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 adulation.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Twayn would like to thank his eldest daughter for her graphic artistry, and the Michael Cuddyer Fan Club and Sewing Circle for his kneecaps.

Three Down, Three to Go

From the Associated Press:

AL MVP Justin Morneau agreed Friday to a $4.5 million, one-year contract with the Minnesota Twins, who also settled their salary arbitration cases with third baseman Nick Punto and outfielder Lew Ford.

Punto agreed to a $4.2 million, two-year contract, and Ford got a $985,000, one-year deal.

Morneau, a 25-year-old first baseman, hit .321 last year with 34 homers and 130 RBIs and won the MVP award by 14 points over New York Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter. Morneau's agreement was at the midpoint between the $5 million he had asked for and the $4 million the Twins had offered.

Punto, who hit .290 with 47 RBIs and 17 steals for the AL Central champions, will get $1.8 million this season and $2.4 million in 2008. He had asked for $2.1 million and had been offered $1.6 million.

Ford was a backup last year who hit .226 with 18 RBIs in 234 at-bats. In addition to his base salary, he could earn $65,000 in performance bonuses: $15,000 for 300 plate appearances, and $25,000 each for 400 and 450 plate appearances. Ford had asked for $1.3 million and had been offered $800,000.

Three Twins remain scheduled for hearings this month: AL batting champion Joe Mauer ($4.5 million vs. $3.3 million), third baseman Michael Cuddyer ($4.25 million vs. $3 million) and pitcher Juan Rincon ($2.4 million vs. $1.6 million).

Running Hot and Cold

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

Here’s the thing – it is cold in Minnesota right now. And it’s going to get colder before it gets warmer. Brass monkey cold. Cast iron bra cold. Teeth-grinding, nose-burning, butt-clenching cold. And the off-season is so very, very long when it is so very, very cold and bleak outside. You know what would feel good right now? Heat would feel good. Hotness would be very good. And what Twins fan can think of hotness without thinking Johan Santana? Well, not Batgirl. Not my wife. Not the population of Venezuela, where right now, according to my public school education, it is actually summertime, and the living is easy, fish are jumping, and the cotton is high. And it’s hot. Really hot. So damn hot that you want to reach out and grab a bottle of something cold. Something sparkling. Something refreshing. Something like… Malta Regional!

Yes, commercials featuring Johan Santana are hot, even when they are in Spanish. Or maybe especially when they are in Spanish. You know what would be even hotter? A commercial featuring Johan Santana and Justin Morneau. And you won’t have to wait long for it. Here’s an excerpt from the New York Times that elucidates:

At 8:45 a.m. yesterday, Mets shortstop Jose Reyes sat shivering on a sidewalk in Greenwich Village. Next to him was Twins starting pitcher Johan Santana, who was grilling a hamburger. It was about 20 degrees outside, and the wind chill made it seem like the low teens. So what were Reyes and Santana doing there?
Along with five other players — Minnesota’s Justin Morneau, Detroit’s Justin Verlander, Boston’s Jonathan Papelbon, St. Louis’s David Eckstein and the Yankees’ Robinson Canó — they were filming a commercial for new baseball caps under the direction of Spike Lee. The hats, manufactured by New Era, are designed to absorb sweat more efficiently, and they have a new black underside to the bill intended to reduce glare. Over and over, from 7 a.m. till noon, the players filmed the ad with 10-minute breaks from the cold.
“I got an idea about how to stay warm,” said Morneau, the 2006 American League most valuable player, as he shuffled between the street and a dressing room at the back of the store. “I could find all the White Sox hats and light them on fire.”

Mercy sakes, so much hotness all in one place. You know what else is hot? Two Cy Young awards in three years, which should have been three Cy Young awards in three years, but who’s counting besides you and me? And you know who loves Cy Young awards? The Venezuelan National Assembly, that’s who. They think two-time Cy Young winners from Tovar Merida are hot, hot, hot. Take a look.

Okay, the heat index is getting up there now. Oh! Oh! I just thought of something else that’s hot. Major League baseball players with their own websites. Especially big, rugged, Canadian major league baseball players with curly blonde hair and bulging biceps and a fetching smile and a Most Valuable Player award. Check it out. And look at the links page for a horribly glaring omission that we must all work diligently to rectify.

http://www.justinmorneau.com

Of course, no post about the Twins and hotness would be complete without the catcher with the hottest sideburns and in baseball. And while Chairman Mauer doesn’t have his own website that Google and I know of, he does have fans that are legion, including this little guy who recently got the bestest birthday present of his young life.

And I just thought of something else that will be hot. In just a couple of months, when the Twins open the 2007 season, all of us once again get to be just as excited as Evan.

Patience is a virtue, they say, but it’s hard to come by when it’s ten below.

Twins Get Squat at Winter Meetings

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

LAKE BUENA VISTA, Fla. –- As Major League Baseball’s annual winter meetings wrap up at the Disney Dolphin and Swan Resort, the Minnesota Twins announced that they have signed right-handed pitcher Doodley Squat to a minor league contract with an invitation to spring training. The move, while widely anticipated, has been characterized as “underwhelming” by top baseball analysts and pundits. But Twins general manager Terry Ryan disagrees.

“We came down to Orlando with every intention of getting Doodley Squat,” said Ryan. “And getting Doodley Squat to help fill one of the holes in our roster is exactly what we managed to accomplish.”

The 32-year old Squat, once a promising prospect drafted out of Trinidad State Junior College by the Rockies, toiled for several years in Colorado’s minor league system before being traded to Kansas City. The Royals released him from their AAA affiliate three years ago. Since then, he has pitched for various independent minor league, semi-pro, and exhibition ‘donkey baseball’ teams across the country, with a four-month stint as a starter and long reliever for the Seoul Searchers of the Korean Baseball Organization two years ago.

Twins manager Ron Gardenhire took the signing of Doodley Squat in stride.

“We’ve heard okay things about him. He’s an innings eater, he’s durable, he doesn’t walk many hitters, he works fast, he throws strikes, he keeps the ball down in the zone, he knows how to get after it, and he battles his tail off. What more could you want in a pitcher?” said this year’s runner-up for AL Manager of the Year honors. “Sure, his ERA is a little high, and he gives up the long ball a little too much, and he doesn’t have the experience of, say, a Terry Mulholland, but what are you gonna do? And besides, how many big league managers can say they have a Boof and a Doodley on their pitching staff?”

While the Twins dealing for Squat during the winter meetings is typical of the budget-constrained franchise, they did turn heads early in the week after a New York Times article suggested the perennially contending small-market Twins would be a good fit for aging free-agent slugger Barry Bonds, who is closing in on the career home run record held by Hank Aaron. Bonds eventually signed a new one year, $16 million deal with the San Francisco Giants late in the week. Ryan dismissed the Times story as pure speculation.

“For the Twins to make a deal for Barry Bonds was never anything more than a clueless East Coast reporter’s pipe dream,” Ryan commented. “And I won’t bother to guess what kind of pipe was involved.”

Ryan did express disappointment that the Twins were unable to finalize a deal for third baseman Dick Bupkis.

“We were hopeful that we’d be able to get Dick at the winter meetings, but you never know in this atmosphere what’s going to shake out,” said Ryan. “The good news is he didn’t sign with any other team, so he’s still available. We’ll just keep moving forward and try to get Bupkis before we come back down here for spring training in a couple of months.”

Oh, Ass.

Well, there's really not too much to say here, except that was rather disappointing. We had two wonderful starting pitching performances, but sometimes the ass bats come, sometimes when you are least expecting it, sometimes when you least want it, and when they come they get hold of you with their ass bat teeth and do not let go. Everything else went wrong--bullpen, fielding, baserunning, but none of that would have mattered if we'd managed to execute a little better. But that is the way of baseball, my dears.

As bad as the Twins were, the A's were great, exorcising all their first round bad mojo in fine form. Whomever they face, the Tigers or Yanks, Batgirl wishes them the best, and she wishes the Tigers the best on their current epic battle. Both are classy teams, worth rooting for.

This has been sad, of course, but it is just one series, and the real tragedy would be if it took away from the season. The Twins were nothing less than miraculous this year, and I don't want you to ever forget that. Our season ended Sunday in one of the most beautiful fashions possible--and a World Series hogpile would have been the only thing better than that. It was not to be for us, but the season itself cannot be taken away and Batgirl will simply not allow it to be taken away. Never forget this season, never forget what we saw this year, never forget MVP candidate Morneau, Torii's 30 homers, the Chairman's batting championship, the F-Bomb, Sideshow Pat, Cuddy's 100 RBIs, Santana's second Cy, Joe Nathan, the piranhas, and most of all, never forget Brad Radke. Do not let this fiasco tinge the beauty of the improbable words: Minnesota Twins, 2006 Division Champions.

All Right, If You Want to Be That Way....

ALDS Game 1. Darth Thomas 3, Twins 2.

Ah, no, you didn't expect this to be easy, did you? You didn't expect it to go according to plan. For if you did, then I'm sorry, but you have been watching some other team this season, and for that I am both sorry for you and a wee bit jealous, because sometimes having a plan has real benefits, like keeping your fans from chewing off their own arms. For instance.

But the point is, this does not go according to plan. Over in A's Nation, the belief is that if they could just get to Santana, the series was theirs. And of course, it's a completely reasonable thing to believe, every rational and irrational person on the eight planets and four dwarf planets would think such a thing, because of course we don't have Liriano and Bradke's been hurt and when those guys went down nobody thought the Twins could do anything with just Santana and a bunch of guys picked up from the Jimmy's Pizza Rec League. Except, weirdly enough, they did. And as September pushed on and the games grew more and more crucial, we went through a whole 10 game road trip where Santana did not win and we went 7 and 3. The secret that no one understands but those of us who have watched this team is the Twins also won games Johan did not start, they won a great deal of them in fact in the best division in baseball, and they can win more.

I am going to make two humble requests of the Twins for the remainder of the series. The first is that we treat the outer edges of Frank Thomas's strike zone like asking your ex-wife to come to your wedding with your leggy receptionist, meaning you do not want to go there, and secondly that the batters spend some time studying what’s going on with the opposing pitcher instead of getting up there and wildly swinging like, well, like a bunch of guys picked up from the Jimmy's Pizza Rec League.

Fortunately, we have ESPN to cover these games, and they are doing so with all the skill and knowledge we've come to expect from them. Now, we owe all of our success to Joe Morgan, so Batgirl shouldn't make fun too much, but listening to these guys is like listening to the two drunk guys who sit behind you who've seen two games all season and are trying to impress each other with how much they know. I don't know why someone at ESPN didn't gently whisper into Jon Miller's earpiece that it's actually Jason Bartlett, not Josh, one can only assume that no one else knew either. And while I recognize that the Twins blew some opportunities in the first inning, I might humbly suggest that the tenth or so time you mention it, it's enough. And I know I should get used to it, but this interviewing the managers while the game is going on is disgraceful. If you're borrowing techniques from Fox's coverage of the All-Star Game, it's probably a bad idea.

The trouble with the playoffs is, as exhilarating as it is to get there, once there you actually have to watch the games. And when you lose, it feels you will never win again, and when you win you are only relieved you did not lose. If you ask Batgirl for the moments she remembers most from the playoffs in years past, they're all excruciating, and they're from games we won. The first is the opening inning of Game 1 of the ALDS in 2002 when the Twins looked as if they were the fifth grade choir from Miss Primm's School for Bashful Young Lasses forced to perform at the All-County Jubilee Jamboree. There was this pop-up that landed in between Brad Radke and the rest of the infield with them all staring at each other like, "Oh, I thought you were going to get that," which as regular readers know is far too close to Batgirl's JV volleyball career for comfort.

The second is, of course, Game 5 of that series, and when future generations ask Batgirl why she twitches like that, she'll merely show them the tape. Batgirl was knitting a pair of socks that series and to say her tension is evident on the final product would be like saying Picasso seemed a little blue when he painted Guernica. The fact that Batgirl didn't blind herself with the knitting needles is testament to her husband, for whom keeping her from blinding herself proved at least some distraction from the game.

Oh, if Batgirl digs deeper into her mind, there will be other memories, something about Adam Kennedy and some $@!%^&& monkeys, something about Johan leaving a game early, and something else about Ruben Sierra and Juan Rincon's pants. But the point is, you win some, you lose some, and sometimes winning is like losing because you have to go on heart medication afterwards, but we are still here and tomorrow morning we shall wake up ready to fight again, and as the Twins take the field amongst the cheering throngs, we shall join together, all we Twins fans across the globe, we shall join together as one and the very heavens will shake as we cry in one voice:

BOOF.

Come on, boys, let's get this thing tied up.

BatNotes: Twins fans in Oakland? The Startribune.com wants to hear from you. E-mail stribbb at gmail dot com.

Minnesota Twins: Division Champions

Do you hear me? DIVISON CHAMPIONS.

I—

I—

I am supposed to say something here, something profound, something revelatory, but I have no words for what I've seen.

Friday and Saturday it seemed we'd lost our groove. For several games, the Twins forgot you could actually score before the eighth inning, and when Punxsutawny Phil struck out with the tying run at third on Friday night it seemed like the magic had run out. And then Garza flailed and the Twins did nothing against the Sox pitchers, and we were left wondering what was going to happen in the postseason.

But we had hope, thanks to an improbable band of misfit Little Leaguers with hearts of gold, and no, for once I do not mean the Minnesota Twins, for the Minnesota Twins have the probable Cy Young Award Winner, the batting champion, and someone who should finish in the top 3 of MVP voting, and that, my friends, pretty much means you're not Little Leaguers anymore. I am referring to the Kansas City Royals who this weekend became the second best story in baseball merely by avoiding, by one win, being the worst team in the game. The Royals played a fairly decent second half and it seemed for awhile they might avoid another 100-loss season. But then Buddy Bell left the team with cancer and the wheels fell off. They lost their 100th game on Thursday against the Twins and Brad Radke, and faced the Tigers at home who had beaten them 15 out of 16 times that year.

It would be the last game they would lose. For three games at Tigers stadium, they played like a team with so much more to fight for than pride. They fought and clawed and every time it seemed they were out of it, they got back in it, and you know from his recovery bed their manager watched and is so proud of his boys.

The Twins went into today with a bit of hope, but such a very small bit. It looked like it could be so dark—Jeter just one point behind Mauer in the batting race, the Twins counting on not just a victory but the Royals to catch lightning in a bottle one more time. The Twins had looked so dead and suddenly all our hopes were riding on Carlos Silva, who cost the Twins a chance for the division lead in both of his last two starts. And before you could blink, Silva had runners on first and third with no outs and it seemed it was going to be another one of those days.

That would be his last jam of the game. I don't know what Silva did differently—perhaps instead of praying all night the night before the game he decided to sleep instead, but for 6 innings it was all Silva who seemed to want to show his team so desperately that he would pitch his arm off, too.

But was it even going to matter? The Tigers were leading the Royals 6-0, and the Twins looked as if they were going to continue their no-scoring ways. Suddenly, we were fighting to keep our tie—did we want to get this far just to lose a game in the standing at the end?

And then something wonderful happened. Yes, my friends, the bats woke up. It began, appropriately enough, with Chairman Mauer, who led off the 4th inning with a double, virtually assuring his batting title.

Cuddy, who had accounted for the only real offense the two prior games, struck out, but then the Doctor stepped up and, amidst the cries of MVP, MVP, hit a double, tying the game. Then it was Sweetcheeks' turn, and the freeswinger worked through seven pitches before launching the ball over the left field seats.

3-1, Twins. And thanks to Silva, they did not look back. The Jackal kept the Sox down, and after all that has happened this season, he was there when the Twins needed him most.

For a time, it seemed the victory would be more symbolic—an opportunity for the 40,000 fans to see the team off to New York in style. And it didn't seem to really matter, for suddenly the team was playing like themselves again, and that was enough, really enough. Plus there was this:

Except it wasn't enough. The Royals were showing they had some fight left in them—they went to 6-3, but then the Tigers got another run. 7-4 in the eighth inning. The Royals couldn't come back on the Tigers again, could they?

Yes, they could. Proving we have a friend in DeJesus, the Royals scored 4 runs in the eighth just as the Twins were coming back from the 7th-inning stretch and its Kirby Puckett tribute, and for a moment it all seemed possible. We couldn't get everything—winning the game, Mauer's batting championship, and the division, could we?

Maybe not. With one swing of the bat, Matt Stairs said the Tigers wouldn't be going down so easily. The ninth inning came and went and they were in extra innings again.

It didn't seem like the division would be there for the Twins this year at that point. For, let's face it, the only way this was going to happen would be if it were the perfect story. And for a little while it seemed it was all going to fall into place—the loss of those games combined with the Ligers' loss on Friday and Saturday suddenly seemed preordained, because it would, it should come down to the last game; it would, it should, follow some discouraging days. But of course the most perfect way to end the game would be the Tigers losing at the beginning of the ninth just as Joe Nathan took the mound, Joe Nathan striking out the side and the cheers rising in the Dome, and the giant hogpile on the mound.

It turns out it wasn't. No, my dears, that wasn't perfect enough for this team. What was perfect enough for this team was every single person in the Metrodome staying to watch the Royals and the Tigers on the Jumbtron, and the Twins—who could have watched in the clubhouse—popping back into the dugout to watch with the fans, everyone in the whole place watching the Tigers load the bases in the 11th with one out, watching Brandon Inge nearly end the Twins' season twice on long fouls, watching Joe Nelson strike him out and then giving Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble, who would not know anything of it, the biggest standing ovation of his life as he strode onto the mound and struck out Curtis Granderson. What was perfect was the whole Metrodome cheering the Royals' rally in the twelfth, Gobble striding back onto the mound, and somehow, magically, keeping the Tigers from coming back. And then:

Ah, well, and then. And then the Twins got to celebrate with their fans and every single moment of the game, of the series, of the whole damned miserable, wonderful, miraculous season was leading up to this:

Yes, my friends, the only way the Twins were going to win the division is if it had been perfect, and it was. On the very last game of the season, a season in which they were 9 games below .500, in which they were 10 games back of the division in August, the Minnesota Twins took their division crown back.

Now, let's get this straight: I do not care about match-ups—it was time for the Twins to get the Yankee monkey off their backs, and Oakland is going to be very tough. I don't even care about homefield—home games haven't made much a difference to the Twins the last couple of years. I care about this for what it is—after everything that happened this season, we won the best division in baseball.

I'm sorry for the Tigers and their fans—what they accomplished this year was truly extraordinary, as exciting as it was for us, this must have been excruciating to watch. But, of course, it could have been worse—they're still going to the postseason after all, so, my friends in Detroit, let's show them what the AL Central is made of.

