Batgirl

Top Ten Reasons CC Sabathia Beaned Justin Morneau on Wednesday

10) Sick of own mother shouting, "BOOTY CALL" every time she sees Morneau.

9) Avenging history of Canadian aggression against home nation of Fatassia.

8) Aim off due to finger blister from spending two hours voting for Jordin Sparks after American Idol previous night.

7) Morneau didn't invite him to tenth bday party; had to stay home and "play with his Han Solo."

6) Temporarily taken over by spirit of crazed, obese lefty.

5) Brad Radke's mom called him a pussy.

4) Up all night: Sex in the City Marathon on TBS!

3) Ass rash.

2) Enraged over Michiko Kakutani's hatchet job on latest Don DeLillo's new book; feels it's his most astute novel since White Noise.

1) He's a dick.

Of Mice and Men

This entry posted by Twayn, who likes rabbits and other furry animals.

Minnesota at Cleveland. Twins 7, Indians 15.

The low evening sun silhouetted the two men, one small, one very large, both clad in dungarees and chambray shirts, casting long shadows as they walked deliberately down First Avenue then veered north, skirting the railroad tracks until they reached the wrinkled, pocked surface of a large commercial parking lot.

“Okay, I want you to take a good look around so’s you’ll remember this place.”

“It’s a parkin’ lot, George. In…uh, um…Saint Apples!”

“Dang it, Lenny, you can’t get nothin’ straight in your head! It’s Minneapolis. Minni-ap-o-lis. St. Paul’s on the other side the river. That’s where we slept last night.”

“Don’t get mad at me, George. I’ll remember. The parking lot in Minneapolis. And if I ever get in trouble, this is where I should come.”

“That’s right. Only it won’t be a parking lot for long. Next week, why, they’ll bring in the bulldozers and start rippin’ up this old blacktop. Then they’ll start building a new stadium.”

“A new stadium, George?”

“Well, not really no stadium, Lenny. Stadiums is where you watch football and monster truck rallies. This here will be a ballpark.”

“Tell me, George, tell me about the ballpark. Tell how it’s gonna be, you and me at the game.”

“Oh, it’ll be a dandy of a ballpark, awright. It’ll have a beautiful manicured field inside it with real green grass that shines like an emerald, and comfortable seats all around that point right at the field, and the city skyline in the background for ambiance. And you can sit in the summer sunshine or the cool of an evening and take in a ballgame, and it’ll be so much better that people won’t mind paying a little bit more for a ticket or to buy a sausage and beer.”

“Will there be transit, George? And inferstructure?”

“Shoot yes, Lenny! You want to talk about transit and infrastructure? Steps away from the light rail line to the entrance gates, plenty of parking garages just blocks away.”

“Tell about the revenue again, George. Tell how the revenue’s gonna be.”

“Oh, the Twins’ll be rakin’ it in. Just wallowin’ like hogs in cash. Advertising, naming rights, concessions, corporate sponsorhips, luxury suites, merchandising, you name it. Why, they’ll have to move piles of money just to get to the crapper. They’ll be able to keep Johan and Joe and the Chairman and the MVP and Cuddy and Torii 'til they all retire. Shoot, they’ll be able to get a third baseman that can hit and still keep Nicky Punto just cause he's fun to have around.”

“But the Twins are doin’ bad now, George. Tell how it will be when they don't suck no more. Tell about that again.”

“Well, you see Lenny, the Twins is fella’s just like us. They got nobody but each other to look out for ‘em. Only they got the kind of team has to play the right way. Got to have strong starting pitching and good defense and a bullpen you can count on, like I can count on you and you can count on me. They need the little guys like me to get on base and run around a lot so the big guys like you can clobber the ball and drive in runs.”

“Only they ain’t doin’ that so good, George.”

“No they ain’t, Lenny. But they will, ‘cause this is a good team. Remember that old bus we rode up here on? Had four cylinders, but they was all out of timing and she run all rough and sputtery. Get all them cylinders to fire right and you got a smooth ride. Same with the Twins. Once they got the pitching and hitting and catching and throwing all goin’ at once, then they'll stop sucking. One of these days they’ll get everything to click and keep it goin’, game after game, and it will sure be somethin’ to see.”

“An’ the Twins will kick the Indians’ butts. And the White Sox’s butts, and the Tigers’ butts, and win the division and the pennant and the World Series, an’ live off the fat o’ the land!”

“Dang right they will, Lenny. Dang right.”

The Infield Report: Bonfire of the Inanities

Late Saturday night, Sir Sidney Ponson sat in front of his locker in the Twins clubhouse. The rest of the team was gone, except Torii Hunter, who was touching up the surgically precise edges of his goatee across the room.

Sidney pulled an undershirt off of a hanger, gazed at it for a moment, sighed deeply, and dropped it into the box at his feet. He took a glove off of a hook on the side, gazed at it for a moment, sighed deeply, and dropped it into the box at his feet. He picked a pair of shoes off the floor, gazed at them for a moment, sighed deeply, and dropped them into the box at his feet.

All this sighing was starting to get on Torii's nerves. It made it hard to concentrate, and a man needs to concentrate when he's got a diamond-edge razor in his hands. He set it down.

"Hey, Siddy, what's up? Why the long face?" he called, towelling shaving cream off of his legendary cheeks.

"I got designated for assignment," Ponson gloomed, heaving another deep sigh.

"Aw, man, that sucks. What were you supposed to do--it's obvious you're cursed. And getting uncursed, it ain't easy. I should know."

"Do you think it was my glove, Torii?"

"Might've been."

"Or maybe my cap?"

"Could be."

"Cleats?"

"Hard to say, Siddy," Torii opined. "If I could tell something was cursed just by looking at it, 2005 would've been real different."

"Hoo yeah. For me, too. And 2004. And 2006. This season, obviously. And--"

"You know," Torii interrupted hastily, because he had a feeling that list was going to go on for a while. "You gotta get this curse under control if you want to catch on with another team."

"I know, I know, but what can I do?" Sid wailed.

Torii pointed at the box, and at the locker. "Burn it. Burn it all."

"Even my lucky glove?!?"

Torii gave him The Look. "Just how lucky you think that glove is, Siddy? I gotta say, the empirical evidence just isn't there."

"You're right, Torii. You're right." He sighed a sigh so massive that locker doors fluttered in the breeze. "It all has to go. It's my only chance. Do you think they'll let me start a fire in the parking lot?"

"You, no. Me, definitely. You finish cleaning out that locker, and I'll meet you out back in half an hour, ok?"

"Okay. And thanks, Torii. You're a swell guy."

"Aw, shucks," Torii blushed. "I know that."

Half an hour later Ponson hauled his box out to the back lot to find a crackling bonfire and Torii rummaging through a grocery bag on a folding table.

"I ran to the store for some snacks," Torii said with a grin. "Curse-breaking is hungry work. We'll eat after."

"Excellent!" Sid exclaimed, instantly feeling much better about the whole enterprise.

"Well, go on," Torii urged. "Toss that stuff on there. A quick break is easiest."

And Sidney threw his cursed posessions one by one onto the inferno. As each thing caught fire, he felt a little lighter in his heart, which had been heavy indeed. Torii tossed in the new hat he'd been wearing the last couple of games, because he was starting to have a bad feeling about it.

"Sometimes we just need to let go of things. Like old undershirts, and sucking," Sidney said philosophically.

"Word," Torii agreed. "C'mon, man, let's roast us some grain dogs while the fire's high."

Ponson started to nod, then froze. "Grain dogs?"

"They're good. And low-fat. I got the Mexican Chipotle kind. Spicy!" He skewered a couple of zesty dogs and handed one to Sidney. They toasted them over the burning wreckage of Ponson's days with Minnesota and ate them on soft buns with mustard and sauerkraut. And by the time the flames guttered out and they had swept the ashes away, Ponson had learned that fire purifies and that tasty food doesn't have to go straight to your massive belly.

At the end of the night he walked Torii to his car. "Say, Torii? I was wondering something."

"Yeah?"

"How'd you get all that wood on short notice? I hope you didn't do anything silly like spend a ton of money on a rush delivery just to make me feel better."

"What, that stuff?" Torii said, climbing the ladder into the driver's seat of his massive vehicle. "Shoot, that was just a pile of assbats that were laying around the clubhouse. You take care of yourself now, Siddy."

"You, too, Torii. And thanks!"

What About Boof?

This entry posted by Twayn, who believes that with this kind of manic episode Librium might be a more effective management tool than Prozac.

Chicago at Minnesota. White Sox 4, Twins 7.

The team was gathered in the locker room before the game, talking, joking, playing cards, lacing shoes and adjusting socks and pant legs, when Gardy strode briskly in followed closely by Richard Dreyfuss.

“Okay, listen here,” said Gardy. “We’ve tried consultants and we’ve tried pep talks and none of that’s worked. So now we’re going to try something different. This is Dr. Leo Marvin. He’s a distinguished psychiatrist and author of the book Baby Steps. He’s going to help us get out of this funk that’s been dragging everyone down lately, because it turns out you can battle your tails too off sometimes.”

“Uh, Skip?” asked Mike Redmond. “Isn’t that Richard Dreyfuss?”

“No, of course not,” said Gardy. “He just looks like Richard Dreyfuss because that’s who played him in the movie.”

“Really?” asked Justin Morneau. “He sure looks like Richard Dreyfuss. And Dr. Leo Marvin was a character in that movie that had Richard Dreyfuss and Bill Murray in it.”

“Look, smarty MVP pants,” said Gardenhire. “You’re messing around with my narrative structure here. And you haven’t been hitting so hot lately, either. So if you don’t mind… this is Dr. Leo Marvin, and he cost Smilin' Carl a pretty penny to bring in from his vacation home on Lake Wishwecouldwinone to treat the whole team. So listen up, even if this whole post does seem redundant and derivative.”

“Thank you, Mister Gardenhire,” said Richard Dreyfuss with a satisfied, slightly superior smirk. “Like a Zen riddle, the answer to ending a slump is so obvious that it becomes invisible to the senses and must be grasped by intuition; it is, in the very essence of the phrase, hiding in plain sight. The key to ending a slump, which is really just a very large amorphous amalgamation of sucking, is to think small. The key to ending a slump is to take baby steps.”

“Check me if I’m wrong, Doc,” said Jason Bartlett. “But if we take baby steps it’s really going to cut down on our range and our speed on the bases.”

“No, no,” said Richard Dreyfuss with his smuggest smile. “When I say take baby steps, I don’t mean literal baby steps, I mean figurative baby steps. It’s a metaphor, an analogy. It means you have to concentrate on the little things, the very basic elements of the game. Throwing. Catching. Hitting. Baby step to a full count. Baby step to a base hit. Baby step to a two-out RBI double.”

Jason Bartlett nodded with a knowing look on his face, wondering when Lew Ford would return to explain metaphor and analogy to him.

“BOOF!” yelled Gardy as the freshly groomed Bonser prepared to insert iPod earphones into his auditory canals for a pre-game groove. “Pay attention. You need to baby step your way to a lower ERA and a lot fewer walks.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Boof, looking up and paying attention for the first time since Gardy entered the room. “It’s Richard Dreyfuss!”

“No, it’s not!” said Gardy. “We’ve been over this. This is Dr. Leo Marvin and….

“Hey, Dr. Marvin,” interrupted Nick Punto. “ You ever hear of Tourette’s Syndrome?”

