The Rake Magazine

Author: Brad Zellar

  • Just Because You're Paranoid…

    After mercifully disappearing for the first nine games of the season that song was back Saturday night. Lee Greenwood, I guess it is. I’ll take the blame (see this if you need any further explanation), because from here on out I’ve decided that I’ll take the blame for everything that goes wrong this year.

    I sure as hell can’t come up with any other explanation for the song’s reemergence that makes a lick of sense. Unless this Lee Greenwood character is somehow related to Hal Greenwood who, though a convicted felon, has old ties to the Twins through his days at the helm of Midwest Federal.

    And, look, I’ve got nothing against America, at least as a vague concept governed by a constitution that, though generally excellent, nonetheless failed to provide adequate protection against bad taste. If you’re dead set on turning the seventh-inning stretch into an exercise in patriotic indoctrination, though, there are certainly classier ways to go about it. There are surely better songs about America, songs that aren’t the work of bottom feeders like Lee Greenwood. Someone in the comments below took exception to my criticism of that jingoistic piece of herd trash on the grounds that America is at war. All the more reason, I say, to find offensive the spectacle of a bunch of safe, well-fed yahoos making merry at a sporting event and singing along with a crass ditty that could have been written by a computer program at the Pentagon.

    Okay, that’s all I’m going to say about that. Now I’d like to bitch about Bartolo Colon, if I could, a guy I regard as one of the more unsightly specimens ever to squeeze himself into a Major League baseball uniform. I can’t stand to watch the man, who, as he demonstrated today, is capable of pitching performances that are almost as nasty as he looks (or, as he showed against the Yankees in his last start, as ugly). Colon looks like the bastard spawn of Harvey Weinstein and Andre the Giant’s fat little sister.

    As much as I might loathe the sight of Colon, I have to admit he was pretty masterful today, painting the corners and getting the Twins to beat the ball into the rug all day long. He had to be masterful, of course, to beat Johan Santana. Santana was pretty damn good himself. Eight innings, two hits, two homeruns. There’s no shame at all in giving up a solo shot to Vladimir Guerrero, but Jose Molina? You’ve got to keep Jose Molina in the yard, and that shouldn’t be a terribly tall order –the guy had five career homers before today, for crying out loud.

    Oh well. It was a pretty good game, and a good series. It is, though, a dirty rotten shame that Shrek had to be the guy to put an end to Santana’s streak.

  • One More National Poetry Month Draws To A Close

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    This is always such a bittersweet night for me, as I curl up in my recliner before the fireplace with the last volume of poetry of the season and a glass of eggnog. Tomorrow, alas, all the verse will be packed away, the poetry decorations taken down, and the Caedmon Recordings of Poets will be returned to storage for another year. If tradition holds, my wife will give “Edna St. Vincent Millay Reading From Her Poetry” (Caedmon TC 1123) one final spin, and together we will intone along with “Elegy.”

    That’s always such a beautiful moment. This year, I’ve no doubt, it will be almost heartbreaking. The month seemed to fly by so swiftly, as we lost ourselves in the festive whirl of poetry readings, office parties, and neighborhood open houses. I try not to let the commercialization of National Poetry Month bother me. But as much as I might think I can simply block out the giant and frequently crass NPM displays at the Barnes and Noble and in the local malls (not to mention the garish advertising supplements for the small presses that tumble from the morning papers each day), I can’t deny that I am occasionally saddened. And I do sense that something important is being lost in our too eager complicity with the retail industry’s headlong rush to make a buck on the season.

    I know how important this month is for the continuing survival of bookstores, particularly those independents still hanging on by a thread. I understand that National Poetry Month and the sales it generates can be single-handedly responsible for keeping many of these smaller stores afloat. Yet I think that in the compressed frenzy of the month we too often lose sight of the fact that poetry is best mulled and savored in intimate gatherings, in the privacy of our homes, or in solitude.

    I am saddened as well when I hear of school poetry pageants being cancelled over complaints from conservative parents. What kind of a message are we sending to our children when we tell them there is something wrong with a celebration of the great universal spirit which finds its voice most powerfully in poetry?

