ALDS Game 3. New York at Twins. Yanks 8, Twins 4.

So this is it, then.

Tomorrow, we play for our survival—it's win or go home. We've done this twice, now, in the last two years; in '02 we earned ourselves a ticket back to Oakland and eventually to the ALCS. Last year, not so much.

And this year? Batgirl has a humble suggestion: let's win this damn thing. We can, Batgirl knows we can. We've got the momentum now, for we seem to have unlocked the key to the Yankees bullpen—and they ain't scoring 8 runs off Mr. Supernatural. I tell you what.

And here's the other thing: The Yankees do not know how to play baseball. While they hit the ball really hard and often really far, while they have great individual players, they are a terrible baseball team. Yes, I said it. And it is, apparently, possible to have a terrible baseball team and still win 101 games—that's where all those fantastic players come in. But is it possible to have a terrible baseball team and win the World Series?

We'll see. I hope not. For I do not like this style of play, no, I do not like it one bit. For I believe baseball is about more than ball-bashing. I believe it is about more than collecting a bunch of aging All-Stars and throwing them together for a season or two. I believe it is about more than egos and salaries and BALCO and personal chefs. Baseball is a game of poetry, of philosophy, it is a game of symmetry and athleticism and skill and hope. Ninety feet from base to base, and no matter how big the players get, how fast and how strong, a grounder to shortstop is still an out. This is baseball—bats hit balls with a crack, balls thwap into gloves, runners put their heads down and go as hard as they can hoping to make it to the next base.

And do you know what's not baseball? Do you want to know? Say, for instance, a batter—let's call him Torii Hunter—hits a ball that takes a high bounce off the turf. The ball, in fact, bounces above the third baseman's head. But the third baseman can't seem to follow the ball because he makes too much money and it goes right over his head—but he thinks he's fielded it, because apparently the Yankee magic is such that you don't actually have to, you know, field balls to throw them, and tries to throw a ball that he doesn't even have. Then when he gets his head out of his ass long enough to realize he doesn't actually have said ball and said ball has dribbled into left field, he panics and the left fielder comes over to help but instead kicks the ball towards center. You can't blame the batter—who we are, for the sake of argument, calling Torii Hunter—for turning second and heading for third, because the way things were going, Matsui the left fielder was going to throw the ball somewhere Batgirl-ward in section 141.

Do you want baseball? I'll give you baseball. Take this same Torii Hunter, for instance, in the 7th inning of a 7-1 game smashing against the center field wall to take away a homer from Matsui. He had the ball, too, until his wrist hit the wall so hard the ball popped out of it, and Jimmy Kahmann had to make his ostrich run all the way to center field to put Torii back together again.

Now, the Twins stranded any number of baserunners tonight, but half of those baserunners got on by sheer defensive incompetence—Miguel Cairo developed a curious tendency to throw balls well to the north and west of John Olerud. The fact that the Twins couldn't capitalize on these errors means they will be well punished by Batgirl after they win on Sunday; but she will leave them in good shape for the ALCS, she promises.

The point is, what we face tomorrow is not just a battle between good and evil, but a battle for the heart and soul of baseball. Which team do you want to see advance, the motley crew of little leaguers with hearts of gold and nice glovework to boot or the overpaid, overjuiced, overhyped bombers? Me, I'll take the kids, thanks, for I like baseball when it is a game of inches, not feet.

Tomorrow, the Santana/Nathan campaign makes its stand—perhaps the final one, but I think not. I think Victory '04 has a thing or two to say about the direction of the country, and the game. So I will say, my beloveds—tomorrow, we fight on. Let's go Twins.