Brandon Kintzler and the Never Giving Up

I love the Brewers (they're my 4th favorite team, which is pretty impressive). They're the favorite team that I see least, so I don't get as personally attached to those guys, with a few exceptions, most notably my ardent and misplaced defense of Ryan Braun a couple years back (but he is totally forgiven by me.) 

But, not surprisingly, the Brewer I was most attached to was one of my bullpen boys. Brandon Kintzler was a middle reliever for the Brewers the past few years, and had a turbulent career. I honestly don't know how our friendship began (and we are not actual friends, but baseball player friends), but we always had great talks when he came to Chicago or I came to Milwaukee. We also swapped stuff--I gave him a bobblehead. He gave me his game used cleats. He greeted me with hugs and a huge smile. He was very funny, with a deadpan sense of humor:

Me: "What was draft day like for you, Brandon?"

BK: "Well, I was drafted in the 40th round, so pretty much a Tuesday."

so much sarcasm:

BK: "Seriously, why do you need more of my stuff? Are you sniffing my shoes at home? Tell me the truth and I won't call the cops."

 ---I hope he was being sarcastic...

and then hit-you-in-the-gut seriousness:

Me: "Ugh. How can you do this all the time? You get to make zero choices about your life. You can get released any minute. You can get thrown in the game any minute. I would have 20 heart attacks."

 

BK: "Yeah, it's terrible. I haven't seen my dogs since spring training. I just wait to see if I still have a job every day."

 

He helped me see the very unglamorous side of baseball. He was just a regular guy who just does this one thing that hardly anyone can do. I think that's what I love about Steve Clevenger and Blake Parker and Kyle Hendricks and Andre Rienzo. They're the same way. Just people. Not sure what the future holds but working hard to get to where they want to be.

Anyway, back to the turbulent career. Initially, he was drafted by the Padres in 2004 and played a couple years but never made it past A League. Then he sat out a season. Then he played a couple years of independent ball.  

 

Then the Brewers signed him to a minor league deal in 2009, and he played some AA ball. The next year he played AAA ball and eventually made his MLB debut. Then in 2011 got hurt. DFA'd in 2012. Suddenly remarkable as the set-up man in 2013 and very successful. Messed up his shoulder in 2014 and saw limited time. Messed up his leg in 2015 and barely played. (I hadn't seen him at all in 2015 except for yelling to him on the field from the Miller Park TGIF the day he came off the DL the first time last season. We actually had a long and loud conversation, where I found out his wife was pregnant). Released by the Brewers in the offseason.

 

I wanted to jump off a bridge and assumed I'd never see him again. How many of my favored baseball players had I lost over the past few years? Where the heck is Brooks Raley (playing in Japan or Korea or something, last I heard)? Where is Adrian Cardenas (at NYU becoming a writer or something)? What about sweet Cole DeVries (I'm pretty sure he is in real estate in Minnesota)? Scott Maine (who never thought I was funny or fun or clever, so I completely obsessed about winning him over and eventually succeeded, with the help of Blake and Steve)? Brian LaHair? Cole Gilaspie? Jeff Bellevue? I could list a hundred guys that I became attached to and developed a baseball friendship with (maybe I should just be honest and call it 'rapport," but I refuse) that I will never ever hear of again.

 

This is baseball life. It's a great accomplishment to have a couple good years in the bigs, and even an inning or two can lead to a great story, but it does not end well for a girl like me, a fan of epic proportions who often roots for the individuals long after they have left my favored teams.

I know that baseball doesn't work for everyone, and if it doesn't, or they get sick of it or whatever, that means I never ever get to see them again. It's a big deal. Because of my stupid attachment issues.

Anyway, back to the turbulent career: To my complete surprise and delight, signed this past offseason by the Twins to a MiLB deal (he did not make the 40-man roster). I made plans for a road trip to see the AAA Rochester Red Wings play....

AND THEN......

