And so it comes time for The 35th Street Review to say good night, good luck, and goodbye to all that.
The 2010 Chicago White Sox season ended on a Sunday in May in New York City. I know, because I was there.
Separating fact from fiction, and fiction from meta-fiction.
If you’re going to believe in sports, you might as well believe in something ridiculous.
With just over a week left until Opening Day, we might as well get this out of the way.
And maybe, just maybe the Twins’ richest player will develop an extremely mild, highly-focused fear of setting foot on a baseball diamond. Think happy thoughts!
When bust prospects attack.
You root for the Cubs? The Cubs? What’s the matter with you? In case you’ve been living in a cave, or have perhaps been sequestered for the past several decades, I’d like to remind you there’s a vastly superior team just across town, far more able to compete for the long haul and already instilling [...]
The defense part? That’s the worst part. And the scary part, too.
Surprisingly, the British really don’t have this one figured out.
Your busy editor thinks the Twins’ loss is everyone else’s loss, and that Gordon Beckham is the logical heir to the Robinson Cano fortune.
Contempt, nonsense and vague threats over the airwaves mean the season is here, even if it hasn’t actually started.
They’re only sleepers if you didn’t see them coming.
Ozzie meets the internet and hope runs face-first into the future. They’re like bloodlines, but without the bloody part.
That’s a lot of Coney Dogs.
As the greatest hitter in franchise history calls it a day, the author finds the future was always written on a slab of laminated plastic.