I know we have a postseason to play now, I know it all starts again, I know Johan is tired and Boof is slightly less on fire and Radke may have to pitch with his left arm and you never know which Silva you're going to get, I know all of that, and no matter what happens, I don't want anyone to forget this moment. We could win the World Series, we could be knocked out in three games, but nothing can take this away.

BatNote:Almost as exciting as the game and the outcome: The Batfamily—Goober, BatMom, and BatDad were Wiener Winners. Yes, that's right, they were in the Hormel Row of Fame. Truly, it was a day scripted by the baseball gods.

Twins Rally, Peavy Plaza, 5:00. Donnalove wants to know who's going.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Also, awarded co-BODs, especially Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble.)

Gratitudinal.

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 2, Royals 1 (10 innings).

Excitement was in the air as the players gathered in the clubhouse before tonight's game. Several of them were wearing Brad Radke jerseys, and several others had #22 painted on their cheeks (though interpretation of "cheeks" varied widely). A few even walked in carrying handmade signs.

Beaming, LNP showed his to the group, holding it in fingers streaked with marker. "Mine says Brad, you're so Rad!"

"That's lame," said Michael Cuddyer.

"Oh yeah? What does yours say?"

Cuddyer straightened himself and unfurled his. "Bradke is the Manke!…I used stencils," he said pointedly to Punto.

Clearing his throat gently, Rondell White held up his own placard. "Mine says, 'Brad, I really appreciate all you've done for the team. Your determination is a real inspiration to me, and I have learned so much—' and then I ran out of room."

"I don't know," said Johan Santana. "I just put up a picture of my naked torso. I thought that would be the best way to show my appreciation."

As one, the Twins nodded in accord. And as Bradke took the mound in the first, everyone on the bench stood up and waved their signs and their pom poms and, in some cases, their cheeks and when the first strike was called the whole place erupted. Batter after batter, the players watched, mesmerized, and during the Twins' at bats they sat in the dugout and wondered at the veteran's tenacity.

"He's pitching like a bat out of hell," marveled Joe Mauer, trotting back to the bench after grounding into a double play.

"I know!" said Justin Morneau, calling back as he flew out. "I feel so inspired!"

"It's amazing," said Carlos Silva, "and against such a strong line-up!"

And when Bradke came out of the game in the fifth, after giving up one unearned run, the players could not stop shaking their heads in wonder. Every once in a while one of them would leave the dugout with a bat in his hands, but quickly return to rejoin the conversation.

"I've really learned something about myself today," said Torii Hunter after his ground-out.

"I know," agreed White after following suit. "I've learned something about life."

So it went for some time, until White suddenly let out a gasp. "Huh," he said, looking around. "You know what?"

The players all shook their heads. They did not know.

"There's a game on!"

Everyone's eyes grew wide. "Really?"

"Yeah!"

"What inning is it?" said Justin Morneau.

"Um…" said White, checking the scoreboard. "The ninth. There's one out. No, wait, two outs…"

"Oh, crap," said Joe Mauer, grabbing his bat. "One sec." He trotted up to the plate and smacked the ball just over the left field wall. "Sorry about that, Brad!" he said as he came back into the clubhouse with the Metrodome crowd screaming behind him.

"Yeah, we're sorry Brad," chorused the team. "We just got so distracted by how awesome you are, and—"

"You know what?" said Radke, stretching his right arm up in the air and smiling to himself, "It's all good. "

BatNotes: What are you doing this weekend? The Twins aren't playing all the time! Check out Aurora Borealis at the Edina Theater, written by a native Minnesotan and a F.O.B. It even features Joshua Jackson in a North Stars jersey! Here's a great review in the Strib.

a nice tribute to Bradke.

Oy.

KC at Twins. Royals 6, Twins 4.

Okay, Batgirl really doesn't want to talk about that game, because she's liable to say things she might regret. Just because Carlos picked absolutely and entirely the wrong time to suck does not necessarily mean we should find ourselves saying things we can't take back. And, really, maybe Carlos picked the right time to suck, because the last thing we would want—no, I know, I know it seems like his last two performances quite potentially costing us the division might seem the last thing we want, but I am here to tell you that that is not true—the last thing we want is Carlos to have continued his Jackal streak all through September, then get on the mound for Game 2 and suddenly be struck with the immense fragility of life. I mean, here, take this moment you have right now, drinking your coffee and eating your Trader Joe's Raisin Bran with a banana sliced on top, and try to grab it, try to hold it in your hands, try to tuck it away somewhere so you can always take it out and say, "This is the moment when I was eating Trader Joe's Raisin Bran and Batgirl told me to hold onto it, and I did, even though I'm not really sure why because it wasn't really that special, but the point is I have this moment forever and ever." Except you don't. Because you can't. Because life is like that, it slips through your fingers, and the next thing you know you're standing on the mound in Game 2 of the ALDS, because even though you'd pitched like complete and utter ass crap for the majority of the season, thanks to getting bitch slapped by a hot pool boy who looked like Taye Diggs you got your groove back, and your manager trusts you and your team trusts you and the fans trust you, and you think how beautiful that is, how amazing it is to have gotten this far, and now you're starting in Game 2 of the postseason and you just want to take this moment and hold onto it deep inside your heart and every once in awhile when all the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown) and the skies are grey (the skies are grey) take it out and live it again, but you realize you can't, you can never have it back, in fact it's already gone because in the midst of your angst you've just walked the bases loaded and hung a sinker to Eric Chavez, and that just never ends well.

Such is baseball and such is life. One moment you are world series champions, the next your manager is calling you all sorts of names, one moment you are popping champagne and the next you’re getting whiplash from the home run hitting prowess of the Kansas City Royals. And what Silva did not realize during his entirely imaginary Game 2 existential meltdown is that that very fleetness is part of the joy of baseball, because tomorrow you get to get up again and play again, and Brad Radke is starting and he understands all you have is today and that is worth pitching your arm off for. So do not weep for the Minnesota Twins, do not weep for Carlos Silva, do not weep for yourselves or your raisin bran, just get up and go to the "park" and enjoy the day for what it is, and know that our Game 2 ALDS starter is named Boof and Boof wouldn't know angst if it bit him on the ass.

BatNotes: The Strib.com is looking for Twins fans in New York. Should you qualify, please e-mail Stribbb at gmail dot com. Also, if you need MORE piranha shirts, try here.

Oof.

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 3, Landed Gentry 2.

Poor Mike Sweeney.

I mean, there are so many reasons you could say that, but tonight because he hit a sure double off Johan Santana with two outs in the eighth, and when you're a Royal there's very little reason to get out bed in the morning, and that's the sort of thing that the next day you could say, "Well, hell, I got a double off Johan Santana, I guess today I can get up and face the world, at least for a few hours," and that, when you are a member of the Kansas City Landed Gentry, is something worth fighting for.

But no. Alas. For there are forces in this world we must reckon with, and some of them are small forces that don't even have their own orbit, but that doesn't mean they're not mighty in their own way, that doesn't mean that when Mike Sweeney hits a double down the third base line that force isn't going to tumble around for awhile, gobble up that ball (and in the good sense, not in the Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble sense) and, sounding its barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world, send it hurling through space to beat out Mike Sweeney by a step. And if you were Mike Sweeney you might then jump up and down a little bit, you might tense your muscles into a little ball, you might even drop an F-Bomb or two (and not in the good sense) because you've just had your whole reason for getting up the next day thwarted by something that's not even a full-fledged planet anymore, but a dwarf planet, which is just so patronizing, I mean they couldn't have come up with a new name, they had to simple add some kind of diminutive that means the thing is sub, lesser, unworthy, while still containing the word "planet" as a constant mocking reminder of the glory that once was? That's who took away your reason to live?

Okay, I mean, we shouldn’t pick on Mike Sweeney, the poor dear's suffered enough. It's just Batgirl isn't herself. The truth is, Batgirl hates playing the Royals. Two of the most painful games in the past two seasons have been against them, and we weren't even at .500 against them when this series started, and every time you lose to the Royals a little piece of you dies, and we only have so many pieces left, you know? We did live through last year, after all. See, you feel like it's supposed to be easy, and then it's not, and then by the third inning if you're not ahead you're like OH MY GOD WHAT IF WE LOSE TO THE ROYALS and then all your muscles get tensed up and you begin sweating and cramping and speaking in tongues and it's damned hard to play baseball that way (Just ask Jason Giambi.) and the next thing you know you can't get out of bed in the morning, because people will know, they'll see the shame on your face, they'll point and laugh and say you lost to the Royals! and you'll say I know! I know! SHUT UP! I HATE YOU! and then there will be this whole shame spiral thing and really, it's better to just stay in bed.

So Batgirl would like to humbly suggest we spend the next two games getting about 10 run leads by the third inning, and everyone can pad their offensive stats and Batgirl will be happy, and then of course everyone's happy, except Mike Sweeney who will be sad, but, you know, that's pretty much going to happen anyway.

BatNotes: It's killing Batgirl that she can't go to the game on Thursday and cheer on Bradke. Please, go for her. Bring your signs and stand and cheer your heads off when he takes the mound, and when they take him out, whether in triumph or with one less arm, stand and cheer for him again.

Quick BatLinks:: From the Times: In Wacky Season, Twins Rely on Pitcher with Screwball Name. Third Base Line's got some pictures of the celebration. Jesse doesn't seem to like Esteban German, Mr. Baseball sings the praises of Bart, and Aaron documents el Presidente's achievements. Check out Viva Rivas's , and Thank You Brian Sabean's celebration of another Sabean Special. And if you're not following games with Pulling a Blyleven, your life is empty.

Also, new in the BatStore:

That's "You Can't Handle the Boof," which Batgirl and Jeb are going to learn a lot about next year, tagline courtesy of Adidasman. Click on the BatKitty to the left to visit the BatStore.

The Days of Miracle and Wonder, or, Holy Hell

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 8, Royals 1.

Okay, Batgirl's pretty much dying because there's some kind of celebration going on right now with her boys, probably with lots of drum beating and bonfires and Robert Bly poetry, all led by a very naked Naked Batting Practice who might be wrapped in some sort of fur, although it's surely faux because NBP knows that Fur is Not Fashionable, or maybe it's tea cups and Emily Dickinson, the point is Batgirl doesn't know because she can't see it, MLB Extra Innings is there for the action but doesn't like to stick around to snuggle afterwards, if you know what Batgirl means. And during the eighth Dick N' Bert were sitting there talking about how awesome it's going to be to watch them celebrate, in whatever form (Iron John or Because I Could Not Stop For Death) and we're not going to get to see it. So somebody, put it on YouTube for Batgirl, will you? Then she can show it to Baby Boof and say, you see, my little Boof, all things in this world are possible.

Batgirl, frankly, has been weeping ever since Sweetcheeks hit number 30 on the year. She calmed down a little bit, and then the Doctor went yard for the first time in, like, forever, and she cried again, and as the Doctor went around the bases you could see him pursing his lips like he was trying so hard not to smile, and you could see he was almost as happy as Batgirl.

I'm not sure I ever really believed this was going to happen. Batgirl remembers when the Twins went on their tear and were getting close to .500, and after everything we had been through, even that seemed glorious. .500! Can you believe it? And then they kept winning, and kept winning, and Justin Morneau went boom boom boom and Joe Mauer went chip chip chip and there was the Kid and the President and all the bitches being sat down and it seemed like we were going to be the best third place team ever, and it didn't matter because we were winning, and we all thought, Wow, wait until next year. And then--

All these strange ill-fitting pieces—the midget erstwhile utility infielder cum third baseman, the prodigal shortstop back from exile, the bedimpled position-hopping right fielder with one last chance to show he belongs, the accursed first baseman who threatened to drown in his own potential, the once high-flying center fielder whose wings had been clipped, the pitching staff held together with prayers, fish glue, and a guy named Boof—they should never have fit together, but somehow they did and the result was so much more beautiful than these bright shiny baubles that sparkle so prettily on the great big-market brooches. And magically, in those ill-fitting pieces, we found superstars—not just the Cy Young pitcher and President of the United States of Batgirl, but the sweet swinging hometown boy, the golden-locked Canadian with lumberjack arms and potential to hit the ball many many mooseantlers, the Automatic closer, the Nathanest of Joes, who lost not a game this season, and, yes, that clipped-winged center fielder who hit his 30th home run tonight. But it wasn't just them, it was Punto, Bartlett, the resurgent Rondell, John Paul Bonser, Jason Renyt Tyner, Sideshow Pat and the Bullpen of Doom, Punxsutawney Phil, Naked Batting Practice's one man Pep Squad, and of course the One Armed Man who stared deep into the abyss and told it to go $%&! itself.

I didn't think it could happen, but it did. After being the assiest baseball team in the history of the world, the Minnesota Twins are going to the playoffs. And we can only sit back and marvel at the beauty of it all. Whatever happens from now on, I want you to remember this, not just this season, but every season, not just in baseball, but in life. I want you to show that YouTube clip you're going to upload for Batgirl to all your progeny and say, "See, my little Boofs, all things are possible, as long as you have heart."

Now, come on, guys. Time to go home, tuck yourselves into bed with your night shirts and hats and your stuffed TC Bears. We've got baseball to play.

BatUpdate: The Twins courtesy of moeszyslak on the Twins mlb.com message board...with a tip of the hat to Nora.

The Cereal Killers

Friday. O's 7, Twins 3.
Saturday. Twins 8. O's 5.
Sunday. Twins 6, O's 3.

This entry posted by twayn, who is a big fan of breakfast.

The pre-game spread was laid out on folding tables at Camden Yards on Friday, a cornucopia of deli sandwiches, hamburgers, hotdogs, pizzas, barbequed ribs, deviled eggs, tuna noodle hot dish, chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and cream gravy, walleye fillets almandine, shrimp cocktail, lime Jell-O salad, and other sundry comestibles fit for a playoff contending team.

Little Nicky Punto, his tummy growling, flip-flopped down the buffet line wearing shower shoes, compression shorts, and batting practice jersey, filling his plate with an enthusiasm unrivaled since Matthew LeCroy was abducted by Nationals and forced to impersonate a catcher. At the end of the table, in odd contrast to the epicurean fare on the board, sat a lone box of cereal in generic packaging. On a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse that seemed to say, “Try it, Nicky, it’s good for you,” Punto put aside his plate, filled a bowl from the mysterious cereal box, grabbed a bottle of Grip ‘N Go milk and poured it on. But when he sat down, spoon in hand and ready to dig in, another impulse that felt much more natural stopped him. He sat staring blankly into the bowl.

“What’s this stuff?” asked Jason Bartlett, sliding into a chair beside Nicky.

“Some cereal,” said Punto. “It’s supposed to be good for you.”

“Did you try it?” asked Bartlett.

“I’m not going to try it,” said Punto, sliding the bowl to Bartlett. “You try it.”

“I’m not going to try it,” said Bartlett, sliding the bowl back.

“Let’s get Reusse!” said Punto.

“He won’t eat it,” Bartlett said. “He hates everything.”

At that moment Joe Nathan walked in, scanned the smorgasbord, glanced sidelong into Punto’s cereal bowl, then took three giant steps backward, his eyes wide with terror, his face reddening and his knees wobbling like a corseted Victorian matron suffering an attack of the vapors.

“Get away from it!” yelled Nathan. “For the love of Gwynn and all that is sacred, put down that spoon, Nicky, and step away from the table!”

“What’s the matter, Joe?” asked Punto.

“Do you know what that stuff is?” squealed Nathan.

“Some cereal,” said Punto. “It’s supposed to be….”

“That’s not cereal!” cried Nathan. “I mean, yes, it looks like part of a nutritious breakfast, but it’s not.”

“What is it, then?” asked Bartlett.

“It’s Hubris!” said Nathan, fanning himself with his cap.

“Hubris?” asked Little Nicky Punto.

“Hubris?” asked Jason Bartlett.

“Hubris!” exclaimed Joe Nathan.

By now several other players, roused by the commotion in the dining area, had gravitated toward the trio to investigate the cause of the ruckus.

“What’s going on?” asked Justin Morneau.

“Nicky was about to eat Hubris, and the VP freaked out,” said Bartlett.

“Hummus?” said Torii Hunter. “Man, I love that stuff on pita bread, you know, or sometimes with a little Melba Toast…”

“Not hummus, that’s a delicious paste made from mashed chickpeas, olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and tahini” said Nathan, “This is Hubris.”

“Hubris?” said Joe Mauer. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”

“No,” said Nathan, looking Mauer up and down, “I don’t suppose you have. But it’s terrible, terrible stuff. It’s like drugs, only worse. If you eat it, it will make you feel invincible.”

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Morneau, who sometimes feels invincible with a Louisville Slugger in his hands, even though his unassuming Canadian demeanor and an occasional slider off the outside corner keep him centered and humble and remind him quietly that he’s not really invincible, but quite good nevertheless.

“Yeah,” said Punto. “What’s wrong with being invincible?”

“Well, you’ll feel invincible,” said Nathan, “But you won’t be. You’ll be just like you always were, subject to the wild vagaries and unpredictable disappointing outcomes that are the core nature of the great game of baseball. Only you won’t realize it anymore, and then you’ll stop playing for the team first and cheering up your teammates, and you’ll become enamored of individual achievements and awards and you’ll turn selfish and arrogant, and you’ll come to believe you deserve to win just because of who you are and what uniform you wear and how much money you make and how storied is the history of your franchise and not how you play the game, and you won’t see how dangerous the Orioles and the Royals really are, and you’ll start thinking that all you have to do is show up and take the field and you’ll automatically win. And besides, it makes the baseball gods really, really mad.”

“How do you know so much about Hubris, Joe?” asked Morneau.

“Because Barry Bonds ate it all the time when I was with the Giants. He said it’s the perfect complement to a meal of HGH and Winstrol. Calls it the Breakfast of Home Run Champions. I’ve heard the Yankees keep cases of it in the clubhouse because Jeter and Giambi and Sheffield and most of the others eat it like candy.”

“What about the Bitch Sox?” asked Mauer. “Do they eat it, too?”

“They used to,” piped up Johan Santana, nodding his head knowingly. “Ozzie banned it last year, but I think a lot of them eat it now when he’s not looking. I’ve heard rumors that A.J. even sneaks some into Ozzie’s cachapas and tequenos as a prank.”

“Wow, this is bad,” said Mauer. “What do we do?”

“We have to get rid of it,” said Nathan. “We have to encase it in a block of cement, seal it in a lead-lined titanium safe, wrap it with industrial-strength chains and padlocks, and drop it into the deepest part of Chesapeake Bay.”

“That won’t work,” said Morneau. “Cuddy did that to himself this morning and he got out in, like, two minutes.”

