Author: Brad Zellar

  • Thursday Update: Disgrace By The Lake

    Yeah, well, you know…uh, boy…ummm, that was…that was…uh, that was….I’m sorry, give me a moment to compose myself…I, ummm, I’m just trying to, you know, I’m trying to get my head around this…I don’t know, it’s, uh, it’s just…it’s just really, really…I mean, seriously, Jesus, it’s really hard…that was…that was, well, I’m not really sure,…

  • The Heart Can Be Killed Anywhere On Earth

    Burch woke up one morning in a ditch in some low-lying country. He had no idea where he was and no recollection of how he might have arrived there. Whatever possessions he might once have owned –and he had a vague recollection of a backpack full of belongings– were nowhere to be seen. He was…

  • Mistake By The Lake: Game One In Cleveland

    I’ll have to do some more digging around to figure out what exactly happened, because I left the room for what seemed like five minutes during tonight’s game, and when I came back Jesse Crain was gone and the Indians had tacked six unearned runs on the board. I used to think I had a…

  • Blind Man In The Bleachers: A Different Sort Of Lost Weekend

    First of all, let me say this: the new radio home of the Twins sucks. I spent much of the weekend driving. I left Friday night with the game underway, and before I was even properly out of the Twin Cities I had lost KSTP’s signal, and spent the next two hours –headed south along…

  • Broken Record: Breathing Life Into The White Sox, And The Catch

    What? What? What the hell do you want me to say? Everybody and their crazy uncle is out there saying something, saying all manner of ridiculous somethings, and you expect me to shed some fresh light on this baseball team? Forget it. I’ll say this, I guess, even though I’m sure it’s already been said…

  • Night Falls, And Keeps On Falling

    Waking, by reason of their continual cares, fears, sorrows, and dry brains, is a symptom that much crucifies melancholy men. —Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy All he could do was transcribe the interminable babbling voice of the night, the insinuating perverse voice of the demons. —Pietro Citati, Kafka What if an individual is perceiving…