“It’s exceptionally rare,” said Richard Dreyfuss.

“Barfbag! Snotface! Bitch Sox!” Nick Punto suddenly yelled at the top of his voice. Everyone stopped and stared in his direction.

“Why exactly are you doing this?” Richard Dreyfuss asked Nicky.

“Well,” explained Punto. “If I can fake it, then I don’t have it.”

“Okay,” said Gardy, a bit flustered by the picayune third baseman’s verbal outburst. “Let’s hit the field and remember, take baby steps.”

As the team left the locker room, Justin Morneau hesitated for a moment at his locker, then approached the manager.

“Hey, Skip,” he said on his way to the door. “I think that is Richard Dreyfuss, and to prove it I’m going to hit an extra-innings walk-off upper-deck three-run home run tonight.”

“Well,” said Gardy with a little smile. “Maybe you should try hitting a solo shot first. Because that’s how baby steps work.”

“Sure thing, Gardy,” said Justin. “We’ll baby step the hell out of them tonight.”

The Sleepiest of Joes.

From: Dashiell J. BatBaby
To: Joe Nathan

Twins at Tampa Bay. Devil Rays 4, Twins 3.

Dear Mr. Vice President,

I noticed you had a hard time last night. I understand. I have a hard time every night starting about 5pm and lasting 8 or 9 hours. My mom thinks I have gas but really it's just ennui. You have no idea the crap she reads to me. I'd say I hope the itsy bitsy bunny would put his carrots where the sun don't shine, but I think that's good for carrots.

My mom says that since Riley Grace is barely a month old, we shouldn’t hold you accountable for your actions until at least 2008, and that we're just lucky you remember to wear pants. She knows whereof she speaks, about the pants I mean. I don't really want to talk about it, but let's just say we're not allowed in Whole Foods anymore.

I'm not really sure what she means, but if Riley is keeping you awake at all, I'll be glad to take her off your hands for a night. She can scream her head off here well into the wee hours. No one will mind.

Love,
BabyDash

Just Another Day.

Twins at Detroit. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 5, Tigers 3.
Saturday. Twins 11, Tigers 3.
Sunday. Tigers 4, Twins 3.

On any given day, you can find Mike Redmond running errands for his household. "No Father-Knows-Best strict patriarchical separate-spheres angel-of-the-hearth share-the-load-spoil-the-wifey just-because-I-have-a-ding-dong-means-I-don't-pull-my-own-weight-'round-here for Mikey R," he said cheerfully as he went off this weekend, his ding dong flapping in the breeze. "I'm one of them modern day sensitive husbands, and, gol darnit, I'm going to do some grocery shopping."

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Redmond, chewing on her lip.

"Of course I'm sure," sayed NBP.

"Because I thought maybe Joe could do it," she said carefully. "Or that nice Jason Kubel. Or even Tyner…"

"Don't be ridiculous. Tyner's a pansy. Well, toodle-oo!"

And before Mrs. NBP could protest, he'd hopped into his Jetta and was off into the bright expanse of the day.

He got out of the car in the parking lot thinking to himself that he was the happiest back-up catcher in all the land and he barely noticed the runaway shopping cart as it barreled toward him—until it slammed into his knees. He started but as passersby turned in concern he waved his hand and said, "I'm all right!"

He then pranced into Rainbow Foods, singing, "Low low prices on the good stuff," when he thought he heard someone call his name. Just as he stopped, the automatic door, which was sorely in need of a maintenance check, malfunctioned and closed into him. Someone in the lobby shrieked, but after wincing slightly, Redmond straightened and shouted, "Everything's fine!" then got himself a shopping cart and headed to the produce aisle.

The driver of the hand truck filled with cantalopes had had a lot to drink the night before, and, frankly, his depth perception was not that good, so even though he tried to avoid the naked man in front of him, the wheel of the truck rolled just over his right foot. "Ouch!" grunted Redmond, then he quickly gathered himself and smiled to the crowd and proceeded to pick out some nice tomatoes. So focused was he on the age-old vegetable-or-fruit question that he did not notice the four-hundred-pound man—who, just off of practice from Fatty McFatty's Baseball League and Pig Eating Club and Macrame Guild, did not have time to change out of his spikes—until one of those spikes landed on his left foot.

"Mother FLIPPER!" said Redmond, then muttered to himself, "Shake it off." And with that, he limped toward the leeks.

Just then, Joe Mauer appeared behind him. "Hey, Red Dog, you hurt?"

"No, I—"

"Are you sure? I was supposed to have the day off, but if you're hurt, I can shop for you…"

"No, man, I can do this."

And with that, Redmond smiled and headed for the cereal aisle.

Now, clerks at Rainbow Foods are given strict instructions on how to stack soup cans, and employees must undergo rigorous training before they are even allowed near a Campbell's endcap. But one thing lead to another and someone was out sick and an overeager intern got a great idea for a cross-promotional event with TexaTonka Bowling Lanes, and, not trained in the laws of physics, stacked bowling balls on top of soup cans for a "Bowling is Soup-er!" display. Well, naturally, he put the crowning bowling ball on just as Redmond turned the corner, and the next thing you know the whole thing fell down on top of him.

"Jesus Christ in a Christmas Tree!" screamed Redmond. "That FLIPPING hurt."

No one knows how the stray elephant got into Rainbow Foods that day, nor why its trainer gave it such a fondness for kicking people in the testicles, but let's just say next thing you know Redmond was writhing on the floor screeching and cursing the elephant in a way he'd never forget, even if he weren't an elephant.

Just then, Gardy shook his head and came out of the dugout. "Red Dog, I'm gonna take you out," he said, grabbing the shopping list.

"Naw, Skip," he squeaked, "I'm fine!"

"Hey, heads-up!" shouted Michael Cuddyer from across the store. And before Redmond could react Cuddy threw a perfect strike to him. Redmond caught the ball and then turned to see Magglio Ordonez barreling down the aisle toward him. And, as Redmond braced himself for impact, he was heard to murmur. "Why does this always happen to me?"

Deja Vu All Over Again

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 1, Royals 0.11 innings

We live each day believing it to be something new, a fresh path unfolding before us, a novel waiting to be written, a road untravelled and we the intrepid explorer. But it is all a lie. There is only one story, one path, and we travel it again and again, blithely, blindly, noticing nothing, learning nothing, just running on the great big hamster wheel of life until the family cat eats us.

What I am saying is we have been here before my friends. You remember. I know you do. I know it's blocked out, buried deeply behind your prom hairdo and that weird thing your seventh grade science teacher used to do with his hands when he thought you weren't looking. You put it there on purpose, scurrying into the attic of your mind under cover of darkness, where you thought it would never torment you again.

You were wrong.

It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times, when men were men and ass bats were ass bats. We know it as the season of hell, others call it 2005. As the Twins sunk further and further into ignominy, as we thought it could not possibly get any worse and then we would discover new and fresh ways to suck, and every once in a while those ways would be so new and so sucky that we would say, This, this is the worst game of the season. And then something else would happen, and we would think of that previous sucky game and remember how young and innocent we were, before our souls had been chewed up and regurgitated, and realize, no, no, this is the worst game of the season.

It was the worst game of the season, the sucking to end all suckings. The 800-1 losses to the Indians in September didn't even matter after this final insult, so excruciatingly emblematic of all of our terrible, terrible woes. It was a Thursday afternoon game, Royals v. Twins, Kyle Lohse v. some pathetic cog in the rusty ol' shit heap Royal pitching machine. Lohse was masterful, the Royal pitcher was not—the Twins had a runner in scoring position in every inning but one—yet somehow the whole damned thing was knotted up at 0 'til the ninth. The Twins had threat after threat and pissed them all away like Batgirl pissed away her youth. And, then, of course, in the bottom of the inning some damned Royal got on base and somehow you knew, you just knew that that was going to be it. And it was. All told, the Twins left 13 men on base, which sounds like a book by the bastard child of Agatha Christie and W.P. Kinsella—but it wasn't, it was all so horribly real—and ended up scoring absolutely no runs and lost the @#$#@$#@ ballgame 1-0.

And now we are going through a mini sucking time of our own, and we've run into giant ass-bat in the road, and here we are again on a Thursday afternoon knotted up at zero with the Kansas City Royals, with scoring opportunities aplenty, and suddenly it seemed the fate of the entire season rested on whether we could manage but one run against the gruesome twosome of Zack Greinke and Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble. And for quite awhile it seemed we would not—every time the Royals mounted a threat our doom hovered just ahead of us.

But no. Dammit. No. Not this time. For it's April, not August, and as sucky as this week has been it gets nowhere near the astronomical suckitude of 2005. And when it got to be the 11th inning, Justin Morneau said, "Enough already, eh?" and did one of those pretty base hits he's been doing, and then Jason Tyner yelled, "Eh!" in camaraderie and got another one and a then a battered Mike Redmond, who would surely show the whole team his bruises later, shouted, "Fucking-Eh!" and hit Morneau in. Game over.

Now, let's get our heads out of our ass-bats and play some good ball.

Oh, and Greinke, you pansy-ass prepubescent weasel, don't hit people in the face.

Bridget Jones's Sidney Ponson's Diary

This entry written by Donnalove, who notes Helen Fielding's son is named Dashiell

Royals 4, Twins 3

Sidney Ponson’s Diary

Wednesday, 25 April. Weight: 245 (lost 5 lb in sweat) ERA: 8.44 (going down, v.g.) Alcohol Units: 1 (hair of dog)

LIFE. IS. NOT. FAIR. Is just not fair! First off, am pitching on Wednesday night, missing Dollar Dogs (am allowed to get more than 2 at concession stand! Perk of being maj. league pitcher!) and America’s Next Top Model! Will not know if the one that looks like drag queen gets kicked off until get home from bar! And the game! Am pitching against K.C. Royals, and give up v. respectable 4 runs (right up there with other Twins pitchers of late.) Not own fault that David DeJesus so sexy that can not pitch well. But rest of team also playing against Royals and do not get hits! Feel very alone just now, though suppose if Twins can not get runs off Cy Young winner/Dreamboat J. Santana, don’t feel quite so bad. Could use hug. However, feel quite certain that if was pitching for Royals, would have had 2 wins against Twins, but instead have 2 losses. Ass is expanding at rate so alarming, wondering if should inform government. Ass is so large that is like 10th fielder, knocking down balls. Fortunately, ass assisted in getting out. Would have been awful if ass had led to, say, grand slam. But! Why do teammates (with exception of wanton sex god T. Hunter) insist on making K.C. pitchers look like... like... major league baseball players? Should not be that way. So depressed. Do not want to end up washed-up pitcher who will die alone, eaten by C.C. Sabathia. Was surprised when asked to come out and pitch 6th inning. Was about to take belt of scotch from emergency dugout flask when was told to go out on field. Still took belt. Got through inning quickly so could get back to scotch. Tasted good, like victory (victory of inning without runs, incl. v.g. strikeout.) Maybe have bought self another start? Won’t cross fingers, as might mess up split finger grip. Will cross toes instead.

Pep Talks

This entry posted by Twayn, on assignment for Bat-girl.com

Cleveland at Minnesota. Indians 7, Twins 3.