“Couldn’t we just, you know, flush it down the toilet or something?” asked Bartlett.

“Sure, I guess that would work, too,” said Nathan. “But what I want to know is – how did it get here in the first place?”

Just then a wizened figure in the back of the room stepped out from a shadowy corner, his face lined with wrinkles, his hair a wild grey paean to eccentricity.

“I know where it came from,” said Rick Stelmaszek. “I was cleaning out a storage closet back at the Dome to make room for Sideshow’s autograph collection and found it in there. It was in a FedEx package addressed to Kyle Lohse, so it must have been delivered after he got traded. Someone probably loaded it up with the equipment when we left home.”

“Do you remember who sent it?” asked Nathan.

“Sure,” said Stelly. “The package said it came from some guy named Scott. Yeah, that’s it. Scott Boras, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, get rid of it for us, Big Guy,” said Nathan, patting the grizzled gent on the back and handing him the cereal box. “The last thing we need around here right now is Hubris. Especially if it’s fortified with essential vitamins and minerals.”

The Lonely Twin

Twins at Boston. Red Sox 6, Twins Goose Egg.

The explosive article about A-Rod made baseball headlines and left the fragile third baseperson a quivering mass of feelings such that when Jason Giambi lumbered into the Yankees clubhouse the day after the article came out, A-Rod--despite all the comebacks he had practiced in the mirror that day--took one look at him and ran into the bathroom crying. Inspired, Minneapolis St. Paul Magazine stationed a reporter in the Twins clubhouse, trying to capture a scoop of their own.

And boy, did they pick the right day. Up until today, the Twins couldn't stop patting each other on the back, but after today's soul-crushing loss versus Boston that cost them exactly no ground in the division race and left them a disgraceful 10-3 in their last thirteen games, the veneer began to crack.

Batgirl was able to obtain an exclusive advance copy of the article, but she warns you, it's not pretty:

"Gardy wants to see you."

Little Nicky Punto was still weak from the hangnail he had suffered that had confined him to his room that afternoon and made him miss the team fieldtrip along the Freedom Walk—not to mention forced him to cancel a recording session for his ringtone endorsement deal—when he walked into Fenway and was told to go to the manager's office.

The shortest and most plucky baseball player was in trouble. He had gone only 1-4 on the night and had provided absolutely no power. His teammates said he seemed insecure, unfocused, and he couldn't step to the plate at Fenway without someone shouting, "You're a wee little #@$!#%, Little Nicky Punto!"

Punto has long been the major league equivalent of the prettiest girl in high school who also gets straight A's. The Punto of September 21, though, was different—unhinged. With his one hit in the game, his numbers look fine, but even Punto admits the statistics can't mask the unbearable pain of the three-at-bat slip into a dark abyss, when he lost his confidence and, some teammates believed, worked a little too hard at keeping up appearances. "A false confidence," said Minnesota first baseman Justin Morneau.

"I can’t help that I'm so plucky," said Punto. "I know that's a bad quote to give, but I can't pretend to be anything but a little ray of sunshine."

Gardy had been patient with his third basemen. He hit .187 for the Mets one year and then .045 the next, giving him a deep understanding of the ebb and flow of performance. Punto will hit, he thought, and he kept telling the third baseman that.

Gardy's trademark placidity ended, though, when Joe Mauer asked to talk to him in Boston. "Skip," he said, "it's time to stop coddling him."

Before Mauer went to Gardy, he had scolded Punto for not getting the big hit.

"What do you mean?" said Punto. "I've had four hits this series!"

"You f------ call those hits?" shrieked Mauer. "You just keep dinking the ball and running around the basepaths like your a— is on fire! What do you think you are, a piranha or something?"

Said one teammate, "I think he ought to get his eyes checked. He's swinging like a blind crap weasel out there."

Said another, "He thinks he's all that, but his theme song is superficial, and frankly derivative."

Said another, "He's such a little #@$!, always running around pulling unicorns out of his a--."

Ask Punto what the source of the scrutiny is, and he'll tell you without blinking, "It's the contract." In the spring, Punto made Minnesota headlines when he signed a one year, .325 million dollar contract. "No one around here had ever seen that kind of money, especially on a dollar to inch ratio. It created a lot of hard feelings."

"Justin Morneau only went 1 for 4 today, and no one's talking about him. He's making the same money as I am. Jason Tyner was 0 for 3 and you don’t hear anyone bitching about him. I don't know what it is—is it because I'm so good-looking, I date supermodels, I'm so good at Pilates, I play on the most popular team…?"

That is the rub. On a team like the Twins, your value is what you've done for the team that day. Under the immense national media scrutiny, everything becomes amplified. The question remains, though, is Punto too emotionally fragile to succeed on a hard nosed, big city team like the Minnesota Twins? If he doesn't manage to go at least 2 for 4 tomorrow, the questions will begin to surface—can he not succeed under the bright lights and storied history of the HHH Metrodome? One thing's for sure, his teammates will be ready and willing to give quotes criticizing him to national media, because that's just the way it is in Minnesota.

"Happy Zone"

Twins at Boston. Twins 8, Red Sox 2

That is how the NESN announcers* described the Craig Hansen pitch that Rondell White laced into right field for a double, and also how Batgirl described the place she was in at that moment. There've been a lot of dramatic battles this season—Mauer vs. Jeter, the battle for the central, the Toronto manager vs. his team, AJ vs. society, the BoSox vs. environment, A-Rod vs. himself, readers/field vs. Goober, but perhaps none so compelling, nay, momentous, as Torii vs. Fenway.** After Torii was felled by the Bermuda Triangle last season, his return to the site of his defeat was full of pomp and circumstance. Yesterday's Round One might have been a draw, with Torii launching a pitch into those Green Monster seats, and then a few innings later bouncing another one off the self-same ankle he shredded last year. And the Green Monster said, Ha! As Gardy carried Torii into the dugout, Torii steeled his eyes and stared over the field and announced, "I shall return. Bitch."

Tonight, the Monster seemed to be toying with him at first—in the 4th all three fly balls went to him, including one that smashed him and his elbow—which is a new place for him to get hurt—against the wall. And every time Batgirl for one watched with her hands over her eyes, but each time he emerged unscathed, shouting, "I shall live to fight another day!"

And boy, did he. When he came up in the eighth, it seemed this game was not to be for us, and Batgirl was readying to soothe the troops—after all, all we need to do is win the series, we're not going to win every game, it's too bad about Boof,*** he sure pitched the hell out of the game, and isn't that nice because he's had, what, five great starts now and he'll be our #2 guy in the playoffs, and that's more important than the stats anyway, too bad about that HR to Big Papi*** but, you know, shit happens, and anyway Santana's going to come out tomorrow, and, hey, we've got two runners on, it would sure be nice to at least—

Boom. With one sweet swing, Torii turned a one-run deficit into a two run lead, sending the ball over the Green Monster, and if as he rounded the bases he smirked slightly at said Monster, you shall have to forgive him.

Two other performances to note: no matter how much manpower they send after it, no one can put out the fire of the Boofster**** who continues to rage across the American League, leaving nothing but the charred wreckage of dreams behind. And then there's Bartlett, who continues to kill opponents softly with his glove, killing them softly-y with his glove, telling their whole li-i-ife with his glove, killing them softly...with his gloooooooove. Boof is on fire, there's fire in Bart's belly, there's fire, fire, fire everywhere, Old Lady Leary's lit a lantern in the shed and, my friends, it will be a hot time in the old town tonight.

And now, my dears, I want to show you something truly wonderful. It was transitory, of course—and isn't that the nature of joy? Isn't its very fleetingness was makes it so alluring?–but for one glorious hour the Central standings***** read thusly:

*(One of the things about being a Minnesota ex-pat is you get to watch a lot of opponent's feeds, and unless these opponents are the Bitch Sox who do have the worst broadcasting team Batgirl has ever seen, it is usually quite pleasant. The Cleveland announcers, for instance, are terrific, as were the O's announcers. The NESN announcers are batshit crazy, and of course Batgirl is very pro being batshit crazy. But there was this whole thing about Fabio, and Flabio, and how it was important to respect male plus-size models, and you just know these guys pull Blylevens all the time, and you just know that instead of everyone going all Puritan on them, they're, like, publicly celebrated for every Blyleven they drop—which is fairly ironic, because, you know, Massachusetts knows a thing or two about Puritans.)

**For more on Hunter v. Fenway, please see another excellent new Twins blog

***Also fun is hearing the mispronunciations of the other announcers. The NESN guys call LNP Punt-o, which has the wonderful advantage of rhyming with runt and just sounding like something quite wee. But the Cleveland announcers kept referring to Boof as Boeuf, which makes him sound like he should be served with a lovely Bourguignon sauce, and sort of changes the whole thing, doesn't it? Though Batgirl's not sure if Boeuf should be wearing fewer gold chains…or more.

****(Batgirl: Okay, Jeb, you get Junior Ortiz's 50th home run ball. What do you want for it?

Jeb: It depends. Is it Junior or Bonds? Because if it's Bonds, I'm keeping the ball. Then I'm going to poop on it, and then burn it, and then video tape it and stick the whole thing on YouTube. If it's Junior, I want the both of us videotaped singing, "I've Got You Under My Skin," and then I want season tickets for life.

Batgirl: What about BabyBoof's college fund?

Jeb: What about singing "I've Got You Under My Skin" with Junior Ortiz?

*****Oh, and our magic number is 6.

A huge BatThankYou to Twayn for doing such an awesome job guest blogging yesterday.

The Things They Carried

This entry posted by Twayn, who is a big fan of Tim O'Brien.

The squad had been humping for four straight days, moving steadily away from base camp the whole time. They had run low on clutch hits with runners in scoring position, and needed a resupply. So they got on the radio, hunkered down for a day of R&R by the Charlie River, and waited for the choppers. The next day, they geared up and humped to Fenway, and the next skirmish.

Matt Garza carried the nightmare memory of his first major league start, a pitching line of 2.2 innings, 8 hits, 7 runs, 2 home runs, and a staggering 23.62 earned run average. He carried the weight of great expectations, of Liriano’s popped elbow, and of Boof and Baker’s recent examples. Torii Hunter carried the hellish vision of chasing a fly ball up that peculiar angle in the centerfield wall and falling to the ground, his ankle shattered, his season over, his frustration and pain on full display. Joe Mauer carried the burden of being the best hitter in baseball for more than half a season, excelling quietly, only to have the game’s media darling challenge him in the waning weeks. Justin Morneau carried his MVP bid into enemy territory, the house of the former favorite, and went toe to toe with a New England giant. Jason Bartlett carried the ignominy of playing the first fifty games of the season in the minors to learn leadership and urgency. Rondell White carried the stigma of being a designated hitter with a first-half batting average below the Mendozza line.

They carried sunflower seeds and Bazooka bubble gum to the bullpen. They carried baseballs and gloves and bats, pine tar rags, rosin bags, water bottles and Gatorade coolers to the dugout. They carried the hopes of a squad that had been beaten down early, but found a way to get back up and keep humping.

Matt Garza carried his team through almost six innings, posting zeros through four full, facing down Big Papi Ortiz himself three times and sitting him down three times on a groundout and two strikeouts. In the top of the second, Rondell White carried his team to an early lead, banging a double to the base of the left field wall to drive in a run. That same inning, Jason Bartlett carried his bat to the plate with two on and with two strikes fouled off three straight knuckleballs. Then he drove a fastball over the Green Monster for a four run lead. An inning later, Torii Hunter hit a home run over that same imposing wall, a shot that almost left the park, and carried himself around the bases like a man hungry for a championship. Later in the night, Hunter fouled a ball off his foot, the kind of wicked tip that makes everybody cringe when they see it, and went down in obvious pain. Then got up and walked it off. Because that’s what you do in a pennant race, you keep humping. Justin Morneau carried his Canadian cool into the batters box five times and stroked five hits, scored twice, and drove in one. He carried himself like an MVP.

With the monsoons coming early at Fenway, the Twins carried the threat of a shortened game and the need to keep their lead intact. The defense and bullpen carried them through the final frames, with only a minor threat from the Sox to put down. From the top of the lineup to the bottom, from the first inning to the last, they carried each other, like they have all year. If one stumbled, the others picked him up. They carried themselves like professionals, like a team with a purpose. And they kept humping, because this is a pennant race, and that’s what you do.

Athletic Support.

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

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

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

"Three of four games!" enthused Josh Rabe.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, nothing."

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

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

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

"Do you feel better, El Presidente??"

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, really?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Nutty," he whispered, his voice cracking

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

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

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

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

"That is alright, Scootie," sighed Johan.

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

"That would be nice."

"And I could wax your Hummer, too?"

Santana gazed at the young pitcher, eyebrows raised.

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

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

Gwynn Twins

Twins at Cleveland. Twins 9, Indians 4.

Those of you who were here last year may remember Batgirl went through a certain Tony Gwynn phase. It all began with a late extra inning game in Seattle and some bad Big League Chew. Batgirl started seeing things, then, strange things, like Kent Hrbek on a magic potato, which is similar to, and yet nothing at all like a magic fucking unicorn, because unicorns can't fly and magic potatoes totally can, and to make a long story short it was getting later and later and finally Batgirl uttered a quick prayer to Tony Gwynn and believe it or not the Twins won.

Tony Gwynn appeared in our lives briefly last year, a burst of sunshine in the interminable gray fog of the season. We did our best to honor him, Batling Twins Foghorn even wrote Tony Gwynn's Prayer. And every once in a while he would show up to bless us.

And then, mysteriously, he disappeared…

The Twins were out of it just as quickly as they had gotten back in it, and Batgirl can never know what she did to displease him. Batgirl has thought of Tony often over the last year, and when the Twins made their dramatic turnaround in June ("dramatic" like Hamlet is "mixed-up") she could not help but wonder if he was smiling on us again. And then, upon her return from her voyages, Batgirl got this in the mail, courtesy of Batling Twink:

A giveaway! From the Portland Beavers! A graven image! Here to bless and inspire us!

And then, this morning, something very strange happened:

Now, when the figure arrived on Batgirl's doorstep, it was perfectly intact. It was not until this morning, when Batgirl merely picked him up, ever-so-gently, to move him, that the arm fell off. Clearly, it was a sign. Tony knows about the Twins' troubles, and is with us.

Look. That dude has no arm! But what do you see in his eyes? Do you see concern? Do you see pain? Do you see any quit? No, you do not. You see grit, my friends. And if his arm falls off…

Well, he'll just bat from the mother flipping ground.

You see, we're on a mission now, boys and girls. People have counted us out so many times that we've lost count, and somehow we stay in it. This injury to Liriano's supposed to end our hopes—even though we gained 8 games without him. We're going to keep fighting this damned fight, no matter how many limbs fall off, and no matter what happens at the end of the season, no matter if we make it or we don't, every single one of us will have learned something from this season, the year the Minnesota Twins sucked beyond all recognition, the year they lost their outfield and their top two and three starters, the year they featured Johan Santana and the Triple A All-stars, the year Little Nicky Punto started at third, the year they climbed and crawled back, the year they fought this thing all the way to the damned end.

Now, does anyone have some fish glue?

A huge BatCongratulations to Mr. Michael Brent Cuddyer for getting his 100th RBI tonight. Who the heck saw that coming?

BatCharity Alert: On Sunday, 6 inch subs at Subway are 2 for 1, with proceeds going to the Harmon Killebrew Miracle Fields. Eat up!

A Dream Deferred.

Oakland at Twins. A's 1, Twins 0.

It would have been too easy. Getting Liriano back now in full form—why that would set the Twins on about a twenty game win streak, right through the playoffs, with Santana and Liriano making every other start, until Game Seven of the World Series, when Liriano sprains his phalange on the follow through striking out that pretty boy from the Mets and suddenly the Twins are left without a starting pitcher. What are they to do? Santana can only go every other day—he's only human after all. And that's when Brad Radke stands up in the Twins clubhouse and shouts, Get me some fish glue! And Gardenhire says, No, Brad, you can't! It's too risky! And Radke steels his jaw and says I've never thought about the risks and solemnly Pat Neshek brings him the tub of fish glue from the freezer and Josh Rabe brings him his right arm and Bradke yells Someone put my arm back on! and Gardy says I can't allow this to happen, Brad. Nothing's worth this. and Brad's eyes grow steely and he says Then I'll put it on myself. And before anyone can protest, Radke dips his left hand in the fish glue and smears it on, then wrenches his right arm away from Rabe and attaches it all by himself. Then he stands, looks around the clubhouse daring anyone to stop him and says, Excuse me, I have a game to pitch. And then he goes out and he pitches, he pitches like he's never pitched before, he pitches like it's the Cupcake Day to end all Cupcake Days, and even though the arm is slowly falling off, the Mets can do nothing, nothing at all, and finally it's the ninth inning and the Twins have just scored their first run of the game when Joe Mauer got a hit with Little Nicky Punto on first and he rode his magic fucking unicorn all the way home, and then in the top of the ninth the slowly slipping off arm causes Bradke to walk Jose Reyes because he's a control pitcher and it's hard to control your pitches when your arm is falling off and then it's two outs and Reyes has made his way to third and that pretty boy steps up and there's two quick strikes to him and then three balls and then Bradke rears back and throws with all his might, it's the last pitch of his life, because the arm flies off with the ball, but it's also the best pitch of his life, and that pretty boy swings and misses, he misses the ball and the arm, and the next thing Bradke knows he's at the bottom of a huge Twins pile, and Joe Mauer is beating him over the head with his right arm in his ecstasy, and nothing in the whole world has ever been better than that.

But it's not to be, alas. It is going to have to be some other pitcher who dislocates his phalange in Game Seven, because Francisco Liriano is out for the season. And it is too bad, because we sure like that kid, because he would have won every game he pitched, because he scares the pants off people and opposing batters look funny without their pants, plus it throws off their timing, and now we will have to look to the Boofster and Silva and maybe even Macho Matt Garza who showed us a thing or two about being the Twins number one draft pick this afternoon. And we have done it before, we have lost our whole outfield, we have lost Liriano, we have lost Radke, and each time we have said, well, it's too bad, we really could have done something this year, and yet somehow we are magically still here, still working toward the moment when Brad Radke strides to the mound in Game Seven and gives his right arm to victory, and so now we are going to have to solider on, again, but we're used to it. Feel better soon, Kid. Thanks for all you did for us, and we'll see you next year.

Now, let's go get them Sabathias.

How Carlos Got His Groove Back

Oakland at Twins. Twins 9, A's 4.

