Bert's Buddy Blog: A Great Team & a Great Cause

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

A Great Team & a Great Cause

Frank: It was another big week for the Minnesota Red Twins last week, as guys who started the season with the Class Triple-A Rochester Red Wings made key plays. So I asked Bert about this:

The Twins have gotten major contributions from rookies and other young players this year. Earlier in the season, you gave your Twins Rookie of the Year vote to Nick Blackburn. Has that changed to Glen Perkins or Denard Span? What about the other guys who started the year in the Minors -- like Alexi Casilla, Brian Buscher, and Francisco Liriano -- only to be called up and have a big impact at the Major League level? And the two youngest players on the team at 22 years old, Carlos Gomez and Delmon Young, who are technically not rookies, but manager Ron Gardenhire described them as two who are still learning the game. Do you actually see, with your trained baseball eye, the growth of these men as players? If you could share any specifics, that would be great.

Bert: With a month to play I guess we could pick about five or six players who could be the Twins Rookie of the Year! Nick Blackburn has been very consistent throughout the season and now Glen Perkins has impressed everyone since his call up from Triple-A Rochester in early May. His 12 wins lead the staff. It's good to have a healthy Francisco Liriano back with the club, as he is 4-0 since his return over six starts. On the offense side of the game, what Denard Span has meant to the Twins since he was recalled for the second time has been priceless. He has taken over the leadoff spot in the lineup and we have seen him make Gold Glove plays in the outfield. Alex Casilla has been very consistent at second base and his switch hiting and speed have added more excitement to the lineup. Brian Buscher has stepped right in at third base and has gotten some big hits for the Twins in his rookie season. Craig Breslow has been a nice surprise since he was claimed off waivers too. Anyone of these players who is eligible for Rookie of the Year is deserving.

You asked about Carlos Gomez and Delmon Young being only 22 years old and still learning the game. Gardy is right when he says they are still learning, but everyday is a new experience for everyone on the team. No matter how many years you play the game you are always learning something new about the game. No two games are alike when it comes to baseball so with success and sometimes failures comes on the job training. As long as you learn from your mistakes and try not to repeat them, you have succeeded. All the Twins players are always learning something every single day.

Frank: After playing outside for a week and a half, the Twins are back under a roof tonight in the domed stadium of Toronto's Rogers Centre. The Toronto Blue Jays swept us at the Metrodome in May. Do you think that our Dome Field Advantage was less that series because Toronto is another team with a domed stadium? The Twins were hovering around the .500 mark at the time. Since then we have played much better, nearly .600. Do you think that the Twins will have an advantage playing indoors? Can we win the series and exact some revenge on the Blue Jays?

Bert: I am currently writing this for the blog on the plane with the team heading to Toronto. The Twins are 5-6 so far on this 14 game road trip. The three games in Toronto are very important and the Twins know that the Blue Jays are playing good baseball right now. The Twins are lucky that they do not have to face Roy Halladay, the best pitcher in the American League in my opinion, in this series. He pitched today (Sunday) and beat the Yankees for his 17th win of the year. Cliff Lee is having a great year for the Indians, but since Halladay is a pitcher who likes to finish what he starts, I like him better. Complete games are a thing of the past and Halladay has eight of them this season; five more then any other pitcher in the A.L.. The Blue Jays have a very good pitching staff, leading the American League in combined earned run average, so the Twins bats will be tested even without facing Halladay. Let's hope the Twins can win two of three and come back home with a .500 road trip.

Frank: Last week we talked about the State Fair, an annual tradition this time of year. It ended yesterday, on Labor Day as usual. Another tradition on that holiday is the Jerry Lewis MDA telethon, an event near and dear to my heart. I have Friedreich's Ataxia, a form of the disease that killed Twins great Bobby Allison. It is also a disorder covered by MDA, the Muscular Dystrophy Association. I appeared on the national telethon with Jerry in 1990, just after former Los Angeles Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda. We were in LA at the time, but I like to think that the fact that our hour broke the fundraising record at the time was due mainly to my appearance. For those who don't know, the main reason for this blog is to raise money for Ataxia and Parkinson's. I know that you have been getting autographs on a tie you are wearing on the current road trip, to be auctioned off for the benefit of Parkinson's research. My question for you is this: Have you ever appeared on a telethon? What do you think of Jerry Lewis? Tommy Lasorda? Neckties?

www.mda.org/auctions

Bert: I am very proud of you, Frank, because you have never given up on life. You have been dealt a bad hand, but you have made this negative into a positive in so many ways. Your dedication to helping others through your time in life is an inspiration to me and I'm sure many others. I witnessed first hand what Parkinson's can do to the human body. How it can tear down the strongest man I ever knew: my dad. He fought it like he was a boxer in a corner with no way out, but it finally got the best of him. He was a fighter through all the years of this disease, and he never complained until the end. He only complained because he knew he had been beaten! I loved him for his dedication to my mother and his family. I love my mother because of her dedication to my father as his care taker and how much they loved each other.
I have never had the privilege of being part of a telethon, and we should all be proud of what Jerry Lewis stands for and how his telethon has helped so many others. God bless Jerry Lewis and anyone else who has tried to lend a hand in trying to raise funds to find a cure for any disease out there. Let's just hope that one day all the terrible diseases in life can be better controlled.

The baseball tie that I brought on this long road trip was something I wanted to do for my dad and Parkinson's. In Anaheim I was able to get Torii Hunter, Vladimir Guerrero and Garret Anderson to sign my tie. Of the Twins I have Joe Mauer, Justin Morneau and Joe Nathan on the tie. In Seattle I asked Raul Ibanez, J.J. Putz and Ichiro Suzuki and in Oakland I got Frank Thomas, Huston Street and Bobby Crosby to sign. In Toronto I will ask Roy Halladay, Vernon Wells and B.J. Ryan to sign the tie. I want to thank all these players for signing the tie and hopefully this tie can help raise funds for Parkinson's. I will donate this tie on behalf of my dad and I will let you know at a later date how Parkinson's plans to auction this tie off.

Frank, keep up the great job.

Go Twins....

Frank: Let’s “Go” and break the tie with the Chicago White Sox beginning tonight in Toronto and continuing this weekend when the Twins finally come home and take on our division rivals, the Detroit Tigers.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...: We should all keep in mind that there would be more complete game pitchers in the game nowadays if managers let pitchers go a bit longer. Most of the time, it's not the starter who wants to come out after 7-8 innings. Halladay does have the great advantage of keeping his pitch counts down due to throwing strikes.; September 5, 2008 at 11:17 AM
Anonymous said...: Francis P, you are the man. We all know you set a fund-raising record back in 1990 because of how cute you are. Keep up the good work, and just be glad that the Twins don't have to come to Seattle any more and lose 2 of 3 to the woeful M's.; September 9, 2008 at 11:27 AM

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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

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

A Great Team & a Great Cause

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