Gardy’s office was a bit cramped after the grueling 12-inning tilt, with Wayne Hattaway, Justin Morneau, Joe Mauer, Michael Cuddyer, Jason Bartlett, Torii Hunter, and Nick Punto seated on folding chairs around the desk. Nobody spoke, each thinking back on the game and the many chances that slipped away like sands through an hourglass, and how that is so like the days of our lives, and why you should seize every opportunity to do good and battle evil because if you don’t that day is gone and you don’t get another until the cosmos flips the hourglass over again. The door closed with an ominous thud as Gardy came in and took a seat behind his desk. He paused a moment, as if he had second thoughts about the meeting, then shrugged his shoulders and spoke.

“Look, guys,” he began, “I don’t know why I have to keep explaining this to you. We expect more out of you; you’re the leaders. You’re the Team Batgirl Boyfriends, and a lot of people look forward to reading about which one of you is the Boyfriend of the Day every day and what incredibly good thing you did to help win the game. You know that, right?”

He looked around and met the eyes of each player momentarily. They all nodded their heads and furrowed their brows and pursed their lips in serious thought as they pondered the infinite privilege and responsibility the title Team Batgirl Boyfriend bestows.

Gardy paused for dramatic effect, to let the severity of the situation resonate, just like Howie Mandel on Deal or No Deal, only without all of the models with perfect teeth and short dresses, since his office is so small and Carl Pohlad isn’t likely to pay for models with perfect teeth and short dresses to decorate Gardy’s office. So after a dramatically sufficient moment, Gardy continued.

“You guys are the Team Batgirl Boyfriends, but look at you,” he said. “You lollygag a weak swing for strike three with runners in scoring position. You lollygag into rally killing double plays. You know what that makes you? Big Fella?”

“Lollygaggers!” exclaimed Hattaway, his half-smile obscured by wild moustache.

“Lollygaggers,” said Gardy, barely stifling his own urge to laugh. “What’s our record, Big Fella?

“Eleven and eight,” said Hattaway.

“Eleven and eight!” said Gardy, shaking his head in mock disgust. “How did we get there?”

“It’s a miracle,” said Big Fella, his eyes sparkling with subdued mirth.

“It’s a miracle,” repeated Gardy. “Now get your showers and go home. But I want you to think long and hard about all the chances we had tonight, all the ways any one of you could have stepped up to be the Boyfriend of the Day. Think about Team Batgirl and how they have to go to bed tonight without a B.O.D., and how Baby Dash may still have to learn at such a tender young age about the bitterness of early disappointment that can only be assuaged by the sweetness of eventual triumph against seemingly insurmountable odds, but which then gets crushed again by a disappointing postseason performance. And remember that the idea is for each of you to inspire the others to greatness in clutch situations so that we don’t get beat by a nondescript lefty named Jeremy and a bullpen coached by Wet-Ones Willis.”

The players filed out of the office, their heads only slightly down, their shoulders square and their gazes determined, already inspired to not let another single grain of sand slip through the narrow channel of glass that regulates the days of our lives without doing something inspiring to inspire the others to Boyfriend greatness. Big Fella stood, crossed the room, and closed the door behind them before turning to Gardy and pausing for dramatic effect.

“You know, Skip,” said the wizened gent slowly, his smile widening. “Sometimes they don’t know when you’re being serious and when you’re not.”

Gardy returned his conspiratorial grin as he swung his feet up onto the desk.

“It’s not important for them to know, Big Fella,” he said. “It’s only important for me to know. Now go tell Andy to bring in the bullpen.”

The Seventh Sign.

Twins at Kansas City. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Royals 11, Twins 7.
Saturday. Twins 7, Royals 5.
Sunday. Royals 3, Twins 1.

Ron Gardenhire knew there was something funny going on when he woke up in the morning and smelled something odd.

"I think…" he said, sniffing the air, "I think that's toad."

He climbed out of bed and looked around the room. No toads. He went into the bathroom and looked inside the bathtub and the toilet and found nothing. He checked under the bed, where sometimes one might find a stray toad, but there was none.

"I could've sworn…" he muttered to himself, opening the window shade.

And then he stopped and stared outside.

"Crap," he said. "Rain of toads."

"Ow!" he said, as something bit him on the ass. He smacked it and gasped as he beheld the squashed creature in his hand.

"Crap," he said. "Locusts."

He logged into his Little House on the Prairie message board and saw 10,456 new postings, and blaring at him was the headline, Manly and Albert: Our Hidden Love

"Crap."

He got dressed and went out the door ready to catch the car to the ballpark. As he got outside, a toad hit him in the head, and as he looked up, the sun turned black.

"Crap."

All sorts of things went wrong then, including a wee earthquake and the sky rolling back and a pregnant Demi Moore traipsing around and Sanjaya Malakar releasing an album, and Gardy felt pretty dejected by the time he got to the clubhouse. There, he found the training room littered with middle infielders and Sidney Ponson complaining loudly, "I'm so hungry."

"Crap," muttered Gardy. "Disease. Famines."

"No, it's just the munchies…" protested Ponson. Just then, Lew Ford let out a shriek. A column of light had grown around him, and before anyone could move, he began to slowly ascend to heaven.

"Crap," said Gardy.

"Hey, Gardy," said Steve Liddle, pointing his thumb out the clubhouse door. "There's four guys on horses out here. They say they want to talk to you."

"Crap," said Gardy. He looked at his line-up card for the game, on which was written the names Joe Mauer and Mike Redmond, with no third catcher in sight.

He swore under his breath, as around him the world was swallowed by flames.

"I knew it."

Bridget Jones' Sidney Ponson's Diary

This entry written by Helen Fielding Donnalove

Royals 11, Chug ‘n’ Toss All-Stars 7

Sidney Ponson’s Diary

Friday, 20 April. Weight: Don’t even want to discuss (n.g.) ERA: 9.39 (n.g.) Alcohol Units: 0 (had herbal refreshment instead.)

Arrived at ballpark early to celebrate national “holiday” with M. Guerrier. J. Bartlett walked in and said “It smells funny in here. Are you guys burning incense?” Could not stop laughing. Stopped laughing when realized M. Sweeney had hit home run off self. Then caught sight of Guerrier in bullpen and started laughing again. Not sure what was funny. Laughed anyway, couldn’t help self. Called bullpen to ask Stelmaszek if refrigerator was running. Thought disguised voice, but was found out and yelled at. In fifth inning, was thinking about eating pizza. And chocolate cake. And Doritos. And pickled eggs. Pickled eggs v.g. Could not stop thinking about pickled eggs. Baseball began to look like pickled egg. Could not get pickled egg out of head. Pickled eggs kept going past. Then realized pickled eggs were hits, home runs, etc. Was no longer laughing. Then saw Gardy coming from dugout. Looked like Santa Claus, but mad. Had to turn away to stifle laughter. Once in dugout, thought about previous start, when received standing ovation when was taken out of game. Part of self v. excited, cheering for self. Other part of self could not let enjoy it, felt applause was sarcastic or pitying. Should have enjoyed moment, may never experience again. Must re-read Pitchers Are From Venus, Catchers Are From Mars. When Gardy took out of game, patted on butt, which is size of Antarctica. Must attend expensive Pilates class signed up for. Got pat on butt tonight, but could be accidental due to colossal size of ever-expanding rear, as did not think Gardy was pleased with performance. Called Guerrier in bullpen, told him about Gardy’s face. Got him laughing, as well. Could see him laughing on mound as he walked out. Felt bad as he was distracted and also gave up home run. Should not have told him that, was glad did not tell about pickled eggs as well. In dugout with Guerrier, thought about Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny’s. Could not figure out why until realized Dennys Reyes had loaded bases. Tried to be serious after that. Was slightly paranoid (possibly due to herbal substance, possibly due to pitching performance) about losing job, but felt comfortable after 8th inning antics by other pitchers. Do not even have highest ERA on team. V. v. good. Maybe will get to stay another start.

Great Moments in Jason Tynerness.

Weekend Round-Up. Tampa Bay at Twins.
Friday. Devil Rays 4, Twins 2.
Saturday. Twins 12, Devil Rays 5.
Sunday. Devil Rays 6, Twins 4.

1) Jason Tyner has always had the oddest hobbies. While some kids had hamsters or ant farm, he preferred to harvest bacteria. One day, he was sitting in his room eating an orange, and he accidentally threw the peel into his bacteria vat. Days later he went to visit his pets and found the peel covered in a strange mold. And there was something else. "Huh," he said. "I wonder where my staphylococci went. Huh." With that, he shrugged and ate the orange peel. When Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin a few months later, Tyner smacked himself on the forehead and exclaimed, "I knew I shouldn't have eaten that!"

2) One thing Jason Tyner likes is a nice vacation, somewhere really remote, and he often takes his trusty globe, spins it, and travels wherever his finger lands. When his travels took him to a small group of islands off the coast of Argentina, he became very interested in the local wildlife. And, as he went from island to island, he could not help but notice that the finches were slightly different on each. On the last, he picked up a flat rock that had strange markings. "It almost looks like finch bones have been trapped inside this rock," he murmured to himself. Then he threw the rock into the ocean to see if it would skip. When Charles Darwin published his On the Origin of Species just a scant few weeks afterwards, he exclaimed, "I thought there was something funny going on!"

3) Another thing Jason Tyner really likes to do is drop things from tall buildings. One day, bored, he decided to mix things up by dropping two things off a tall building at the same time, a bowling ball and a Faberge egg. As the objects fell from his hands, he thought to wonder, "Huh. I wonder which will hit the ground first." But just then a very beefy-looking passing sailor wandered under the trajectory of the bowling ball and Tyner hightailed off the roof. When, just days later, Galileo Galilei announced that falling bodies regardless of their mass accelerate at the same rate, Tyner only sighed and muttered, "Damn sailor."

4) Jason Tyner is quite fond of a stroll through an apple orchard. One day on such a stroll, he noticed a gentleman in tights sitting under an apple tree. As he passed, he noticed a granny smith swaying precariously off one of the branches just over the gentlemen's head, and just as the stem broke and the apple came plummeting, Tyner made a fabulous diving catch. The gentleman thanked Tyner profusely, and Tyner said, "Huh. I wonder what made that fall." Then he shrugged his shoulders and went home to see if he'd made Web Gems. When, just hours later, Isaac Newton explained the theory of gravity to the world, Tyner fell to the ground and shouted, "Crap! Crap! Crap!"

5) Jason Tyner hit a ball on Saturday that seemed headed for the football seats. Everyone watching thought Tyner had hit his first home run in 8 jillion at bats, but at the last minute the ball dropped and bounced off the fence for a double. In the postgame interview, Marney Gellner flipped her sexy new hair and asked, "Did you think it was gone? Did you think you had finally hit one out?"

With a great sigh, he shook his head. "I had a pretty good feeling I didn't."

Holes

This entry posted by Twayn, who digs Louis Sachar.

New York at Twins. Yankees 1, Twins 5.

Giles Selig walked tentatively behind Ron Gardenhire into the Twins clubhouse, his head turning slowly like an owl from side to side to scan the faces of the players. They walked to the center of the room and Gardy called for attention.

“Everybody listen up. This is Giles Selig. He’s a consultant Mr. Pohlad brought in to help us with our little problem.”

“Selig?” asked Nick Punto. “Like Bud Selig?”

“Yeah, we’re related,” said Giles. “He’s my no-good-dirty-rotten-team-stealing-grandfather. Now about your problem…,”

“What problem is that exactly?” asked Sidney Ponson, running the fingers of one hand through the ringlets of his exquisitely coiffured mane and taking another pull from the cough syrup bottle in his other. “We don’t have no problem.”