No one could put their finger on what was wrong with Carlos Silva. He just didn't seem to have the same spark anymore. It wasn't just the sink in his sinker, it was the spring in his step, the twinkle in his eye. One thing was for sure: Carlos just wasn't Carlos anymore.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," said Silva. "The pennant race is here, but I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel."

"You know what you need?" said Juan Rincon. "A vacation!"

"I don't know…." waffled Silva.

"Too late!" said Rincon, pulling two plane tickets out of his bum. "We're going to Jamaica!"

Silva's eyes widened. "What?"

"Damn skippy!" said Rincon. "We'll lay by the beach, drink some daiquiris, go to the spa." He paused, a slow, mischievous smile creeping across his face. "…Maybe pick up some cute waiters…"

"Oh, Juanie!" said Silva, grinning for the first time in what felt like forever. "You're so bad!"

Well, twenty-four hours later, the pair had arrived in Jamaica, and it wasn't long before they were sitting by the pool reading Jodi Picoult and drinking pina coladas while the tropical sun looked down on them lovingly and a warm breeze danced gently through the palm trees.

"This was a great idea," said Silva. "I think I'll get my hair done later."

"Hey, Carlos," Rincon said, nudging his friend. "Look over there."

It did not take Carlos long to see what Rincon was pointing at. In the pool was a young Jamaican Adonis with deep, soulful eyes and muscles as firm and shapely as Brad Radke's hairdo.

"Who's that?" breathed Silva.

"Oh, that's someone I wanted you to meet," said Rincon, eyes twinkling. "Winston!" he called. "Come up here!"

Slowly, the young man got out of the pool, beads of moisture clinging longingly to his chiseled chest. As he slowly approached, the world around Silva grew strangely silent, as if there was no longer anything in it but he and this young man. Carlos felt something then, something electric. It was the shock of destiny. In his mind's eye, he saw their future unfold—they would exchange a few pleasantries, then run into each other one morning and share breakfast on the hotel veranda. He would expect nothing to happen—their age difference would make it impossible—yet somehow, improbably, something would happen: They would fall in love. He would keep denying his feelings, but his feelings would not be denied. What can age do against a force like love?

"Hello," said the young man. "Are you Carlos Silva?"

"That's right," breathed Carlos.

The young man looked him up and down, then took a step closer. He reached his arm out and then slapped Silva hard on his right cheek, then his left. "GET IT THE HELL TOGETHER!"

And then he walked off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

BatLinks: and Ortiz on the MVP race.

The Sweetness of Sweetcheeks: a Reenactment

Detroit at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Thursday. Ligers 7, Twins 2.
Friday. Twins 9, Ligers 5.
Saturday. Twins 2, Ligers 1.
Sunday. Twins 12, Ligers 1.

Oh, my dears. Batgirl is so happy right now she can barely speak. Two games out. A game and a half in the wild card lead. Wins! Bats, bats, bats, triples (which are, as you may know, hott), defense--and Johan Santana, triple crown winner? Cy Young? MVP? There was so much to love this weekend, Batgirl can do nothing but throw her arms around the world--and not in a dysfunctional, U2 kind of way, but in the-whole-world-is-Johan-Santana-and-maybe-I-can-get-a-squeeze-of-bicep-way. There was so much damned hustle and heart and all the things we love about Twins baseball, including Torii "Gimp" Hunter singlehandedly creating a run in the second inning today. You missed it? Oh, that's terrible! Well, as a service to her readers, Batgirl presents a reenactment, using Legos.

Please note: the Spiderman Lego who used to play Torii Hunter has gotten a little uppity in his demands, and he was replaced with a more humble Lego actor. There's no "I" in Legovision.

It's the bottom of the second. One out. Torii Hunter at the plate.

Jeremy Bonderman has one strike against Hunter.

Torii rears back and...

...hits it up the middle. Base hit!

With Torii on first, Jason Kubel comes to the plate. Bonderman pitches. Boy, that's a high leg kick!

Hunter's going for the steal!

SAFE!

Strike three! But the ball bounces past the catcher.

Kubel hustles down the line as Wilson prepares to throw to first. ...What's that look in Torii's eye?

It's the spark of hustle! Torii breaks for third!

Wilson's throw to first was slow, the relay across the diamond not in time!

Torii looks into the Twins' dugout and claps. I'm a piranha too!

Tyner comes to the plate. Surely he can lend Torii a hand...

Oh well, it's just a foul pop to shallow left...Monroe will catch it easily.

What?? Torii breaks for home!

Shocked at Hunter's gall, Monroe throws wildly.

Torii scores!! ...Two runs: more than enough for Johan K. Santana, president of the United States of Batgirl.

The dugout celebrates! Twins are going to WIN!

BatVideo: Twins Fantasy Football Draft.

B.O.D.

I know what you're going to say, I hear you, and believe you me, Mr. Johan Santana is the player of the game, and, of course, es en fuego. But after two of these in a row going to El Presidente, she wants to encourage offense, especially Team Batgirl Boyfriend offense, because what we need is these four guys to get mega hot all the way through October. And sometimes it's easy, and sometimes you have to create runs all by your lonesome. Like Sweetcheeks. It seems, at the beginning of the game, like runs might be at a premium (this would be prove to be rather…wrong) and so Sweetcheeks decided to make something happen. Base hit in the second, followed by a stolen base, followed by taking third on the throw to first on a strikeout, followed by scoring on sheer gall on a Jason Tyner foul ball, giving the Twins the second run of the game--which is all El Presidente needs--all on a bum foot. That's the sort of hustle and drive and piranhaism we didn't see during this little period of ass-battery, that's what we're going to need to find ourselves again, that's the sort of thing that can inspire a team and make a difference in the game, and the sort of thing that earns you, Sweetcheeks, the Boyfriend of the Day.

Readers/The Field 25; Goober/Doctor 23; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 11; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.

That'll Cure What Ails You

Twins at Tampa Bay. Twins 8, Devil Rays 0.

"That's one way to score," said Jeb after Michael Cuddyer crossed the plate in the 4th for the first run of the game. None of the other ways were working—the Twins found any number of ways to strand and erase runners in the first three innings of tonight's game. And it seemed in the 4th like they might have found another one—Cuddles led off with a double and then appeared to get caught in a rundown. Oh, poo bucket, it looks like another blown—

Ah, but this is Michael Brent Cuddyer, my friends, who said, "I am not going to frack this thing up one more time, I was not All-State at linebacker* in the great state commonwealth of Virginia for nothing, nor was I co-president of the Knut Rockne fan club** just for shits and giggles, and I am going to take my big cheeks and my man shoulders and my almost-100 RBIs and I am going to knock that ball out of BJ Upton's hands, and it is going to be totally awesome."

And it was. You could practically hear the pads crunch. That hit was better than anything we're going to see on the Dome's gridiron this year, and if only Cuddy had more DWIs in his past, I'd suggest the Vikes sign him. As soon as he landed the hit, BJ Upton let out one weak gasp of, "O, I am slain!" then crumpled to the ground like a Victorian lass with a too-tight corset, while Cuddy dove into third and proceeded to do the funky chicken.

Then Torii Hunter hit a weak fly to left—not enough to score Cuddles (alas, O cursed bucket of poo, another wasted—) but he feinted to home and that was enough to make Crawford's bowels seize up, like, majorly, and, you know, it's really hard to throw when your bowels have seized up, and so he threw a Hail Mary pass that landed roughly in the fifth row (Again, still a better pass than we'll see from the Vikes.) and it was funky chicken time for Cuddles all over again.

A moment of stunned silence in the Twins dugout. And then, as one, everyone exhaled as the truth dawned, and players turned to each other one by one with fire in their eyes—except Jason Bartlett who keeps his entirely in his belly lest he get sent down again—and said, "What the hell. You know what? We don't suck! These guys suck!"

Ah, yes, it's true. These guys suck. And tonight, the Twins did not. El Presidente caused four firehouses to empty out and when the engines arrived on Tropicana Field they all put down their hoses, as one, wiped the sweat off their brow, and said, "Damn, that guy's hot."

And suddenly the Twins could do things they haven't done in days, like—oh—convert on scoring opportunities. Cuddy went from football to baseball when he launched a ball just over the stands that unfortunately bounced out of a fan's glove and back in again. He was robbed of a homer by third base ump Tim Tschida's ophthalmologist, who was late in sending out his annual appointment reminder cards this year, and if Cuddy misses 100 RBIs by just one BG's going to call the AMA on him. Gardy said some things to the ump that would have gotten him suspended from Twins broadcasts (did he want showtime?) but by then the game was well in hand. Even the Chairman used the power of milk to remember how to hit again, and the Bitch Sox lost, and the Minnesota Twins are 1.5 games up in the wild card race—and all is well in the world.

BatLinks: Some tidbits from SI…What's in a Name? and Top 25 AL Breakout Players. Also, if you missed Bert's gaffe, here it is, thanks to Warning: there will be actual profanity used. Hide the children!

*Not actually true, as far as Batgirl knows.
** Totally true.

In Search of: Ass-Bats

Batgirl is feeling a little under the weather, so no recap tonight. Instead, she would like to pose a question to you, her brilliant and talented readership. Nine days ago, the Minnesota Twins were a good offensive team. BG knows it's hard to remember so far back—but if you squeeze your eyes shut and think really hard you might remember something about boom boom sticks and piranhas and comebacks and, mostly, when people were on base, the batters would generally hit them in instead of hitting into double plays. I know it sounds nuts, but if you search back in the attic of your mind, you'll find it's true. Okay, so, my darlings—what the hell happened? Batgirl is bumfuzzled. I mean, baseball is a game of mystery and wonder, blah blah blah, but there's got to be some reason for this. So, what is it? What happened between Saturday night and Sunday morning? Mark Buerhle feeding on people's souls? T-Fat hanging out in the clubhouse again? More Lew Ford science experiments gone totally awry? AJ substituting the Twins real bats with ass bats? Staying up too late watching Project Runway marathons and listening to Tim Gunn podcasts?

We can't solve the problem until we name it.

p.s. The Bitch Sox, thankfully, seem to be having their own problems. The Twins are in the lead for the Wild Card--what say we try to hang onto it this time?

Friends In Deed.

Bitch Sox at Kansas City. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Royals 7, Sox 5.
Saturday. Sox 5, Royals 3.
Sunday. Royals 7, Sox 3.

Just a few short days ago, Batgirl referred to the Kansas City Royals as beeyatches. There may have been some other things said, too, Batgirl doesn't really remember. The point is, Batgirl was not herself at the time—it was the jet lag talking, the booze, quitting coffee, quitting sniffing glue, bad prescription drug interaction, AJ made her do it, her words were taken out of context, they were distorted by the media, plus she totally didn't know we were live. But regardless of the unassailable and incontrovertible fact that Batgirl was not remotely responsible for her own actions, nonetheless she would like to officially extend her sincerest and most humble apologies to that most noble and esteemed organization, the Kansas City Royals, and to its fans—both of them. Because Batgirl is here to tell you the Kansas City Royals are the greatest team in baseball.

What is it that I love so much about them? Is it the cuddly yet insouciant charms of their mascot Sluggerrr? The unabashed abecedarian orgy inherent in every second-to-first play (Grudzielanek to Mientkiewicz, oh my)? The deceptive schoolgirl innocence of bullpen pitcher Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble, whose lips say no and his eyes say, yes, yes? Or is it—oh, I don't know—the fact that they took two of three from the Bitch Sox this weekend?

Hard to say. All Batgirl knows is when the Twins performed their two-day long dramatic leotards-and-stools re-interpretation of that cherished Keats poem "Ode on an Ass Bat" last Tuesday and Wednesday, it seemed for a moment like it might actually be something wrong with the Twins themselves. Silly Batgirl. The Royals juggernaut cannot be stopped, and soon the New York Yankees will find themselves just one more Landed Gentry pancake, with blueberries and maple syrup and whipped cream on top, and afterwards they can coming weeping into the arms of the Twins and the Sox, and we'll hold them oh-so-gently and say—we know, sweethearts, we know.

BatNote: Listen to MPR at 11am Monday for the annual State Fair Twins show with Howard Sinker—or else go watch them live at the Fair and ask questions for PRIZES—and eat something on a stick for Batgirl.

Real Live Wire.

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 3, Royals 1.

So stick it, suckers!
That's right, Landed Gentry beeyatchs. Think you can come into my house and make fools of my boys? Huh? Well, how about I sic a little Johan Santana on you, how do you like it? He's the President of the United States of Batgirl, and he's not some wussy, do nothing president, like the guy with the eyebrows and the dog in Clear and Present Danger. He's like a Harrison freakin' Ford president, like if you're going to hijack his plane to hold him hostage in order to get crazy-ass Russian generals released from jail, well, first off, that crazy-ass Russian general is going to get shot, like a lot, and secondly Harrison Ford is going to kick your ass and the very last words you're going to hear are him snarling, "Get off my plane," before he throws you the hell off and you strangle in your own parachute. Hard. That kind of president, my friends.

Okay, okay, I know I might be overreacting, they're the Kansas City Royals and when they win we should give them lots of encouragement and praise, like a toddler who uses the poo poo tron correctly, but, frankly, I can't seem to face up to the facts. I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax. It was all so easy back in June when we were winning all the time yet were completely out of the pennant race—all the pleasure, none of the soul-curdling pain. And the Twins, meanwhile, are like that guy in that new movie where he has to keep his adrenaline going the whole time, it’s like Speed except he's the bus and the speedometer is his heart and also I don't think Sandra Bullock's in it. But the point is, as soon as the adrenaline goes down, the bomb goes off, and the Twins, who just returned from Bitch Soxia to this, are like that. So what I am here to say, and I am speaking to you, Minnesota Twins, is now the games are all important, every single one, from the Yanks to the Devil Rays, to the Ligers, to the Royals again, and Batgirl wants you to keep plunging those adrenaline shots directly into your big ol' small market hearts.

You know who knows this? El Presidente. He showed up to deal tonight, and deal he did, on just a day and a half's rest, too. We've seen some nearly-mortal performances from Supernatural the last few weeks—and for the President, nearly mortal is still good enough to be the best in the league—but this wasn't one them. Two on in the seventh with one out? Qu'est-ce que c'est? Oh, well, here, try to hit this. Can't? Too bad. Please, have a seat. And, while we're at it, you, in the on deck circle? Why don't you just sit back down. Thank you ever so much.

Johan knew he was going to have to pitch his brains out tonight because, other than Michael Cuddyer who apparently didn't get the memo, the Twins offensive players clearly had decided to take a few days off from all the hurly burly and sent surgically-altered animated corpses to the park to play in their stead, and those corpses sure as hell can't hit. Which goes to answer the eternal question—who would win in an epic battle between Royals starting pitchers and animated corpses. Turns out it’s the Royals starting pitchers. Who knew?

So it was Johan's job not to let in any runs, figuring one of the corpses might accidentally make contact eventually, (thank you, Rondell White-corpse), and he performed admirably until Esteban German so rudely dinked a homer off the left field wall. I hate people when they're not polite.

We were sunk then, until the animate-corpse Twins figured out a way to suck and score runs at the same time—GIDP with the bases loaded. That was all Johan needed to kick the Royals off of his plane for good.

It was a heroic performance, worthy of Harrison Ford, of poetry, of song, of—dare I say—Johan Santana. This is what is known in the business as stepping it up. To close, this from genius Batling Twayn, with a little help from Walt Whitman:

O Johan! my Johan! our fearful trip’s not done;
The ship’s not weather’d every rack, the prize we seek’s not won.
The port is near, the crowd you hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding Sox of White,
Have on deck this KC wreck;
We face the Yankees’ might.

O Johan! my Johan! rise up and hear the yells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the victory bells;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the Dome a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Johan! dear Johan!
More laurels upon your head;
It is no dream that on the mound,
You’re the one batters most dread.

Take Me to the River, Drop Me in the #%$@#!$ Water

Kansas City Royals at Twins. Royals 4, Ass Bats 3.

Oh, for &*@$'s sake. You know what? Here Batgirl is, busting her balls, day in and day out—and she, of course, does not have balls because she is a lady, do you hear her? A %#$#@*& lady! She's not going to blog on this %$&! $#@%. She's got things to do, people to see. Okay, she's got nothing else to do. But that doesn't matter.

The point is, Batgirl's eyes are burning and her soul is slowly dying, and, my dear Twins, it's your f@#$&*$ fault. If you close your eyes and listen, that isn’t the wind you hear, but Batgirl's cries rending the sky asunder. She gives and she gives, and what does she get back? Bup-$%@?#-kiss.

Oh, Twins, I don't know why you treat me so bad--think of all the things we could have had.

You ass-weasels.

[JEB: Ass-weasels are no laughing matter. Have you seen what they'll do to a person when they get riled up?

BATGIRL: SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!!]

I don't know what the hell's going on around here with you guys, but we were a good baseball team like three days ago. Remember that? You do? Really? Well, then what in the hell happened? News about Pluto finally hit the clubhouse? Lew Ford's wayback machine gone all higgledy piggledy? (And if there's a proper way to spell that, it beats the #@$%!? shit out of Batgirl.) Well whatever the flying$@#$ is wrong with you guys, get the $#@& over it, get your head out of your gigantic collective @$$ and start playing some $%&*@#! base ball.

You know, apparently there was some guy running on the field tonight, and DickN'Roy were pretty annoyed with it—what they clearly didn't understand is the poor chap had been driven so barking mad by the soul-crushing ass-battitude that he was suddenly convinced he was being chased by a pack of rabid ass-weasels and ran onto the field to save his life. [Jeb: See, I told you.] What I mean to say is that could have been any of us. What I mean to say is we are all that guy, you, and me, and the Batkitties three, and it's time for us all to come together, so go to your kitchen right now, get down a candle, no not that one, the smell's too sweet—there, that one's better—and light it for that poor guy who's in some jail cell right now shaking and rocking and drenched in sweat and screaming things about small furry rodents and the Royals' pitching staff and double plays. At least he got to completely lose his mind and didn't have to watch the end of this %$#%&*?$! game.

I can't believe I missed @#%&*!% Project Runway for ?$%&*$# this. (And anyone who reveals what happened has to watch this whole %&*$%#@!% game again. Twice.)

I mean it.

Once in a Lifetime.

Kansas City at Twins. Royals 2, Twins Zip.

This entry featured BAD BatCoding that lost half of the content. It's ALL FIXED NOW

When Johan Santana woke up this morning, he felt strange. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something seemed to be missing. It was something like when Corey Koskie stole his mojo, yet there was more to it than that. He sat up straight in bed, looked around, and he told himself, This is not my beautiful house! And then he looked in the bed next to him and told himself, This is not my beautiful wife!

He jumped out of bed and took quick stock of himself. He still felt like an All-Star, but suddenly not in a good way. He darted into the bathroom, and a quick look in the mirror showed what was wrong.