    Tonight, however, as I raise a quiet toast to the waning moments of National Poetry Month, I shall try to push such gloomy thoughts from my mind, and I will share with you one final bit of verse to tide you over until next April:

    I’d rather, I can tell you flat,

    When for Parnassus bound,

    Have authored “Casey at the Bat,”

    Than the odes of Ezra Pound.

    –Robert Service

  • Uncle Jumbo: The Proverbial Turd In The Punchbowl

    I had an incredible time at the ballpark tonight –and, yes, I’m in a good enough mood that I’m going to go ahead and refer to the Metrodome as a ballpark. It was a strange and amazing game, and a seriously gutty, inspired, and lucky performance by Carlos Silva. There was a point in the second or third inning where I was looking at my scorecard and going back over every batter in the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim California Angels lineup, certain I’d gotten so caught up in the fireworks on the field that I’d somehow missed three or four runs.

    But, no, there it was: four runs.

    The next thing I knew the Twins had tied it up, then taken the lead, and, finally, coasted to the victory.

    A bunch of other thrilling stuff happened at the game tonight, which I may or may not tell you about one way or another eventually. I’m too fried right now. It was a long day, and I walked back to my car from the Dome feeling tremendous but completely drained. I was –in accordance with a lopsided agreement I’d made over a month ago– expecting my old pal Uncle Jumbo to take me off the hook tonight. He was going to handle Fridays. That was the deal.

    Instead I came home to a rambling phone message from a clearly intoxicated Jumbo. This tirade, apparently, was in lieu of a column, although early in his heavily slurred monologue I think he said something like, “Write this down. My machine is broken.” I couldn’t make it all the way through his tantrum –I absolutely wasn’t in the mood– but I can tell you that there was a long-winded diatribe about Justin Morneau.

    Justin Morneau. The guy who went 3-4 and scored two runs in a 7-4 victory that was Minnesota’s fourth-straight win. The guy who is now hitting .432.

    “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!” Jumbo shouted into the phone. It sounded like he had a mouthful of potato chips. “Those morons have turned Justin Morneau into a fucking banjo hitter! The cursed and diseased Canadian who along with that other big white kid was supposed to be the Great Very-White Hope, who was supposed to hit forty homeruns! They’ve given the big bastard a Tony Gwynn makeover! This team is hopeless!”

    I listened for about five minutes, and then I hung up the phone. I’ll try to gut out the rest of the message in the morning, and if there’s anything of interest to report I’ll let you know.

  • Great Blurbs From Book Jacket History, Part One, And Other Miscellaneous Nonsense

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    –The day of Samuel Beckett’s Funeral. December 26, 1989. Montparnasse Cemetery, Paris. The Spam hat was my own humble offering.

    This is just the book to give your sister if she’s a loud, dirty, boozy girl.

    –Dylan Thomas’s blurb on the front dustwrapper of the 1966 first American edition of Flann O’Brien’s At Swim-Two-Birds (Walker and Company)

    These days the downtrodden God-Bless-You boys work the stoplight medians along Washington and Broadway in shifts. There’s a guy with a cardboard sign on every median and corner at the intersection, some days six guys holding down every possible point of access to motorists. There’s also always a gaggle of characters waiting on the sidelines, so to speak, sitting along the concrete freeway barrier and on the bus stop benches. It’s like pick-up basketball for the homeless.

    You tend to see the same characters every day. I suspect they all use each other’s signs. “Stranded,” one says, and nothing else. There’s the standard, “Homeless. Please Help. God Bless.” And, “Homeless Veteran. God Bless America.”

    I also saw this virtuous variant last week: “I’m Trying To Get Back On My Feet.”

    “Three Children In Texas” seemed to strike an odd note, and I was uncertain whether the appropriate reaction was sympathy or scorn. I do feel sympathy, or rather compassion, for all of them, especially now that there seem to be more of them everyday. My rule of thumb is that if I encounter one of them at a red light I give him a buck, and they have always been unfailingly polite.

    A couple days ago, in the rain, I saw a motorist hand one of them a pizza box through a car window, and yesterday, as I waited at the stoplight there was a guy who was holding an entirely blank piece of cardboard.

    “What’s your sign say?” I asked.

    “You know what it says,” he said, without the slightest hint of hostility. He was, of course, absolutely right.

