batting average against, and a .210 ERA.

My keyboard is now covered in tears. I'm sorry! I'm emotional! The news arrived today that the recent pain in Joe's elbow is not due to bone chips or scar tissue, but is because of a torn ligament. Oh, God! It's hurts that much more when I see it written.

The only thing that I can compare it to is the injury of a horse named Barbaro a couple of years ago. He came up lame just 200 yards into the Preakness after winning the Kentucky Derby. So much promise, so much potential. Barbaro could have been the first triple crown winner in 30 years.


__Barbaro in memoriam_____________ Joe Nathan in memoriam___



What could have been their child.
Very fast, with a mean fastball.



Like Barbaro, Joe Nathan could have been a key piece to the most successful Twins team in 19 years. After a consultation last week with Dr. Charles Kroenenburg, visions of a snowy World Series had already started to dance around my mind grapes. Without Horseface, our inaugural season in Target Field could prove to be very mediocre.


The good doctor.

Barbaro was able to survive for nearly 6 months after his injury, due to the care of his owners and the overwhelming support of the general public. I think, if we could start a "Save Joe Nathan" campaign, he might stand a chance. Not only will he be able to pitch for the majority of the season, but he will also avoid being euthanized. Everyone wins! I'm calling on the vast number of readers that follow this blog to do what you can to support our closer. It's up to you now. Save Joe!

-Sota

Thursday, March 4, 2010

WGTKY - Kurt Rambis

What up world,

For those of you who are new to the blog, I like to run a feature every once in a while called "Wanna Get to Know You". It helps to learn a little bit more about the athletes that we love, hate, curse, salivate over on a weekly basis. Most of the WGTKY segments have focused on anonymous Timberwolves players. Players like Rodney Carney and Ryan Gomes. They aren't good enough to make it on anywhere else, and will most likely disappear into the D-League abyss come next year, so we try to get familiar with them while they are here.

For this segment, I would like...no, sorry that's not strong enough...I would be love...nope, still not there...I would be hopped-up-on-meth-excited...close enough... to get to know our new coach, Kurt Rambis just a little bit better.

In my younger years, I was fanatical for the NBA. I collected t-shirts, posters, Crunch dolls, and a large number of basketball cards. I would wander the mall, spend time at the arcade, maybe grab an Orange Julius, and buy packs of cards from the weird little stand under the escalators. I would sift through the packs, looking for Pooh Richardson or David Robinson or (most importantly) Magic Johnson cards. I would get excited when I saw the purple and gold of the Lakers uniform, but instead of seeing the thousand-watt smile of Magic, I would always find this man:



Kurt Rambis was in every single pack that I purchased. I probably have 50 Kurt Rambis cards still floating around my parent's house today. I would neatly arrange the players in plastic sheets and place them in a three-ring binder. They were organized according to their team, and any duplicates were placed together. While some players never showed up in my binder, Rambis had a whole chapter.

Was it the glasses? The mustache? Was a sweaty, ragged looking white man required to be included in every pack? I never understood the phenomenon, until I started doing a little research on the man.

Usually, while I'm doing these segments, I embellish the truth a little bit. I'm sorry to say this, but Rodney Carney was not actually in Boyz II Men. However, in Kurt's case, there was no need. The segment wrote itself.

Name: Kurt Rambis
Nickname: Kyriakos Rambidis

This is not a lie. I know, you think I'm trying to be funny, but it's true! Kurt began his career in Greece, where he went by the name Kyriakos Rambidis. He won the Greek Cup in 1981, before being signed by Los Angeles later that year.

Second Nickname: Superman

Rambis received this nickname from Lakers announcer Chuck Hearn for his resemblance to Clark Kent. Currently we have two superstars fighting over the use of that name. Shaq and Dwight Howard have been fighting over who the true "Superman" is since Howard's slam dunk contest. Let's go to the visual evidence:



I'm going to side with Hearn here, and say that Rambis has the closest resemblance to the superhero. Maybe it's the glasses. Maybe the hair. Oh, wait, now I see. Rambis is white. That makes much more sense.

