Bert's Buddy Blog: Happy Fathers Day

Monday, June 9, 2008

Happy Fathers Day

Frank: I know you don't like to talk about statistics, but I have one that I don't think you will mind discussing. For a long time this season, there were very few free passes in games played by the Twins. While we struggled to draw walks on offense, Twins' pitchers were pretty stingy with allowing them. But over the last month our offense has improved dramatically, and part of that improvement has been a significant increase in bases on balls. As we continue to move up the charts in walks taken, the pitching staff keeps throwing more strikes than anyone else in the major leagues. The pitchers have allowed the fewest walks in the majors, so what exactly does that mean to the defense? To the opposing hitters?

Bert: It's nice to have good control as a pitcher, but we have seen over the past two weeks where good control has hurt the Twins starting staff. Good control means different things to me! If the Twins starters have such good control, why can't they start knocking hitters off the plate so they don't continue to reach out over the plate and take advantage of this good control? The most important thing for a pitcher is to get strike one. The next most important thing is to keep the hitters off-balance so they can't continue to time your pitches. This means that you, as a pitcher, need to let the hitter know that you will be pitching to both sides of the plate. Pitching hard inside is a lost art, and I think over the past 10 games we have seen this from the Twins starters. I am not talking about hitting the batter; I am talking about pitching inside aggressively. It's too bad the Twins starters are allowing the opposing hitting to continue to hit hard line drives all over and out of the ballpark, night after night.
Sure it's good for the defense to know that you have good control, but it's also important to let your defense know that you won't allow the opposing team to consistently drive the ball past your defense or over their heads.

Frank: Well, how about the vastness of it?

The Twins have 13 pitchers on the roster right now, which means that there are only 12 spots for position players. That leaves Manager Ron Gardenhire with a limited number of possible substitutions for late-inning situations. He was already forced -- in the first game with this very short bench -- to use a pitcher as a pinch runner. The 13 pitchers should allow for a heavily worked bullpen, especially since we don't have an off day until next Monday. But the beginning of two more weeks of interleague play this weekend means that we will be needing to use our bench more, so we can pinch-hit for the pitchers. So what kind of moves could we make this week? What do you think we should do? What will we do?

Bert: 13 pitchers are too many. The front office needs to help manager Ron Gardenhire and his staff out now. Either designate one of the pitchers for assignment and take your chances that they will not be picked off the waiver wire or trade one of them. Every day the Twins carry 13 pitchers is another day that Gardy can't make the necessary moves to help this team win a ball game.

Frank: This Sunday, June 15, is Father's Day. I know that your father, Joe, is a big part of why we do this blog every week. He, like many fathers do for their sons (like mine), taught you the sport of baseball, and helped you fall in love with the game. That led you to a career (actually two careers) in the major leagues. My dad was born in Brooklyn in 1946, so my burning passion for the game came indirectly from Jackie Robinson and the Dodgers, who branded my father. For more about fathers and sons in baseball, our blog faithful can read the story on the right side of this page (I would highly recommend it!) Apart from the baseball aspect of your dad's life, he is the main reason why this blog exists. Do you want to talk about that, and about your father in general? Do you have some funny stories about him, which you could share in honor of Father's Day? Did your dad ever take you out for a beer in Milwaukee? Would he?

Bert: My dad was a big reason why I fell in love with baseball. He was a huge Dodgers fan and I used to listen to the games with him. My dad worked hard throughout his life to earn money for his family. With two brothers and four sisters, I know it was not easy for him to support the family. His release from his hard work was baseball. Many nights he wouldn't go the sleep until he knew the Dodgers score. He was my hero! To me every day is Father's Day because he is always on my mind and I miss him. He lost his life to Parkinson's, and watching him battle with this deadly disease has actually made me a stronger person. Every day on this earth is a gift and we should all feel this way. Enjoy each day as if it might be your last. Be the best person you can be and at the end, you will be rewarded. I miss my dad but he is in my heart every single day.

