Bert's Buddy Blog: All Stars in New York

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

All Stars in New York

Frank: Quite a lot has happened with the Minnesota Twins since our last post. Since then – when the Twins were in the middle of a winning streak against National League teams – the Twins have won 12 of 17 games (eight of 10 division games). We closed out the first half of the season Sunday at 53-42 with a three-games-to-one series victory over the Detroit Tigers, clinching the season matchup versus the team many experts picked to win the American League Central Division. The Twins improved to 27-17 against division rivals, including an impressive 14-3 at home. We stand poised to battle for the division championship, and another trip to the playoffs, until the end of the regular season, currently 1.5 games behind the Chicago White Sox and 2.5 back in the wild card race. As we bid a fond farewell to the first half, it is time to shift our focus to the second half and the pennant race. One thing that should help us the rest of the year is our improved lineup, especially against left-handed pitchers:

The Twins seem to be hitting much better against left-handed pitchers. Is that your view too? Now that Nick Punto is settling in as the everyday shortstop, allowing Brendan Harris to platoon at third base with Brian Buscher, it's a pretty solid lineup for the Twins, against right-handers and left-handers. Don't you agree?

Bert: I always say on the air that the baseball season is like a roller coaster ride. So many ups and downs and that's the way it has been against left-handed pitchers throughout the season. Let's hope the success continues against lefties as well as
righties!
There have been so many combinations to the Twins infield throughout the season and it's nice to see the job that Alexi Casilla has done at second base and also the job Nick Punto has done at shortstop. Not only have these two players played highlight reel defense every night, but they both are producing at the plate as well. Brendan Harris did a great job at shortstop too, while Punto was on the disabled list, and now Gardenhire can use Harris at third base and other infield positions. Versatility is the key to the Twins infielders because most of them can play all the infield positions.

Frank: The annual All-Star Game will be played this week, at Yankee Stadium, and three Twins will be there. So I asked Bert about the team representatives:

Tuesday night Joe Mauer, Justin Morneau, and Joe Nathan will represent the Twins in the Midsummer Classic, the annual All-Star Game. You participated in a few All-Star Games, did you not? What will it mean to these men? You were a pitcher, though, not a position player, so you were never subject to fan balloting, were you? This year Major League Baseball fans wised up enough to vote Joe Mauer into the first All-Star start of his career. What do you think this special honor means to Joe? Any chance that Morneau will get another crack at taking Ben Sheets or Brandon Webb deep? And what are the odds that Nathan will get into the game, with six closers among the 12 American League pitchers?

Bert: Yes, congratulations to Joe Mauer, Justin Morneau, and Joe Nathan on their All-Star selection. The fans voted in Joe Mauer and talking to him he is very proud and elated that the fans voted him to start the game. It will be Joe's second All-Star Game as well as Justin's. Joe Nathan is making his third All-Star appearance. What an honor for these three players and I know, making two All-Star Games myself, they will have a blast, especially being part of the festivities at Yankee Stadium. Let's hope Mauer and Morneau get some hits and Nathan gets in the game and pitches a shutout inning. Maybe one of them will bring back to Minnesota the MVP Award from the game.
I just heard that Yankee great Bobby Murcer lost his battle to cancer and I just want send our condolences and prayers to the Murcer family. He was a great man that loved baseball and was a true Yankee!

Frank: I guess now is a pretty good time to go, since the attention of the baseball world is focused on the happenings at Yankee Stadium for the next couple of days. Last week the Twins played at historical Fenway Park in Boston, and I heard you during the telecast of a game there talking about some of your favorite things about the park. Now that you have had some time to reflect, can you list some of them for us? The All-Star Game will be played Tuesday night at the other great historical ballpark of the East, Yankee Stadium. Is it really closing after this year? What are your favorite memories from playing in these two great ballyards, The House where Ruth pitched (Fenway Park, as Babe Ruth pitched for the Boston Red Sox early in his career) and the House that Ruth Built (Yankee Stadium)?

Bert: It will be kind of sad knowing that after this baseball season that Yankee Stadium will be no more. Playing there for 20 years as an American Leaguer brings back a lot of memories. My first year in 1970, as a Twins pitcher, I started my second Major League game there. We lost 2-1 on a Horace Clarke 2-run home run in the fifth inning, but I got my first hit that day. It was a high chopper over the head of Yankee starter Mel Stottlemyre into centerfield. Over the years that high chopper as become a line drive that almost took Mel's head off!!!!!
Just like Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park brings my memories back to 1970, my rookie season. My first Major League start in Fenway Park was on Saturday, August 15 and it was the second game of a doubleheader. We lost the first game so I wanted to pitch well. But I lasted only 1/3 of inning! It would be my shortest start of the 685 Major League starts I had in my career! I walked the Red Sox leadoff hitter Mike Andrews, Reggie Smith hit a 2-run home run, Carl Yastrzemski followed with a home run, Rico Petrocelli struck out and Billy Conigliaro hit a double. That was it; I was out of the game. I ended up getting a no-decision as the offense picked me up but we still lost the game 11-7. The next day Luis Tiant started for us and he lasted only 1 and 1/3 innings. I came in to relieve in the second inning and pitched 5 2/3 innings and actually got the win as we won the game 9-6. I gave up three runs in this relief outing. So, in my first experience of pitching in Fenway Park, my pitching line was: 2 games, 1 start, 6 innings pitched, 8 hits, 3 walks, 5 strikeouts, 3 home runs allowed with a record of 1-0. What a great country!
Be safe and be kind to each other. Go Twins!

Frank: Bert forgot to mention that his strikeout during the brief Fenway debut, the only out he got, ended up putting him over the 3700 mark for his career (He fanned 3,701 in his 23 seasons in the Major Leagues.) Bert remains one of only five pitchers ever to accomplish that feat. Denard Span needs to lead off the order, if not replace struggling Carlos Gomez in center field. Span hits much better (.324 to .253) and gets on base much more often (.429 to .287), and he runs really well. He might not have the speed of Gomez (who does?), but Span does everything else that you want from a leadoff hitter much, much better. His next walk will tie him with Gomez, despite having 230 fewer at-bats! Span switching spots in the lineup with Gomez is the key thing that would help the Twins “Go” this week, and it’s a perfect time of year to make the switch!

Check out the Twins on FSN North this weekend:
Friday, July 18 vs. Texas: 6:30 PM
Saturday, July 19 vs. Texas: 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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Tuesday, July 15, 2008

All Stars in New York

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