The Twins win a sloppy game in Kansas City, using some terrible Royal defense to parlay that into a couple runs. Denard Span hit a Little League homer in the sixth when outfielder Josh Anderson twice "Seldom'd" the ball as he attempted to return it to the infield (obviously a reference to Twins "outfielder"/butcher Seldom Young), and Orlando Cabrera's game winner in the tenth was turned into a gift triple due to Willie Bloomquist (ironically in for Anderson for defensive purposes) struggling to play the carom. Joe Nathan blew a save, giving up a two-out, two-strike home run to pinch hitter Brayan Pena, and then held on for a heart-attack save (OK, not technically a save, but you get it) in the bottom of the tenth. Nathan threw 53 pitches in his two innings, which likely means that Ron Gardenhire will give him anywhere from five to ten days off before he next sees action. What was hilarious was Nathan waving off Gardenhire after his 11-pitch battle with Alberto Callaspo, which resulted in Nathan getting the second out of the tenth, precluding Gardy from removing Nathan. Here's a man, Ron Gardenhire, who is all too prepared to take out his best pitcher and risk it with Jose Mijares or Bobby Keppel or Jesse Crain just because Joe Nathan had thrown a few too many pitches that is considered "normal" or "ideal" for a closer. Yeah, if ever there's a push-over manager in the majors, one that the best players can merely wave off as if they were declining finger food from an annoying caterer, it's Ron Gardenhire. Way to freaking go, Joe Nathan.I had a dream last night that I'd like to share with the read
ers here today. Now, please understand that I am certainly not part of that ilk which lionizes Freudian analysis of rapid eye movements and psychosomatic imagery, but the fact remains that this dream was the first such interlude that I had experienced in quite some time, and it does relate to the MTRC. See, I was at the Metrodome watching the Twins play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, and Nick Blackburn was pitching. Apparently in the dream Blackburn had also been recently pitching like an absolute dog turd too, so it was accurate in that respect. Blackburn, surprisingly, had a no-hitter going after eight innings, but it was one of those no-nos that sneak up on you. The Twins were winning big, like 9-0, and there had been a few errors and walks and hit batsmen -- far from a perfect game, mind you. But I had always wanted to be able to say that I had seen something special at the ballpark -- a no-hitter, a cycle, a three-homer game, for instance (the closest thing to a miracle I've seen at a ball park was probably a two home-run game from the legendary Tom Prince back in 2002). Blackburn gets the first two batters out in the ninth and suddenly the rest of the crowd seems to pick up the fact that he's on the precipice of history. For some reason, the Angels still have David Eckstein, and he's sent up to pinch-hit for whoever was supposed to hit. I'm sitting next to my father, and we both look at each other, thinking that Eckstein's one of those guys who's going to get that cheesy, Cesar Tovar-esque hit to break up the no-hitter. Then, out of nowhere, something really dreamy happens -- Ron Gardenhire takes Blackburn out of the game in favor for Craig Breslow. I know; Breslow's with Oakland now (and it's not like Eckstein plays for the Angels, anyway) and he's a lefty where Eckstein is a right-handed batter. It's probably something that Ron Gardenhire never would do. It turns out that Breslow gets Eckstein to finish the no-hitter, but everyone in the building is so pissed off at Gardenhire that they simply don't care.
ers here today. Now, please understand that I am certainly not part of that ilk which lionizes Freudian analysis of rapid eye movements and psychosomatic imagery, but the fact remains that this dream was the first such interlude that I had experienced in quite some time, and it does relate to the MTRC. See, I was at the Metrodome watching the Twins play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, and Nick Blackburn was pitching. Apparently in the dream Blackburn had also been recently pitching like an absolute dog turd too, so it was accurate in that respect. Blackburn, surprisingly, had a no-hitter going after eight innings, but it was one of those no-nos that sneak up on you. The Twins were winning big, like 9-0, and there had been a few errors and walks and hit batsmen -- far from a perfect game, mind you. But I had always wanted to be able to say that I had seen something special at the ballpark -- a no-hitter, a cycle, a three-homer game, for instance (the closest thing to a miracle I've seen at a ball park was probably a two home-run game from the legendary Tom Prince back in 2002). Blackburn gets the first two batters out in the ninth and suddenly the rest of the crowd seems to pick up the fact that he's on the precipice of history. For some reason, the Angels still have David Eckstein, and he's sent up to pinch-hit for whoever was supposed to hit. I'm sitting next to my father, and we both look at each other, thinking that Eckstein's one of those guys who's going to get that cheesy, Cesar Tovar-esque hit to break up the no-hitter. Then, out of nowhere, something really dreamy happens -- Ron Gardenhire takes Blackburn out of the game in favor for Craig Breslow. I know; Breslow's with Oakland now (and it's not like Eckstein plays for the Angels, anyway) and he's a lefty where Eckstein is a right-handed batter. It's probably something that Ron Gardenhire never would do. It turns out that Breslow gets Eckstein to finish the no-hitter, but everyone in the building is so pissed off at Gardenhire that they simply don't care.Somehow, I make my way down to the Twins clubhouse and I confront Ron Gardenhire. I get the most disgusted look on my face and just ask him point blank, "Why?" He starts giving me this bullshit half-answer, it's classic political-speak, and I'm thinking this guy should bloody run for Congress. He's ready to just walk away when I tell him I'm a blogger and I'm going to put this whole show verbatim at the MTRC, and then he turns around and he brings me into his office. He sits down at his desk and his mouth's open, like he's ready to finally tell me the truth. I'm half expecting a Pete Rose kind of confession, like he's got bookies breathing fire on his back and he's been throwing games for years. And then it comes, like a torrent of springtime rains: the man simply weeps like a baby. He's crying and weeping and muttering something incoherent, something about letting down his family and his father in particular, and then he gets on his knees, right, like some groveling loser, and collapses in a dead sort of unmoving stasis and just lies there, at my feet.
Then I woke up.
Photos: AP/Charlie Riedel
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