The Twins bullpen was abysmal as usual. Shakeups and rumors. Nothing confirmed. Brandon's name coming up a lot but I didn't believe it. Thinking maybe he would be brought up Sunday, and maybe I would see him while the Twins were in Chicago.

Then out of nowhere, seeing him in the uniform of my Twins, a day earlier than I dared believe, while the Twins were still in MY city, made me so happy. For me to be able to be there for his Twins debut--well, I can't even describe the pride and happiness. Of course it is only fair. I am surely his biggest fan who is not related to him. He looked terrified on his run in from the pen, but he probably wasn't. Aren't baseball players impervious to fear?

He was thrown into a ridiculous situation, either men on the corners or bases loaded (I can't remember because I was still in shock), only one out, and facing two of the toughest hitters on the first -place White Sox. But he was great, pitching 1 2/3 scoreless innings. Striking out Jose Abreu, then forcing Todd Frazier to hit into a groundout. He pitched the next inning and only allowed one base-runner, a base hit to Melky Cabrera. Not bad for a first time out, for a guy who SHOULD NEVER GIVE UP but I would have a long time ago because I am a weak person.

I didn't get to talk to him yesterday, but today I did, and the first thing I said was, "I thought I'd never see you again!"

He looked at me wryly. "I see how much confidence you have in my abilities."

Of course I didn't mean that, but he doesn't know how many people I have said goodbye to. Actually, who I never got to say goodbye to.

I asked him who he was friends with on the team.

"No one yet," then adding, "I don't really make friends on the team. I don't see a point."

This is that real-life, punch-me-in-the-gut truth-telling that is difficult for me to hear.

He ran some sprints. I took some pictures, still reveling in my luck. I presented him with the picture below of his strikeout of Abreu, his Twins debut, an omen of all the good he deserves to come his way.

Brandon is special to me, the same way Blake and Steve are. But I can talk to those boys on facebook and twitter. I'm friends with their ladies and they show me great photos and give me updates when the boys are too busy to talk to me. I worry about them, too, but the thing is, if things don't work out. I'll still know them. I'll get to follow their lives in photograph and facebook statuses and I'll know they are happy and healthy.

All I have with Brandon is the thin wisp of a baseball career. And that is not my lack of confidence in Brandon. I think he will shine in Minnesota. I think he will have a home there for a while. But all baseball careers are shorter and less durable than the length of my affection.

Anyway, I'll enjoy this while it lasts, and my enthusiasm will follow him to whatever team he plays for (if I'm wrong about Minnesota). I just hope he keeps playing, because as long as he does, I can still hold on to that wisp.

(P.S. All of the following pictures are out of order. Just like my life.)

 

 



BK striking out Jose Abreu in his first appearance as a Twin.





Kurt Suzuki congratulating Brandon after his 2/3 scoreless inning pitched.

Finally reunited.

 

 

I love that the infield boys just stood and watched, like they were thinking, I wonder what stuff this kid has,

 

 

Brandon fearlessly holding Melky to a short lead-off at first. A lot of seasoned pitchers are terrified of using the pick-off throw.

 

I think this was after Melky's hit.

 

Watching Brandon warm up

 

Warming up in the pen last night

 

Throwing long toss like a boss

 

This is his after-strikeout excitement.

 

Warming up before his Twins debut

 

Kurt Suzuki pumping up the kid.

 

The run in from the bullpen

Now walking in, because it's a long run.

 

 

Frazier crying because Brandon made him ground out.

 

Brandon after his outing.

 

Pre-pitch whatever he does. Praying? Thinking? Magic?

 

I've missed that windup.

 

After sprints

 

 

My open letter to John Danks

Dear Johnny D.,

I probably shouldn't address you in such a familiar way. We are not friends. I see you pretty regularly at The Cell, and I finally received confirmation from you that you recognize me. When I see you, whether it's throwing long toss pre-game, or pitching on the mound, my cheers for you are always calling you "Johnny D."