“Yeah, we don’t have any problems,” said Boof, checking to see if the swelling from his new tattoo had gone down. “It’s all good.”

“You do have a problem,” said Giles smugly. “You’re cursed.”

“Cursed?” asked Jason Bartlett. “Is that why I keep fielding ground balls with my feet?”

“Cursed?” asked Nicky Punto. “Is that why I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound or lay down a simple bunt?”

“Cursed?” asked Dennys Reyes. “Is that why my ERA is catching up to my hat size?”

“Cursed?” asked Rondell White. “Is that how I got hurt skipping onto the field?”

“Cursed,” said Giles Selig. “And I know a little something about curses. Our whole family has been cursed ever since my no-good-dirty-rotten-team-stealing-grandfather stole a baseball team, and then had Morganna the Kissing Bandit arrested back in 1975.”

“What do you mean your whole family’s cursed? Last time I checked your family is worth more than A-Rod, Jeter, and Barry Zito put together,” offered Torii Hunter, looking up from his Fortune magazine. “And do you realize that your name is an anagram?”

“Actually, it’s a palindrome,” corrected Giles. “And sure, we have money. But nobody likes us. I mean nobody. And they haven’t ever since my no-good-dirty-rotten-team-stealing-grandfather pilfered the Seattle Pilots and smuggled them to Milwaukee. Haven’t you noticed that no matter what Grandpa Bud does, it’s always the wrong thing? Remember contraction? Remember the 2002 All-Star Game? But I’m here to help you break the curse.”

“So what makes you think we’re cursed?” asked Jason Tyner. “I mean, sure, we got knocked around a little bit but it’s the most dangerous and expensive lineup in baseball and….”

“Because of the holes,” said Giles quickly. “Look at all the holes you have around here. I’ve never seen so many holes. You have holes in your roster from injuries. The piranhas have holes the size of sharkbites in their swings. And the starting pitchers are digging holes so deep nobody could climb out of them. About the only thing worse than all the holes around here is getting bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard. That’s the worst thing that can happen to you. That and leaving fat pitches over the plate for the Yankees. If you get bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard or leave fat pitches over the plate for the Yankees, you will die a fast and painful death.”

The players paused to consider the implications, looking around the room solemnly, each trying to figure out who or what could have been the cause of the curse, and how such a shockingly awesome metaphysical force could have been unleashed upon them.

“Hey, guys, it’s not like you’re the only team with a curse,” said Giles. “When I’m done here, I’m supposed to go to Cleveland to make it stop snowing.”

With that the players grabbed their equipment, then, assured that it was protected, let go of their equipment so they could pick up their mitts and bats. They filed out of the clubhouse to take the field against the vaunted Yankees with visions of holes, curses, yellow-spotted lizards, and buxom publicity-seeking baseball groupies from decades past dancing in their heads.

Standing on the mound staring down the Yankee lineup, Ramon Ortiz pondered the situation. “Cursed, he says? What does that guy know about curses? We know a little bit about curses where I come from.” And with that he went to work, doing that voodoo that he do so well (so far), eviscerating like sacrificial chickens Yankee hitter after Yankee hitter through eight innings, surrendering just one run. “Cursed, he says,” muttered Ramon each inning as he walked from the mound. “What does that guy know about curses?”

And as the team trotted back to the dugout in the eighth inning, they noticed something they apparently hadn’t noticed before. They noticed all the holes on the scoreboard, with just one measly run apiece, just three Yankees hits, and the teammates of Ramon Ortiz said screw this ass-bat sucking curse crap, and unleashed an offensive ground and air assault upon the Bombers from the Bronx. Luis Castillo promptly drew a walk and taunted Fate to steal a base. Then the Chairman did his batting champion thing and Cuddy did his cleanup hitter thing and Justin did his MVP thing and Torii did his I’m not going to be showed up by these kids thing and they looked up to see a crooked number on the board. And Joe Nathan, feeling the power of new fatherhood said, “Time for one more hole on the scoreboard,” and put one there.

After the game, Giles Selig walked tentatively behind Ron Gardenhire into the Twins clubhouse, his head turning slowly like an owl from side to side to scan the faces of the players. They walked to the center of the room and Gardy called for attention.

“Everybody listen up,” he said. “This is Giles Selig. We’ve decided his services won’t be needed anymore. So Giles, you can take your curse and, well, you know which hole it goes in.”

Twayn Note: JimCrikket has extremely generously offered to give a
matching grant if Batlings donate $300 this week to Batgirl's
WalkAmerica fund. For Mr. Crikket to give $300, we only need 18
readers to give $10. You may donate here.

25.

New York at Twins. Yankees 10, Twins 1.

It was a dejected clubhouse before Tuesday's game and not just because of the utter destruction of Sidney Ponson's cosmology. Saturday's loss hadn't really counted to most of the players given it's hard to play baseball when your testicles have frozen off, but after their second loss of the season they were left to wonder when their bats, and perhaps their dingleberries, might emerge.

With two players headed for the DL and no dingleberries, the Twins were feeling o'ermatched against the mighty Yankees, led by the androgynous but wily Captain Jeter and his horde of bloodthirsty man-beasts. As game time grew closer, they could not help but feel that they were doomed.

So, when Lew Ford manifested himself in the Twins clubhouse from his rehab stint in Florida using a +5 Amulet of Astral Projection, he found himself greeted by a funereal group. "Why so glum, chums?" exclaimed Ford. "Turn those frowns upside down!"

"We're o'ermatched!" cried Jason Bartlett.

"It's hopeless," sighed Little Nicky Punto.

"It's suicide!" squealed Jason Bartlett.

"Come on you guys," said Ford. "Didn't you guys see 300? The Spartans were like, totally o'ermatched. There were a jillion Persians and just 300 Spartans and using pluck and gumption and sticktoittiveness and lots of spears the Spartans held their own. It was the greatest movie ever."

"Yeah," said Pat Neshek. "I saw it, too. Those Persians had, like, such a high payroll. They were jerks."

"You know," said Rondell White, "The real story is even more interesting. There weren't just 300 Spartans, but 700 Thespians as well, and—"

"Heh," said Matt Guerrier, elbowing Juan Rincon. "Thespians."

"So, what I'm saying you guys," said Ford, "is there's no obstacle that can't be overcome. You guys are totally the Spartans! You can do this!"

"Yeah!" exclaimed Pat Neshek.

"Si!" exclaimed Dennys Sampler Reyes.

"Do we have to wear Speedos and capes?" asked Juan Rincon.

"Yes," said Ford. "You got to."

An hour later, the Twins were clad appropriately and making their way to the field full of vim and vigor. The night's starting pitcher, Boof Bonser, watched his teammates appreciatively.

"That's so inspiring," said Bonser to Neshek. "I mean, those 300 Spartans winning in a battle against a million Persians!"

"Oh," said Neshek. "No, they didn't win."

"They didn't?"

"No. They died. Every last one of them."

"Oh," said Bonser. "Shit."

"Play ball!" shouted the ump.

Well, the game played out a lot like the movie, except bloodier, and afterwards the Twins shuffled back into the clubhouse, even more dejected than before.

"Well that sucked," mumbled Michael Cuddyer.

"And no thespians," sighed Guerrier.

"Still," said Punto, "I'd sure like my dingleberries back."

****************************************

BatNote: Thank you so much to all who contributed to Batgirl's March of Dimes WalkAmerica efforts. If you'd still like to help, please visit here. It's totally tax-deductible. A vote for preemies is a vote for America!

Sir Sidney's Secret

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."

Scattered Notes on a Chilly Series

Twins at Chicago
4/7: Twins 0, Whine Sox 3
4/8: Twins 3, Whine Sox 1

Infield has been brought in to pinch-blog for Batgirl, as BG is entirely occupied trying to prevent Baby Dash from running up a monumental long distance bill while romancing Riley Grace Nathan.

It was a long, cold weekend in Chicago. The game was canceled Friday, on account of the glacier encroaching on right field, but intrepid ground crews imported from Canada attacked with blowtorches and boiling water and managed to drive it back into the stands in time for Saturday's afternoon start.

Some comments on the abbreviated series...

• Mark your calendars for July 6th, on which date the Twins and Sox will play a doubleheader to make up for Friday's missed game.
• Sir Sidney, who was scheduled to pitch on Friday, will instead be making his first appearance in a Twins uniform on Monday in Minnesota, versus the Bankees.
• Silva started a game, and neither the world nor the season came to an unfortunate end. (Yes, infield was a little surprised, too.) In fact, he gave up only one run in 5 innings of work, despite getting into a couple of jams.
• Rondell White apparently pulled a calf muscle during pre-game workouts while skipping onto the field. Sometimes truth is funnier than BatGirl.
• Sunday, after a frantic locker room search between the second and third innings, Santana found his control in his locker, underneath his spare glove.
  "Whew," Johan was overheard to say, "I was starting to think I'd left it in the Dome. God only knows what the Gophers football team would have done with it."
• Is infield the only one who found the GameDay picture of Sox reliever David Aardsma a wee bit disturbing? Something about that psychotic-clown grin...
  
  
  
  
• And finally, some sassy stats:
  • The Twins are on pace to go 130-32 on the season.
  • Justin Morneau is on pace to hit 65 homers.
  • Johan Santana is on pace to accumulate 240 strikeouts and (less sassily) 80 walks.
  • Jason Tyner is on pace to steal 65 bases--33 of them on his knees.

Our boys are on their way home to face the Bankees and the Rays for three and four games, respectively. Rumor has it that on Sunday, the 60th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's major league debut, Torii Hunter will not only be wearing the number 42 (by special permission of the commissioner), but he will be also be wearing his socks the right way. Bring your cameras!

The Times That Try Men's Souls...

Baltimore at Twins. Twins 7, O's 2.

This entry posted by tgd, which is merely one more bit of evidence that sleep deprivation has badly impaired BG’s judgment.

Well, that was certainly refreshing: Chase those lingering memories of last April’s suckitude with a little pitching, a lot of hitting, and piranhas regularly swimming around third base. All was lovely - except for the gnashing of teeth from downstairs, where the mother of my children usually watches Her Mets.

“You told me we’d have Extra Innings again this year!” she shouts, while our 12-year-old stat freak attempts to paint verbal pictures off of Gameday. I’m luckier. Our little corner of the Old Dominion gets the Orioles’ regional cable network – so I’ve been able to stall an extra three days before deciding whether to junk cable for the dish.

All you batlings in Minnesota can just skip the rest of the rant (we know you just want to peek at the BOD results, anyway – Cuddles? Ramon, for whistling past the graveyard inning after inning? Shaggy, for giving Vice Prez the night off so he can deal with his own new bundle of sleep deprivation?).

But us out-of-towners, we’re facing A Decision.

Do we get rid of cable, find someone new to give us our Internets, and nail a warped pizza pan to our homes? Or do we resign ourselves to squinting at computer screens and scanning the ESPN listings hopefully?

This is one of those fights where you want everyone to lose, hopefully in as much pain as possible. On the one hand, there was my first experience with DirecTV, not long after we moved here. A thunderstorm blows in during the late innings of a tight game. The picture cuts out. Frantic call to customer service.

