Written by Adam Burke

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People tend to throw the word hate around quite a bit nowadays. Not many people dislike something, they hate it. I hate this. I hate that. I hate brussel sprouts. I hate my ex-girlfriend. I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate that redneck down the street with a Confederate flag in the back window of his Toyota Tundra. I hate that yipping dog that never gets let in. I hate that color.

Most of the time, the things that people hate are inanimate objects or elements of their daily life. Some of it is understandable. There aren’t many things worse than immature teenagers who ride motorcycles that sound like they have go-kart motors in them or people who inexplicably blow off fireworks when the Fourth of July was a month and a half ago.

Four things that are worse than that? The teams in the American League Central Division not named the Cleveland Indians.

As has been well-documented, the Indians play the majority of their remaining schedule within the Central Division. As has not been well-documented but will be right now, I hate all four of the teams in our division. Obviously, there are varying levels of hate and different reasons why I hate them. I’ll do them in order of least to most.

Kansas City Royals

It’s hard to hate a team that has been a division doormat for as long as I can remember, but I find a way. Mostly, it’s because they’re a team we should dominate, and used to, but don’t really anymore. Perennially, they have one of the worst pitching staffs in baseball, yet seem to always have two or three guys who the Indians can’t touch. I recall Brian Bannister being one of them. In nine starts and one relief appearance, Bannister had a 2.84 ERA and a 1.07 WHIP against the Indians, including 3-0 1.50 in five starts in Cleveland. Against other MLB teams, Bannister was 33-48 with a 5.29 ERA. He is also out of baseball now. I guess he didn’t face the Indians enough.

They’re one of those teams who have their prospects blown up to epic proportions and then they flame out like an open pit fire during a downpour. Every year, people call it “the year” for the Royals. When they’re 26 games out to end the season, the same BS starts up again about the following season.

Not to mention, can you really have any consideration or care for a franchise whose fan base is required to wear George Brett jerseys and shirts because they haven’t had a player worthy of a t-shirt since 1977? Absolutely not. I guess there could be the sporadic Kevin Appier shirt dotting the Kauffman Stadium landscape. Angel Berroa shirts were probably a big seller in 2004.

Upon further review, the name is in homage to the “American Royal”, a livestock show and rodeo held annually in Kansas City since 1899. I guess that fits with their team concept. Herded like cattle...into last place every year.

No sympathy from me for the powder blue. When you have about a decade and a half worth of high draft picks, you should be good. They aren’t. So it’s irksome when they beat the Indians.

Minnesota Twins

The Minnesota Twins would be best described as a group of insects. There are a couple of hornets in Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau but the rest of the team is a collection of mosqnats - a collection of pesky mosquitoes and annoying gnats. Usually near the top of the league in the always-exciting category of infield hits, I hate them slightly less now that they aren’t playing in an airplane hangar covered with Astroturf and Ziploc bags, but whoever decided that outdoor baseball in April, or God forbid, October, was a good idea should never plan anything of consequence.

Really, the Twins are like an itch in the middle of your back. It doesn’t last for just a couple minutes, though, it lasts for six months. You try desperately to scratch it, and the second you reach ground zero, it shifts a half an inch lower. The best thing about the Twins organization is that Target holds the naming rights to the field. As somebody who vehemently loathes Wal-Mart, I am an ardent Target supporter. Beyond that, I can’t find anything to like about the Twins. I guess Little Big League didn't suck. 

Then, there’s Ron Gardenhire. A man who I respect and hate at the same time. He is a fiery manager able to play to the strengths of his punch and judy ballclub. He starts runners, he steals bases, and he calls for squeeze plays. He’s like herpes, only in baseball manager form. Pesky, irritating, and doesn’t seem to go away.

I like one or two scrappy utility infielders. I hate a team of them. Outside of the big M’s, Cuddyer, and Kubel, the Twins are a revolving door of midget, Mendoza line players. The glory days of Nick Punto and Jason Tyner. Guys who made a career out of playing on a fast, spongy infield and by having immunity to rug burns. Admirable? Maybe on my team. Not on somebody else’s.