He had turned into Mark Redman.

Something terrible had happened. But Johan did not panic; he did not want to let on that anything had happened. So, naturally, there were some crazy shenanigans that morning, including "Mark" reaching for the Frosted Flakes when he hates Frosted Flakes, and totally missing the Redman family's customary post-breakfast ass-grab. But, nonetheless, Johan escaped without raising too much suspicion, and it was time to head to the ballpark.

When he got there, the first thing he did was run into the Twins locker room.

"Hey, Red Man!" said Brad Radke. "What's shaking?"

"Um, hey, Brad. Um, have you seen Johan?"

"Sure! He's in the bathroom. It's weird he's just been staring at himself in the mirror all day long with this crazy smile on his face…"

And then Johan knew beyond a shadow of the doubt what had happened. He tore into the clubhouse bathroom and slammed the bathroom door behind him. And there, standing in front of him, was himself.

"What did you do, you cabron?" spat the real Johan.

The fake Johan threw up his hands.

"I didn't do it! I just woke up like this!" Redman-as-Johan paused, and then added, "It was awesome."

"I don't believe you."

"Come on, Johan, we're the Royals! We can't do anything."

"Good point," said Johan, sighing. "Well, what do we do about it? How do we switch back?"

"Do we have to?"

"Yes!"

"I don't know," said Redman. "I think we have to learn something about each other…and about ourselves."

"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"That may be, Johan, but one thing is true."

"What?"

"You have to go pitch."

Yes, it's true. Johan Santana had to go out and pitch against his team. And what was he supposed to do? The logical thing would be to go out and trucking buck, but as has well been established, Johan Santana does not know how to trucking buck, and the rest is Kansas City Royals history. By the time the dust had settled, Johan had his first complete game shutout of the season—unfortunately it was against his own team.

After the game, Johan and Redman met up behind the Dome. Redman could barely contain his excitement. "Do you know what you did to my ERA?" he exclaimed. "That was amazing! I've never seen anything like that!"

"Did you learn something about yourself?" asked Johan, dejectedly.

"Yes!" said Redmond. "That I'm awesome.….What about you?"

Johan sighed. "Same thing," he said sorrowfully. "Same thing."

The Days of Miracle and Wonder

Friday. Twins 5, Bitch Sox 4.
Saturday. Twins 8, Bitch Sox 7. (11 innings)
Sunday. Bitch Sox 6, Twins 1.

Well.

Batgirl, for one, is completely done for. Today's loss was unfortunate—though expected—but a rather welcome respite from all the heart attacks and aneurysms of the weekend. A few of those can really do permanent damage to a girl. The Batkitties are still under the bed, fearful of some stream of joy/agony induced expletives to come streaming at a high volume out of Batgirl's mouth. They're very sensitive, you know.

I hope you got to sit yourself down and watch some baseball this weekend, because I'm here to say games don't get much better than this. Sometimes, Batgirl wishes we could separate these games from the tension of the playoff race, because if this string of magic and miracles doesn't hold out, she doesn't want it to take away from how fracking awesome these couple of days were. And if you're feeling low one of these days, go read the BOD threads for Friday and Saturday, and remember this playoff-baseball in August, when a bunch of replacement players and replacement parts showed us they're the team to beat in baseball.

I mean, did you watch the games? Really? Are you okay—can I get you a nice tisane or something, or a sedative or a large forehead-ready mallet? Okay, really, just let me know, because I got plenty. Friday seemed doomed almost from the beginning. Bradke out in the third inning, Vasquez dealing… and then, well, a (animation courtesy of Kurtis). Little Nicky Punto went yard, and suddenly all things seemed possible. Cuddy singled, Morneau singled, Guillen put in David "No, it's too" Riske, and Torii Sweetcheeks Hunter stepped to the plate. And, ah, well….

Boom.

Hold me like you did by the lake on Naboo.

By the time Lew Ford ran all the way past home plate, through the Twins dugout wall—leaving a KoolAid Man hole—and all the way up to Wrigley for the winning run in the ninth, most of us required electroshock therapy. I mean the game could have gone into extra innings and if Rincon pitched the ninth we would have only had Nathan and Will E. Eyre left, and what would that have been like, huh?

Please don't hurt me.

Well, funny story, that. All looked good on Saturday for the Twins when they struck first, with an RBI Rondell triple that he punctuated with this awesome flying leap onto (and I do mean on to) third base. And then things got really crazy and Dennys Reyes went all Moon Over My Hammy, and there was something horrible having to do with Jermaine Dye that I've sort of blocked out, and then Ol' Papa Stelly went to the bullpen cupboard to get his poor doggie a relief pitcher, and when he got there, all there was was Willie Eyre, and the poor doggie went, "Oh, crap."

Silly doggie.

Picture courtesy of AnnaM.

Now, a couple of quick points as we head into this much needed off day. First off, Jermaine Dye is awesome, Batgirl really likes him and has since his Oakland days, even though it wasn't very nice of him to come into our division and kick ass like this. And he completely deserves MVP consideration, and it would be so great to have an MVP from the Central, and in fact BG thinks whoever gets this Wild Card for their team should get the MVP—but if she hears one more person in Bitch Soxia cluck that Dye's not getting any attention for the award she's going to have some sort of violent spasm (I mean worse than this game) because it's all anyone is talking about this week. Even the PiPress mentioned it, and they just ran an article about the meringue sweeping baseball stadiums around the country. Sportscenter had this whole thing right after Saturday's game talking about him after his game-tying homer, and they obviously put it together thinking the Sox would win, and then it was like, "Oh, also, they lost." And then Baseball Tonight called him the "hero of the game" on Saturday which was sort of cute on account of the losing, and the heroes of that game were clearly, as Batgirl pointed out already in her role as BOD Supreme High Commandress, 1) Little Nicky Punto 2) Sideshow Pat Neshek and 3) Will E. Eyre.

Secondly, there has been a lot of teeth-gnashing in Bitch Sox blogdom this weekend, beginning with Friday's loss, and Batgirl must admit she does not understand it. This thing wouldn't have been near over even if we'd won today, and now there's a 1/2 game separating the teams—which could change in a day. So, my South Side friends, fret not, there's a lot of baseball to be played, and we could match up pretty well in garment-rending over whose starting ro' is more f'ed. So, buck up, and we'll see you guys in a month.

The Boof, The Boof, The Boof is On Fire

Twins at Baltimore. Twins 11, O's 2.

Okay, Batgirl's been waiting to use that one all season. She's also been waiting to use "It's Hard Out Here for a Gimp," which could apply in so many situations, including, perhaps, the story of Luis Castillo's year. And it is hard, it's hard out here, when you’re trying to get the money for the rent, for the Cadillacs and gas money spent, because a whole lot of bitches talkin' shit, will have a whole lot of bitches talkin' shit.

And don't I know it.

The point is, it didn't seem like the Boof, the Boof, the Boof was going to be on fire at all this season. Sure, there were some smoking innings in there (remember when he loaded the bases and then struck out the side?) but mostly we were lucky to get him at body temperature.

And it's been a little trying, frankly. We're in a pennant race, here, people, Batgirl's all on edge, and we've got a pitching rotation held together by wishes and fish glue. It's Santana, Radke, and pray like hell for three days of rain. (The actual meteorological event, not the Richard Greenberg play, though Batgirl thinks Julia Roberts was very brave to go on Broadway like that, where you actually have to, you know, act, and everyone was so mean to her and then she got snubbed for a Tony but had the dignity to go up and present at the ceremony, because that's Julia for you--dignity, which is something those fancy pants Broadway actors with their training and their talent don't know a thing about. So there.)

The thing is, it always feels like our doom is right around the corner, sometime roughly after Joe Nathan closes a Johan Santana start—and yet somehow these pray-for-rain guys have been managing to come through when we need them. The Boofster's Kid Funky Fried act was beautiful tonight—one walk, seven hits, and 2 runs that came on a 2 run homer in the seventh—more than that, he always seemed in control.

It helps, of course, to have an offense destined to produce 11 runs in one night. The Chairman and Cuddles were a combined 7 for 8, with 8 RBIs and three runs—slumping behind them were the Doctor and Sweetcheeks, with a long homerun a piece. Castillo was 3 for 5, LNP 2 for 5, making for a generally awesome evening.

Batgirl needed this. She has no fingernails left. Every time she thinks she can't take any more of this, she worries the baseball gods will grant her wish and take it all away. Our boys have been playing it this close for so long—always just behind in the wild card race and every time they get the lead it falls through their fingers. Batgirl wants it this weekend, she wants it bad. She's already talking to herself in tongues, and the game doesn't start 'til tomorrow. It's going to take all of us, my friends, you and me and the BatKitties Three. It's going to take Radke, Santana, and Silva pitching their bests, it's going to take the boys doing this whole monster mash thing they've been doing, it's going to take Little Nicky Punto and all of the powers at his disposal.

Picture courtesy of Eric based on 87&91s haiku.

Are you ready? Are you focused? Have you stretched, rested, hydrated? We don’t know where we'll be at the end of the weekend, but one thing's for sure--we'll have a whole lot of bitches talking shit.

Batgirl Catches Up on Her Correspondence.

Twins at Baltimore. Twins 4, O's 1.

Dear Matt Garza,

Hello, we haven't met before. My name is Batgirl. At various points during your extensive and glorious major league career I am going to make fun of you, and probably see what you would look like if you were a chick. Batgirl's guess: not that hot. But you never know until you try, do you? Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for not sucking tonight. We need you. See, we've got Johan Santana, who is going to win the Cy Young, and Brad Radke, who is living on prayer and fish glue, and then we've got—well, you. And Batgirl lived last year without a playoffs and you know what? It totally sucked. So how about you and BG strike a deal. You be good the rest of the reason (oh, and all of next year too, that would be great, thanks) and BG doesn't turn you into a chick. Deal?

Accommodatingly,
Batgirl

Dear Ron Gardenhire,

What did you say to Angel Hernandez to make him kick you out of the game? It couldn't have been very nice. Were you upset about something? Maybe you have too much stress in your life. Maybe you need Little Nicky Punto to sing you a song or pull a unicorn out of his kiester? Maybe next time you don't like a call you could have LNP pull a unicorn out of his kiester right then and there. I bet the umps would have a better strike zone then.

Helpfully,
Batgirl

Dear Angel Hernandez,

Touch-eeee. How'd you like a unicorn in your kiester?

Jeez,
Batgirl

Dear Pat Neshek,

Your new nickname is "Sideshow Pat," even though Batgirl might call you Pat the Bunny every once in awhile, because you are cute and cuddly and you have a crazy-ass pitching delivery, just like a bunny. Also, your ERA is 0.84, and your blog rankings must be through the roof! Care to share blogging tips with BG sometime? Which is more challenging, relief pitching or blogging? Which is more of a pressure-situation? Do you ever get blogging cramps? How about blogger's itch? And blogger's remorse? Batgirl was once in a sanitarium for two weeks due to a massive case of blogger's remorse. They had good cookies.

Wistfully,
Batgirl

Dear Torii Hunter,

You know, if you wanted to hit a massive dinger every three or four games from now on, that would be pretty cool.

Just saying,
Batgirl

Dear Michael Cuddyer,

You know BG's favorite moment of the game? It wasn't your gorgeous run-saving catch or your RBI double or your RBI single. It was when you hit an excuse-me off the end of your bat. It was a certain out, but you ran down to first base like you were being chased by a naked Mike Redmond. And that, Mr. Cuddles, is hott.

Love,
Batgirl

Dear Jason Kubel,

You seem to be struggling. We all struggle from time to time, and Batgirl feels your pain. Clearly, you need to go on some mystical journey with the other Jason-aspects and find the magic crystal that is the very core of your power and, I don't know, lick it or something. I think it tastes like strawberries and regret.

Concerned,
Batgirl

Dear Other Jason Aspects,

You don't need to lick the crystal. You're doing just fine.

Appreciatively,
Batgirl

Dear Boof "John" Bonser,

Your turn.

Pointedly,
Batgirl

Dear Bitch Sox,

You know how you lost the first two games of this series? Do it again!

Encouragingly,
Batgirl

BatNotes: The comments to yesterday's entry resulted in some work of special note. The following material is not suitable for children, the infirm, or the faint-hearted.

First, from Spacey Stacey and YankeeFan, sung to They Might Be Giant's "Birdhouse in Your Soul:"

Tiny hero in the infield by the baseline
Who watches over you?
Let a little Punto in your soul.

Not to put too fine a point inside
Watch the horn before putting it in your backside
Place a little uni in your hole.

Then, from 87&91, a series of Punto/unicorn related haiku, including the whole reason the Japanese invented haiku in the first place:

Beware you Bitch Sox!
Nicky’s riding his magic
Fucking unicorn.

Genius.

Markakissed.

Twins at Orioles. Orioles 6, Twins 3.

When Little Nicky Punto was, well, littler, his mother sat him down one day and had a serious talk with him. "Little Nicky Punto," said she, "I know it must be tough to be so much smaller than all of the other boys, but I just want you to remember that size is measured in all sorts of ways. You may not be the biggest boy on the block, my sweet, but you can be the biggest ray of sunshine. Remember that."

Truly, advice to take to heart. And Little Nicky did. Right then and there, he vowed to follow his mother's advice. This trait served him very well through his youth, because if there's one thing the boys in the neighborhood like, it's someone who strives to be the biggest ray of sunshine on the whole block.

Why he didn't fit in with the Phillies is a great mystery, but when LNP was traded to the Twins, he stood on a crate in the clubhouse and proclaimed, "I'm so glad to be here and be a part of this team. I just want you guys to know, whenever things look dark in your soul, I want you guys to open up the windows of your heart and let a little Punto in. I think you'll find you'll be glad you did."

So, whenever a Twin struggles, you can find Little Nicky there, trying to let a little Punto in. Like tonight. When Carlos Silva gave up a homer to Nick Markakis, the second batter of the game, Punto came sprinting out to the mound to offer some encouragement.

"It's okay, Chief," said Punto. "One bad pitch, that's all. You can do it."

"I can?"

"Of course you can! You're Carlos Silva! Now get out there and show them!"

"I will!" Silva said brightly. "Thanks, Little Nicky Punto!"

In the third inning, when Brian Roberts led off with a solo homerun, Punto sprung to the mound again.

"It's okay, Chief! Two bad pitches, that's all! You're doing great!"

"He hit the shit out of that thing!" said Silva.

"Sure, but it's just one run. Don't worry, Carlos! Turn that frown upside down! Now, it's Markakis again. You show him who's boss, okay?"

"Okay, okay," nodded Silva. "Thanks, Little Nicky."

Two pitches later, Markakis had hit the ball over the right field fence, and Punto found himself out on the mound, slightly breathless.

"Oh...my God," said Silva, weeping slightly.

"No, no, Chief, don't despair! Just think, he can't possibly hit another homer off of you!"

"Oh, man, this is going to suck," breathed Silva.

"No, Carlos! Don't say that. Every time I get down, I just sing myself a little song. And it goes like this:"

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

"There. Now, do you feel better?"

"I guess. Thanks, Little Nicky Punto."

Well, after Markakis' third homer of the game, Little Nicky Punto had to sing several more verses of his song, which was a bit taxing as improvisation is not one of Punto's skills and he couldn't come up with anything to rhyme with "empowerment." By the time Corey Patterson went yard, Punto could think of nothing to do but run into the clubhouse bathroom, kiester a small unicorn, and pull it out of his ass in front of the pitcher--to no avail.

And after the game, as Silva sat in the clubhouse with his head in his hands, Punto put his arms around his friend and said, "Don't worry, Chief. Other than the solo homers, you pitched great!"

Snakes in a Dome

Chicago at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 7, Bitch Sox 3.
Saturday. Bitch Sox 4, Twins 1.
Sunday. Twins 7, Bitch Sox 3.

Oh, like you didn't know this was coming…

The weekend began normally enough. The surging Twins met the Chicago Bitch Sox in an ultimate battle between good and evil. Twins fans eyed the first game with some trepidation, for their starting pitcher was a simple man from the country who spent most of his evenings playing pick-up games with his brothers Ralph and Hurl and various local goats. But they didn't have worried—those goats were mean sons of bitches and prepared the young Boof well for his battle against the forces of darkness. Boof held up admirably, buoyed by the heroics of a ragtag ensemble of misfits with hearts of gold, including the Mighty Canadian, the Fearless Midget, the Sweet Cheeks. And afterwards, the Twins and their fans were ebullient. The underdog had overcome, and Misters Radke (who is so hot) and Santana (who is en fuego) would be pitching the next two nights. What was there to worry about?

But in the Bitch Sox clubhouse, Ozzie Guillen was planning a nefarious scheme. "I have overused my pitching staff and they are not up this ragtag bunch of misfits with hearts of gold," he said, rubbing his hands together evilly. "All of my plans will go awry. I cannot rely on pitching or defense or boom boom sticks, so it is time to institute…. Plan B!"

Jermaine Dye's eyes grew wide. "Plan B? Are you sure? Innocent people will die!"

"Who gives a @#$%?" asked Guillen. And then he got on the bullpen phone and whispered, "Send 'em in."

The Twins took the field on Saturday, chattering happily, confident that they would arrive at their destination safely, and the game began. Perhaps if things had unfolded differently, the disaster could have been stopped. Perhaps if the Dome crowd hadn't been cheering so loudly, someone would have heard Guillen's diabolical laughter. Perhaps if someone had bothered to check the contents of the large crates that had appeared on the baseball field. But, alas, no one did.

"Does anyone hear a ticking noise?" asked Little Nicky Punto, looking around and missing a ball.

"Is there a hissing?" asked Jason Bartlett, checking his six and missing a throw.

And just like that, the boxes came open.

It was horrible, horrible. Snakes came pouring onto the field, biting players in unmentionable places. They were everywhere, coming out of the turf, slithering out from under the bases. One dropped from the roof just as three Twins were trying to field a pop-up to right field causing many Twins fans to wonder, "Isn’t there anyone on board who knows how to fly this damn plane?"

Yes, things looked bad for our boys—until today Johan K. Santana strode to the mound, set his jaw, and declared, "I am so sick of these motherf—ing snakes in this motherf—ing Dome!"

It looks like a $#@!%&*@?! snake, what do you think it looks like?

"Come on, gang!" said Mike Redmond. "We're not going to let these stupid snakes beat us. Half of them are CGI, anyway!"

"Yeah!" said Michael Cuddyer.

"Yeah!" said Torii Hunter.

"Let's go kick some snake ass!" said Joe Nathan.

"Do snakes have asses?" whispered Little Nicky Punto.