  • There's A Cancer In Twins Territory, And Its Name Is Brad Zellar

    Back in the day –this was in 1987– I used to have this Nancy and Sluggo tee-shirt that I believed was some sort of magic talisman for the Twins. Whenever I wore it to a game the Twins won, and somehow I figured out, or thought I figured out, that when I didn’t wear it they would inevitably lose. I know all sorts of fans have these crazy superstitions, but the thing was, mine was real. It actually worked. I started making notations in my scorebook (an ‘N/S’ next to the date of the game) on the days I wore the tee-shirt, and the Twins were something like 18-0 from the time I started wearing it religiously. This included the four straight World Series wins at home against the Cardinals.

    The next year the spell seemed to be broken. The Twins lost three straight when I donned the Nancy and Sluggo shirt, and the thing was starting to get pretty ratty so I tucked it away in a drawer and sort of forgot about it.

    I got wigged out during the 1991 Series when Atlanta came back to take a three games to two lead, and in an act of manic desperation I remembered the talismanic tee, and dug it out for the final games at the Dome.

    And: Abracadabra, of course. Just what the doctor ordered.

    I didn’t really retire Nancy and Sluggo so much as the damn thing eventually fell apart. In 2002 I scoured the Twin Cities for a replacement to no avail, and seriously considered having Nancy and Sluggo tattooed on my arm. In hindsight I probably should have gotten the tattoo. I might yet have to.

    You may have noticed that earlier this season I wrote a tepidly hopeful appraisal of Luis Rivas, in which I pointed out that he was still relatively young and had once been regarded as a promising and fundamentally sound player. It wasn’t too late, I said, for Luis to turn things around.

    I was guilty of wishful thinking. I can see that now. No dice for poor Luis.

    A couple weeks ago I took a pull at the wishbone again, this time in defense of Kyle Lohse. I parroted all the things people in the Twins organization have been saying to me about Lohse for several years. The guy had great stuff, a terrific arm; he just needed to learn how to pitch. I might have predicted that he would lead the team in innings pitched and win sixteen games. I might have. I don’t care to look back, actually, and see what sort of nonsense I might have written about Lohse. Because I was apparently wrong, and I’m man enough to admit that.

    Either that, or maybe I’m to blame. Perhaps these poor bastards just can’t bear up under the weight of my expectations.

    Exhibit –what is it? C? Yes, I think it’s C: Yesterday I wrote an appreciation of Jacque Jones that was probably unwise. Granted, it’s only been twenty-four hours, but Jones was 0-4 today with two strikeouts. He also stranded three runners. Granted, he did draw another walk, but I sense I’ve done him a terrible disservice.

    As I pointed out yesterday, Jones burned me bad last year, and I have no idea when I’m going to learn from my mistakes. I won’t be at all surprised if his average dips below .250 by Memorial Day, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

    My sincere apologies to anyone who might read this and might conceivably care. I think I’m going to start paying more attention to the National League.

    Speaking of which, have you noticed that the Arizona Diamondbacks are now 14-8 and in first place in the NL West, this despite the fact that they’ve scored 100 runs and given up 105? That’s sort of interesting, don’t you think?

  • Maybe This Year It's Not A Tease

    It’s not really a surprise to me, but Jacque Jones has quietly become a better player –certainly a better hitter, and I’d argue a better all-around player– than Torii Hunter. Jones is as competitive and driven as Hunter is easy going, and he works as hard as anybody on the team to get better. He can be moody and defensive in the clubhouse, but his moods are driven as much by team failure as personal frustration, and he can also be one of the most thoughtful and engaging guys in the game. In a clubhouse full of relatively mellow and gregarious characters, his passion for baseball and his determination to play hurt and be a better all-around player stick out like a sore thumb, and right now this team could use a lot more of his fiery personality.

    I wrote those words on May 28th of last season, and Jones immediately proceeded to make me look like a complete idiot. I’m accustomed to looking like a complete idiot, but I was nonetheless disappointed in the extended swoon that ruined what was at the time looking like a breakout year for Jones.