Stats: 4,603 points, 4,961 rebounds, 59.5% field goal at his peak, and 4 championship rings.

These aren't gaudy stats, but are directly in-line with what is expected of a goofy, hustling white guy. Every championship caliber team needs one. The 07-08 Celtics had Brian Scalabrine, the 01-02 Lakers had Mark Madsen, the 95-96 Bulls had Luc Longley. Lets go back to the visual evidence.



All very awkward, all very white.

Other Interests: Coaching, acting, and rapping.

Coaching: Rambis was the assitant coach for the Lakers from 2002-2009, and named as the head coach of the Timberwolves this season.
Acting: While in LA he made appearances as a recurring character on 7th heaven, Sweet Valley High, and Married With Children. I've tried in vain to find a clip on Youtube to demonstrate his acting skills, but I've come up with nothing so far.
Rapping: His rap career hasn't taken off yet, but he was mentioned in two songs. In "Blao!" by rapper Hot Karl (amazing name) it is said, "I'm wearing the goggles that Kurt Rambis used to sport." In "Mayor" by Pac Div, Kurt's named is dropped as well, "your boy hustles hard like Rambis from the Lakers."

I'm hoping that in the next couple of seasons, I will grow to appreciate the man further. I predict that in 2013-2014 season, with the arrival of Ricky Rubio, the development of John Wall, and the presence of our token, awkward white guy (Kevin Love), the Timberwolves will be back in the playoff picture. I can see it already. Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals. The underdog Timberwolves are pushing the dominant Oklahoma City Thunder to the brink. Kurt, who's grown his mustache back for the season, emerges from the locker room, once again sporting his thick black glasses. The Thunder are so intimidated by the presence of Superman on the Wolves bench that they can't hit a shot. They can't play defense. They fall apart, and the Wolves are headed to the finals!

Then, I will return to my childhood bedroom, open my binder of basketball cards, and weep tears of joy over my massive Kyriakos Rambidis collection. Oh, the glory!!!

-Sota

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

State of the State

What up world,

Fair Minnesota. Land of lakes, snow, family, friends, and all day drinking extravaganzas. I was reminded of these things as I made a voyage home this weekend. I left the mid-sixties and ever-present sun of Southern California for the mid-twenties and brown snowbanks of the Upper Midwest. It was glorious.

I went home for my father's birthday, for my birthday, and for an epic game of softball on ice. What's softball on ice, you ask? Let me share a very informative video clip with you from a couple of years ago. Click the link here.

Yes, I was wearing womens sunglasses. Yes, I can't speak well. Yes, I was intoxicated. These are some of the things that make the event so wonderful. The combination of keg stands, flip cup, and beer pong comprise our warmup, which moves ever-so-easily into alcohol-infused bases, and post game celebrations. It makes for quite a nice little Saturday afternoon.


Intensive warm-ups. You don't want to pull a muscle.


Unfortunate loss for the better team. I blame Reuter.

On this past Saturday, our drunken afternoon transitioned into a drunken evening. After our game, we began asking ourselves what the night would hold. We discussed going to bars in Uptown, heading back to Eden Prairie (where I was staying), or even trying to catch the Timberwolves game. Uptown seemed like the best option. It was close, our friends were going there, and the drunken event could continue. We didn't have a ride to Eden Prairie, and no tickets to get into the game (which was already in the second half). Williams, Bar Abilene, CC Club, here we come!

20 minutes later, we were standing outside the Target Center. The ticket windows were closed, and there was a steady stream of fans that were already pouring out of the building. The fourth quarter was starting when we approached the ticket takers, still wearing our snowpants and gloves.

Me: Hey, we don't have any tickets, but we were wondering if you could let us in?
Ticket guy: Umm, hold on a second.

The ticket guy proceeded to get on his radio, and speak in hushed tones. I looked at my friends with a shocked look on my face. Could he actually be considering this? Was this a high school football game? I couldn't believe that a professionally run franchise was going to allow three guys that smelled heavily of booze into their arena for free.

Ticket guy: Yeah, you guys can go in, but you have to go to the second level.
Us: Of course. Thank you, this is great. We'll head up there.