Is it raining? they ask. Umm, yeah; in the pestilential swamps of coastal Virginia, it rains in the summer. Well, huffed the ‘service representative,’ we can’t be held responsible if the service degrades in the rain. And they want me to let them on my roof with power tools?

Of course, cable companies are about as cuddly as a rabid raccoon pawing through your trash. [Shout out Louise!--BG] Our local monopolistic blight is even trying to bribe me to stay by offering to pay for MLB.tv while they “continue to negotiate for rights to carry the MLB Extra Innings” package.

Well, they can dream. Negotiations usually take two parties, and baseball seems determined to keep their 10-year, $700 million DirecTV deal in place. (Why, split among 30 teams each year, that’s enough to buy an aging utility infielder.) Conspiracy theories abound: DirecTV cut ‘em a sweetheart deal to carry the future MLB Channel. The league is trying to push more people to MLB.tv. There’s even that dark rumor that Bud Selig is exacting revenge for that time his cable company made him wait all day to get an extra outlet installed at his summer cabin. [IN HELL--BG]

But I digress.

I can stall the decision for another couple of days – between Fox and WGN, I’ll get to see two of this weekend’s three blood feuds against the Byotches. But the Mets fan downstairs is getting restless. ESPN can’t carry the Muttsies every week (not when there are 19 Yankee-Red Sox games to show!). I can rant all I want, but pretty quick here I’sve got to decide: Dish? Or domestic discord?

ETA: The power of the BG community inspires awe. (Thanks, mmmarkiep.)

There are More Games, Horatio...

This entry posted by Twayn, who thinks he is a Compatibilist, therefore he is.

Baltimore at Twins. Twins 3, Orioles 2.

So the game is getting started and I turn on the TV and settle down on the couch, because I’m not the kind of guy who would own a divan, you know, because I don’t have a parlor or drawing room to put the thing in and even if I did have a divan I’d call it a couch anyway. I don’t have a foyer, either, but you don’t even want to hear that story. Then my wife brings me a grilled chicken sandwich with bacon and swiss cheese smothered with Sweet Baby Rays (The Sauce Is The Boss®), some Fritos on the side, and a cold Dr. Pepper. Life is good. And then the children pass through, debating philosophy on their way to the kitchen.

“You always get everything just because you were first! You're such a Primarian,” the Younger says to the Elder.

"Don't be so Ancillary. You get just as much as I do because you’re new and people think that’s cute,” responds the Elder to the Younger.

And then it strikes me. I’m following the headliner. After all the hype, after all the waiting, after five miserable, exquisite months of anticipation, Opening Day is over, and the magic lingers only in memory and the archives now and today is just another day in a grueling 162-game schedule.

But it’s a new day, with a new game, and that’s a cute little bit of magic in its own way, and there’s still that new season feel, it’s still our first turn through the rotation, and tonight we found out that, for the most part, the Orioles can not handle the Boof. Only a certain Aubrey L. Huff, late of the Astros and Rays, a native of the great city of Marion, Ohio could actually be said to handle the Boof. Oh, and Melvin Mora. But that’s all, just them. Just those two. And that damn Markakis. But nobody else. That’s it. Just Huff and Mora and Markakis. Except for a few walks, it was a Bradkelike 6IP, 3H, 2ER, 1HR, 6K, a quality start first heralded when Dick Bremer announced in the middle of the first that “the Boof is on fire.” I’d swear I’ve heard that somewhere before.

But on the other side of the hill, a certain Daniel Cabrera was pretty much on fire, too, even after a certain Luis Castillo played a little pinball with his countryman's leg to lead off the first inning. Cabrera can pitch, as he showed tonight, but I don’t see any gold gloves in his future. A few head bumps on low doorways, yes, but no gold gloves.

It was a good game, a close game, just another game in a long 162-game season, with 160 still to go. But it was a Twins game with a Twins quality and a Twins feel. It had good starting pitching, a timely seeing eye grounder by a diminutive infielder, two-for-four performances by Castillo and the Chairman, an urgent bloop single to take the leadership in late innings, a strong bullpen showing with a win and a save, and the ugliest stolen base in the history of piranhas by Jason Tyner, one of five for the team on the night.

So the season and the Twins are off and running, except for Rondell White, who suddenly has an uncharacteristic affinity for walking and who, according to Dick Bremer in the fifth inning, believes that life is scripted, that all of our actions are pre-ordained. Which is why he was able be make that amazing catch on Opening Day and be the first number-one web gem of the season, and why, ergo, Cuddyer will certainly not strike out this much all year long, and which also makes Rondell a Determinist, reminding me that my children are still in the kitchen talking philosophy and it’s way past their bedtime, and I’m still sitting here blogging on my divan. I mean my couch.

Note from RD: Twins bloggers are playing host to a meet-up Saturday afternoon at Buffalo Wild Wings in Crystal. We’ll gather starting at 2:45 p.m. for the Twins-White Sox game. This B-Dubs is at 5590 W. Broadway, the corner of Broadway and Bass Lake Road in the Crystal Shopping Center. Come join us. It’ll give us an excuse to do a few more during the season. And, really, we don’t have to meet in Crystal every time.

Ahhhh....

Baltimore at Twins. Twins 7, Orioles 4.

Imagine if you will a season, not so long ago, and when you picture this season you see one moment of perfect joy bookended by two pieces of total crap, the second piece 100 times crappier than the first, which seems to you like a very bad bookend, because the whole point of bookends is symmetry, unless you're going for some avant-garde sort of thing, which you're really not, you're just trying to watch baseball, which has nothing to do with the avant-garde except perhaps in certain people's pitching delivery and most of the content of Pulling a Blyleven, and everything to do with seeking that one rare moment of perfect happiness, like when your team ascends from the ashes of truly spectacular crapitude to win the division title on the very last day of the season with just a little help from the Kansas City Royals and you jump up and down and probably initiate the premature labor you experience just a few months later, and your chest opens up and a great pillar of light bursts out and travels up to the very heavens where Bob Casey is waiting to announce its arrival, and it seems that there has never been before, norever will be again, such happiness. Like that.

And then some things happen that you’d rather not discuss, and your whole bookshelf topples over from the weight of that craptacular bookend, and it burns, it burns, oh how it burns, and finally a few months later you climb out of the wreckage of your soul and all the crap seems not to matter so much anymore, because there was Johan Santana—Cy Young, and Joe Mauer—Batting Champ, and Justin Morneau—MVP, and Torii Hunter—30 home runs, and other things, like Joe Nathan's perfection and DJ Cuddles' RBI benjamin and Sideshow Pat and the F-Bomb, and Brad Radke the one-armed man, and there was the moment you wait for all season, many seasons, sometimes your whole baseball fan career, and for one beautiful, perfect day it is yours—all yours.

And then you wait. And winter is cold and boring as crap, until you accidentally have a baby and then things get very interesting, and then suddenly its April, and Johan Santana is on the mound, and the Minnesota Twins take the field, and the ump shouts play ball, and the first thing Johan does is strike somebody out, and the first thing Joe Mauer does is get a hit, and the first thing Justin Morneau does, and the first thing Torii Hunter does, is crank the ball out of the park, and it seems, once again, like all things are possible, that that perfectly elusive moment is within our grasp—for the crappiness all fades off into the dark corners of memory and what keeps us going, year after year, is hope. We have the batting champ, the Cy Young, the MVP, and one of those people is Johan Santana, and it is the first day of baseball season and all things are possible.

Batgirl does not know what form this blog will take this year. She cannot possibly recap every game, or even the majority of games, with BabyDash who is as time consuming as he is magnificent. Batgirl is so very, very sleepy and hopes everyone understands, and is very forgiving of the various mistakes/typos/and brain freezes that will no doubt ensue. For the time being she will blog about once a week and give an occasional BOD and hope to feature excellent guest bloggers.

What Nunsense

This entry posted by Twayn, with help from Richard and Oscar.

With spring training wrapping up this weekend, word came down from upon high yesterday that Carlos Silva will indeed begin the season in the starting rotation. And suddenly the hills were alive with the sound of spin-doctoring. Fans were aghast, fearful that come September Silva's losses will number sixteen going on seventeen, when winning division championships and making the playoffs (and whiskers on bat-kittens, of course) are a few of our favorite things. The clamorous reaction of Twins Territory just goes to prove that even the best public relations spin can't drown out the rising chorus of indignant Twins fans...

(Sung to the tune of How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria)

They hit the ball, we watch it fall,
His sinker isn’t there.
He waltzes in from off the mound
And seems without a care.
Why can’t it just be simple?
Why must it be unfair?
His E-R-A and waistline are so flabby.

He's sorry about the sucking
And his penitence is real.
He's sorry about everything
Except for every meal.
I hate to have to say it
But I very firmly feel,
Silva's starts are going to make me crabby.

I'd like to say a word in his defense –
But Silva - makes me - tense.

How do you solve a problem like our Silva?
How do you fix a guy who’s lost his stuff?
How do you find a word that defines Silva?
A flibbertijibbet! A bit-of-a-flake! Enough!

Many a thing you know you'd like to tell him.
Many a thing he ought to understand.
But how do you make him see
The lunch he eats never is free.
How do you keep him when he should be canned?

Oh, how do you solve a problem like our Silva?
How much more of Silva can we stand?

When I watch him I'm confused
Out of focus and bemused
And I never know exactly where I am.
Unpredictable as weather
He's as flighty as a feather.
He's a creampuff! He’s a headcase! He's a sham!

He outstinks a stinking skunk
Gives up homers with his junk
He can pitch almost as well as any girl.
He is useless! He is wild!
He's a riddle! He's a child!
He's a headache! He's a trainwreck!
I could hurl!

How do you solve a problem like our Silva?
How do you fix a guy who’s lost his stuff?
How do you find a word that defines Silva?
A flibbertijibbet! A bit-of-a-flake! Enough!

Many a thing you know you'd like to tell him.
Many a thing he ought to understand.
But how do you make him see
The lunch he eats never is free.
How do you keep him when he should be canned?

Oh, how do you solve a problem like our Silva?
How much more of Silva can we stand?

Justin's Way

This entry posted by Twayn, who has a hunch Baby Dash will enjoy Kevin Henkes.

"Hello. My name is Justin. I'm the American League MVP.
I like hockey and sandwiches and hitting home runs."

Justin had his own way of doing things. He always cut his Jimmy John's submarine sandwiches diagonally, for good luck. He always got out of bed on the same side, for good luck. And he never left the house without double-knotting his shoes, for good luck.

Justin always had the same thing for breakfast – toast with jam and peanut butter - for good luck. And he always carried a hockey puck in his back pocket. Just in case.

Justin’s best friend Joe was exactly the same way. That’s why they were best friends. Justin wouldn’t play baseball unless Joe played, and they never slid headfirst or swung at the first pitch, unless it was a hanging breaking ball. Joe wouldn’t call a pickoff play at first base unless Justin wanted to, and they always used hand signals in the infield. If Justin was hungry, Joe was too, but they rarely ate between meals. Justin and Joe, Joe and Justin. That’s the way it was.

They loved to play baseball. Once, when Joe accidentally swallowed a sunflower seed in the dugout and said he was afraid that a sunflower plant would grow inside him, Justin swallowed one, too.

“Don’t worry,” said Justin. “Now, if you grow a sunflower plant, I’ll grow one, too.”

