Wow.
Wow.
My darlings.
My dears.
Did you ever?
I mean—did you ever?

Did you watch?
Because if you didn't, well, if you didn't, you missed, well—

You missed poetry. You missed art. You missed sunsets and sonatas, symphonies and strikeouts, did I mention the strikeouts? We had Keats v. Shelley pitching tonight, Monet v. Van Gogh, Mozart v. Vivaldi, Iron Chef Sakai v. Iron Chef Chen, Boy v. Girl in the World Series of Love.

We were not fans tonight, my friends, we were an audience in a great hall, in tuxes and ball gowns, pince-nez and pearls, watching two masters at work, and when they were done all we could do is stand up and applaud—speechless, amazed, and yes, a little turned on.

It wasn't the post-season, but it felt like it. Johan didn't have a no-hitter, but it felt like it. And Freddy Garcia, well, he did have a no-hitter—and boy it felt like it. Every batter, the oppressiveness of that big goose egg in the box score seemed to grow.

You could see it in the Twins at bats--as the game went on, they got more careless, more anxious, more like the free swinging spaz monkeys of yore. In the 7th inning, our three, four, and five guys took about 12 seconds to get through the Twins' half of the inning, and most of that time was taken up by LeCroy running to first on his grounder.

And then in the eighth—

Oh, wait. Wait. We're not there yet. Let's start at the beginning. Even when the game started, we had some idea of what we were in for. Santana v. Garcia. Should be a good game. If both pitchers are on, it'll be a real tight one.

They were both on.

Perhaps it was the thrill of August baseball. Perhaps Santana and Garcia were responding to the best way they knew how.

Whatever it was, we knew every run was going to be precious. And when the first batter of the game, pesky little Pablo "Pods Who?" Ozuna got on and stole second, it seemed like if he scored, that might be the game right there.

But he didn't score, for Johan Santana is wise and good, and Johan Santana is here to sit you down. And sit them down he did--until the fourth inning when Carl Everett led off with a walk. (How rude, Batgirl whispered disapprovingly.) And then Paul "He Hurts Us" Konerko took a ball all the way to the left field wall, and Shannon Stewart went back back back back--and smashed into the wall. And caught the ball. And threw it to second to stop Everett from advancing. And then crumpled to the ground, declaring, "Oh, I am slain!"

Stewie was out, Mike Ryan was in--and replacing Stewie's bat with Ryan's is sort of like replacing real coffee with Folgers crystals. The coffee, my friends, is a little weak tonight, no matter what you tell the people with the cameras.

But Johan was perfect after that--in the fifth, the sixth, the seventh--as he had to be. Freddy Garcia matched him, batter for batter, and the Twins were no hit through five, six, seven innings. We had a chance in the sixth--DJ Cuddles got to second on an error, Li'l Abner advanced him to third--but Michael Ryan couldn't hit him in. So it was Little Nicky Punto's turn, with two out, and he took a great big breath and said, "I am strong, and I am Little Nicky Punto, and I can get into places other people cannot!" and he hit the ball to right and Jermaine Dye went back back back back back--and smashed into the wall. And caught the ball. And crumpled to the ground, declaring, "Oh, I am Fortune's fool!"

(He totally copied, whispered Batgirl disapprovingly.)

Then, the eighth inning. Johan makes two Bitch Sox sit down, then Geoff Blum got a hit--the first for the Sox since the third inning. Then Pablo "Really, You're Good, I Get It Already" Ozuna steps up and hits a long fly ball to deep center field, (Have you no manners? whispered Batgirl disapprovingly.) back back back goes Lew Ford and--and he catches the ball. And he crashes into the wall. And crumples to the ground.

And he gets up, holding the ball into the air and he shouts, "FRODO LIVES!"

You know what happens next. How many times is it that someone makes a great defensive play to end an inning and leads off the next? Surely Lew can break up the no-no. For, isn't it Lew leading off the eighth? No? Oh, it's Jacque Jones. Hi, Jacque. How are you? Oh, really, that's too—

Boom.

Smash.

The ball sails out of the park, and there is no going back back back for any of the outfielders, unless they just wanted a better view of how incredibly far out of the park Jacque Jones' homer was going.

Twins 1, Sox 0.

All that was left was the ninth inning--Johan was done and it was time for Twitchy McXanax to take the mound. Pop out. Then a walk. Then a strikeout. And, one more--oh, I wouldn't swing at that, Aaron Rowand, but if you must, well, all I can say is:

Sit down, bitch.

Twins win.