    I spent the rest of the season trying to figure out what went wrong. I picked Jacque’s brain, and talked about his struggles with Torii Hunter and hitting coach Scott Ullger. Everybody just kept saying he was going to turn it around, but from where I was sitting it looked like he slipped back into some bad habits. When Jones is heading into a slump you can see it coming from a mile away. Pitchers start working him in and out, get him tentative and off balance, and then when they get ahead in the count –and Jones is always trying to battle back from pitcher’s counts when he’s fighting himself– they get him to flail at fastballs up in his eyes or sliders in the dirt. When he did manage to work the count in his favor, pitchers knew they still didn’t have to throw him a strike because he was swinging at anything. It was an ugly thing to watch, particularly since I know how hard the guy works to get better and how frustrated he gets when he can’t seem to figure the game out.

    Last year there were a number of aggravating circumstances that contributed to Jones’ rough season; his father was dying, he’d been the subject of trade rumors for two seasons, and Jason Kubel was breathing down his neck.

    I’ve never liked to believe that impending free agency can somehow motivate guys to play better –or not necessarily motivate, because, sure, the motivation is certainly there, but actually push them to play better. That seems counter-intuitive to me, particularly for a guy like Jones, whose struggles have always seemed to be precisely a product of pressing. I’ve also seen Jones have enough hot streaks to know that it’s never a good idea to read too much into these stretches.

    This year, though, seems to be different from other years. You sense that maybe something has finally clicked for him. It’s apparent in the clubhouse, and it’s becoming equally apparent on the field. The guy is tied for the team lead in walks (and has walked as often as he’s struck out), and I don’t ever recall a stretch where he’s taken so many pitches. He’s been terrific against lefties, and is more balanced at the plate than I’ve ever seen him. All of his old anxious movement is, at least for the time being, gone. He’s keeping his hands still, and staying behind the ball, rather than jumping at pitches out of the strike zone. Watch the way he keeps his head down right up until the moment he starts his swing. This approach has resulted in a much quicker bat, and the ability to hit the ball where it’s pitched.

    Particularly encouraging has been the way he follows a bad at-bat –and he had a couple rough trips to the plate tonight– with a good at-bat. He’s still diving for those balls on the outside corner in the dirt, but I can’t recall an occasion so far where he’s screwed himself into the ground trying to handle that high and tight pitch. There have been times in the last few seasons, extended periods, when you pretty much could gauge the kind of game Jones was going to have after his first at-bat. So far he looks like a completely different player from the guy we saw in the second half last year. It’s been fun to watch, and I’d be thrilled to see him put it all together and sustain this kind of productivity over a full season, even if it ultimately means he goes somewhere else to make his millions.

  • I Know I'm Not Fooling Anyone

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    I’ve gone by a lot of different names over the years, every one of them, I’m sure, transparently phoney. I now recognize that I was laboring under some fairly serious delusions, and harbored the misguided notion that these names I’d choose –and choose carefully, I might add– demonstrated a certain flair. What they actually were, these names of mine, were red flags, and only served to cast underserved suspicion on my behavior and motives.

    You might remember me from the period when I was representing myself as Corporal Bryce Chaparral, and was trying to make a living as an auctioneer here in the Twin Cities. I later tried my hand as a private detective in Sioux City, under the name Aristide LeRoc. I went so far as to take out an expensive advertisement in the yellow pages, and tried to speak with an accent that I imagined sounded suitably French, or at least French-Canadian. I paid a good deal of attention to my grooming in those days, and walked with a cane. Irregardless of my qualifications –or lack thereof– I discovered that there was little market for a private detective in Sioux City. I did manage to pick up the occasional insurance job, which generally involved trying to capture video footage of people with purported disabilities taking out their garbage.

    For a brief period I was also a black jack dealer at a casino in Oklahoma (as Lance Waterhouse), but nothing came of it. I have no idea what I thought might come of it, but I certainly never imagined I’d have to pawn virtually everything I owned, including a Civil War chess set I’d inherited from my father.

    You might be surprised by how easy it is to become anyone you want, at least in strictly bureaucratic terms, especially when people don’t much care who you are. It is more difficult, I’ve discovered, to truly become someone, to make up your mind, as if the mind were a bed, or a bedtime story.

    Make believe     –there’s another useful (and useless) analogy. Also: Wishful thinking.

    You can’t just go to Home Depot and buy an ax to break up the frozen sea within you, if, in fact, you sense there is a frozen sea within you. I liked to think there was, once upon a time, if only because it seemed like a convenient explanation for certain troubling aspects of my personality.