Chicago White Sox

Can’t talk about the Chicago White Sox without expressing a pure, unadulterated hatred for Ozzie Guillen. Not much elaboration needs to be made here because I’m pretty sure Ozzie’s middle name is an orifice that ends in –hole, but I can say with complete conviction that his choking gesture during the final week of the 2005 season sealed the deal.

The term “Indian killer” doesn’t just apply to white settlers during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it applies to everybody who has ever worn a White Sox uniform. Lately, public enemy number one seems to be Carlos Quentin. Then, of course, there’s Paul Konerko who seems to have a 1.500 OPS against the Indians and Adam Dunn, who can’t hit an elephant with a golf ball but can hit Indians pitching like a Hall of Famer.

I can’t believe I went two paragraphs without mentioning uber-douche AJ Pierzynski. Usually the runaway winner of the biggest jerk in baseball award, his bleach blonde hair makes me want to shave his head with a machete. The way he slams his bat down every time he hits a ground ball as if he’s supposed to be a .370 hitter screams of pretentious arrogance that only a mother could love. A motherf’er like Ozzie Guillen, that is.

Also, I can’t say I have ever been to Comiskey, er, US Cellular Field, but I’ve been told that there are safer neighborhoods in Mogadishu than where US Cellular has been constructed. A garbage ballpark in a garbage neighborhood with a bunch of grimy Windy City residents, probably half of them armed and three-fourths of them too wide to fit through a standard doorway, I’m in no hurry to ever see it.

Oh, yeah, and then there’s Hawk Harrelson. If there was an award for most intolerable sports broadcaster, this clown would even beat Joe Buck. That’s saying something. It really is. If Hawk Harrelson’s vocal cords were to spontaneously combust, there would be dancing in the streets in Athens, Greece. They wouldn’t even know who he is; they would just subconsciously know they should celebrate.

Detroit Tigers

Ah, where to begin with these mouth breathers. I’ll guess I’ll begin with Jim Leyland, who is pretty lucky to be breathing at all. At some point, 75 years of smoking Pall Malls will catch up with Smokey Anderson, but it hasn’t happened yet. Nothing really against his persona or his managing style, I guess, I just wish he’d shave off that grey flavor savor and retire to a smoker’s colony in South Florida. Then again, maybe the secondhand smoke will begin taking its toll on his players.

Then, there’s the fact that a vast percentage of their fan base is made up of Michigan fans. Again, very little explanation needs to be done here because everything from Michigan is inherently loathesome including the maize and blue. Unfortunately, in the War of 1812, the United States actually battled for the port city of Detroit. Now that the automobile industry is on life support, and the multi-building monstrosity of Government Motors looms over the city, I’d be fine with giving it to Canada. There’s a reason I stay and play at Caesars Windsor in Ontario rather than stay in Detroit, and it’s not the pretty colored Monopoly money or a burning desire to hear “aboot” and “eh”.

Factor in the overall arrogance of their players, capped off by Carlos Guillen showing up Jered Weaver a couple weeks back. Then there’s Miguel Cabrera’s smirk any time he does anything – fields a routine grounder, hits a single to CF, brushes his teeth in the morning, etc. Then there’s Jhonny Peralta with his chinstrap beard and fat face, showing that same apathetic expression that inexplicably turned him from a .270 hitter to a .320 hitter. Add in Jose Valverde who uses every converted save as his “Asshole NFL Wide Receiver Touchdown Dance” Audition Tape.

My best $10 t-shirt purchase still remains the Tigers Suck, Pistons Swallow shirt I got during the 2007 season when the Pistons-Cavs rivalry was big.

Beating them just seems satisfying no matter the circumstances. When we’re 20 games out in September or in MLB The Show. Whether they’re 25 games out or in Spring Training. It’s just enjoyable.

 

Every game counts the same, or so that’s what they tell you. But, that’s not true. There’s added emphasis to division games and not just because every game is a two-game swing. There are rivalries. None of these are like the Boston-New York rivalry, which the media has blown up to the largest proportions it can for a non-contact sport, nor is it like any of the big football rivalries speckled throughout the country.

So, I’ll probably get more jacked up than the players for every remaining division game, but that’s part of the fun of being a fan. Complete hatred of the teams we see the most. Hatred that is sure to grow stronger over these final 40 games.