Cleveland at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Cleveland 6, Twins 1.
Saturday. Twins 3, Cleveland 2.
Sunday. Twins 7, Cleveland 5.

Quick—quick—Batgirl's computer is dying. The power cord has powered its last blog entry, and Batgirl must rage, rage against the dying of the light until Apple sends her a new one. It is times like this that we must band together, we must hold hands, we must collect all our energy and send it right to Batgirl's BlogTron 3000.

Batgirl could of course just give up. She could look at the battery bar of her BlogTron as it slowly sinks—oh, like the sands through the hourglass!—and call it a day. But did the Twins call it a day on Friday when Radke gave up three early runs and CiCi Sabathia started pitching one perfect inning after another?

Well, yes, I guess they did. But that was Friday. Ages ago. Batgirl had a working BlogTron on Friday. What about Saturday—huh? Did the Twins call it a day when Twitchy McXanax got his first blown save in, like, forever? No. They said, "I know we don't have any offensive capabilities, and I know each run is like childbirth for us, and I know we couldn't score enough to get El Presidente the win, but this is our Vice President, he needs us now, so come on, my friends, let us bunt, let us bunt like we've never bunted before, let us bunt as if our very lives depended on it. Let us bunt to victory!"

And yes, my friends, they did. Who needs boomie boomie sticks when you have pushie pushie sticks and the Cleveland defense (Thanks guys!). Only the Twins can score off two bunts—or should I say that the Twins can only score a run off two bunts? Semantics. All that matters is Little Nicky Punto is the best walk off bunter ever. And he's ours, ours I say!

And today. Scott Baker got his first start in the Metrodome, just two days before he has to start his junior year of high school—which is a very scary year, there are lots of changes, and prom to think about, and PSATs and SATs, and he has Mrs. Dorsey for precalc, and she'll fail you, she's not afraid, even though you're a sweet pitcher and can get her Johan Santana's autograph—but Scott Baker, he pitched his tail off and just because Cleveland got all, like, "Hey! Guess what! We can get extra base hits! We can hit homers! In your face!" we were not afraid. We even got the bases loaded and did we weep and rent our garments and run to our respective mothers? Well, maybe Batgirl did, but did Shannon Stewart? No. He hit the ball. With the bases loaded. For a hit. And scored runs. He, in fact, scored two runs with one hit, which Batgirl didn't even know was possible. And then later, we had the bases loaded again and Mike Redmond did not flee, he merely stripped off all his clothes and said, "I think it's time for a little naked batting practice."

Boom! Pow! Redmond hit the ball right at "rightfielder" Casey Blake—oh, how cruel you are, Naked Batting Practice, how devious, how gorgeously Machiavellian—and Casey Blake, well, he didn't exactly field the ball, unless fielding means he let it bounce out of his glove and roll to the wall, in which case that's exactly what he did.

Next time, my friends, next time you are in trouble, next time you need to find a little extra of that ineffable something inside you, close your eyes and imagine Mike Redmond on second base, standing there in all God's glory, naked as the day he was born, his pee pee flapping in the indoor-stadium breeze. That, my friends, is the pee pee flap of victory.