So, Santana and the Twins set to ridding the Dome of those motherf---ing snakes. Santana toyed with them, letting a snake reach base here and there and then plunking them.

"God, he can kill them with four pitches!" marveled Punto, right before getting swallowed by a boa.

Jason Tyner hit one directly at Paul Konerko, who screamed like a little girl as he got bit and threw the thing toward second base. Torii Hunter hit one over the left field seats, where it swallowed a Dome Dog and promptly died.

This is the way of things—sometimes the badguys will sick a crateload of snakes on you, and sometimes some innocent people will go down in the process, and in those moments you need a hero, and a comely unflappable stewardess, and someone who can fly a plane, and a band of misfit passengers with hustle and heart who take their bats and beat the living crap out of those snakes. And the Twins had all of those things this weekend, and came out triumphant.

After the game, as the snake corpses littered the field, the Twins eyed them in stunned silence, awed by everything that had passed.

"I can't believe Ozzie did that," Pat Neshek said finally.

"He tried to kill us with these snakes," said Jason Tyner.

"You know," said Mike Redmond after a pause, "that is really the dumbest-ass thing I've ever heard in my whole life."

Purely Plutonic

Cleveland at Twins. Indians 3, Twins 2.

It is no doubt that one of the factors leading to the Twins improved play this year is increased clubhouse harmony, but all of that was threatened today, thanks to a controversy of galactic proportions.

It began positively enough, with Dennys Sampler Reyes complimenting Johan Santana on his Dome winning streak.

"That's what I like to see," said Reyes. "Certainly. You start at the Dome, you're going to win. It just makes you feel better about the world, you know, one of those things you can really count on. Like e=mc squared, like the Pythagorean theorem, like 12 months in a year, seven days a week, like nine planets in the solar system…."

"Uhhhh, Dennys," interrupted Mike Redmond, who had been thumbing through a copy of Astronomy Today.

"Que?"

"That's not true."

"Que?"

"I mean there aren't going to be nine planets anymore. There are either eight or twelve, or maybe even many more."

Reyes stared at Redmond, unblinking. "I don't believe you," he said, after a few long moments.

"It's true," said Redmond. "Look!" And he passed Reyes the magazine. Quickly, the portly lefthander skimmed the article, tears filling his eyes. "But…but…this can't be!" he protested, and then went running out of the room, sobbing.

"What's wrong with Dennys Sampler?" asked Pat Neshek.

"Oh, he's upset about Pluto."

"The dog?"

"No, silly. The planet. Pluto might lose its status. See, it's really too small to be considered a planet. Even the moon is bigger, and it doesn't behave like a planet. Like, if it's a planet, then all these other really small bodies should be planets, too."

"But…" protested Neshek…"Pluto's a planet. There are nine planets. My Very Eager Mother Just Served Us Nine Potatoes!"

"Right," said Matt Guerrier. "My Very Enormous Monster Just Sucked Up Nine Pomeranians."

"No," said Jason Tyner. "It's Merlin's Very Extravagant Mother Just Sent Us Nine Parakeets!"

"Well," shrugged Redmond. "Not anymore. Either there are going to be eight planets or twelve, and if there are twelve it will be eight 'classic' planets and four dwarf planets, called plutons. See, there's this other sphere that's actually bigger than Pluto. It's called UB313—"

"Didn't they sing 'Red, Red Wine?'" asked Matt Guerrier.

"--Also known as Xena."

"Sweet," muttered Lew Ford.

"And then there's Charon, Pluto's moon, and Ceres. They'd all be planets, too."

"That's stupid!" protested Neshek. "You should just keep them the way they are!"

"That's not going to happen," said Redmond.

"Look," said Josh Rabe, "They made a mistake. They thought Pluto was bigger than it was. But Pluto's not a planet. It's a big ball of ice. We shouldn't go redefining reality because some people can't deal with change. There are eight planets."

"Well, what's wrong with adding more planets?" said Neshek. "The more the merrier, that's what my mom says."

"But Ceres is an asteroid!" protested Rabe.

"You're an asteroid!" grumbled Neshek.

At this point, Little Nicky Punto spoke up. "Sometimes, just because something is little doesn't mean it’s not special," he said, his voice cracking a little bit. "Pluto may not be very big or be able to sustain life or do anything cool, but I think it's got a lot of heart."

"Hee. It's a PUN-ton!" laughed Juan Rincon.

"Oh, yeah?" squeaked LNP. "You're a gas giant!"

"Save Pluto!" cried Tyner.

"Screw Pluto!" cried Mauer.

And so it went, all the way up to game time, players hurtling astronomical insults at each other as the argument grew more heated. At one point Torii Hunter became so enraged when Justin Morneau suggested Pluto's elliptical orbit disqualified it automatically that he punched the Canadian, who promptly hit Torii over the head with his boom boom stick.

Needless to say, it was a fractured bunch who took the field today, and while that-guy-who-looks-like-Frasier-Crane may feel his pitching was what carried the day, we Twins fans know the truth. Blame Pluto.

Stupid planet, anyway.

No Small Parts

Cleveland at Minnesota. Twins 7, Indians 2.

Batgirl missed the first few innings of the game tonight (the BatTivo still isn't hooked up, meaning, for one thing, Batgirl will not get to watch Project Runway tonight and anyone who reveals anything about Wednesday night's will get banned and subject to a personal fashion critique from Michael Kors, and locked in a small room with Vincent and Angela) so she doesn't know if there's a reason the FSN crew kept flashing their camera at Mike Redmond during tonight's glorious eighth, but whatever the reason it was simply awesome.

In a K-Fan interview this season, Sweetcheeks credited the backup backstop for the lightened clubhouse dynamic this year—mostly, Torii said, due to his habit of walking around in socks and his birthday suit. (Is this, in fact, the reason for the Twins' oh-so-dramatic turnaround? For somehow BG thinks Mike Redmond did not disrobe during the T-Fat era. Something about that guy just makes you want to keep your clothes on.) More than that, he seems to have become the spirit of the team. Every time someone did something good tonight, the camera would flash to him and his little pre-pubescent mustache, on his feet clapping and shouting, jumping up and down in the dugout, running out to be the first person to greet someone who scored, wrapping his arms around them in big hugs—and I don't mean those woosy, I'm-going-to-stand-a-couple-of-inches-away-from-you-and–pat-your-back-really-hard-in-a-way-that-may-cause-you-pain-but-that's-just-how-macho-I-am man hug, but a real live I'm-going-to-hold-you-oh-so-gently-because-that's-how-proud-I-am-plus-I'm-not-wearing-any-underwear hug.

Here's a guy who gets to play once a week, who's back-up to a punk kid with brace mouth who happens to be the greatest baseball player of all time, who spends his life in benchwarmers book club meetings with Li'l Rod and Tiffles, and he's more into the game than anyone else in that clubhouse. Redmond was recently signed to a two year deal with an option for a third year, at which point he will be 97 years old, but Batgirl cares not. When the new park opens in 2010, BG wants Redmond there—in whatever capacity…assistant bench coach, mustache groomer to Wayne Hattaway, Dennys Sampler to Dennys Sampler Reyes, BG cares not—but she wants him there, tapping his nose, screaming from the clubhouse, stripping, stripping, stripping with love of the game and esprit de corps and probably some exhibitionism that should be worked out with a therapist, preferably a Freudian though maybe a Jungian could work too because there are clearly some major symbolism issues—and we'll see him and cheer and we cannot help but take off our clothes too, because it is baseball, it is our privilege to watch it, we stand naked before it, and who the hell needs clothes, anyway?

Infield's Dubious Adventure

Twins 0, Jays 5. Darnit.

By the time Infield slipped out of work today (a little early, truth be told) she was tired and cranky on account of not getting much sleep last night after having some tattoo touchups that evening (word to the wise: save it for the weekend. What was Infield thinking?), and she was all hopped up on Advil Cold & Sinus 'cause something is going around the cubicle farm and it's got her in its crosshairs.

Infield got home promptly at 5:00, dashed inside, donned her "Nathan Saves" shirt, grabbed her trusty scorebook and was back outside in plenty of time to catch the 5:15 northbound, which should get her to the Dome in plenty of time to get some Joe Mauer sideburns which would not be worn (oh, no!) but instead sent to BG, because Joe is BG's boyfriend, not hers.

Infield has chosen not to own a car because of the global warming and the price of oil and the fact that she learned to drive in south Texas and they don't have snow there, plus she has all the depth perception of a drunken moose. Also, ever tried to park in Uptown? Not good. Usually busing works out nicely, especially with the traffic anywhere near downtown being completely psycho early of an evening, but today? The Metro Transit let Infield down.

The 5:15 deigned to appear at 5:35, and proceeded to meander from Uptown to Downtown in twenty-five freakin' minutes. This is a ten-minute trip, people! And what with the walk to the Dome from Hennepin, Infield got there well over an hour after she left home, and there were no more sideburns, leaving Infield to hope that someone else had the same idea and was not riding the Bus of the Damned.

In a case of small-world-meets-big-BatCommunity, Infield's season seats are located directly behind Wonder Woman's season seats, and it turned out that WW had had the same idea about getting some of those sideburns to BG, but had gotten there even later than Infield.

Then the game started, and Silva looked good and it seemed that perhaps the worst of Infield's day was behind her. But then four innings passed without anyone scoring, and Infield started to get a little nervous because she knows Carlos likes some run support, and can get kind of antsy without it. And sure 'nuff, in the 5th Carlos loses the no-hitter to Lyle Overbay and the shutout to Bengie Molina, who solved the Torii Hunter problem by sending his homer both over Torii's head and off to one side.

But he stopped the bleeding after that, and Infield thinks pretty much every Twins fan there figured, "Eh, two runs. This is a good-hitting Twins team. Two runs is nothing to fret about." And perhaps the Blue Jays thought the same, because in the seventh they went for the insurance. Loading the bases with one out, they then scored when Carlos and Joe got their signs crossed up a little. Carlos seemed just a tad upset when Joe, who was set up low and in, couldn't get his glove on that wild pitch up and away. Oops?

Carlos seemed even more upset two runs later, when Gardy gave him the hook. The Jackal stalked back to the dugout, filled a paper cup from the Gatorade bucket, and threw that cup against the wall in the mildest-mannered bout of pitcher rage Infield has ever witnessed. But that's Carlos for ya.

Pat Neshek came on then, did his little sidearmer bouncy dance and struck out Frank Catalon-howtheheckdoyouspellthat. And Frank took a couple of steps toward the dugout and then looked back over his shoulder at Neshek with this expression like "Is this guy for real?", and Infield and Wonder Woman got a nice (and only slightly hysterical) giggle out of that.

Neshek got out of the inning with a second strikeout, and the Twins did, um, nothing in the next half-inning. Then Jesse Crain started warming up and Infield asked Wonder Woman if maybe Luis Rodriguez could pitch instead? And WW pointed out that was maybe a touch harsh, and in all fairness Infield had to agree, but with Lohse and Romero both gone someone in that bullpen has to make Infield all twitchy, and Crain is the lucky winner these days 'cause she has a huge, squishy soft spot for Willie Eyre, who wears his socks the right way and was very charming to her at the last TwinsFest.

But Crain did fine, and then Guerrier did fine, and in between the Twins did nothing again, and finally one more round of nothing in the bottom of the ninth and there's yer ballgame.

So Infield closed her trusty scorebook, turned to Wonder Woman and said, "Well, crap. Now I have to go home and write something funny about this game."

And WW winced a little and said, "Ooh, there wasn't really anything funny about this one."

Preaching to the choir, Wonder Woman. Preaching to the choir.

The Infield Chronicle: Twins Win! Twins 4,Tigers 2

I had some fun with an inning-by-inning commentary the last time I subbed for BG, so I'm dusting off the idea again tonight as the Twins tried for their first win of the year in Detroit.

1st inning
Nothing but ground ball outs. Huh. Weird.

(MIN 0, DET 0)

2nd inning
Since when does Dimitri Young hit triples??? Detroit takes an early lead. Surprise, surprise, surprise...

(MIN 0, DET 2)

3rd inning
Little Nicky Punto, tiny superhero, puts the Twins on the board with a one-out double, and Chairman Mauer sacrifices himself for the good of the people to plate the tying run.

(MIN 2, DET 2)

4th inning
Leadoff hits are good. Leaving runners stranded on third is bad. Especially when you're playing the Tigers, who see something like that and then decide to taunt you by loading the bases with no outs. And if you're Jason Bartlett and you're not wearing your socks the right way tonight, which explains a lot, you stand out there in the field and you watch Radke's bum shoulder start to smoke and you really, REALLY wish you'd hiked up your pants and knocked that runner in, because maybe that would have taken a little wind out of their sails before they came up to bat.

And then Craig Monroe smokes one to left, but there's Jason Tyner snatching it out of thin air and going all Liriano on their asses, grooving a beauty of a fastball from the outfield straight down the center of the plate to Mauer for the out and the funky double play. And lo and behold, Radke teases Sean Casey into a popup and somehow they don't score.

(MIN 2, DET 2)

5th inning
You know what's as good as a leadoff hit? A one-out double and an error. And you know what's even better? A Chairman Mauer RBI double after that.

Now, here's an interesting question. If you're a pitcher, and you and your catcher get your signs crossed up and he's sitting low and in and you pitch up and away to Doctor Morneau and (oops!) tag the umpire in the arm, do you pretty much figure your strike zone will be the size of a pea for the rest of the game?

(MIN 3, DET 2)

6th inning
The home plate umpire is cursed. How else do you explain getting hit twice in as many innings?

(MIN 3, DET 2)

7th inning
Radke goes seven. This is exactly what the bullpen needed. And look, we have a lead! A lead nowhere near big enough to make me feel at all comfortable, but hey.

(MIN 3, DET 2)

8th inning
The home plate umpire is most decidedly cursed. Who's ever seen an ump get hit thrice in a game before? I certainly haven't.

(MIN 3, DET 2)

9th inning
Hey! No throwing at Bartlett's head! That's my #2 boyfriend right there!

Loading the bases in the top of the ninth with a one-run lead is good. Driving insurance runs in with a groundout is even better! Watching them walk Doctor Morneau to reload the bases is simultaneously disappointing and kind of funny. Watching Sweetcheeks ground out to the pitcher, however, was not funny at all.

As the bottom of the inning opens, Dick Bremer starts talking about all of Detroit's exciting walk-off wins this season. Shut up!!

Twitchy resists the Bremer jinx through two outs, then coughs up a walk and a single. Uh...Joe? Stop that! But by inducing a popout to Cuddyer in right, Joe says, "the nail-biting may cease".

And then he thought a little, and he added, "Until tomorrow."

Clutching at Straws

Author's note: BG is off for a few days bravely claiming a portion of Red Sox Nation in the name of Twins Territory. Substitute bloggers will attempt to keep you rabble amused in the meantime.

Twins @ Landed Gentry, W 8-2

Half an hour before the game Thursday night, a knot of Twins huddled in the visitors clubhouse in Kansas City.

"Well, who's it going to be tonight?" asked Radke. "I can't, I'm starting. I have to go warm up!"

"I could do it," offered Luis Rodriguez.

"Hah. You did it yesterday, and look where that got us!" snorted Little Nicky Punto.

"Well, you did it Tuesday, and that was just as bad!" Lil' Rod retorted huffily.

Radke rolled his eyes and grabbed his glove. "I gotta go. You guys work this out." And he left.

"That was NOT just as bad!" yelled LNP. "Yesterday we had THREE errors!"

"One of them was yours, stupid!"

"And one of them was yours, clutz!"

"Hey, now, everybody settle down," said Torii, stepping between LNP and Lil' Rod. "I did it on Monday, and we kicked ass, so I'll do it again."

"Ummm..." interrupted Lew Ford, adjusting his reading glasses. He was peering at a small leaflet. "It says here each team must send, at minimum, seven different players in succession."

The others looked at each other uneasily.

"And, ah, what exactly does that mean?" wondered Sweetcheeks.

"It means," said the voice of Pat Neshek, emanating from a pile of fan mail twice the size of CC Sabathia, "that you can't do it again until six other people have. Four now, since there have been two since you."

"Crap," said Sweetcheeks. "Why do we have to do this, anyway?"

Lew flipped through the leaflet. "It says here the Commissioner thinks it will add interest to the game."

LNP suggested an alternate use of the Commissioner's time which caused Lil' Rod to blush a fiery red.

"Can you breathe in there?" Dr. Morneau asked the pile.

"Yep, it's all good." Neshek affirmed.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" wondered Josh Rabe, coming upon them on his way back from extra BP.

"We're trying to figure out who's going to do it tonight," the good Doctor explained.

"I'll do it," Rabe shrugged. "I feel lucky." And off he went, bat on his shoulder, whistling a merry tune.

"Think he'll be okay?" Lil' Rod fretted.

"He said he felt lucky," Morneau said philosophically. "We'll find out soon enough."

Rabe made his way through the corridors until he reached a special room hidden beneath home plate. The umpire crew chief and Kansas City shortstop Andres Blanco were already there.

"You're representing the Twins?" the umpire asked.

"Yes, sir!" Rabe said brightly. "And I feel lucky! Shall we?"

"All right," said the umpire. "Turn around, both of you. And no peeking!"

Rabe and Blanco turned around and stared at the wall. Rabe resumed his cheerful whistling.

"Stop that!" hissed Blanco, who was very nervous.

"You may turn around," the umpire announced. They did, and he was holding two straws in his clenched fist, carefully arranged to appear the exact same length.

Rabe and Blanco looked at each other, then at the straws. Two hands shot out, both straws were plucked. They held their straws up next to each other, and saw that Rabe's was clearly longer.

"Woo-hoo!" cried Rabe, jumping up and down. "We get to play baseball!" He ran off to share the good news with his teammates.

Blanco threw down his inadequate reed. "Crap," he said glumly. "Ass-ball."

The RD Report: Contest? CONTEST? You wanna have a CONTEST? (Texas 10, Twins 2)

The Twins reported to the Metrodome on Wednesday in a foul mood. Things got off to a sucking start because Francisco Liriano, the scheduled starter, was sidelined with a sore elbow. A little thing, they were told. But a hella bad start to the day. Then, Gardy came in looking like he'd spent the better part of the night pukin' and poopin', which it turned out he had. So for the third straight day, he was nowhere near the ballpark when the game started,this time being poked with an IV at a local hospital because, in the name of healing, the docs told him that it would be wise to neither eat nor drink.

Then, Lew Ford came into the clubhouse, brandishing his trusty laptop and spewing invective. Alas, the target of his rage was none other than Batgirl.

