Oakland at Twins. Twins 9, A's 4.

No one could put their finger on what was wrong with Carlos Silva. He just didn't seem to have the same spark anymore. It wasn't just the sink in his sinker, it was the spring in his step, the twinkle in his eye. One thing was for sure: Carlos just wasn't Carlos anymore.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," said Silva. "The pennant race is here, but I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel."

"You know what you need?" said Juan Rincon. "A vacation!"

"I don't know…." waffled Silva.

"Too late!" said Rincon, pulling two plane tickets out of his bum. "We're going to Jamaica!"

Silva's eyes widened. "What?"

"Damn skippy!" said Rincon. "We'll lay by the beach, drink some daiquiris, go to the spa." He paused, a slow, mischievous smile creeping across his face. "…Maybe pick up some cute waiters…"

"Oh, Juanie!" said Silva, grinning for the first time in what felt like forever. "You're so bad!"

Well, twenty-four hours later, the pair had arrived in Jamaica, and it wasn't long before they were sitting by the pool reading Jodi Picoult and drinking pina coladas while the tropical sun looked down on them lovingly and a warm breeze danced gently through the palm trees.

"This was a great idea," said Silva. "I think I'll get my hair done later."

"Hey, Carlos," Rincon said, nudging his friend. "Look over there."

It did not take Carlos long to see what Rincon was pointing at. In the pool was a young Jamaican Adonis with deep, soulful eyes and muscles as firm and shapely as Brad Radke's hairdo.

"Who's that?" breathed Silva.

"Oh, that's someone I wanted you to meet," said Rincon, eyes twinkling. "Winston!" he called. "Come up here!"

Slowly, the young man got out of the pool, beads of moisture clinging longingly to his chiseled chest. As he slowly approached, the world around Silva grew strangely silent, as if there was no longer anything in it but he and this young man. Carlos felt something then, something electric. It was the shock of destiny. In his mind's eye, he saw their future unfold—they would exchange a few pleasantries, then run into each other one morning and share breakfast on the hotel veranda. He would expect nothing to happen—their age difference would make it impossible—yet somehow, improbably, something would happen: They would fall in love. He would keep denying his feelings, but his feelings would not be denied. What can age do against a force like love?

"Hello," said the young man. "Are you Carlos Silva?"

"That's right," breathed Carlos.

The young man looked him up and down, then took a step closer. He reached his arm out and then slapped Silva hard on his right cheek, then his left. "GET IT THE HELL TOGETHER!"

And then he walked off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

BatLinks: and Ortiz on the MVP race.