For Halloween, Justin and Joe always dressed as things that went together – salt and pepper shakers, Canadian bacon and eggs, the Blues Brothers.

In spring, Justin and Joe shared the same locker room. In winter, they never threw snowballs at each other. In fall, they raked leaves and tried to get past the first round of the playoffs. And in summer, they reminded each other to wear sunscreen, so they wouldn’t burn. Justin and Joe, Joe and Justin. That’s the way it was.

And then Nicky moved into the neighborhood...

Nicky had his own way of doing things.

He wore band-aids all over his tiny body, to look brave. He talked backwards to himself in the infield, so base runners wouldn’t know what he was saying. And he never left the house without one of his nifty disguises, like a hungry piranha or a tiny superhero.

Nicky waved at all the fans that waved at him, even if he didn’t know who they were. And he always carried a loaded squirt gun in his back pocket. Just in case.

When Nicky asked Justin and Joe to play, they said they were busy. When he called them up on the phone, they disguised their voices and said they weren’t home. If Nicky was walking on one side of the street, Justin and Joe crossed to the other side and hid.

One day, while Justin and Joe were practicing baseball, some White Sox boys ran out onto the field. They ran in circles around Justin and Joe and yelled personal remarks at them. Justin and Joe didn’t know what to do. Just when they were about to give up hope, a cuddly looking bear wearing a Twins cap and jersey ran out of the dugout and frightened the White Sox boys away with a squirt gun.

“Are you who I think you are?” Justin asked the bear.
“Of course,” the bear replied.
“Thank you, Nicky,” said Justin.
“You’re welcome, Justin,” said Nicky.
“Thank you, Nicky,” said Joe.
“You’re welcome, Joe,” said Nicky.
“I’m glad you were wearing a disguise,” said Justin.
“And I’m glad you had your squirt gun,” said Joe.
“I always do,” said Nicky. “Just in case.”

Afterward, Justin invited Nicky over for lunch.
“You have a Muscle Mouse cup?” said Nicky.
“Of course,” said Justin.
“I do, too!” said Nicky.
“Same here,” said Joe.

That night, Nicky invited Justin and Joe to sleep over.
“You have a night light?” said Justin.
“Of course,” said Nicky.
“I do, too,” said Justin.
“Same here,” said Joe.

After that, when Nicky asked Justin and Joe to play they said yes. When he called them up on the phone, they had pleasant conversations. And if Nicky was walking on one side of the street, Justin and Joe waved and ran to catch up with him.

Justin and Joe wouldn’t play baseball unless Nicky played, and they never swung at the first pitch, unless it was a hanging breaking ball, of course. And they never slid headfirst, except for Nicky, who still had his own way of doing some things. Nicky taught Justin and Joe to talk backwards in the infield. And they taught him hand signals and how to double-knot his shoes. Justin and Joe and Nicky. That’s the way it was.

For Halloween, they dressed as the three blind umpires. For Christmas, Nicky gave Justin and Joe nifty disguises. And they gave him a box of multi-colored shoelaces – extra long for double knotting.

They loved to play baseball. When Justin and Joe told Nicky about how they had each swallowed a sunflower seed, Nicky swallowed three of them. “I’ll grow a sunflower plant for each of us,” he said.

In spring, Justin and Joe and Nicky shared a locker room together. In winter, they never threw snowballs at each other. In fall, they raked leaves and tried to get past the first round of the playoffs. And in summer, they reminded each other to wear sunscreen, so they wouldn’t burn. Justin and Joe and Nicky, Nicky and Joe and Justin. That’s the way it was.

And then Jason moved into the neighborhood...

The Life of Ryan (Scene 33)

This entry posted by Twayn’s Flying Circus.

Many fans are disappointed with the news that the Twins and Justin Morneau were unable to reach an agreement on a long-term contract and have broken off further discussions. For those interested in just how these types of deals are negotiated, we have managed to obtain (through confidential sources familiar with the dumpster behind Lee County Sports complex) a transcript of the final bargaining session between Terry Ryan and Justin Morneau's agent, Mark Pieper.

[Terry Ryan hurries into the conference room at Hammond Stadium and takes a seat at the table opposite Pieper and his assistant, Bert.]

RYAN: Okay, how much does he want? Quickly.
PIEPER: What?
RYAN: It’s for Carl’s peace of mind. How much?
PIEPER: Oh. Uh, 40 million shekels for four years.
RYAN: Right. Done.
PIEPER: What?
RYAN: There you go. 40 million shekels.
PIEPER: Wait a minute.
RYAN: What?
PIEPER: Well, we're supposed to haggle.
RYAN: No, no, no. I've got to get Santana and Nathan to sign extensions, and see if…
PIEPER: What do you mean, 'no, no, no'?
RYAN: I haven't the time. I've got to trade some hot young arms for a backup shortstop and…
PIEPER: Well, take it back, then.
RYAN: No, no, no. I just paid you. We have a deal…
PIEPER: Bert!
BERT: Yeah?
PIEPER: This bloke won't haggle.
BERT [menacingly]: Won't haggle?! What’s your *&%#ing problem, mate?
RYAN: All right, all right. Do we have to?

PIEPER: Now, look. We want 40 million for four years.
RYAN: I just gave you 40 million for four years.
PIEPER: Now, are you telling me the league MVP’s not worth 40 million shekels?
RYAN: No.
PIEPER: Look at him. Look at that quality. That's hero stuff, not any of your goat.
RYAN: All right. I'll give you 39 million then.
PIEPER: No, no, no. Come on. Do it properly.
RYAN: What?
PIEPER: Haggle properly. He’s not really worth 39 million.
RYAN: Well, you just said he was worth 40 million.
PIEPER: Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Come on. Haggle.
RYAN: All right. I'll give you 20 million.
PIEPER: That's more like it. 20 million?! Are you trying to insult me?! Me, with a poor dying grandmother?! 20 million?!
RYAN: All right. I'll give you 22 million.
PIEPER: Now you're getting it. 22 million?! Did I hear you right?! 22 million?! And 10 percent for me? That doesn’t even cover my expenses. You want to ruin me?!
RYAN: 35 million?
PIEPER: No, no, no, no. 35 million, dear me.
RYAN: 36 million then?
PIEPER: No, no. You go to 24 million now.
RYAN: All right. I'll give you 24 million shekels for four years.
PIEPER: 24 million?! Are you joking?!
RYAN: That's what you told me to say.
PIEPER: Oh, dear.
RYAN: Oh, tell me what to say. Please!
PIEPER: Offer me 26 million.
RYAN: I'll give you 26 million.
PIEPER: He's offering me 26 million! For the American League MVP!
RYAN: 27 million!
PIEPER: 33 million shekels. My last word. I won't take a penny less, or strike me dead.
RYAN: 33 million then. Deal.
PIEPER: Done. Nice to do business with you. Tell you what. I'll throw you in a washed up starting pitcher as well.
RYAN: I don't want him, I’ve got plenty of them, thanks.
PIEPER: Bert!
BERT: What? He still not haggling? You really do have a *&%#ing problem, don’t you, mate?
RYAN: All right! All right! All right! I’ll take your washed up pitcher.
PIEPER: Now, where's the 33 million you owe me?
RYAN: I just gave you 40 million.
PIEPER: Oh, yeah. That's right. That's 7 million I owe you, then.
RYAN: Well, that's all right. Just keep it. That's fine. I’m in a bit of a rush.
PIEPER: No, no. Hang on. I've got it here somewhere.
RYAN: That's all right. We’ll just call it 7 million for the pitcher.
PIEPER: 7 million? For this pitcher? 7 million?! Look at him. He’s worth 10 million if he’s worth a shekel.
RYAN: But you just gave him to me for nothing.
PIEPER: Yes, but he’s worth 10 million!
RYAN: All right. All right.
PIEPER: No, no, no. He’s not worth 10 million. You're supposed to argue, '10 millon for that? You must be mad!'
RYAN: Look, just forget the whole thing. We’ll try again next year.

[Terry Ryan takes back his 40 million shekels and makes a hasty exit.]

PIEPER: Oh, well. One born every minute.

Remembrance

Twins 4, Dodgers 7

From the Associated Press:

FORT MYERS, Fla. – One year after the death of Kirby Puckett, the Minnesota Twins paused to remember the Hall of Fame outfielder and his lasting impact on the organization.

Center fielder Torii Hunter, a close friend and the only current Twins player who was a teammate of Puckett's during past spring trainings, has found it difficult to talk about the subject since Puckett died of a stroke at age 45 on March 6 last year.

"I got up this morning, and I prayed for him and his family. I know it must be a tough day for them,'' said Hunter, who first met his mentor in 1994 when he was a minor leaguer. They were placed next to each other in the clubhouse that spring.

Puckett was the catalyst on both Minnesota's World Series championship teams in 1987 and 1991, which were managed by Tom Kelly.

"You miss him. It's a wonderful thing to think about him. He has given us so many memories,'' said Kelly, now a special assistant to the general manager and a guest coach during spring training.

The Twins held a moment of silence in Puckett's honor before their exhibition game Tuesday against the Los Angeles Dodgers.

"It weighs on your heart,'' said fellow Hall of Famer Paul Molitor, who also serves as an assistant coach during spring training. "In some ways, it's hard to imagine that it's been a year already. There are certain times of the year when his presence is really missed. There was a big void out there last summer.''

Post Scriptum: RD penned a very nice tribute to Kirby today on A Fan's View, his Star Tribune Twins blog.

What, me worry?

This entry posted by Twayn, on assignment for Bat-girl.com.

Twins 4, Tampa Bay 2

Well, that’s more like it. I was starting to get just a teensy weensy bit worried there. About the winning thing, of course, and how we weren't doing any of it yet. But first I got all giddy and happy like a puppy getting its tummy rubbed and I was all caught up in the excitement and exuberance of spring training and finally having the boys playing games again. Then Garza started things off on a roll and went all one-two-three, one-two-three on the Red Sox, just like that, and life was good again. For a couple of brief innings, life was good again. But it couldn’t last. And then Baker took the ball and struggled. And Silva took the ball and struggled. And Boof took the ball and struggled. And Ortiz took the ball and, well, he wasn’t horrible. Yet. And Sidney couldn’t even get permission from his government to struggle or be horrible yet, at least in games with paid attendance. And we couldn’t hit very well and we especially couldn’t hit very well with runners on base and especially with runners in scoring position and somehow it was déjà vu all over again. I was flashing back to last April and May and that is a very, very bad place for a Twins fan to go. Don’t go there. It’s depressing and creepy, like cleaning out a dead relative’s closets.

I mean, after that initial adrenalin rush of the first couple innings of the first exhibition game it seemed like a bit of a bobsled run, steadily downhill with shaved ice flying around and everything kind of blurry. Or maybe that was the snowstorms. Anyway, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Ortiz was late reporting because he couldn’t get his visa, and then Sidney couldn’t pitch in games because he couldn’t get the right kind of visa, and Matt LeCroy just hopes he can somehow make enough money playing baseball to keep his VISA®. And Lew’s knee was hurting real bad and might need surgery but might not, we’ll let you know, and Garza’s neck was hurting and then it was his head and then his neck again, and Lyle Lohse once again displayed his outstanding command of the strike zone by hitting Torii in the back of the cabeza (Souhan: "How do you know he wasn't trying to hit you in the head?" Torii: "Because he hit me in the head, man." Rimshot). And, honestly, it was starting to look like the 2007 rotation would consist of Cy Young and the four horse turds of the apocalypse, and that the short but painfully acute sucking from last year’s playoffs might possibly come out of remission and degrade into the long chronic tuberculin kind of sucking that nearly killed us off last year before the banishment of Lyle and the Dictators and the now storied and miraculous resurgence and adventure-filled Algeresque achievement of the division crown.