We went up a couple of escalators and walked into the upper section of the first level. The guy watched us go up one flight and then left us alone. Even the ushers that stood between the seats and the concession stands smiled at us as we passed by them. We found a section of seats, just under the luxury boxes, sat down, and watched the remainder of the game.

The Timberwolves were losing by 25 at that point, it was late in the game, and a large number of fans had already left. But still!!! What had happened to my favorite team? What had happened to the days of Prince, and Jimmy Jam, and Daunte Culpepper being active fans? How had we gotten to this point?

Ok, ok. I know how we got to this point. There was KG's exit, the Brandon Roy trade, the blunderings of GM McHale (and the subsequent CoacHale), and now the Ricky Rubio disaster. I just don't enjoy thinking of these things. In my drunken stupor, I loved that we were allowed inside, but it made a little part of my T-Wolves fanhood die at the same time. I was watching a team that I didn't know, who were losing by thousands of points, in a half empty arena. I saw Darko Milicic handling the ball, and I almost broke down in tears.

I loved my short visit to Minnesota. Thoughts of moving home grew in my mind. At the same time, however, the state of the Timberwolves franchise disheartened me. Their stank might be too much to tolerate if I were to reside in Minnesota once again. For now, I'll stay living as far away as possible, hoping that the Twins will bring sweet smelling flowers with them this spring.
Of course, that's provided that the trash incinerator behind Target Field doesn't overpower them.

Basketball, you're nearly dead to me. Bring on outdoor baseball!

-Sota

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Tempered Expectations

What up world,

Sorry for the absence. I've been attempting to write something a little longer and more substantial, and it takes up a considerable amount of time. Until I complete this project, the blogging is going to be put on the back burner. My daily allotment of creative juices is being drunk by other pursuits. Does that sound gross in any way? Possibly.

However, there may be some events that cause me to emerge from the shadows to let me voice be heard by the world. To scream from the mountaintop to the gathered masses below...Well, mainly just my father. What's up, Dad? I think you're the only one that still checks this.

The event in question is, of course, the athletic contest between the Vikings of Minnesota, and the Cowboys of Dallas, taking place midday tomorrow. It is an affair that I can think about only in small doses, as it causes my heart to start racing, and small amounts of pee to leave my body whenever I dwell on it for too long.

At the same time, however, it is all that I have focused on for the past week. I have been scanning the interwebs in search of positive news. I wanted to read that the Vikes were going to trounce the Boys, and that I had nothing to worry about. That All Day was going to continue to crush Texas' hopes and dreams (Boomer Sooner y'all). That Percy was going to blow my mind with his speed and ability to smoke massive bong loads. That Favre was going to truly weasel his way into my heart strings after being my sworn enemy for hundreds of years.

But none of this happened. Everything that I heard, everything that I read, pointed toward the Cowboys. I kept hearing about their hot streak, how their defense was going to dominate my team, and how our secondary couldn't cover their receivers. After a week of this, I've started to doubt the destiny of my Vikings. In my mind, they had gone from prohibitive favorites, to extreme longshots. They had turned into the underdog...

And that's when it hit me. I hate favorites. I hate dynasties. I want to root for the underdog. My entire life of fandome has trained me to cheer for the team that all the odds are stacked against. The Timberwolves, the Twins, the Badgers, and the Vikings have never provided me with a feeling of utmost confidence. The only time that I truly believed my team to be the best was in 1998, during the season that cannot be named. The crushing defeat that happened in overtime, to the dirtiest of birds, left me devastated. I still haven't fully recovered.

Victories are always sweeter when they aren't expected, and losses are less difficult to bear. It's a terrible manner in which to conduct oneself as a fan, but it has worked for me for years. It's my coping mechanism.

So, thank you national sports media. Thank you Dallas. If the Vikings manage to pull out an unexpected victory, I will be running throughout San Diego in a thoroughly embarrassing display of joy. If they lose, I will be able to move on with my life, instead of considering a venture into traffic.

I believe in you Vikings. Really, I do. But I'm not getting my hopes up...

-Sota