Frank: Your dad taught you well, but enough with all the serious stuff. We don’t have these blog entries every week to make people cry, so let’s move on to the lighter side of baseball:

Joe Mauer finally went deep last week -- to the delight of the Metrodome crowd -- not once, but twice. He hit both home runs off left-handed pitchers, belying the old theory that left-handed hitters struggle against southpaws. Also homering for the first time was Delmon Young, who hit his home run Saturday night in Chicago. These two, now that they are off the snide, might be able to hit round trippers more frequently (let’s hope so). And “Casilla Later” struck again, as new slugger Alexi Casilla hit his third homer of the year (and third of his career) Friday night in the Windy City, a night when the nickname was apt. The wind may have helped Michael Cuddyer and Carlos Gomez join the long ball parade. Throw in one from big bopper Jason Kubel yesterday afternoon, and the Twins had a productive week, hitting seven home runs. The home run production has spread out now to include everyone expected to contribute. Now we need to watch for slugger Justin Morneau to hit a couple this week in road games against the Central Division of each league -- this afternoon we finish a disappointing four-game set with the Chicago White Sox, who lead the second-place Twins by five and a half games in the American League Central, then it’s off to Cleveland for three games (our first trip there this season) -- this weekend we open the second round of interleague play against our “geographical rivals,“ the Milwaukee Brewers. But power production is just one thing to look forward to. Here are some others:

1) The stability of the lineup, especially if Casilla can play this afternoon, should help over the final week of the grueling 40-game, 41-day marathon, despite further depletion of our infield by injury.
2) We will see if Glen Perkins can return to form starting this afternoon and continuing Saturday. Being on the road might help, after a couple of rough outings in front of the home folks at the Metrodome.
3) As Scott Baker regains strength, he should be able to last longer than the five innings he pitched Thursday. He will try to shut down the rival Indians on Tuesday, and then return to the mound Sunday in Milwaukee, the scene of his triumphant 2007 debut.
`
I know I speak for Bert when I say, “Go Twins!”

Check out the Twins on FSN North this week:
Tuesday: vs. Cleveland at 5:30 PM
Wednesday: vs. Cleveland at 5:30 PM
Thursday: vs. Cleveland at 5:30 PM
Friday: vs. Milwaukee at 6:30 PM
Saturday: vs. Milwaukee at 5:30 PM

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Frank's Story

The Day Perfection Died (Frank's Story)

The headline of USA Today's sports page on Thursday, September 15, 1994 read “’YER OUT!” Countless other newspapers proclaimed “Going, Going, Gone.” But the pain felt by baseball fans when the season-ending, World Series-cancelling announcement was made was not alleviated by such cute little phrases. Throughout the strike, the propaganda had flown from the lips of owners and players alike, but we fans expected a return to normalcy. But for a large majority of fans, the tragic passing of baseball in 1994 was a new occurrence. In fact, much was made of the fact that all the wars and even a major earthquake weren’t enough to stop the World Series. But for at least one fan, me, the loss of the national pastime was a repeat offense. Theft of the game by modern greed was a parallel to the crime perpetrated against me many years ago.
Back in my pre-teen years, I experienced one of the more intense growing pains imaginable—baseball was stolen from me. For when I was nine years old, I was diagnosed with Friedreich’s Ataxia, a rare, degenerative, neuromuscular disease that I inherited recessively from my parents. Although the disease made it progressively harder for me to walk, run, stand still at the plate (anything involving muscles and their coordination), I continued to play the game I loved. I was a mere shadow of the player I had once been, but I guess my natural mental capacity for the game kept me in my little league team’s starting lineup. I was the Lou Gehrig of Ames, Iowa pre--teens, playing first base as well as I could, giving it my all, despite dwindling physical abilities. Eventually, it was taken from me altogether. At the time, I didn't realize what a devastating loss it was. Ten difficult years later, my heart had grown fonder. When I read the strike announcement in 1994, memories of this loss poured out of me for the better part of an hour. Three years since have not dried my line of tears, which trail off into the remembrance of my favorite game.

Top of the first . . .
Baseball was, before the diagnosis, the one incredible passion in my life. I would have dropped anything (and often did, much to my mother's displeasure. Our neighbor even reported to her of me in my diaper playing ball in the backyard.) just to play baseball, softball, wiffle ball, or even a game of catch with my big brother. We played hotbox with our friends; we played simulated games imitating our favorite major leaguers, trying to hit, throw, and catch just like them. We played ball wherever we were. Our motto was "take me out to any ballgame." I could not have foreseen a life without the joy of playing baseball.