"Sideburns contest!" Lew raged. "What's UP with this? Why didn't Batgirl ever invite her readers to a Doom contest. I mean, geez. I sign a 'Lew Ford is my Boyfiend' t-shirt for TwinsGoddess and Batgirl runs off and has a SIDEBURNS contest. Where's the friggin' reciprocity?"

Michael Cuddyer walked in at the end of Lew's outburst and picked up the theme. "HOW COME BATGIRL NEVER HAD A MAGIC TRICK CONTEST?" he yelled. "EVERYONE KNOWS I WOULD WIN."

Little Nicky Punto took in the scene around him and, as he often does, he turned the attention to himself, which he needs to do to avoid getting lost in the crowd: "A sliding contest. Batgirl never had a sliding contest. I mean, what better sport than watching her readers dive head-first into first base while trying to avoid the opposing pitcher's spikes?"

And Pat Neshek, the rookie who is gaining confidence, decided to test his place in the clubhouse. "A butt contest," Neshek opined. "Think any of Batgirl's readers have a better butt than you, Torii?"

Torii Hunter didn't laugh, and he wondered if Neshek knew about his little dust-up last season with Justin Morneau. "Quiet, rookie," Torii said, his face straight. "Batgirl would sooner ask her readers to imitate your twitchy act before she'd objectify me like that."

Sitting in the corner, Morneau thought he'd put an end to the grousing with a contest so simple anyone could enter.

"Uh, you know, guys. We should have, you know, one of those electrocution contests! Most 'you knows' in a minute gets, you know, to be..."

Jesse Crain cut him off. "Hey, hoser," Crain shouted. "You mean an ELOCUTION contest!"

"You know, uhhhhh, you're right," Morneau replied.

Finally, cooler heads prevailed. Mike Redmond, fresh from a round of naked batting practice, stood in the middle of the clubhouse and called the boys together. No one peeked.

"Gentlemen," he said. "The day has gotten off to such a start. Let's just have a SUCKING contest."

There was some hushed cross-talk as players debated the merit of Redmond's idea and finally, because he is the team's elder statesman, the boys all went along with the idea.

In the first inning, Joe Mauer came to the plate with two men on base and grounded into a double play. "Yes, I am on the cover of Sports Illustrated this week," he announced. "But I can still suck when needed."

In the second, Torii grounded into a double play on his own, the first half of an entry that included failing to run to first base on a strike three that eluded Texas' catcher in the fourth. "See, he said, "I can play with my head up my fine, fine sweetcheeks."

In the third, Little Nicky swung at a third strike and Jason Bartlett was thrown out at second for a different kind of double play. "See that?" LNP said. "That's called double-play diversity. And don't forget that dive into first base in the first inning, where I just missed getting my hand stepped on again."

The fourth was a team effort. Bartlett made a bad throw off a barehand grab and Punto did him one better, making such a bad throw off his barehand grab that the ball got away from Morneau and the batter went to second. Morneau muffed a grounder like he was wearing a blindfold and L-Rod, making a rare appearance at second base, made an ill-advised throw to Bartlett on a grounder. Does it surprise you that Texas scored 5 runs in that inning?

In the sixth inning, after the Twins dared score a run, Redmond grounded into the team's 4th double play of the game. The dugout chatter was divided between the fact that it was a rather ordinary double play and giving Redmond sucking props for hitting into his with the bases loaded.

Then, Jason Renyt Tyner, a/k/a The Assassin, stepped up after L-Rod and Bartlett had singled in the seventh. "I have destroyed others with my skills," he said to himself. "Now, I will shoot myself in the foot." And, yes, he grounded into a rally-killing double play.

To round out his entry, Tyner came to bat in the ninth and smacked a line drive that the Texas first baseman turned into an unassisted double play -- No. 6 of the game off the Twins' sucking bats. Game over.

The sucking jurors had rarely seen such an afternoon. Well, not since the likes of Stahoviak and Walker patrolled the infield, anyway. They took over Gardy's office for a while, donning their robes and debating secretly. So secretly that we can't even tell you what was said.

What we do know is that they emerged, swigging Gardy's half-empty Pepto bottles, and announced to all: "You all sucked so bad that choosing a winner for this contest is an exercise in futility. You must all go to Kansas City now -- and never, ever think about having a contest like this ever again."

Don't Mess With Texas. Unless You Really, Really Want To.

Texas at Twins. Twins 15, Texas 2.

Okay, so Batgirl's in the process of moving and her life is filled with boxes and packing tape (That would be 3M Tear-by-Hand Packing Tape, The Official Box-Closing Adhesive of Batgirl's Move) and strange piles of stuff and random bouts of self-hatred (What are these things under my bed and how did they get there and why have I kept them and which batkitty puked on them and how long ago and does anyone know how to get two-year-old batkitty puke off of wedding pictures?) We can't eat because we've packed all of our dishes. We can't sleep because there are no sheets. The BatTiVo is packed, the BatInternet is off, and the BatKitties Three have been shuffled off to Casa BatParents for a few days where they can puke on someone else's stuff.

The point is, Batgirl is in sore need off a happy place, and that happy place looked quite a bit like Sunday's eighth inning six-run rally. After trying all weekend to mount a decent comeback something clicked; the previously infallible Tigers started to puke all over their stuff, and while the Twins lost the series, they found themselves again. Surely they could carry that momentum and inspiration onto tonight's game with the Rangers, couldn't they?

Couldn’t they?

Well, yes. Apparently, they could. The Twins came out full of vim and fire and Jedi mind tricks and happy places tonight, from Little "Nicky" Punto to Torii "Sweetcheeks" Hunter to Josh "Dinger" Rabe to, well, pretty much the whole damned line-up. The Twins were inspired, all right, they inspired the crap out of the ball tonight, and the Rangers saw their juggernaut coming and immediately cowered behind their ass-gloves. Carlos Lee made any Twins fan who mourned not getting him in a trade feel much, much better, while Carlos Silva proved he does very well with a 14 run lead.

Batgirl doesn't have too much to say, here, she's running on tape fumes and DQ Blizzards, except that triples are hottt, scoring 15 runs is fun, and she would like to politely suggest that the momentum from Sunday carry us straight through the next Tigers series. For that would be a happy place, indeed.

The Lady in the Water

Detroit at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Tigers 3, Twins 2. (10 innings)
Saturday. Tigers 8, Twins 6.
Sunday. Twins 6, Tigers 4.

Please note: There will be no spoilers in this recap, as Batgirl has not seen The Lady in the Water on account of how crappy it looks.

It is usually Mike Redmond's job to clean up the clubhouse before and after Twins home games, a service he generally does wearing a smile (and not much else). But lately he had been growing concerned—when he got to the clubhouse after long road trips, he'd find signs that someone had been using the whirlpool, which is strictly off-limits to anyone but players.

"Lew," he asked the injured outfielder one day, "have your Doom buddies been playing Star Wars guys in the whirlpool again?"

"No, man," said Lew. "That was just once!"

The mystery deepened when Redmond was cleaning the whirlpool and found long chunks of red hair in the ducts.

"Unless Lew's Doom buddies have gotten a lot hotter," mused Redmond, "there is something very mysterious going on here. I think I shall dance naked around the clubhouse." And so, he did.

On Friday morning when Redmond arrived, he heard someone splashing around in the whirlpool. "Ah-HA!" he said to himself. "Here is my chance!" And he tore into the whirlpool room—to find nothing at all. But in his eagerness, he slipped on a puddle and the next thing he knew, he was plummeting straight into the whirlpool.

"Aw, shit," he said.

And then everything went dark.

When he woke up, Redmond found himself lying on the trainer's gurney with a tall, pale, redheaded woman in a Twins jersey staring unblinking at him.

"You…you saved me…" Redmond gasped.

"Yes," the woman said in a voice like windchimes.

"It's you, you've been swimming in the whirlpool."

"Yes."

"And now you're wearing my jersey."

"No," said the woman, turning around to reveal SANTANA emblazoned on her back. "I took Johan Santana's, because he's very hot."

"Who are you?" Redmond breathed.

"My name is Story. I am a narf. I am from the Blue World."

"You're a what?"

At that moment, Pat Neshek skipped into the room. "Hey, Mr. Redmond, I was just gonna—holy crap is that a narf?"

Redmond turned to look at the giddy sidearmer. "You've heard of a narf?"

"Sure! My mom read me a bedtime story about it just last week. Once upon a time the sea people lived among us and guided us. But then the humans turned greedy and in their pursuit of land moved away from the sea people and forgot all about them. But now, the sea people are sending the new generation out to make contact and bring peace and goodwill and Wild Card berths! And that means you're—" he gasped and dropped to his knees. "You've come to bring us peace!"

"Yes, my child," said Story. "But I cannot do it alone. I will need help from…..ACK!" She let out a high piercing scream, so loud it broke Brad Radke's hair gel jars.

"What?" said Redmond and Neshek.

"There!" she pointed at the widescreen TV in the trainer's room. "It's a scrunt!"

"Oh, gosh!" exclaimed Neshek. "We have to run!"

"What's a scrunt?"

"A scrunt is a creature of great evil. They prey on the narfs, trying to keep them from meeting with humans and bringing them peace and happiness and wild card berths. They have potent offense and good pitching and they never lose!"

"You must keep the scrunts from me!" exclaimed the narf. "He will kill me and then all is lost."

"It's okay," said Neshek. "We'll keep you safe. I mean—" he turned to Redmond—"we're not playing the Tigers for awhile, are we?"

"Uh…." said Redmond.

One by one, the Twins filed into the clubhouse and Redmond introduced Story to his teammates. They listened to her tale breathlessly.

"We must help the narf!" shouted Jason Tyner.

"We must defeat the scrunts!" yelled Jason Bartlett.

"Am I going to get eaten?" asked Little Nicky Punto.

"Yes," said Pat Neshek, ignoring Punto, "only through teamwork can we defeat the scrunts, for they are big and powerful and never, ever, ever lose! But we can do it for we are small and plucky and don't lose that much either!"

"For the narf!" screamed the Twins, running out onto the field to meet the scrunts in battle.

The battle raged on for three long nights. In the first, the scrunts scored an early blow, helped by the very small strike zone of the monkey-like law-enforcing Tartutics, and while the Twins were able to scratch back, the scrunts leapt at Juan Rincon's jugular and scored that night's victory.

"Now, that's just mean," said Redmond.

The next night, the scrunts went out into an early lead, tearing Brad Radke limb from limb and sucking the marrow from his bones. The Twins tried valiantly to fight back with their very best boom boom sticks, but it was to no avail. At the end, the scrunts ate Neshek and Jesse Crain, too.

"Now, that's really mean," said Redmond.

And the third day it went much the same, the evil scrunts making even Johan Santana falter, which was the meanest part of all. Inside the dugout, the narf cowered and shook.

"Come on you guys," said Redmond as the eighth inning grew nigh. "Are we really going to be beat by a bunch of freakin' scrunts? Are we going to let them eat our team alive? What about the narf? All she wants to do is spread truth and love and Wild Cardness whether she goes. Isn't that something we can fight for? They might have narfs, but we have JAZILLA! Isn’t that right?"

"Yeah!" said the Twins.

"Yeah!" said Jazilla, roaring.

"Let's go!"

And with that, the Twins stormed the field. The site of the three-headed red winged Jason monster was too much for the scrunts and they began to play suddenly like ass-crap. After getting bitch-slapped by the scrunts in the previous battles, Michael Cuddyer struck the deathblow. When the dust settled, the Twins had prevailed.

"Thank you, Twins," said the narf. "You are truly a noble group, even if you hit into too many double plays and sometimes miss the cut-off man. You see, you don’t need a narf. The strength to win is inside you, all the time. All I did was show you the way."

And then a great eagle came and carried Story back off to the Blue World while the Twins waved and watched her go.

"Man," said Jason Kubel, when the eagle and Story had disappeared. "That was one hot narf."

BatNotes: Baseball and theater! Johan Santana's Perfect Game, by local playwright Jonathan Wemette, will be premiering at the Minnesota Fringe Festival this August. For more information, please look here.

Blizzards for a cause! On August 10th, Team Batgirl's favorite frosty treat gets even more delicious—the secret ingredient is charity. Every Blizzard you buy that day benefits the Children's Miracle Network. Team Batgirl, I assume, will be taking this as a challenge.

Things Remembered.

Twins at Chicago. Twins 7, Bitch Sox 4. Sweeeep.

Do you remember last year? No, I know you don't. I know you had the whole thing surgically removed from your brain. The procedure was a little painful, sure, there was the whole needle through the eyeball part and then the piercing of the brain part and the where they said, "Here, I just gots to wiggle it around a little bit," and then there was the rash and the various loss of bodily functions and the constant pains like someone had stuck a fork in your soul, and then of course the procedure went wrong and you realized you were really from Mars and your memories had been erased and that Sharon Stone isn't your girlfriend at all but a total twat, plus an assassin, and you go to Mars where you live inside this shielded space colony because outside is more toxic than CC Sabathia's port-a-potty and the whole thing is ruled over by Ronny Cox, who is a major Dick, and keeps order by threatening the whole colony with oxygen deprivation, and you get the crap kicked out of you a lot, and then in the final battle you fall out of the colony into the Sabathia port-o-potty and your eyeballs start popping out and your skin explodes and finally you're saved and you get back to Earth and someone asked you how the procedure went to eliminate the memories of last year, and you say—there were some complications, but it was totally worth it.

And so—no. You don't remember. So I might, in gentle soothing tones, with a careful eye on your blood pressure and your psyche and the nearest dial-a-shrink ready on the phone, remind you that there was a season of baseball last year and it was not particularly fun, and Hee Sop Choi hurt us in a way we did not recover from for an entire calendar year, there was Bret Boone, and we only scored 18 runs the entire season.

Well, what you also don't remember is that there was a time in August when we started playing well. And there was a moment—just a moment—of hope. And during that moment, the Minnesota Twins swept the Bitch Sox of Chicago and it was beautiful.

And at the time Batgirl said let us value this for what it is, for tomorrow is for poets and Little Orphan Annie, and today we swept the Bitch Sox.

Well, hope was a cruel mistress--she seduced us, she made us feel alive again, she touched us like no one has ever touched us before, and then she kicked us squa' in the nads, laughed, and went off to suck face with the Cleveland Indians.

But she couldn't take that sweep away from us. And now that Hope is rubbing herself against us again, we must look her in the eye and say, "Tomorrow is for poets and you are a two bit whore. I do not need you to be happy, because my team has hustle, it has heart, it has Tiny Super Heroes and Big Canadians, and today we swept the Bitch Sox."

Ah, yes, my dears, we had it all this series, just like Bogie and Halsey Hall. We had defense, we had Jasons, we had homers, homers, homers. We had Michael Cuddyer with his glove and his arm and his boom boom stick, we had comebacks and near disasters, we had Johan Santana and Brad Radke, we had Carlos Silva swatting away at the creature breathing down his neck, we had Juan Rincon, we had Joe Mauer's first homerun in 8 jillion at bats against a lefty, we had Joe Nathan pretend to be human, we had Neshek pop his earned run cherry, we had the fire in Jason Bartlett's belly blaze into an inferno, we had Jason Tyner pick balls with the best of them in center, and we had Little Nicky Punto dealing tiny death blows to cap it all off.

Today's game seemed to cap the whole thing off so beautifully. We all would have been happy getting out of there with 2-3—a 4-2 road trip after winning about 5 games total on the road this season. Monday and Tuesday, those were our games to win.

But no one told the Twins. In the first inning, Punto extended his hitting streak to a not-so-tiny 18 games, then Cuddy went Boom. And Mark Buerhle's soulless little face just sort of collapsed when that ball went out and it was so so pretty. Silva faltered in the next inning, Castillo blew a play and suddenly there were runners on first and third and no outs. But Silva got out of it, Castillo redeemed himself with a triple, the Doctor performed some emergency surgery, and the Twins were up 3-0 in the 4th.

Well, Silva's luck was short lived. Jermaine Dye went yard, AJ scooted around the bases, and by the time the 4th ended (which took at least a year) thanks to Castillo the score was tied.

It's okay, we can lose this one, 2 out of 3 would be great, it would be really—

Hey, here's a tip: You do not, in general, walk Michael Cuddyer to pitch to Justin Morneau, because it makes him very very angry. Only he's a Canadian so he does not express his anger by screaming or swearing or kicking the crap out of a Gatorade bucket, no, he expresses his anger by driving in runs. But say he's not done with his anger yet, say he's got a little more to work out, say his team has just surrendered a three run lead and he's got NBP on the bases—well, he deals with it by hitting the ball many many moose antlers away. And who is to say that's not healthy?

I think it is. At the very least, it was a series to remember.

BatNotes: Dick N' Bert suggested everyone give the Twins a warm welcome on Friday. Batgirl says give 'em a warm welcome all weekend. Go to the Dome as much as you can this series and thank the boys for being so damned fun to watch.

Twins Unplugged at Champps Minnetonka tonight with Cuddyer, Rincon, and Jason Renyt Tyner. BG can't go, so someone send her a full report.

Batgirl is extending the JOE MAUER SIDEBURN CONTEST until SUNDAY. Entries are due to Batgirl SUNDAY at 10pm.

Monstrous

Twins at Chicago. Twins 4, Bitch Sox 3

Name This Beast.

Kicking Some Ceryneian Hind

Twins at Chicago. Twins 7, Bitch Sox 4.

About two weeks ago, Batgirl was going to post something about this whole Twins-win-all-the-time thing and how we should just enjoy it for what it is and not get too caught up in scoreboard watching, because it was going to be a Herculean task to overcome those ahead of us, and while we may have Curly Haired Canadians and Chairmanesque Catchers and Tiny Super Heroes, we suffer a distinct lack of Herculeses. Or is it Herculi? Whichever. The point is Hercules was given twelve Labors by the king of Argos, acting on behalf of Hera--who was not so crazy about Hercules being alive, seeing as how he was her husband's son with another woman and she was not, as a rule, so fond of that—and these Labors were so deadly, so impossible, that he was supposed to bite it during one of them (I mean you try capturing the Erymanthian Boar!). Hercules made it through all twelve, but you may notice none of these labors was getting back into the playoff race in the AL Central. (Especially when you'd been playing like Ceryneian Hind.)

And—Batgirl was going to say—maybe that's okay. Maybe we should just enjoy winning for its own sake, because this team is more fun to watch than the Twins have been in almost two years, and let's face it: winning nine out of every ten games is fun. You heard it here first.

And—Batgirl was going to say—while she would much prefer to be in a race (she's not going to pull a Mark "I'd rather go home a week early" Buehrle,") there is something nice about just being able to enjoy all the relentless winning without the stress of scoreboard watching. Because stress is bad; it leads to things like overeating and disease and split ends and high blood pressure and drinking and hangnails and twitching—don't forget the twitching—and DEATH, and who needs it, I say? Let's just enjoy watching the team and not worry too much about the postseason, at least until 2007.

