The Futility Infielder

Dis-Carded

It took me exactly a week, but I've found a silver lining to these pinstripe-free playoffs. The ability to leap from a burning bandwagon just before it careens off the cliff may not be one of man's more noble traits. But it sure comes in handy these days.

I'm referring not to the Minnesota Twins, whose charmed season ended in a rather brutal massacre at the hands of the Anaheim Angels on Sunday. The Little Engine that Could Embarrass Bud and Carl simply ran out of steam, its bullpen imploding not once but twice in shocking fashion on consecutive days. I pulled for the Twins against the Angels--not enough to paint my face, but enough to feel a twinge of pain as their season slipped away one base hit after another. Their falling apart bore a striking resemblance to the rallies which buried the Yankees last week.

I didn't desert the Twins, to whom I'll return below. But Sunday night I formally ejected myself from the flaming chassis of the St. Louis Cardinals. Not that I'd jumped ON their bandwagon, exactly. Given that I'd sooner attack the headstone of Johnny Roseboro's grave with a baseball bat than root for the Giants, I found myself with a sudden stake in the Cardinals' fate. Now I'd just as soon drive that stake into their hearts myself. Despite a handful of engaging, gritty good-to-great ballplayers and an emotional back story, the Cardinals can officially rot.

The Cards' undoing in this series is primarily at the hands of manager Tony La Russa, who hamstrung his team in choosing his roster. Keeping the injured Scott Rolen active on the hopes that he might be available by Game Three or Game Five or whatever is one matter. Devoting two roster spots to non-hitting catchers named Mike is another, though in fairness the usually overmatched Matheny (630 OPS) has been solid with the bat lately. But carrying a dozen pitchers--an amount that sets off alarm bells in right-thinking adults for the number of mid-inning pitching changes it heralds, not to mention the number of eggs tossed into one basket it resembles--is a colossal blunder.

And failing to take advantage of the depth that creates (however dubiously) is a hanging offense. In Game One, La Russa allowed starter Matt Morris to languish long after he'd shown he lacked his best stuff. Down 5-1 after 2 innings, the Genius (in the Wile E. Coyote sense, apparently) kept Morris in for 2 1/3 more as the Giants tacked on two more runs en route to a 9-6 victory. On Sunday night, La Russa left in reliever Rick White into his third inning, long enough to face Benito Santiago a second time. Nearly corkscrewing himself into the ground, Santiago made contact with White's 41st pitch, sending it over the leftfield wall for a two-run game-breaking homer.

So when in the hell was La Russa plannng on using the other 17 men in his bullpen? Honestly, if he can't be bothered to find a way to work this idiotic choice to his advantage, then I shouldn't waste my breath worrying about whether the Cardinals can win one for the late Jack Buck or Little Timmy Kile.

I've got other misgivings about the Cards, mind you. Second baseman Fernando Viña is apparently more fastidious about facial hair than fielding or baserunning. First baseman Tino Martinez specializes in fighting off 0-2 pitch after 0-2 pitch until he can find the right one to pop up into shallow right center, for which he's sorely missed in Da Bronx. He's also adept enough at bunting to try once every six years, and hey, a fielder's choice is as good as a walk, right? God forbid La Russa should find a better option at first base than his 1-for-22 glove man.

And heaven help us if he gives the Giants any more ammo with his ninnying in the press either. Whether it's dispensing hitting advice to Barry Bonds or whining about Kenny Lofton, he's got me rooting for Dusty Baker to break out a can of Whoop Ass the next time the two are toe-to-toe. Screw the Cardinals, I refuse to suffer them another inning. I'll watch the remaining postseason in the hopes that the Giants lose, because I'd sooner have my fingernails pulled off and raked down a blackboard while Joe Morgan and Bobby Thomson conduct a symposium on Dodger-killing home runs than see them win.

But I don't care who offs them. Pass me my Mouseketeer ears and my stuffed Rally Monkey and my inflatable red dildoes. Go Angels!

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Whew, enough bile for one week. Now, back to the Twins. Despite Baseball Prospectus' Chris Kahrl's rather prescient forecast for doom at the outset of the series, Joe Mays was not their undoing. Saddled with a shaky rotation, any manager offered two keep-'em-in-the-game starts from a guy who'd gone 4-8 (5.38 ERA) during the season would have gladly taken that. Of course, when your relievers can't find the plate, it doesn't matter much anyway.

What drove me crazy about the Twins was manager Ron Gardenhire's limiting outfielder Bobby Kielty to pinch-hitting duties. Kielty is a switch-hitter with a .405 OBP this season. He's good enough with the leather to be a backup centerfielder, and he kills righties (912 OPS). I know these things because he was on my fantasy team, the second-place Mendoza Line Drivers of the Homer Bush League IV. Gardenhire gave at bats to Mike Cuddyer and Dustan Mohr, two decent players with nowhere near the offensive capabilities of Kielty at this juncture. It was telling that Gardenhire sent Kielty to the plate for the Twins' most important at bat of the season--bases loaded, one out, down by a run in the seventh inning of potentially their final game, facing The Kid (Kielty walked, forcing in the tying run). But it was just as telling that Gardenhire hadn't found him a way to get four or five chances per game given the wealth of his talents and some of his teammates' weaknesses (e.g., Jaque Jones against lefies, or walk-phobic David Ortiz).

Still, Gardenhire and the Twins have nothing to hang their heads about. For them to survive long enough to play this season was a moral victory. For them to thrive long enough to win a playoff series and provide their long-suffering fans with a reason to wave their Homer Hankies was an even bigger one. With several budding stars, strong prospects, and a talented young manager, they have a bright future. My hat is off to them for a great season.

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Postscript: the Giants beat the Cardinals 2-1 to advance to the World Series. New York has its Subway Series, will Californians call theirs the Battle of the Big Inflatable Dildoes?

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Post-postscript: I did find one thing to like about the Giants. Benito Santiago's success reminded me of an obscure song by the acerbic Chicago post-punk band Big Black. Dedicated to fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, the song "Il Duce" has as its refrain, "I am Benito, and I like my job." It's given me great amusement to utter those words every time he steps to the plate. Simple pleasures, man.