Top of the second . . .
There was a reason for this undeniable passion; I was really, really good. I remember that back during my tee-ball days, my best friend Fred and I were the two best players that Irv Rosheim had seen during his 40 years of coaching rec ball in Ames, or so he told our parents. He would bellow from beneath his red Welch Junior High School cap whenever Fred or I stepped to the plate on the rec league practice field, "All the Way to Lincoln Way," a spirited plea to be sure, as Frank Thomas probably could not hit Lincoln Way from there. In the field, Fred and I dominated the game from whichever two infield positions we chose on a given day. Basically we chose between left side and right side, because the other five-year-olds couldn't hit the ball hard enough to find a hole or clear the infield. We were a two-man blanket on defense, and a very short murderer's row on offense. One of my favorite stories of our juvenile diarchy is a tee-ball game my father told me about. With the bases loaded and nobody out, a kid popped one up. I was playing fielding pitcher, and raced in to catch the ball. I looked at the runner on third, and he had not set foot off the base, as base running was not top-notch in tee-ball. For the same reason, the runners on first and second kept running forward, even after the catch. Fred realized this at the same time I did and took off running toward second base from his position at first. Halfway there I hit him on the dead run with a bullet throw, as we were always in sync. Fred tagged the guy running to second and out-ran the kid who was now retreating to second at his third-base coach's plea. While Fred and I trotted off the field, an audible gasp rose from the crowd, followed by the murmur of husbands explaining to wives how many outs had been made. I think many women and children heard the term "triple play" for the first time that day. As my dad says now, I was slightly more athletic and a better baseball player than Fred, but he was taller and always preferred basketball, which is why he currently plays in the NBA.

Now entering the third inning . . .
One day during the coach-pitch league, the next level after tee-ball, I was playing fielding pitcher still. A kid obviously was lucky just to make contact with a pitch once. His mother jumped up and down in the stands, screaming "Run!" Her excitement was not deterred by the ball's dribbling three feet in front of home plate. I sprang off the mound as the kid took off for first and raced in, grabbed the ball and fired to first in one motion, getting the out by a full step. As my parents beamed quietly, certain that I possessed the strongest eight-year-old arm in the world, the kid's mom surveyed the situation and allowed, "HolyCow!"

Top of the fourth . . .
But as I grew older, my physical abilities deteriorated gradually, even before the disease was diagnosed. After a while in the coach-pitch league, I had slowed enough to move to third base or the outfield usually. But even as my speed left me, I was still good. I could hit, catch, and throw better than most of my peers. One year, after the diagnosis, I made the all-star team in a close vote. During the all-star game, I hit a line drive up the middle that the fielding pitcher somehow dodged. In the car afterward, my dad, apparently knowing my need for reassurance, said, "Frank, you had the hardest hit of the game." I wasn't so sure, so I said, "Really, you don't think Eric Holm's hit was harder?" He paused and answered, "No way. Yours was up the middle. Perfect timing." It was perfect in a grander sense than he could have realized, as that was my final all-star game. I was 10 years old.

Moving right along, we head to the fifth . . .
As my disease ate away at my nerves and my muscle control, I slowed down enough that the coaches moved me to first base--just like all the other greats nearing the end of their careers. Just like my dad, who bestowed his first baseman's glove on me, because he still had a couple years of center field left in his legs. I think he knew I would be done breaking in the glove before he needed it. And break it in I did. For my final couple years of little league, that glove scooped balls out of the dirt more frequently than ever had been seen in Ames little league action. That glove allowed me to be the best first baseman in the league, at least the best at catching, but only partially alleviated the internal havoc my illness was wreaking. My balance continually worsened, making it difficult to stand still in the field and especially in the batter's box. My ability at the plate had been decimated, and my lack of speed only compounded my offensive woes. Try as I did, my heart and baseball intelligence were no match for my degenerating cells.

Top of the sixth . . .
On the eve of a playoff game during my final year in baseball a juvenile prank left a pine needle lodged in my skull. The morning of the game, a friend took me to the hospital in my team's uniform, as my parents were out of town. A doctor opened my scalp and left the wound open, in hopes that the intruder would work its way out. I rushed to the game and played my heart out, overcoming dizziness to do my normal bang-up job at first base. My older brother Larry, the brother whom I had played with for countless hours of my youth, umpired first base in that game. I remember that one of my famous scoops came up into the heel of my glove. I squeezed it tightly, showed it to Larry, and he signaled the out. The first base coach jumped up and down and yelled at him, but I think it was the right call. If not right, at least appropriate. My usual ineffectiveness at the plate, however, was exaggerated by dizzy spells. After exacting all my effort and courage to stand in the box, I would make an out. Upon returning to the dugout, I'd remove my helmet and ignore the specks of blood that I saw. Despite my physical problems, we won that hot summer afternoon. As it should be--and as it always was--my physical woes took a back seat to the game. The important thing is that we won that day to move on in the tournament, and I was no small part.

