Whiffle ball led off my failed experiment at playing baseball. We owned two thin yellow whiffle ball bats and two big fat red bats. We hacked away with the yellow bats and eventually, after spinning around on strikeout after strikeout, someone would stomp into the garage and grab Big Red. It was the only way we could get a hit.
This was country ball. There were never many of us, so pitcher's hand rules went into effect. Bases were usually leaves, sticks, or scratched out portions of
Baseball returns, and the internet trembles.
The devout among us spend our days filling our brains with bucketfuls of thoughts. When presented with a keyboard, we pour these thoughts into various molds and send them out into the world.
We find others who agree with our world views and we build ideas about why the ball moves the way it does. We create grids. We build structure. We invent games to prove we understand baseball better than baseball does.
Bummed Darin Mastroianni got sent to minor league camp. My unpleasant mood has nothing to do with strategy or intellect. I am bummed because my friends who got autographs from him said he was a great guy. Mostly, I am bummed because I liked to pretend he was secretly a stubbly private investigator in a lesser known horror film directed by Dario Argento.
Baseball, appreciated from the keen and reasoned eye of a scientific scholar, moves like a beautiful piece of clockwork machinery.
"Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—" - Robert Frost
Got the Sano news via phone notification as I got out of bed, and the grayness hung in the air like it saw this one coming.
Flesh fails us all, but it is not supposed to crap out on a young physical wonder standing in the wings, moments away from his MLB debut. In January, Sano drew long lines of fans at Twinsfest. Now he begins
Twinsfest ended today, and the weather report strongly suggests the rest of the world might end tomorrow. The temperature is already dropping to numbers that make you whistle, whether you want to or not. A path to the street from my house, clear in the early afternoon, is now a ragged trickle of cement overwhelmed by snowy cliffs.
The Twins annual call to arms was cozy, busy, but still ordered. Fans brushed past each other, and the occasional