Chicago at Twins. Bitch Sox 6, Twins 4.
In the ill-fated 5th inning of today's game, Aaron Rowand hit a foul that ricocheted directly off of Twins catcher Mike Redmond's head. While, years ago, an evil scientist kidnapped Redmond, took him to his evil lair, and installed a layer of a weapons-grade metal alloy over Redmond's whole skeleton—it still hurt like a bitch.
The pain soon ceased, but when Redmond went into the dugout he found the world seemed different to him. It was as if all his senses had been suddenly heightened. He sat on the dugout bench, staring at his own hand as if he'd never quite seen it before. Even the very calluses seemed to pulsate with life.
"What are you doing?" said Justin Morneau, walking by.
"Justin," said Redmond, still fixated on his left hand. "Have you ever really looked at your hand?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, really looked at it? It's like a small miracle."
"Wha—"
"What if, you know, the atoms in our hands very tiny worlds, and in those worlds, there were very tiny baseball teams, and somewhere in one of those worlds a very tiny player, even smaller than Punto, is sitting in a very tiny dugout staring at his hand?"
"Uh—"
"And what if we are all living in an atom on the hand hair of a giant? And somewhere, that giant is sitting in a giant dugout, and—" Redmond stopped as he looked up suddenly. "Justin!" he exclaimed. "You have a very lovely aura."
"What?"
"It's a sort of soft yellow, like the color of early morning light," Redmond said, tilting his head thougtfully. "I think if the laughter of a child were a color, it would be the color of your aura."
Morneau stared at him for a long minute. "Uh," he said, "I gotta go."
"Bye!" Redmond said cheerfully, then he turned his attention back to his hand. "A giant dugout," he muttered thoughtfully. "Makes you think."
"Hey," whispered a voice. Redmond looked up. Terry Mulholland was sitting next to him.
"Hey, Terry. Justin Morneau's aura is like the sweet laughter of a child."
"I know," muttered Mulholland. "I can see it."
"You can see it?" exclaimed Redmond wonderingly.
"Yes," said Mulholland. "But keep it down, will you? I was hit in the forehead once, too, and since then, I've been able to read everyone's auras. Yours, for instance, is strangely flesh colored. And Gardy's—"
"A deep, dark, violent red," said Redmond. "It scares me."
"Yes. And—" he pointed out to the field. "A.J.?"
"Why—" Redmond gasped appreciatively "—he looks like a pansy!"
"Now," said Mulholland, "look at Mark Buerhle."
Dutifully, Redmond looked at the pitching mound. And a strange chill passed over him. He looked to Mulholland speechlessly.
"Your eyes don't deceive you, my son," muttered Terence John. "Mark Buerhle has no aura."
It was true. Frantically, Redmond looked around, and everywhere people had auras—from the shining gold of Johan K. Santana to the eternal night black of Joe "Not My Day" Mays. Everyone but Buerhle.
"Why?" he whispered in horror.
"There's only two reasons a man wouldn't have an aura," said Mulholland, eyes fixed on Buerhle. "Because he's dead, or because he doesn't have a soul. I don't think he's dead."
"But—but—" sputtered Redmond, "how can that be?"
"I guess," Terence John said darkly, "he gave it up somewhere."
That was all the men said, but really it was all they needed to say. Despite the fact that he'd been hit in the head, Mike Redmond still could put two and two together. Mostly. Certainly, no one expected the Sox to be as dominant as they were this year, and certainly Mark Buerhle has been known to take one for the team on occasion, and certainly the devil has been seen hanging around U.S. Bitchular Field...
But is it fair? Would Mark Buerhle really sell his soul to the devil for Bitch Sox dominance? Let's look at the evidence.
Mark Buehrle one year ago:
Head Shot 2004
Mark Buerhle now:
Head Shot 2005
Reader, you be the judge.