But spring training is like that. One day you’re up, the next day you’re down. The swing that felt perfect yesterday feels a bit off today, and could fall completely apart tomorrow, unless it’s genetically programmed like Joe Mauer’s. Timing still needs to be worked out. You never know for sure what might happen. Lightning could strike. Sidney Ponson could make the rotation and be the comeback player of the year and win 18 games. Don’t bet the mortgage money on it, but at this point of the year it is technically possible, even if it’s not very probable. So today Silva goes out on the hill and pitches three good innings and the sinker is sinking and he’s getting strikeouts and ground outs and all kinds of outs and finally in the top of the ninth the boys score three runs and the Twins have their first spring training victory of the year. And all is right with the world. Except I didn’t get to see it or hear it because it wasn’t on TV or radio. But sometimes serendipity happens, and you get something else good instead.

Tonight, because I’ve been good, I guess, and the baseball gods took pity on me, I got to watch the Twins beat Oakland again. It was the September 12th game from last summer. Intense pennant race time. We were a game and a half out of first place. Liriano’s season was over, Radke’s arm was falling off, Mike Smith was no longer an option, and Matt Guerrier was getting a rare start. Shaggy went four, giving up three runs. Willie Eyre gave up another in the fifth. With bases loaded and just one away, Sideshow Pat and his long socks came on in relief, got the Big Hurt to line out to Punto, and struck out Chavez on a wicked breaking pitch. Crain and Reyes kept it close, and in the bottom of the eighth, the offense got it done -- back to back doubles by Cuddy and the MVP, and a two-out, run-scoring wild pitch on which Jason Tyner struck out but reached first base safely. It was one of those piranha plays. Nathan with the save. Twins 7, Athletics 5. Good times.

Yeah, I guess it's a little too early to start worrying after all.

It Happens Every Spring

This entry posted by Twayn, who could use a good 5-horsepower, 2-stage snow blower.

I finally have something in common with the Twins players down at spring training. I hurt. My muscles ache. Pick a body part and chances are it could use a heating pad and a handful of Advil. I spent the better part of Sunday digging out from the 18 inches of snow that fell over the weekend. Literally digging. My snow blower, which served faithfully for several years, took one look at the arctic landscape and suffered a traumatic breakdown. And the blizzard came on the heels of a crazy busy week. In addition to the regular rigors of work and playing Bob the Builder with a family member’s bathroom remodeling project, I had a broken washing machine of my own to repair, chauffeur duty for two adolescent daughters with more active social lives than yours truly, and a long list of household chores that never seems to become a short list of household chores.

So over the past week, when I wasn’t up to my knees in bilge water and dirty laundry, I was up to my buttocks in snow. To add insult to injury, my oldest daughter went with a friend to the golf show at the Metrodome on Saturday and couldn’t wait to tell me the minute she got home that she got to meet Harmon Killebrew. She says he’s a really nice guy and I would have loved talking Twins baseball with him. I believe her. When I did manage to find some downtime, I tried to spend it wisely, perusing the papers and Web for all things Twins. And with spring training in full swing now, there’s no shortage of stuff. Here’s a small sampling:

• Twins clubhouse assistant Wayne Hattaway turned 67 years young on Saturday. Happy Birthday, Big Fella. We hope your recovery is going well and that we’ll see you in the dugout come April, and for many years to come. Hattaway shares his birthday with Twins minor leagues director Jim Rantz, who turned 69.

• No longer breaking news for most of us, but the Star-Tribune has launched a triumvirate of Twins blogs featuring Twins beat writer La Velle E. Neal III , national baseball scribe Joe Christensen, and expert fan Howard Sinker, better known to Bat-girl.com readers as the pen behind ‘The RD Report’. I have them all bookmarked and they’ve already become part of my daily dose of Twins reading.

• Periscope, the Minneapolis agency behind the award-winning “This is Twins Territory” advertising campaigns, is at it again. They’re producing four new television spots this year, and you can see two of them, Little Piranhas featuring Nick Punto and Jason Bartlett and Carpool featuring Johan Santana and Joe Nathan, on the Twins website. My prediction? Santana wins another Cy Young award. Nathan fails to earn an Oscar nod. Nicky and Jason abandon baseball for a career in synchronized swimming.

• After early raves that led Ron Gardenhire to pencil him into the starting rotation last week, Sidney Ponson may be making his first trip to Gardy’s doghouse this week. It turns out Ponson doesn’t have a proper work visa from Aruba, and can’t pitch in any spring training games until he gets the red tape resolved. That’s got Gardy in a bit of a funk. Best get that done quickly, Sid. One call to Cincinnati is all it takes to make a guy disappear.

• After several agonizing months, this is the week the Twins actually start playing games again. The first spring training game versus the Red Sox is this Wednesday, followed by games with the Yankees on Thursday and the Reds on Friday and Saturday. The first televised spring training game is set for noon on Sunday, March 4th against Boston on FSN and WFTC29. The Twins will get some national airtime when ESPN carries their spring training game against the Yankees on March 27th. Imagine that, the Yankees on ESPN. Who would have ever guessed?

• Out: WCCO-AM 830. In: KSTP-AM 1500.

• Twins legends Tony Oliva and Jim Kaat are on this year’s Hall of Fame ballot. Let’s hope the exclusive country club mentality of the voters finally wears off. We'll find out tomorrow who (if anyone) will make it to Cooperstown this year.

• Lefty reliever Dennys Reyes left camp today to fly home for the imminent birth of his third child. Best wishes to the Reyes family.

• Lew Ford will be getting an MRI to determine how badly he injured his knee while throwing in the outfield today. Matt Garza will undergo a precautionary CAT scan because he’s still suffering from headaches caused by a neck injury, and Jeff Cirillo is nursing a minor neck injury as well.

• Patrick Reusse doesn’t care much for blogs or bloggers. That’s okay. I’m still a bit reticent myself about the benefits of the automatic transmission and painless dentistry.

When Man Love Fades

This entry posted by Twayn, whose illusions are shattered.

We’re all adults here, right? I mean, it’s not like we’re in junior high anymore. No, we’re grownups now. We can talk about this frankly and maturely with a minimum of snickering, and we’ve already heard the Alex Fitzderek jokes so we can move past that too, thank you very much. No, this is something to take seriously, like misdemeanor charges or gingivitis. Because it seems, ladies and gentlemen, that Alex Rodriguez has been faking it for years.

Alex and Derek in happier times.

That’s right, A-Rod is a great big faker, just like those webcam girls that fill your inbox with spam about how hot they are for you, but they really aren’t, they just want your money and believe me, it can be hard to explain those credit card charges to your wife. No, it turns out the richest player in baseball isn’t nearly as cozy with teammate and dreamboat Captain Derek Jeter as he’s been letting on for several years. While Alex was leading us all to believe that he and Derek were still as close as the little piggies that went to market and to town, under the covers there’s been a bit of tension simmering between the two. Oh, we saw the signs, like last year when Derek wouldn't stick up for Alex when he was doing his Tony Batista imitation at third base, but we didn't want to believe it. Fortunately for the Yankees and their fans, Alex and Derek have handled the downturn in their relationship like men. That is to say, they’ve buried their real feelings as deeply as possible and hidden behind a facade of false conviviality.

Alex gives Derek one of his 'special' hugs.

And A-Rod’s relationship with Derek isn’t the only one that’s been suffering for years now. It seems as well that A-Rod’s relationship with the media has been a bit like that of many a dysfunctional couple, what with all the lying and the pretending and the passive aggressive behavior. So Alex lied to the media because that's what they wanted, because they didn’t really care about his feelings, you see, but he didn’t really enjoy the lying at all, he just did it to keep them happy. And the media, well, they’re just insensitive louts with insatiable appetites that don't give a tinker's damn about Alex’s vulnerable emotional states as long as they get theirs every day by deadline, so hurry up with those bloomers, A-Rod.

Alex and Derek were once so close they autographed each other's balls.

It’s sad, really. We can only imagine the idyllic Friday night sleepovers that took place in Derek’s Central Park West condo after an evening of cruising trendy Manhattan nightclubs, the intensity of their masculine bonding, the late night movie and video game marathons, the Saturday morning cartoon watching, the mysterious and sanguine rituals that turned this charmed pair, this veritable Castor and Pollux, into kindred spirits, into nothing less than blood brothers.

Sad indeed, but those days are over now, it seems, and have been ever since Alex got a bug up his backside and said some mean things about Derek to one of those damn media guys, the ones that not only don’t respect you afterwards but like to brag to all of their buddies about it, too. Word got around.

Alex and Derek performing their blood brother handshake.

“Alex says Derek isn't a real leader.”
“Alex says Derek is surrounded by talent.”
“Alex says other teams don’t fear Derek.”

It all went downhill very quickly after that. And now, a few years later, Alex seems to be ready to move on, ready to face up to the reality that while he may still share a locker room with Derek, they can never recapture the magic of those salad days they once shared, and that Tennessee Williams was probably right, there is a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go.


Alex and Derek demonstrate the Dance of the Prima Donnas.

So why now? Why, you may ask, after years of deceipt and duplicity is Alex finally coming clean? Well, it's just a hunch, but there's a certain former Minnesota Twin on the Yankees roster this year, a guy Alex used to hang with in high school, a guy who maybe can help him deal with all of his confused and repressed feelings. A guy we like to call Dougie Baseball. Sure, maybe the Yanks did sign him for his late inning defense. But maybe, just maybe, it was because Alex could really, really use a friend again right now.

Come Monday

This entry posted by Twayn, with a big assist from Jimmy Buffett.

Headin' down to start spring training
and the pre-season baseball show.
I've got my rally cap on
I think that this year the Twins
will start things off on a roll.
And honestly, I didn't know
that time could pass quite so slow.

Come Monday, it'll be all right.
Come Monday, the season’s in sight.
I spent all winter long
trying to rewrite this song,
and I just want you back on TV.

Yes, it's been quite a winter,
big awards and contracts to sign.
And now you're done with vacation,
it’s time to start playin’ again.
And I tell you, I miss baseball so,
That’s the reason I can’t wait to go.

Come Monday, it'll be all right.
Come Monday, the season’s in sight.
I spent all winter long
trying to rewrite this song
and I just want you back on TV.

I can't help it, funny,
the game’s such a part of me now.
Remember the night in September
When the playoffs were no cause for doubt?

I hope you're enjoying the scenery,
I know that it's pretty down there.
You can hit fungos on Tuesday,
with you I'd watch anywhere.
The offseason’s worn me quite thin,
I can't wait to see games again.

Come Monday, it'll be all right.
Come Monday, the season’s in sight.
I spent all winter long
trying to rewrite this song
and I just want you back on TV.

Okay, on to the unofficial Bat-girl.com 2007 Pre-Season Photo Caption Contest (that isn’t really a contest)™. First, big kudos for all of yesterday's entries, you guys rocked. Really, solid hits up and down the lineup. You battled your tails off, and that's what we like to see. With spring training nearly upon us, we're going to wrap up the uncontest with this photo from the dugout, and what must have been an interesting conversation between Sweetcheeks and the good Doctor.

