Bert's Buddy Blog: Bert's Motto

Monday, August 11, 2008

Bert's Motto

Frank: Well, the Minnesota Twins are making an old habit of the road trip rebound. And now, we are left with a huge nine-game home stand, beginning tonight against the talented, high-priced New York Yankees. When the Yankees leave Minneapolis after the three-game series wraps up Wednesday afternoon (Yes, FSN will broadcast the game, starting at 11:30 in the morning), we will prepare for three more against the Seattle Mariners this weekend.

The Twins stole a few bases this one weekend in Kansas City, more than we have in a while. Because Bert Blyleven is a spewing font of knowledge, I asked him about this slowdown. It’s hard to believe, but I asked him this question only 16 weeks ago:

The Twins are stealing a lot more bases this year than last -- not surprisingly, given the additions of Carlos Gomez and Delmon Young. But Ron Gardenhire has always been a rather conservative manager. Will he reign in the running game at some point to avoid running into outs, or keep it flying when the Twins are not down by more than one?

At the time, three weeks into the season, the Twins were tied for the league lead in stolen bases and near the bottom in almost every other offensive category. Boy, how things have changed! While we are still among the lesser home run hitting teams, we are now in the top five in the league in batting average and runs scored. But the running game, at least the base stealing, has stalled a bit. Can you lend some insight as a former pitcher into the connection between stolen bases and batting average? Would you say that the base running of the Twins has to do with the batting average and the run production?

Bert: Frank, you’re right when you say the Twins base stealing has slowed down since the beginning of the season, but their aggressive base running has not! Denard Span has taken over the leadoff spot in the line-up with speedy Carlos Gomez now batting ninth in the order. Every game is different and there are so many things that come into play when a manager decides to ask a base runner to steal a base:

Is the opposing pitcher left-handed or right-handed? What kind of move does he have to first base? How quick is he toward home plate? Does he have a high leg kick or does he use the slide-step? Who is catching and how strong is his arm throwing to second base or third? What is the score, the outs and what inning is it? How is the tempo of the game going? Does your team need a stolen base at this time or do you leave the hole open at first since the first basemen is holding on the runner? Who is hitting? Would maybe a hit and run work better then a straight steal of second? Is the pitcher throwing strikes or is he all over the place? If he is wild do we even need to send the runner, because he may walk the batter? How good of a jump does the runner need and does he look comfortable with his lead? I'm sure these are only a few thoughts that go through Gardy's mind when Gomez, Span, Delmon Young or any other potential base stealer gets on first base.
I got a headache just thinking of what might or might not happen when a runner gets to first! Imagine what Gardy thinks about every inning! (These migraines are why I like to call him MSGardenhire!)
The Twins don't have the consistent power that some other teams have so they have to manufacture runs. One thing that we have seen throughout the season is that the Twins try to take the extra base as much as possible. Going from first to third on a base hit and getting a good lead at second base so you can score on a base hit are important in scoring runs. This type of base running will be needed the rest of the season if the Twins want to stay in the race.

Frank: Tonight we begin the second half of our home-and-home series with the Yankees. The Twins will have the same three pitchers start against them who began the games in New York three weeks ago. Also, this weekend the home stand continues with the Seattle Mariners, whom we played just last week. Two of our three starters will match up again with the club. Carlos Silva makes his return to the Dome Friday night, his first time pitching there since leaving the Twins last offseason after four years with the Twins.

Do you think anyone has an advantage when a batter faces the same pitcher a second time within a few weeks? If so, who? Silva will not have pitched in a week. Does that mean he will be hit hard?

Bert: The Twins record (39-21) shows that they love playing at home. Let's just hope that with this upcoming home stand the magic continues. The Yankees are always a tough opponent and it should be an interesting three-game series, followed by the same with the Seattle Mariners and Oakland A's. Pitching match-ups are always the first thing fans look at when there is an upcoming series. Who is facing whom and how has that certain pitcher fared against the other team. I have always said that any Major League pitcher can beat any Major League opponent if he has his good stuff that particular night. Yes, Ponson has pitched well against the Twins over his career, but maybe this time out he won't have his good sinker working. Maybe Silva will have his sinker working and will get a lot of double plays turned behind him. This is what I love about the game of baseball. Each day and each game is so different. If a pitcher makes his pitches then the advantage goes to the pitcher, but if the pitcher is missing his spots and hanging some breaking balls then the hitters have the advantage. Let's wait and see who is on and who is making the mistakes.

Frank: The Beijing Olympics kicked off this weekend and on Wednesday the baseball competition gets underway. This year might be the last Olympics ever with baseball, sadly enough. The active players on Major League Baseball teams' 25-man rosters are ineligible, but Japan allows its best professionals a break from their pennant chases. What about you? Did you try out for the 1968 Mexico City Olympics as a high school hot shot? Since pitchers are such great athletes, maybe you could have run with Lee Evans, jumped with Bob Beamon, or swum with Mark Spitz. What is your personal motto? Is it Citius, Altius, Fortius (swifter, higher, stronger)?

Bert: I will be following not only the United States in the Olympic Games, but also the Netherlands and Canada. I was born in Holland but left when I was two years old, so I am always curious to see how the athletic teams from the Netherlands do against the rest of the world. I also will be following the Canadian athletics because my family spent four years in Canada before we came to the United States in 1957. Now living in the United States since I was six years old, I am very proud of U.S. athletics. I know we live in the greatest country in the world, so GO USA! Hopefully the U.S. baseball team will make us all proud and if it's the last Olympics for baseball, then bring home the gold!
I could never run with Lee Evans, jump with Bob Beamon, or swim with Mark Spitz. . BUT...I bet I could have struck them out!!!!!

My motto is: Do the best you can with the talent you have. Look in the mirror and ask yourself this simple question, "Am I getting the best out of myself today and can I be better today then I was yesterday?"

Every day is a gift so make the most of today! We are not guaranteed tomorrow…

God Bless all the readers and the Twins fans.
Go Twins and the USA...

Check out the Twins this week on FSN North:
Monday, Aug 11: vs. NY Yankees (6:30PM)
Tuesday, Aug 12: vs. NY Yankees (6:30 PM)
Wednesday, Aug 13: vs. NY Yankees (11:30 PM)
Friday, Aug 15: vs. Seattle (6:30PM)

1 comment:

Anonymous said...: I just found this via a myspace URL which was flashed on the screen during the pregame. You should publicize this blog more! A lot of good writing here. Maybe Bert can mention the URL during the broadcast.

Bert (and the Moose, Mike Mussina) for HoF!; August 11, 2008 at 5:05 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.

Bert's Buddy Blog

Monday, August 11, 2008

Bert's Motto

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