New York at Twins. Yankees 13, Twins 10.

It was like coming this close to your dreams, and watching them brush past you, like a stranger in the crowd. Oh, Batgirl could taste it, the three-game sweep, the fantastic comeback, the total and beautiful humiliation suffered by the dastardly Yankees as they left town with their tails between their legs (not that Yankees have tails, really, unless you count the long forked thing coming out of George Steinbrenner's pasty bum, but otherwise pretty much no). Batgirl could taste it, and, my friends, it tasted so very, very sweet—like a glass of honey lemonade on a hot afternoon, like a scoop of Sebastian Joe's Pavarotti ice cream after a long bike ride, like one of Batgirl's Happy Happy Fun Drinks during a Kyle Lohse start. Oh, so very delicious, it all was, Batgirl's salivary glands are going into hyperdrive just thinking about it.

Things were not exactly drool-worthy early on in the game. Silva's start rather mirrored his season—a little shaky at first, then great for a while, then a giant pile of suck. Batgirl wonders if perhaps Silva was just interested in symmetry; in a world filled with chaos and uncertainty, perhaps it is up to us to create truth, to build our own lighthouses in the fog, to throw out our own life preservers in the stormy waters. Like, say, when you've been pitching pretty well for four innings against baseball's freakish lineup of genetically engineered superhumans, then you look back on the first inning and say, "Huh, I gave up one run in the first inning. One run in inning one. Neat! That makes me feel less lost in a universe utterly devoid of meaning. You know, I think it would make me feel even better if I gave up five runs in the fifth inning. In fact, I think it would make everyone feel better! Here I go! Wheeeeee!"

It did not make anyone feel better. Some things were said. Some things were also thrown. Some husbands left the room in disgust and went downstairs to read. Batgirl watched on, dutifully—perhaps switching the channel here and there to watch the sparkly girl-midgets throw themselves around in Greece for a little while. The game was over. For how do you expect your baseball team to have a chance against the minions of hell if you give up six…no, make that nine runs? What do you think we are, some kind of offensive machine?

Well, sometimes, yes. Batgirl called Jeb back in the room after the Twins cut the lead to 9-8 and had runners on first and second in the 8th inning. Rob Bowen popped out. Luis Rivas struck out. Jeb threatened to leave again and then Shannon Stewart launched a 3-2 pitch for a triple. The tying run scored, the go-ahead run scored, Batgirl and Jeb screamed and stomped and tossed the BatKitties in the air! Wheeeee!

That's when Batgirl's salivary glands started going. BatDad called and said, "This is the best game ever!" Batgirl turned to Jeb, tears in her eyes, and said "This is the greatest day of my life." For Joe Nathan was coming out to pitch, and in three batters, victory would be ours…

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun? And fester like a sore, and then run?

Poor Count Chocula. Batgirl would like to go over to his castle, give him a nice cup of cocoa, and a big hug. He's been so good for so long, and, really, everyone makes mistakes. Even Batgirl! No, really! And Batgirl would much rather, if he's going to blow a save, have him do it in the third game of the series we'd already won than, say, screwing up for the first time all season in the playoffs.

For, while a sweep would have been as delicious as a bowl of Nathan's eponymous cereal, I'll take the series victory. For it was not so long ago that Johan Santana told all the Yankee bitches to sit down, and it was only a short time before that when the nation of Canada joined together and as one, shouted, "Yankee go home!" Something magical happened this week, my dear darling Batlings, something utterly wonderful, something magically delicious. The Yankees, so mighty and menacing, turned out to be just another team, one with actual weakness, like playing defense and overswinging and fallible pitching and trying to hit Supernatural. If the stars line up right, we shall see this team of mere mortals again in October, and Shannon Stewart will wield his bat, and Johan Santana his ball, and the entire nation of Canada will bear witness and stand with us. And that, my darlings, is something to drool over.