Now entering the seventh . . .
Saturday, July 8, 1984--no newspaper headlines proclaiming loss, no announcement. Just the next game of the playoffs. I walked clumsily to the plate in the last inning with two outs and my team down by a couple of runs. After fouling back strike two to push the count to 2-2, I knew I needed to protect the plate on anything close. At the same time, I understood that my team needed a base runner to prolong the inning, so a walk would do. Ironically, my old pal Fred, the league's star player, watched from his position at shortstop, probably unaware of the profundity of the moment. The pitch came, and it looked good, so I started to swing. I don't know why, but the ball kept rising, and I thought it was high. I checked my swing, or so I thought, but the umpire yelled, "Strike three!," and the game was over. I wanted to ask the ump if he called the swing or the strike, but my words drowned in my rapidly forming tears. As Fred's teammates mobbed him, I cried for five minutes, mourning both the loss and the fact that I had let my teammates down. After that day, I never played little league again, but I would not let myself miss it. I shut off any nostalgia. I still liked baseball, but my passion had died. Ten years later, the strike announcement shook away the numbness, and the true mourning began.

We go to the eighth . . .
As my disease progressed to eventually confine me to a wheelchair, it drove me to pursue scholastic endeavors. My senior year in high school, I traded off headlines in the local paper with Fred, my former athletic equal who had taken off athletically. He owned the sports page, while frequent tales of my academic career somehow didn't bore people. This arrangement helped plunge any pain that could have stopped me up. My favorite teacher in high school, who teaches History and English, during our Western Civilization class's art section mentioned that the best test he could think of to judge the greatness of a painting was whether he would cut off one of his arms in return for an original copy of the painting. He has a handful of ampu-worthy paintings; thinking about his test makes you appreciate the unbelievable passion he has for art. I've thought about this test in relation to baseball, and I would gladly give an arm to be restored to full strength and allowed to play in the major leagues for a day--one day. In a heartbeat. That is the depth of my frustration.

We head into the final inning . . .
In Hollywood's rendition of my life story, "Field of Dreams," Kevin Costner plays Ray Kinsella, a man whose father played professional baseball but never attained his ultimate goal of playing in the major leagues. His father died before Kinsella ever developed a real relationship with him, and only a love of baseball binds the two. Kinsella plows over his cornfield in order to sow some fantastic seeds. He builds a baseball field surrounded by his corn, which he thinks will bring his hero--the legendary Joe Jackson, wrongly banned for life from baseball--off the black(sox)list to once more play the game he loved. Kinsella reaps what he sows, as Jackson shows up and brings many of his contemporaries to play. Kinsella also brings others whose dreams of playing in the major leagues had been discarded for one reason or another. In a stunning portrayal of dreams being taken off the back burner, they all gather at Kinsella's heavenly cornfield to play together. This scene is even more amazing for any boy who ever had the same dreams, the same disintegrated aspirations and loves as the movie's characters. Ultimately, Kinsella's final dream of making friends with his father also comes true, as the elder Kinsella shows up and plays catch with Ray. This game of catch represents the ultimate dream come true for many boys; seeing their fathers as young, athletic men; father and son throwing their hearts back and forth, squeezing them tightly with both hands to make every catch, for fear of letting their mutual love slip out of the palm of the glove and vanish forever.

As they say, game over . . .
In a sense, I guess, that's what happened to me on that dark and dreary summer day back in 1984. A piece of me, part of my heart, slipped out of the catcher's mitt and disappeared as the other team celebrated its victory. I don't know for sure whether the umpire called the pitch a strike or said I didn't check my swing in time. But I suppose it doesn't matter. The fact is that I struck out, ending my once-promising baseball career. My final swing was not really a swing. And now, after thirteen years, I would give anything for a chance to take another cut. I wish I could get another chance to play the game I love, but I realize it will only happen in my head, my field of dreams. I guess with the current state of the baseball world, dreaming is the only way to keep the game as flawless as it really is. That calls to mind my favorite line from "Field of Dreams." One of the men who had never fulfilled his goal of making the majors says to Kinsella upon getting his first glimpse of the scrimmaging ghosts, "This is unbelievable." Ray, carefully studying the activity on the field, sums up the scene, "No, it's more than that--it's perfect." In the words of the great Dodger broadcaster Vin Scully, "And how."

» Frank Genalo was born and raised in Ames, Iowa, went to Harvey Mudd College in Claremont, California (http://www.hmc.edu). He then went to graduate school at the University of Arizona. He now resides in St Paul, Minnesota.

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Monday, June 9, 2008

Happy Fathers Day

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