Friday. O's 7, Twins 3.
Saturday. Twins 8. O's 5.
Sunday. Twins 6, O's 3.
This entry posted by twayn, who is a big fan of breakfast.
The pre-game spread was laid out on folding tables at Camden Yards on Friday, a cornucopia of deli sandwiches, hamburgers, hotdogs, pizzas, barbequed ribs, deviled eggs, tuna noodle hot dish, chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and cream gravy, walleye fillets almandine, shrimp cocktail, lime Jell-O salad, and other sundry comestibles fit for a playoff contending team.
Little Nicky Punto, his tummy growling, flip-flopped down the buffet line wearing shower shoes, compression shorts, and batting practice jersey, filling his plate with an enthusiasm unrivaled since Matthew LeCroy was abducted by Nationals and forced to impersonate a catcher. At the end of the table, in odd contrast to the epicurean fare on the board, sat a lone box of cereal in generic packaging. On a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse that seemed to say, “Try it, Nicky, it’s good for you,” Punto put aside his plate, filled a bowl from the mysterious cereal box, grabbed a bottle of Grip ‘N Go milk and poured it on. But when he sat down, spoon in hand and ready to dig in, another impulse that felt much more natural stopped him. He sat staring blankly into the bowl.
“What’s this stuff?” asked Jason Bartlett, sliding into a chair beside Nicky.
“Some cereal,” said Punto. “It’s supposed to be good for you.”
“Did you try it?” asked Bartlett.
“I’m not going to try it,” said Punto, sliding the bowl to Bartlett. “You try it.”
“I’m not going to try it,” said Bartlett, sliding the bowl back.
“Let’s get Reusse!” said Punto.
“He won’t eat it,” Bartlett said. “He hates everything.”
At that moment Joe Nathan walked in, scanned the smorgasbord, glanced sidelong into Punto’s cereal bowl, then took three giant steps backward, his eyes wide with terror, his face reddening and his knees wobbling like a corseted Victorian matron suffering an attack of the vapors.
“Get away from it!” yelled Nathan. “For the love of Gwynn and all that is sacred, put down that spoon, Nicky, and step away from the table!”
“What’s the matter, Joe?” asked Punto.
“Do you know what that stuff is?” squealed Nathan.
“Some cereal,” said Punto. “It’s supposed to be….”
“That’s not cereal!” cried Nathan. “I mean, yes, it looks like part of a nutritious breakfast, but it’s not.”
“What is it, then?” asked Bartlett.
“It’s Hubris!” said Nathan, fanning himself with his cap.
“Hubris?” asked Little Nicky Punto.
“Hubris?” asked Jason Bartlett.
“Hubris!” exclaimed Joe Nathan.
By now several other players, roused by the commotion in the dining area, had gravitated toward the trio to investigate the cause of the ruckus.
“What’s going on?” asked Justin Morneau.
“Nicky was about to eat Hubris, and the VP freaked out,” said Bartlett.
“Hummus?” said Torii Hunter. “Man, I love that stuff on pita bread, you know, or sometimes with a little Melba Toast…”
“Not hummus, that’s a delicious paste made from mashed chickpeas, olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and tahini” said Nathan, “This is Hubris.”
“Hubris?” said Joe Mauer. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”
“No,” said Nathan, looking Mauer up and down, “I don’t suppose you have. But it’s terrible, terrible stuff. It’s like drugs, only worse. If you eat it, it will make you feel invincible.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Morneau, who sometimes feels invincible with a Louisville Slugger in his hands, even though his unassuming Canadian demeanor and an occasional slider off the outside corner keep him centered and humble and remind him quietly that he’s not really invincible, but quite good nevertheless.
“Yeah,” said Punto. “What’s wrong with being invincible?”
“Well, you’ll feel invincible,” said Nathan, “But you won’t be. You’ll be just like you always were, subject to the wild vagaries and unpredictable disappointing outcomes that are the core nature of the great game of baseball. Only you won’t realize it anymore, and then you’ll stop playing for the team first and cheering up your teammates, and you’ll become enamored of individual achievements and awards and you’ll turn selfish and arrogant, and you’ll come to believe you deserve to win just because of who you are and what uniform you wear and how much money you make and how storied is the history of your franchise and not how you play the game, and you won’t see how dangerous the Orioles and the Royals really are, and you’ll start thinking that all you have to do is show up and take the field and you’ll automatically win. And besides, it makes the baseball gods really, really mad.”
“How do you know so much about Hubris, Joe?” asked Morneau.
“Because Barry Bonds ate it all the time when I was with the Giants. He said it’s the perfect complement to a meal of HGH and Winstrol. Calls it the Breakfast of Home Run Champions. I’ve heard the Yankees keep cases of it in the clubhouse because Jeter and Giambi and Sheffield and most of the others eat it like candy.”
“What about the Bitch Sox?” asked Mauer. “Do they eat it, too?”
“They used to,” piped up Johan Santana, nodding his head knowingly. “Ozzie banned it last year, but I think a lot of them eat it now when he’s not looking. I’ve heard rumors that A.J. even sneaks some into Ozzie’s cachapas and tequenos as a prank.”
“Wow, this is bad,” said Mauer. “What do we do?”
“We have to get rid of it,” said Nathan. “We have to encase it in a block of cement, seal it in a lead-lined titanium safe, wrap it with industrial-strength chains and padlocks, and drop it into the deepest part of Chesapeake Bay.”
“That won’t work,” said Morneau. “Cuddy did that to himself this morning and he got out in, like, two minutes.”
“Couldn’t we just, you know, flush it down the toilet or something?” asked Bartlett.
“Sure, I guess that would work, too,” said Nathan. “But what I want to know is – how did it get here in the first place?”
Just then a wizened figure in the back of the room stepped out from a shadowy corner, his face lined with wrinkles, his hair a wild grey paean to eccentricity.
“I know where it came from,” said Rick Stelmaszek. “I was cleaning out a storage closet back at the Dome to make room for Sideshow’s autograph collection and found it in there. It was in a FedEx package addressed to Kyle Lohse, so it must have been delivered after he got traded. Someone probably loaded it up with the equipment when we left home.”
“Do you remember who sent it?” asked Nathan.
“Sure,” said Stelly. “The package said it came from some guy named Scott. Yeah, that’s it. Scott Boras, I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, get rid of it for us, Big Guy,” said Nathan, patting the grizzled gent on the back and handing him the cereal box. “The last thing we need around here right now is Hubris. Especially if it’s fortified with essential vitamins and minerals.”