Toronto at Twins. Blue Jays 10, Twins 3.

Really, the Twins have nobody to blame but themselves. All homestand they've been preparing for the return of Cordel Koskos and his prankster ways—from the Cuddiary to the Strib players and media have been wondering—what will Cordel Koskos pull this time?

Had Koskos not been coming to town, the Twins players certainly would have spent yesterday's off day far away from the Dome, recovering from the big party at Hotel Joe, fishing, golfing, getting their hair done, going to the regular off-day embroidery circle at Juan Castro's. But no, there could be no leisure for our boys on this particular day, for there was danger approaching. At 6 am Monday morning Torii Hunter, Jacque Jones, and Terry Mulholland went straight from Hotel Joe to the Dome, still wearing their togas and covered in sticky carbonated green tea, to begin Operation Steel Cage—securing the clubhouse.

Mulholland, who works as a security guard at a bank during the off-season, was really the man responsible for the layout and design of the security systems, while Hunter and Jones were more in charge of engineering and, of course, finance. After a great deal of discussion and planning, they agreed on a design, made a quick run to Home Depot to get their materials, and then called the rest of the boys in to begin building. By 8 am Tuesday morning the Twins had installed a space-age security system complete with a thermal detector, vibration sensors, pressure sensitive floor plating and, of course, lasers. You have to have lasers.

But they weren't done yet, for Koskos is renowned to be a wily creature trained in ninja techniques (Canada Style), plus he watches Alias a lot, so no security system could be considered foolproof. The next step, then, was to remove all items of even the most moderate value from their lockers, from Brad Radke's Aveda products to Big LeCroy's American Idol record collection to Littly Nicky Punto's best pair of lifts. Leaving Ron Coomer and Roy Smalley to stand watch at the front door, everybody went home and changed out of their togas into their worst clothes—old sweatshirts and sweatpants and underwear specially designed to hold up to being filled with peanut butter.

Were they perhaps overcautious? For when The Great Koskos arrived—using a series of pullies and cords to dive in through the clubhouse ceiling and wearing a special suit that masked his body temperature, not to mention a laser deflector—he found very little left in the clubhouse to abuse. Everyone's locker was empty. Even Matt LeCroy's old tin crawdad bucket was gone.

But what—what's that there? In Johan Santana's locker, protected by some sort of laser grid? A drink of some sort, a potion maybe, perhaps one of those weird Terry Mulholland health drinks?

With no other mischief left to make, Koskos quickly disabled the security protocols in Santana's locker and reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a can of V-8 juice. He opened the can and poured out just enough fluid to make sure the weight was exact, and quickly switched the can for the mysterious bottle.

Satisfied that some mischief had been managed, Koskos signaled to Vernon Wells, who had been operating the pulleys from above, and was lifted out of the clubhouse.

A few minutes before he was to warm-up, Johan Santana could be seen running into the bullpen where he grabbed Rick Anderson's elbow.

"What is it, Jo? What's wrong?"

Johan Santana looked right and left and then whispered, "Somebody took my mojo."

"What?"

"My mojo. It's gone. There's a can of V-8 in its place!"

Anderson gasped. "That's awful," he exclaimed. "Who would do such a thing?"

"No one on the team," said Santana. "No matter how much they need mojo, they would never take mine."

"But they could sure use some mojo," Andy said.

"True 'dat," sighed Santana.

"Well, we have to find it. Where did you leave it?"

"My locker."

"Your locker?" said Anderson. "But what about Koskos!"

"Joe Nathan installed a security system," protested Johan. "Old Man Mulholland said it was state of the art!"

"No!" cried Anderson. "No security system, no matter how good, can keep out the mighty Koskos! He watches Alias! Weren't you here earlier? Everybody cleaned out their lockers!"

"No!" said Johan, "I was at the nursing home, reading my original poetry to the residents!"

"Oh no!" said Andy. "What are we going to do?"

Johan shook his head frantically. "I don't know. We have to get it back!"

"We can't," said Andy. "There's no time—the game's about to start! We'll never find it in time! Oh, woe is me!"

Johan Santana took a deep breath, straightened, and clapped his hand on his pitching coach's shoulder. "Well," he said determinedly, "I'll just have to pitch without my mojo."

Brave words from a man about to meet his doom, but what else could he do? He said a quick prayer, went in with jaw set and eyes burning with determination, and prepared to meet his fate.

Meanwhile, Rick Anderson quietly spread the word through the Twins dugout, so pretty soon everyone knew what had happened and they were just waiting for the game to end so they could search through Koskos' every orifice for what had been taken. Such focus did not lead to a great game for our boys, but what do you expect, for a great crime had been committed. No one makes Johan Santana give up seven runs in a game—no one.

But do not blame Cordel Koskos. Yes, he had been on the team last year and had known all about Johan Santana's special powers; yes, he had seen the strange bottle many a time, but he did not understand, for of course they have no mojo in Canada. He knew not what he did.