Get after it, Batlings.

Close Call

From the Associated Press:

PHOENIX - Michael Cuddyer and the Minnesota Twins agreed to terms Thursday on a $3.575 million, one-year contract, avoiding arbitration minutes before their hearing was scheduled at a Phoenix hotel.

The deal also includes a $50,000 bonus if Cuddyer gets at least 650 plate appearances in 2007. After making $1.35 million last season and posting career-best numbers in his first full season as a regular, Cuddyer asked for $4.25 million and the Twins offered $3 million. The two sides were together in a room waiting to argue their cases before the three-person panel, when they walked out and settled in the hall.

Batting cleanup between catcher Joe Mauer, the AL's batting champ, and first baseman Justin Morneau, the AL's most valuable player, Cuddyer hit .284 with 24 homers, 109 RBIs and 102 runs scored. His 11 outfield assists were tied for third in the league.

Minnesota had six players eligible for arbitration this year, but settled on contracts with each of them without going to a hearing. Twins pitchers and catchers are required to report to spring training in Fort Myers, Fla., by Sunday with the full squad due by Feb. 23.

A Valentine Story

This entry posted by Twayn, who is not eligible for arbitration.

Remember 1987? It was a great year to be a Twins fan, which I had been already for ten years, ever since moving to Minnesota. It was also the year, exactly twenty years ago today, in fact, that I got a special letter in the mail. It was from a girl I had met the previous fall, a girl I pursued despite the fact that she had a boyfriend. To her credit, she did nothing to encourage me at the time. So I gave her my address and asked her to get in touch if she ever found herself unattached.

Twenty years ago today she got in touch. We went on our first date one week later, just as pitchers and catchers were reporting for spring training. Much, much later, she would tell me she hadn’t intended to ever see me again, that she threw away my address as soon as she got home. But when she did, she heard a voice. “What are you doing?” it asked her. “That’s the man you’re going to marry,” said the voice. I was skeptical, too, but she swears it’s true. And if teaches us anything, it’s that you should listen when a disembodied voice tells you something. So she fished my address out of the trash and tucked it away, and there it remained out of sight and out of mind as autumn turned and the cold dark of winter settled in, until one day she found herself unattached, and remembered the voice, and wrote me a letter.

From our first date on we saw each other as much as our schedules allowed. She was working, I was in school. We lived 60 miles apart. But we had each other on the weekends, we had the telephone, and we had the Twins. You see, I’m one of those lucky guys who love baseball, and somehow managed to fall in love with a woman who loves baseball, too.

As the Twins season heated up in that summer of 1987 so did our romance. By the time the Twins clinched the pennant we were a serious couple. By the time they beat the Cardinals in the greatest World Series ever played we were a done deal, and we both knew it. We married three years later and we’ve been together ever since. So for us, Twins baseball is not just a sporting event, not mere entertainment. It’s part of who we are and where we’ve been together from the very beginning. One year after our wedding the Twins were on their way to the other greatest World Series ever played - but that’s another story for another time. Happy Valentine’s Day, one and all.

Now, on with the unofficial Bat-girl.com 2007 Pre-Season Photo Caption Contest (that isn’t really a contest)™. There have been some great entries the past couple of days, and my thanks to everyone who has participated. Here’s today’s photo caption contest picture, featuring an ensemble cast of some of our favorite Twins in a touching moment from last season.

Have at it, Batlings.

Word Up

This entry posted by Twayn, on assignment for Bat-girl.com

There were flashes of brilliance. And some really, really good effort. Plenty of hustle. Not a bad beginning at all to the unofficial Bat-girl.com 2007 Pre-Season Photo Caption Contest (that isn’t really a contest). A much better beginning than the Twins gave us last season, that's for sure. But I know we can do better.

Don't get me wrong, you all were great. You were. I blame myself. I'm the guy putting the lineup together. It was a good picture, but a little one-dimensional. And as much as I love Nicky, it did lack a little star power. So I need to step up my game. I need to give you guys a better chance to excel. That's why today, our photo caption contest picture features Barry and Torii in an All-Star moment that made many fans glance around uncomfortably and clear their throats, and made many others nod vigorously, point and mutter, "Uh-huh."

Caption on, Batlings.

O Caption! My Caption!

This entry posted by Twayn, on assignment for Bat-girl.com

Photography is the art of visually capturing a moment, of manipulating light and shadow and time, of containing the ethereal within two static dimensions. Sometimes a photograph can tell a whole story all by itself. Other times it needs some help. Some context. Some sass. And that’s where you come into the picture, Batlings.

To help counter some of the restless, relentless anxiety of waiting – endlessly, endlessly, endlessly waiting for Spring Training and Opening Day – Batgirl has sort of sanctioned an unofficial photo caption contest. Why is it unofficial? Because it’s not really a contest and Batgirl is not available to conduct it. There will be no winners declared. There will be no voting for first, second or third places, or any other places for that matter. And there will be no prizes. Because the knowledge to conduct an actual online photo caption contest with winners and voting and prizes is a closely guarded secret, like nuclear missile launch codes or the formula for Driven cologne, and I don’t have the appropriate security clearance for that.

So what’s in it for you, Batlings? Well, this is a chance to shake off the winter doldrums and stretch those muscles connecting your funny bone to the rest of your body. A chance to take your brain out for a little joyride around town with the windows rolled down, maybe stop and get it a chili-dog and a cherry Coke at the drive-in and let it moon your buddies while you cruise the drag. A chance to entertain and delight fellow Batlings with your scathing wit and overdeveloped sense of jocularity. A chance, even if it is for just a moment, to forget about the cold weather and work and lawsuits (oops, maybe that’s just me) and focus on what’s really important in life – baseball, and making fun of silly stuff.

Since this is an unofficial contest with no winners or voting or prizes, then there must not be any rules, right? Well, hold on there just a minute. We aren’t ready to condone anarchy just yet, not so soon after Disco Demolition Night. So here are the unofficial rules for the unofficial Bat-girl.com 2007 Pre-Season Photo Caption Contest (that isn’t really a contest):

1. Look at the photograph and use the comments area to post your caption.
2. You may post as many captions as you like, but please be considerate of others and give everyone a chance to play, just like in T-ball.
3. No crude profanity, please. If they can’t say it on broadcast TV, you probably shouldn’t say it here. And if they did say it on broadcast TV and got in big trouble for it, ditto.

So that’s it. Look over today’s photo (we'll have more throughout the week) and caption away. And as David Letterman is prone to say in such circumstances, “Folks, this is an exhibition, not a competition. No wagering, please.”

Mo' Joe

From the Minnesota Twins media relations office:

Twins Agree to Terms with Catcher Joe Mauer on Four-Year Contract

MINNEAPOLIS-ST. PAUL, MN -- The Minnesota Twins announced today that they have agreed to terms with All-Star catcher Joe Mauer on a four-year contract that runs through the 2010 season.

Mauer, 23, led the Major Leagues with a .347 (181-521) batting average and became the first-ever American League catcher to win the batting title. In addition, Mauer set career-highs in nearly every offensive category, including, hits, runs (86), doubles (36), triples (4), home runs (13), rbi (84), walks (79) and slugging percentage (.507), while his .429 on-base percentage ranked third in the American League.

"We are pleased to have an agreement with one of Minnesota's brightest young stars," said Twins General Manager Terry Ryan. "Joe has become one of the game's great young players on and off the field. He has a bright future with this organization and means a great deal to the people of Minnesota."

Mauer became just the fourth different Twins player to win a batting title and the first since Kirby Puckett (.339) in 1989. His .347 batting average was the highest since Puckett hit .356 in 1988. The St. Paul, Minnesota native was named the American League Player of the Month for June after hitting .452 (42-93) with a .528 on-base percentage in 24 games. The following month, Mauer was named to his first All-Star Game, July 11 at Pittsburgh.

The first overall selection in the 2001 First-Year Player Draft, Mauer has spent parts of three seasons in the Major Leagues. He made his Major League debut on April 5, 2004 vs. Cleveland and has a career batting average of .321 (358-1117) with 70 doubles, seven triples, 28 home runs and 156 rbi in 306 games.

Omission Impossible

This entry posted by Twayn, who is really sorry about that.

Ahem. Yes. Is this thing on? It is? Okay.
You know that post from last week? The one about hotness? Well.

Dimples, I have been duly reminded, are cute. Right arms that accurately propel baseballs great distances at terminal velocity are adorable. And hitting 24 dingers, driving in 100+ runs, and scoring 100+ runs in one season is HOT with a capital H-O-frigging-T, and don’t you forget it Buster.

Cuddy, I apologize. Really, I didn’t intend any disrespect. It was just an oversight, that’s all. And honestly, I was one of your biggest fans last year. I don’t know how many times I’d watch a game and I’d say to my wife, “There’s your Boyfriend of the Day right there,” and then later on somebody else would do something fantastic and game-changing and doubt would start to creep in and I'd get on the computer and find out that Joe or Justin or somebody else got it, and I’d post a comment like, “Cuddy needs some BOD love, too." You just had this unfortunate habit of playing very, very well when the Chairman was going 5-for-5 and the Doctor was hitting baseballs like they'd insulted his mother and Canada and Johan was just en fuego.

I was right behind you all the way, Michael, even early in the season when your outfield footwork made you look like a bad Dancing with the Stars contestant. But you worked on it, and you got better, and by September, why, you could have been out there tripping the light fantastic with, dare I say it, the long-leggedy Stacy Keibler herself -- who was absolutely robbed by Drew Lachey and I don’t care if it was two whole seasons ago I’m not going to let go of this one any more than a terrier will let go of a rat, which was exactly what I smelled when Stacy lost. And that's all I have to say about that.

So just to set the record straight, Michael Brent Cuddyer is also hot (and I say that freely without coercion or fear of reprisal). He also has some vociferous and, um, assertive supporters who get together to quilt and embroider every Wednesday afternoon and who are, in fact, excellent motivators. And even though he went and got himself married during the offseason, Cuddles' cheeky features, outfield cannon, and hitting prowess continue to warm the hearts and minds of adoring fans throughout Twins Territory.

And Cuddy, a tip of the hat and hearty congratulations to you. It sounds like your wedding was the Twins social event of the offseason. But I’ve scoured the Internet and can’t find a single picture from the reception out there, so I guess we’ll just have to be content with mental images of Matty LeCroy stuffing his face with shrimp cocktail and those little Beef Wellingtons. And thanks to the Internet, we also get to process this mental image, courtesy of the globegazette.com:

MASON CITY — Backup Twins catcher Mike Redmond admitted he has worked out more than usual during this offseason. In the past, this wasn’t the case for Redmond...

“First of all, my body’s not that great anyway,” Redmond told the crowd at Wednesday’s Twins Caravan. [But] Redmond said he had some incentive to stay in shape this offseason — Michael Cuddyer’s wedding in Jamaica.

“I got home and I had to hit the treadmill,” he said. “I knew I was going to have to take my shirt off in Jamaica. So I guess I can thank Cuddy for that.”

Uh, yeah, thanks for that, Cuddy. I think. We just hope Red Dog kept his shirt on during the wedding. And his pants, for that matter.

DISCLAIMER: This post is in no way intended to imply that any other member of the Minnesota Twins 40-man roster is not hot or otherwise unworthy of fan