New York at Twins. Yankees 8, Twins 2.
Before tonight's game, Sir Sidney Ponson sat in the Twins' clubhouse grooving to some John Mayer tunes on his iPod when Mike Redmond sat down next to him.
"So, are you nervous?" asked the catcher, collegially putting his arm around Ponson.
"Nervous?" The Sanjaya Malakar of the Twins pitching staff took his ear buds out and blinked questioningly at the catcher. "Why would I be nervous?"
"Oh, well, you know," Redmond shrugged offhandedly. "Your first start with a new team…Trying to prove yourself to a fan base eyeing your signing at best warily… Facing the team who unceremoniously released you after only a month…Launching a season that could be your last in the majors unless you can get it together…Pitching on national television when most of the country only remembers you for your myriad arrests…Trying to keep your pants up…Sitting next to a completely naked man…Any of that..."
"Oh," said Ponson. "Nope. Not nervous at all."
"Really," said Redmond, reaching down to scratch a testicle. "I have to say I'm surprised. I would probably be nervous."
"Oh!" exclaimed Ponson, eyes widening. "Well, you don't know THE SECRET."
"The huh?"
"Oh, yeah," said Jason "Knees"Tyner, "I saw that on Oprah."
"Yeah!" agreed Little Nicky Punto. "Also on Ellen. Man, I love the way she dances." With that, he got up, bit his bottom lip, and began to shuffle around the clubhouse."
"What the heck's THE SECRET?" asked Redmond.
"Oh, THE SECRET is ancient wisdom. It's from the Hindus, and also Aristotle and Donald Trump. People in power all know THE SECRET, but they've been keeping it from the masses because they want to it all for themselves, but now THE SECRET is out. It's all about The Law of Attraction which uses the principles of electromagnetism and quantum mechanics to help you manifest shit you want, like cool cars and lots of money and stuff. You think of what you want, you concentrate really hard on it, and you get it. It's science."
"Not just science," said Knees, in aan awed voice. "Pseudo-science."
"That's just regurgitated self-help language with a mystical spin," muttered Rondell White
"Huh?" Chris Heintz, looking up from his tattered copy of The Power of Positive Thinking.
"No, it works," said Jeff Cirillo. "I envisioned myself on the DL, and, well—"
"Right," said Ponson. "Ask, believe, receive. I ask to have a luscious flowing mane, I believe I can have a luscious flowing mane, I achieve a luscious flowing mane. I ask to pitch awesomely tonight, I believe I will pitch awesomely tonight, and I don't even have to train or show up to spring training on time or stop eating deep-friend bacon-wrapped Twinkies. It will all just come to me."
And with that, Ponson squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated as hard as he could. He visualized himself taking the mound to the frantic cheers of the amassed throngs, visualized striking out Johnny Damon, that cutie-pie Jeter, and Bobby Abreu in the first, visualized the soft pop-up to Jason Bartlett in the ninth that would end the no hitter, visualized his teammates hoisting him up on their shoulders, only a few of them meeting their untimely deaths as a result. And then, he got up and went out to the field.
After the game, as he sat in the clubhouse staring dejectedly as his hands, Mike Redmond came up to him, put his arm around his shoulders, and settled his buttcheeks on the bench. "Well, my friend," said Redmond, "Your secret sucks."