    I won’t go into that, though. Live and learn, I guess, which is just something I’ll say because it’s something people say.

    I’m sorry, I can’t imagine. I just cannot imagine. I was thinking last night how my head felt like one of those snow globes where the little confetti blizzard never settles and the quaint miniature village never emerges from the storm. It almost broke my heart, but then I got to thinking…Oh, good lord, I can’t for the life of me remember what I got to thinking. It’s entirely slipped my mind.

  • Granted, It's The Royals…

    …and a 2-1 victory against the Royals should probably go in the loss column, but what the hell, we’ll take it. Don’t knock yourselves out trying to score a few runs for your pitchers, though, fellas.

    Didn’t you pretty much know that two runs was all it was going to take tonight? I did, right out of the blocks. Two runs should be all it takes most nights against KC, but with Santana on the mound, and Nathan fresh in the pen, it was a done deal the moment Lew Ford’s little bloop dropped into the no man’s land behind second base.

    And now Santana has won a whole bunch of games without a defeat (I’ve heard something about it over the last couple weeks, and Dick and Bert might have mentioned the subject at some point tonight, but I was sort of in a no man’s land of my own –what is it? Thirty games? More? Less? Am I even warm?). I do know that he’s now struck out forty-eight batters and walked only three, including the intentional pass tonight. I think the kid’s got a chance to be a halfway decent pitcher.

    I see, though, that Chicago is winning again out in Oakland. My God, and I thought Hawk Harrelson was insufferable when the White Sox played like garbage wrapped in skin. Have you subjected yourself to the yammering of that jackass in the last couple weeks? I’m not an advocate of violence, but I wish one of you people who is would please do me a huge favor and rip the guy’s lungs out the next time he’s in town. Seriously, the man is inhumane. He deserves to spend the rest of his life locked in a broadcast booth –or, better yet, a hotel sauna– with Tim McCarver. (Talk about a No Exit scenario. It gives me the creeps just thinking about it.)

    Ooh, Oakland just tied it up….Anyway, have you looked at the numbers for the White Sox? It’s pretty unreal, quite honestly. They were 16-4 going into tonight, including 10-2 on the road, and they’d won eight straight. They’d scored more runs than the Twins, and allowed fewer. The five pitchers in the White Sox rotation had a combined 2.84 ERA (and none of them was higher than 3.48).

    That’s all pretty good. Chicago’s had a remarkable start, no doubt about it, and without Frank Thomas, etc. But here’s where things don’t look so good for the Sox (and exactly where things didn’t look so good for Cleveland last year when they were making like they were going to give the Twins a run for their money): Despite that 2.84 ERA (and a 10-3 record), Chicago’s starters have only 75 strikeouts (versus 40 walks) in 132-and-two-third innings pitched. The whole pitching staff has recorded 126 K/64 BB in 186 IP.

    That ratio for the starters would be a borderline survival number for most individual major league starters, and when you compare it with the numbers for Minnesota’s rotation (85 K/11 BB in 118 IP) it’s even more glaring. Chicago’s starters have given up fewer hits than innings pitched (by a considerable margin so far), but I’d expect that number to start to climb as they leave the Central behind. As I said a couple weeks back, I do think they’re a much more balanced team; they’ve got two horses in Buehrle and Garcia, and their bullpen is improved with Hermanson and Marte capable of taking some of the heat off Takatsu. Garland is young and should only get better; Hernandez is Hernandez, and we’ve already seen what he can do when he’s dealing. He could also blow up at any time.

    The bottom line is that the White Sox are a better team than they were last year. They’re probably going to be a pretty good team. But, holy shit, 16-4 (maybe, by the time you read this, 17-4)? They’re not that damn good.

  • Is There An Echo In Here?

    What the hell was that? I am sorely in need of some consolation, brothers and sisters. A weekend without baseball, followed by a train wreck in the Motor City, has left me sitting here listening to Skip James with my head in my hands (well, my head was in my hands, but I had to lift it up momentarily to type; as soon as I’m finished it’s going right back down).

    It’s bad, you know. Six stinking hits. A couple errors. A shaky afternoon for the bullpen, and, most alarmingly, for J.C. Romero, who seems to have gone feral on us again. Once again the bottom of the order looked like, well, the bottom of the order. Some of these fellas need to be taken out behind the woodshed and given a good ass thrashing.

