Twins at Seattle. Twins 4, Mariners 1.

It was a long night in the hotel bar in Seattle last night, where the Twins Starters One and Two could be found sitting in a dark corner splitting a bottle of Jose Cuervo Especial and spinning their tales of woe.

"I should give the Cy Young back," moaned Starter Two.

"No, no you shouldn't, Jo," said One. "You should have started the season, that was the problem."

"Started the season? Ay, I shouldn't even start my car."

"Come on, man, you were really good after that first inning. Lights out."

"Naw," said Two sorrowfully, "that's like saying that Anakin Skywalker's Jedi Training went really well except for the whole going-to-the-dark-side part."

"Hey, you settled down afterwards. You didn't have a terrible first and then go ahead and give up another bleepin' blargin' homer in the third. You did what you had to do. Not like me."

"No, no, it's not your fault, man. Richie Sexson, that dude's a machine."

"Still…"

"No, no, I mean it," said Two, "He's a machine, I've seen him naked. You wouldn't believe where the control panel is."

"Well," replied One, shaking his head, "machine or no, I should never have let him get to me like that. I disgraced my whole family. I have brought dishonor on the house of Radke."

"No, man, I was the disgrace…Anyway, they were using the ass-bats that night. It wasn't your fault…"

And on and on it went, into the wee hours. Starter One found himself playing a lot of Morrissey in the jukebox, while Starter Two scratched out some soulful poetry on his napkin. The night wore on, the bottle slowly emptied out, and just before last call, Starter Three came down in the bar looking for his comrades.

"Hey dudes!" he said, skipping up to them. "Why the long faces?"

"We thuck," said Starter One, waving his hand around in the air.

"We're thinky!" said Starter Two, drooling slightly.

"We're all wathed up," said Starter One, while humming bars of "Girlfriend in a Coma."

"Dudes!" said Starter Three. "No problem! Don't worry about it. I got it!"

"Whaddya mean you goddid?" bleared One.

"I mean, I got it. I'll take care of it. I'll pick you guys up."

"Mmmmarggh?" grunted Two.

"That's what we do around here, boys!" said Three with a happy swing of the fist. "We pick each other up! I am Carlos the Jackal, and I am here to help my team. Now, come on boys, you look like ass-crap. Let's go to bed."

"I love you, man," slurred One.

"I love you guys, too,"
1000
said Three solemnly.

And so Starter Three helped One and Two to their feet, ushered them carefully to their rooms, and tucked them into bed with a sweet Venezuelan lullaby. And when he tucked himself into bed for the night, he found his heart filled with a great happiness, for he is Carlos the Jackal and he is here to make you ground out.

So, this evening while One and Two watched from the dugout wearing sunglasses and ice packs, drinking Wayne Hattaway's patented hangover remedy and cringing at every loud noise, Three proceeded to pitch a gem of a game, and I don't just mean by getting out of the first innings unscathed or holding Richie "Ouch" Sexson to just one hit. Silva coaxed the poor befuddled Mariners into hitting one grounder after another and by the seventh inning, he'd only thrown sixteen pitches. At least it was around sixteen. And in true Jackal fashion, every time the Mariners started to rally, he'd break their spirits with a nice double play ball—I know Castro to Punto to Morneau isn't exactly Tinker to Evers to Chance, but it still worked pretty nicely.

Meanwhile, our B Team boys had a good game for themselves—Little Nicky Punto had two good bunts and, more importantly, when he was trying to score on a Little Sweetcheeks sac fly and Mariners catcher Dan Wilson blocked the basepaths, he went around Wilson instead of trying to go through him, which as we all know is a very good way for Little Nicky Puntos to get eaten. With two on in the 4th, Big LeRoy pounded the ball to British Columbia, reminding us why he's on the team, and, perhaps most impressively Juan Castro managed to make almost every play. Almost.

Ah, yes, it is hard to be a pitcher on a team with Carlos Silva, you're just not going to measure up. Starters One and Two learned that the hard way tonight. But Silva is not going to rub his success in their faces—oh no. Why, after the game, he stopped by their lockers and patted them both on the backs. "Don't worry boys," he said, smiling magnanimously. "You may not be like the Jackal yet, but you'll get there. You'll get there."

Posted by Batgirl at April 6, 2005 09:11 PM