Twins at Cleveland. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Indians 5, Twins 4 (10 innings).
Saturday. Twins 4, Indians 1.
Sunday. Twins 6, Indians 1.

It was a jubilant Twins clubhouse after today's 6-1 victory. Luis Castillo was doing his jumping high five all the way into the showers, until Lew Ford started crying and ran out of the room whimpering something about his personal space.

"I can't believe we pulled it out!" squealed Little Nicky Punto.

"Three of four games!" enthused Josh Rabe.

"After leaving 847 people in scoring position!" exclaimed Jason Bartlett.

If, at this comment, some people on the pitching staff side of the showers looked darkly at the hitters, you would have to forgive them. They've been through a lot. But any moment of tension quickly dissipated, for how tense can you be when you find yourself one game out of the division lead?

But someone was curiously absent from all of the general bonhomie. As the rest of the team celebrated in the showers, one man sat in a dark corner of the clubhouse staring at the ground with roughly the same facial expression as Juan "The Smiling Assassin" Rincon after Game 4 of the 2004 ALDS. It was Little Nicky Punto, just emerging from the showers (after all he doesn't have as much surface area to wash) who noticed him.

"What's wrong Johan??" said Punto, running over to his colleague.

"Oh, nothing."

"Don't be sad, Johan! Be happy!" And with that, he started to sing:

Cheeeeer up! Things'll get better
Cheeeeeer up! How bad can it be?
It's a world full of magic, of unicorns and rainbows
It's a world filled with love for you and me!

In his exuberance, Punto lost hold of his towel and was soon prancing around the clubhouse in lavish dance accompaniment to the song. Unfortunately, Lew Ford chose this moment to emerge from some alone time in the trainer's room, and as soon as he saw the naked, pee-pee-flapping third baseman, he screamed and ran back out the door.

"Do you feel better, El Presidente??"

"I sure do," said Johan. But his words were a lie. As soon as Punto skipped out of the clubhouse, Johan stared at the ground dejectedly again.

At this point, something began to stir in a pile of clothes a few lockers down from Santana. From Scootie Baker's crumpled uniform came a few notes of an eerily familiar song. And then something burst through the pants and hung in the air next to Santana.

The pitcher looked up, raised his eyebrows, and sighed, "Oh, hi Nutty".

"Hello, Johan Santana! Why the long face?"

"Oh, well, I didn't do very well yesterday."

"Oh, really?"

"No, I'm afraid not. The Twins aren't supposed to lose when I start. I have been en fuego, and suddenly….thhhhhpt."

"Le Pauvre!" exclaimed Nutty. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Johan Santana! Not everyone can be Scott Baker."

Santana drew himself up and raised his eyebrows dubiously at the protective cup. But Nutty did not notice. He zipped around the clubhouse, holding his hands to his heart—or he would have if he had hands, or a heart.

"Scott Baker is brave, strong, and true," he continued rhapsodically. "Did you see him today? He was en feu! It was a little sketchy there at first, I admit, and I was one nervous protective cup, and when I get nervous I really tense up, I just squeeze myself up tight! But after that, Scott Baker really started to focus. And every time someone got on base, I just whispered into his ear—well, not his ear, really—'Come on, Scott Baker! Do it for Nutty!' And he did! He got them to hit into a double play! Now that's mastery, Johan Santana. You could really learn something from Scott Baker!"

At this point, Baker himself appeared from the showers. When he heard Nutty's words, the silly grin he'd been wearing faded, and his face turned white.

"Nutty," he whispered, his voice cracking

"Someday, Johan Santana, you'll be as good as Scott Baker," Nutty continued, "and when you are, I just want you to remember your friend Nutty, the Athletic Cup, who first put the dream in your eyes!"

Santana gazed at the cup, then at Baker, who was shaking his head back and forth in horror.

"That's right, you'll feel the first glow of victory, and say, 'I want to thank Nutty, who first told me I could aspire to be all I could be. Of course, I can never be as truly great as Scott Baker, but--'"

"Nutty, shut up! I'm sorry, Mr. Santana...sir," squeaked Scootie. "He doesn't mean it. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's just—"

"That is alright, Scootie," sighed Johan.

"Might I...uh, might I sterilize your flip flops again?"

"That would be nice."

"And I could wax your Hummer, too?"

Santana gazed at the young pitcher, eyebrows raised.

"Um," said Scootie. "I'll just stick to the flip flops."

BatLinks: Batgirl adores this uber sassy new Twins blog Pulling a Blyleven. Also, as the Bitch Sox play the Ligers, Mr. B discusses whom to cheer for. EDIT Aaron provides a contrasting viewpoint.