    As for Brad Radke, and that three-spot in the first inning, what the hell can I say? I already said it, but maybe it bears repeating:

    There’s no rational explanation for the funny business in the first inning so far this year, at least so far as a team-wide phenomenon goes. Where Brad Radke is concerned, however, it goes back a lot further than this year, and is pretty easily explained by the kind of pitcher he is. Radke prides himself on throwing strikes, and isn’t a guy who ever seems comfortable wasting a pitch. He’s a deeply conservative operator, and at this point in his career isn’t going to change much. That said, he’s never had a single truly dominating pitch that allows him to get away with mistakes, and opposing teams know by now what he has, and that he’s pretty much always going to be around the plate. It seems like everybody he’s faced over the last couple years knows the book on Radke backwards and forwards, and they’re clearly being proactive in the early going and taking aggressive cuts. Hitting is incredibly difficult, but you give the other team a huge advantage when they know damn well you’re going to throw it somewhere over the plate and have a fairly limited bag of tricks at your disposal.

    Radke’s a smart pitcher, and he generally does a good job of making little adjustments and settling in as the game goes along, but it sure seems like if he’d take a more unpredictable and even erratic approach right out of the gate he’d save himself the trouble of having to make those adjustments in the first place.

    Right now I just hope like hell they get those games in in Kansas City, because I need to get this bad taste out of my mouth in a hurry.

  • Yes I Can

    My instincts at the moment are pretty minimal. Maybe instincts isn’t the word I’m looking for. I’m not sure what word I’m looking for, to be perfectly honest with you. Appetite? My appetite at the moment is pretty minimal? While that’s certainly true, it’s hardly what I meant to say in the first place.

    It’s no good now. I’ve completely forgotten what I meant to say. I’m not to be trusted (that, more or less, is perhaps what I meant to say).

    I can’t be trusted, speaking on a purely personal level. I don’t expect any sort of interaction that would involve the giving or receiving of trust, not today, at any rate. I can’t trust myself is what I suppose I am trying to say.

    For instance: I don’t recall where I placed an open can of soda, and neither can I say with any certainty that I actually opened a can of soda, although I have a dim memory of having done so. I have no recollection whatsoever of having consumed a can of soda, however, and am unclear whether in fact one even consumes soda. I think one does. I’m almost sure drinking of any sort is an act of consumption. Regardless of these finer points, I have now gone room to room looking for the can of soda I feel certain I opened and did not consume, and it has not turned up anywhere. Despite my virtual certainty that I have at no time today –at no time in the last several months, in fact– ventured downstairs for any purpose, I have searched there as well. I have looked in the laundry room, in the storage closet, along the shelves where cans of paint and mysterious solvents are kept (I’ve never in my life purchased any such items, so my assumption is that these things belonged to the bankrupt chiropractor who lived here previous to my arrival).

    There has been absolutely no sign of an opened can of soda, and while I realize that there is really no point in continuing to obsess about this issue –if you could go so far as to call it an issue, and I believe I can– I don’t care for lingering mysteries, of which I already have far too many. I also don’t know what else I might do with myself, feeling as I do so untrustworthy and disinclined to leave the house for a sandwich.

    Most days I rather enjoy going up the street to the sandwich shop, not so much because I take any great pleasure in eating sandwiches (I do not), but rather because I am fascinated by the interactive nature of the experience. The people who work at this shop wear plastic gloves and make incredibly orderly sandwiches with uncanny speed. I almost wish they would work more slowly sometimes so that the satisfaction of watching their hands move so quickly beneath the plastic shield could be prolonged. This satisfaction is both fascinating and oddly comforting to me. It is almost as if these people are performing veterinary surgery and playing beautiful music on a piano, virtually at the same time. They are in such a hurry, I imagine, because they perceive me to be a nuisance.

    I hate to be perceived as a nuisance, and also, as I have mentioned, my appetite at the moment is pretty minimal. Something else of mine, it occurred to me earlier, is pretty minimal, but I can’t for the life of me think what it might be. It could, I’ll acknowledge, be a great many things.

    Addendum: I should also say that I don’t enjoy being called a strumpet, even by an eight-year-old girl who perhaps doesn’t understand what she is saying.