I remember when the White Sox traded for you, a young, handsome southern boy with a big smile and a heck of an arm. Everyone was so excited. You were the hope for the future. By 2008, you lived up to every word of the hype. You were outstanding. And then there was the Blackout Game. You destroyed my beloved Twins, who also played pretty well that day, and pitched 1-hit shutout baseball for 8 innings to win the division. You were everyone's hero.

You signed a big contract and then your shoulder blew up. People were mad. I never get why fans get mad at a player when he gets hurt, as if it doesn't kill you to sit the bench. As if it doesn't kill you to take your time getting well. As if it doesn't kill you to know that the choices you make for recovery can make or break your career.

As if it doesn't kill you to see that you can't do what you could do before.

As if you wouldn't do anything to fix it.

As if you don't work your tail off trying to be the pitcher you were and the pitcher you know you can be.

That's what makes the contracts important--you've put all your chips on this one talent, and if you don't make it...there's no way of knowing what comes next.

I guess the truth is, you were never the same. Is that traitorous for me to admit? I can say that because you know, just as I know I can't play the game the way I used to, but nothing is at stake for me, and everything is for you. Your fall from golden boy only made me cheer harder and louder. Everyone knew that I was a Johnny D fan. Some people, I admit, tried to talk me out of it, but they gave up. Most people agreed with me, although not quite so ardently as I. DJ and Farmer on the radio were two guys who always talked you up. I remember one home game when you left the game to a chorus of boos after giving up just two runs in 6 innings, they were talking about how it was a quality start, and how fans didn't get it. They were pulling for you, too. But cheers and encouragement is sometimes hard to hear when the boos are deafening and ignorant and mean.

You had moments where your talent shone as bright as anything. I don't know how you did it. I don't know how you dealt with the boorish fans booing you when you allowed even one run. And when you were good, you were SO good. Everyone cheered.

There was often talk of trading you. I hoped they wouldn't. I believed in you. I believed you would come back, because I'd seen it in you so many times. You didn't get traded, and I was relieved. That meant I still got to wave to you before games and sometimes talk to you. You were always so friendly and talked to me like I was a human, even though I had trouble acting like a human around you.

I became friends with Cisco, the parking lot security guard, because he saw that I was your fan. He was (still is) your fan, too. He told me that you were the most stand-up guy he knew, how when other guys were into shenanigans and doing things they weren't supposed to, you remained close to your morals. He talked about admiring your faith and that you were one of the best people he knew.

I remembered the game you pitched, when your brother Jordan drove in the winning run. What a cool memory to have with your brother!

You signed for me a lot. Any time you had a chance to sign, you always signed more pictures and cards for me than anyone, and I am hoarding all of them like a creepy miser. Every autograph and every picture represents a memory.

I will never forget Minnesota this year, when you tossed me the ball, then came over and signed some autographs for me and took a picture and talked. You only talked to me. You knew I'd come a long way and that I was a real fan. It made me feel special. It's a memory I will always treasure.

Today I received messages from various friends who know how much you mean to me. They all gave me the bad news that you were DFA. I was sad, but I am going to tell you something awful right now--I was also kind of relieved. I've grown weary of the booing. My stomach sinks and I feel so bad for you. And now I think, I KNOW, that you will sign with a new team. You will have a new environment, and you will have new fans and new coaches. You will go out there without the expectation that you will pitch like it is the last game of 2008 and it's win or die. You will simply be John Danks, pitcher, with a clean slate. You will thrive. I truly believe that.

And when you come to town, whether on the North Side of the South Side, I will be there at every game. You'll hear me. I'll be the one yelling "Johnny D!" at the top of my lungs. I will always cheer for you. I will always support you.

I've always had trouble separating the person from the player. I could never run a team. The GM sees business, but I see potential and friends, and I can never think of any of you guys in terms of dollars and wins. Especially you.

Thanks for all the memories and for the kindness and the thrills. You will always have a fan in me.