And, so, Batgirl was going to say all of this, and it might have sounded good at the time, but she was full of Cretan Bull. Because the Twins are two games back in the wild card race now—and I think it's fairly safe to say that that counts as officially In It.

I'm not saying Hercules wouldn't still be a little intimidated. The Bitch Sox aren't going to sit quietly and watch their lead evaporate, and George Steinbrenner can (and always does) manage to buy enough wins at the end of the season to get in the playoffs somehow. But, you know, tonight as Cuddles and the Doctor went Boom! Boom! to give the Twins the lead, as Radke set them down in the sixth, as Chairman Mauer strode up to the plate and said, "The people need me now," it felt a little like Hercules dumping the rabid Cerberus at the feet of the king of Argos, and saying "Take that, bitch." And the king gets all scared and says, "Please, please, please Hercules, take that monster away from me!" And Hercules says, "But you asked for it," and he says, "Hera made me do it," and Hercules says, "are you going to be nice to me now?" and the king says, "I promise!" and Hercules says, "Because I've got Francisco Liriano in the next room, and I'm not afraid to use him," and then the king starts crying and Hera starts crying too and George Steinbrenner starts crying and it is beautiful.

BatNote: Batgirl has already received several entries for the JOE MAUER SIDEBURN CONTEST. Are you growing your sideburns? Remember, winners will be chosen in TWO categories—Real Sideburns and Creative Expression. Entries are due to Batgirl by July 28, that's FRIDAY.

The Neshek Shuffle: A Reenactment

Twins at Cleveland. Weekend Round-up.
Friday. Twins 14, Indigenous Peoples 6.
Saturday. IPs 11, Twins 0.
Sunday. Twins 3, IPs 1.

It hasn't taken long for Pat Neshek to become something of a folk hero around Twins Territory. How can you not love a guy who has his own blog? (Because blogging, as we know, is the key to lovability.) Whenever he gets interviewed, he acts roughly as excited to be in the bigs as your average 11 year old Little League star, with about the same amout of voice cracking. And he's got the most crazy-ass delivery Batgirl has ever seen. It's sort of like an epileptic trying to do the Robot--except that robot sure can pitch. Below, for your edification: Neshek's delivery, a reenactment. Kids, for god's sakes, don't try this at home.

With boyish good looks that belie his gee whiz charm, Neshek surveys the batter.

As if offering a last prayer to the baseball gods, Neshek holds his glove out to the batter and bows.



He then yanks the ball back and, while jerking it up and down, bobs up and down a few times as if readying his entry for the 2006 Twins Mime Competition: "Boy, Who Left That Banana Peel Right There?" I think he'll win!



When will he release the ball? No one knows!



Oh, there it goes! Wheeee!



Neshek freezes, using the force of his will to urge the ball over the plate.



Then, as the ball approaches the plate, he begins to wave his pitching arm in the air until--



--he ends in the "Neshek Salute!" raising his hand to the ball to thank it for all it has done for him and wish it well on its travels, wherever they may take it. Good-bye ball! I'll miss you! Adieu! Adieu!



As the ball lands in Mike Redmond's mitt, the batter's face registers confusion, then rage, then something very like arousal.

The RD Report: Twins 14, Cleveland 6, Jason Tyner discovers his identity

Since joining the Twins eight games ago, Jason Renyt Tyner has been trying to figure out his role. It would be easy to stand atop the dugout and announce to all who'd listen, "I am Jason Renyt Tyner and I am a good-luck charm. This team has not known defeat since I joined its ranks."

And he would be correct, for the Twins have gone 8-0 since Jason Renyt Tyner joined the Twins during their week of the injured outfielders. He was the first to come up, to be joined by Rondell White and Josh Rabe. And on his first night with the Twins, he got the game-winning single and felt the happy breath of his new teammates as they pounded his helmet and showed him all forms of man love.

But, still, as the hits and wins kept coming, Jason Renyt Tyner wondered, "How can I make them remember me after the novelty of my arrival has worn off? How can I be more than a man whose middle name is his last name in reverse?"

And Jason Rynet Tyner pondered. He saw hustle and determination wherever he looked, and understood that his hustle and determination was matched by other little Twins -- by Nicky Punto and Luis Castillo and Jason Bartlett, to name three. And he knew that he could not hit the ball as far as JustIncredible or as consistently as The Chairman or even with the sudden combination of power and hotness that is now Rondell White.

"How will they know me?" Jason Renyt Tyner asked himself as the team plane landed in Cleveland, and again as teammates stretched, dressed and touched their noses in preparation for the series opener. He was in the lineup again, batting eighth against the loathsome C.C. Sabathia.

And then, as he approached the plate in the second inning, he understood.

"No, I cannot hit as far as Morneau nor as well as Mauer," Jason Renyt Tyner told himself. "But I can hit it hard and short."

(This is backed up by statistics. In 863 major-league at-bats, Jason Renyt Tyner has 0 home runs. In other words, he trails Barry Bonds by 722 career home runs and Lew Ford by 28 -- and he is likely to catch neither.)

As he approached the plate, Jason Renyt Tyner looked the corpulent Captain Cheeseburger in the eye and in the gut. "Show me your best heater, fat ass," he drawled to himself, knowing full well that Texas Aggies don't cuss out loud.

And C.C. tried. It was a fastball.

And Jason Renyt Tyner swung, and drilled the ball toward Sabathia's big head. When C.C. raised his left arm in self-defense, the ball banged off his wrist and into center field for a base hit. Captain Cheeseburger waved away help and acted as if he was just fine, thank you.

But he wasn't. He didn't make it through the fourth, allowing eight runs on six hits and four walks and looking for all the world like he wanted to make a big hole -- a big, big hole -- in the pitcher's mound and jump in.

And Jason Renyt Tyner thought to himself, "I know what I am...

"I AM THE ASSASSIN."

But how could he convince others? In the third inning, he came to bat with the bases loaded. His brain was in overdrive.

"To be an assassin, I must know and show more than brute force," Jason Renyt Tyner thought.

So he hit a slow grounder toward third base, daring Aaron (BBB) Boone to throw home and start a double play.

Aaron (Bret Boone's Brother) Boooooooone booooooooted it, letting a run score and starting an 8-run inning, giving the Twins a lead that not even Carlos Silva could put asunder. (When Boone made a routine fielding play later in the game, he received derisive cheers from the Clevelanders. And then, after making a key out when Cleveland still had hopes of a rally, he held his head in his hands by home plate. Boone was psychological toast.)

As he stood at first base and listened to the crowd direct anger toward its third baseman, Jason Renyt Tyner thought to himself, "I AM THE ASSASSIN."

Then, later in the game, when Cleveland threatened a bit and more runs were needed, Jason Renyt Tyner came to the plate against Jason (No Relation) Davis, a journeyman of little repute who was called up from the minors this week.

"I will destroy this mediocrity," Jason Renyt Tyner said, approaching the plate, where he smacked a single off the reliever's body, a deft reminder of what he'd done to Captain Cheeseburger, and a blow that led to two runs that seemed needed at the time.

This time, brimming with confidence, he turned to the first-base coach, Jerry White, and said out loud, "I KNOW WHAT I AM NOW! I AM THE ASSASSIN!"

Jerry smiled and offered him a breath mint.

So on a night when Rondell had four (more) hits and four RBI ... and Chairman Mauer tripled, doubled and singled ... and Cuddy had three hits and four RBI ... and JustIncredible raised his average to .308 with two hits and two walks ... and Dennys (Grand Slam Breakfast) Reyes defeated Pronk in a key game of 1-on-1, it was Jason Renyt Tyner who left Jacobs Field with an identity.

Opponents beware, HE IS THE ASSASSIN!

The RD Report: Twins 6, T-Bayz Rayz 4

Before she headed out of town to her place-without-the-Internet, Batgirl slipped the key to the blog under the door and said, "If there's something to say, RD, say it."

RD has something to say: THERE'S A PENNANT RACE GOING ON!

Not to sound like the voice in the Twins Territory commercials, but it's time to put aside anything that could distract from the task at hand and pay close attention. It's time to bring your casual-fan friends into the fold, making sure they understand that the next couple of weeks has the potential to determine our state of mind for the next few months.

Make sure they know that JustIncredible hits lefties now and Little Nicky Punto is more than a Tiny Superhero novelty. Make sure they know that Johan has been Joined by nine others whose first name begins with J, and they need to start learning which Jason is which, and how to tell a Josh from a Jason on the basepaths.

Make sure they know we didn't really mean a lot of the grumpy things we said back in April and May and early June.

Damn, RD loves pennant races. Most of the time, he finds it maddening to have only the Internet as his baseball lifeline for no-TV day games. (He lobbied hard for the TV above his desk, you know.) But this afternoon, he was tapping away at the GameDay page, keeping up with the twists and turns of the series-sweeper against the C-Rayz Walz, er, T-Bayz Rayz. When he wandered around his office floor, he saw others doing the same thing, others who had to make split-second decisions about whether to hide the GameDay screen depending on who was walking behind them.

Of course, many of those who would rat out a GameDay user are the same people who huddled around the secret TV to watch the British Open.

We wondered aloud what was up with El Presidente's control, walking three batters in the inning when he teased the Rays by letting them have a 3-1 lead. And we imagined what the RBI-singles by The Chairman and Cuddy looked like, the ones that turned a 3-3 tie into a 5-3 lead.

And we wondered if we would see the words: "RONDELL WHITE HOMERS" pop up on our screens.

And we weren't being sarcastic.

And some of us e-mailed someone special when young Twitch 'n' Pitch (d/b/a in the American League as Pat Neshek) protected the lead by striking out the side in the seventh. That's when we knew it was game over, seven in a row and time to start thinking about Cleveland.

Ah, Cleveland, baseball's birthplace of the offensive mascot and a place where the Twins stumbled badly during the season's discouraging first week. Cleveland, though, has been impersonating the Kansas City Royals in recent weeks and it's time to storm into town and get some revenge, starting tomorrow night when the Twins get an encore with whiny, corpulent Captain Cheeseburger.

Three games in Cleveland, three in Chicago against the Bitch Sox and then home for three with the Tigers.

THERE'S A PENNANT RACE GOING ON!

Finish strong, Yung Joc

meet us at the Jake
it's goin down
meet us at the Cell
it's goin down
meet us at the Dome
it's goin down
anywhere you meet us guaranteed to go down

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
AN RD ADDENDUM: The other night, FSN put a mike on Little Nicky Punto and captured his chattering and grunting and everything else that's part of Nick at night at the Dome. While enjoying the show, the wonderful and talented Twins Goddess offered LNP some cautionary advice. Read it here.

The Adventures of Little Nicky Punto: Rondell White Edition

Tampa Bay at Twins. Twins 7, Devil Rays 2

Everyone knew there was something off about Rondell White this year. In addition to his epic craptitude at the plate, White just didn't seem to be the happy-go-lucky guy the Twins had heard about from his former teammates. Everyone quickly attributed his newfound interpersonal reticence to his troubles at the plate, but the more intuitive players couldn't help but think something was really wrong. "He just seems to be missing a piece of his heart," said Little Nicky Punto, shaking his head.

Try as he might, Punto could not get White to open up. "I'm fine," the slumping DH would mutter. "Nothing to see here." But with every protest, the diminutive utility infielder grew only more suspicious.

"He's just building walls," whispered Punto to Johan Santana.

"He is in construction?"

"No," said Punto. "I mean walls to hide his pain. I mean he's hiding something. I can tell. You know how some people are really smart about things like words and adding and stuff? Well, I've just always had a lot of emotional intelligence. And something is very wrong with Rondell White."

"I see," said Johan. "That is very interesting. I am sorry he is not in construction, as I am building a house for homeless puppies. It is very warm so I am going to take off my shirt. I hope I do not get too sweaty and sun-glistened."

Then, when White left to Cincinnati to get his arm looked at, Punto saw his chance. As soon as White's plane took off, the dwarfish infielder changed into his tiny hero garb and headed for Rondell's apartment to see what he could see. After looking to see that no one was there, he slid head-first under the door--because Little Nicky Punto, Tiny Superhero, can get into places other people cannot--and found himself inside his teammate's home.

"Let's see what I can see," Punto said to himself. He scampered all around the apartment looking for some sign of White's melancholy, but could see nothing unusual. Until he got into the bedroom.

The room was covered with snapshots of a happy-looking White from all over the world—Paris, Milan, Fort Collins, CO, and in all of these pictures White was not alone.

"I think that's a chinchilla!" Punto exclaimed. "He's clearly Rondell's bestest friend in the whole wide world! But where is he now?"

It did not take long to find out. In the back corner of the bedroom on a pedestal was a chinchilla-sized leopard print velvet pillow. And it was empty. And next to it lay a tear-stained note:

Rondell— I have Mr. Fuzzles. If you tell anyone, you'll regret it. If you come for him, I will make him into a thong. --CC

There was another stain on the note, too, and as Punto leaned forward he caught the unmistakable whiff of cheeseburger.

"That bastard!" exclaimed Punto. "No wonder Rondell has climbed new heights on Crap Mountain! CC Sabathia has his pet chinchilla!"

Well, Little Nicky Punto was not going to stand for this, and pretty soon he had mounted the nearest sparrow and set flight for Captain Cheeseburger's lair. Once there,, Punto caught a distinct whiff of cedar chips and headed right toward the smell. What he saw chilled him to his very tiny bones.

In a back room in the evil lair sat row after row of cages all filled with assorted small pets, each labeled with the name of a major leaguer. There was Pudge Rodriguez's Abyssinian guinea pig, Mike Sweeney's fat-tailed gerbil, Ryan Howard's spiny mouse, and the unmistakable stink of Eric Chavez's famous ferret Sancho Panza. And there, in small dark cage in the corner, was Mr. Fuzzles.

"Don't worry, Mr. Fuzzles!" said Punto. "Don't worry Sancho Panza! Don't worry Ryan Howard's spiny mouse, and Mike Sweeney's fat-tailed gerbil! I can get into places other people cannot!"

Soon, all of the small animals were free. Punto mounted Sancho Panza and led them all to freedom, but not before leaving CC Sabathia with something to remember him by in the form of ketchup-flavored laxative. And when Rondell White came back from his rehab assignment, he discovered a very special friend waiting in his locker.

"Mr. Fuzzles!" he gasped, eyes filling with tears. "But how…. But where?"

"I rescued him for you!" Punto exclaimed proudly. "Now you can stop sucking!"

And just like that, Little Nicky cracked the emotional walls Rondell White, and the walls came a-tumbling down. And White began to weep openly and cradle his friend to his chest.

"What about CC?" White whispered through his tears.

"Oh, he won't be bothering us for some time," said Punto with a happy smile.

"How do I ever thank you?"

"Oh, don't worry," said Punto. "If you just stop sucking it will be thanks enough."

And with that, the room filled with happy laughter—White's deep, rich bass and Punto's little squeaking chips. Or maybe that was the chinchilla. Who can say? All we know is that Rondell has his Mr. Fuzzles again, and that Johan Santana is somewhere shirtless and gleaming.

Please note: Batgirl will be out of town and--gasp--computerless until Saturday evening. Jeb will be BODSHC and should be accorded of all the honor and privileges therein.

Sounds of Hotness

Tampa Bay at Twins. Twins 8, Freakin' Devil Rays 1

Batgirl got home from the game tonight and turned on the BatTivo to review a few highlights—only to discover that during the broadcast FSN was featuring "The Sounds of Nick Punto," which she imagines is sort of like The Sounds of Blackness, except not at all. She is half tempted to watch the whole game again just to learn what, exactly, these sounds are—Batgirl imagines they go something like, "Bonzai" and "Wee wee wee!" and "Tiny Superhero Awayyyyy!" and, mostly, "Oof!" (This one after he belly flopped into third base on a triple--which looked totally cool, except maybe a wee painful. But it's nice to see he's not being, you know, too careful given he's hurting. I'm sure there are some Red Wings we haven't called up yet.)

Speaking of Red Wings, in that little video they show on the Jumbotron as they come to bat, new call-up Josh Broccoli Rabe looks roughly like he's going to pee his pants. You can sort of imagine the guy who filmed it hastily yesterday afternoon trying to coax him with things like, "Can we try it next time with just a little less abject terror?…No? Okay. Just keep on with what you're doing, then."

And Rabe's first couple of MLB at bats did not, perhaps go as planned. It took poor Rondell White all season to figure out how to get on base—and tonight he had a single and a walk in his first two at bats, each wiped out by a lline-out double play--the first from Rabe, the second Tyner. One imagines there were some "Sounds of Rondell White" after the second one. But Rabe did get his first MLB hit tonight, and Rondell White was 2-3 with a walk, and Little Nicky Punto and Castillo extended their hitting streaks, Punto had 3 RBIs, Mauer went 2-4, and Morneau went BOOM, and oh—there was a pitcher, too….who was it again?

Oh, that was Francisco Liriano, Rookie of the Year and your 2006 Cy Young award winner. A few Liriano starts ago, Goober called and left a message for Batgirl that went something like this: "You know, the other teams just wish they had a pitcher like Johan Santana. They're so jealous of us because we have him and they don't. Well, guess what…. We copied him."

One can only imagine that that bowel-loosening look of fear on Josh Rabe's face was mirrored by each Devil Ray batter as he came to bat against Cisco today. The Kid retired the first nine, then ten in a row, struck out seven, allowed two hits, and put his ERA nicely back below 2. He would have gotten a shutout had not Terry Tiffee, at the very moment a low throw came his way, suddenly realized, "Holy God, I have twins!" Can you blame him? Imagine the "Sounds of Tiffee" coming out of that house.

Batgirl is just so damned happy right now. Maybe a little bewildered—how do you lose three outfielders in one weekend and still win five in a row? How is it that we're suddenly so good? How is it that our offensive heroes are Little Nicky Punto, Jason Tyner, yes, even Rondell White? How is it that we ever got Francisco Liriano in the first place?

It is not a Batgirl's place to question, merely to cheer as Little Nicky Punto rounds the bases and cries wee, wee, wee all the way home.

BatNotes: The Dome is sponsoring Joe Mauer Sideburn Night with paste-on sideburns. This is, of course, not nearly as cool as Batgirl's Joe Mauer Sideburn Contest.

We Were Outfielders Once, And Young

Cleveland Indigenous Peoples at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 3, IP 2 (10 innings).
Saturday. Twins 6, IP 2.
Sunday. Twins 5, IP 2.

When Josh "Broccoli"* Rabe got the call that he was coming up to the bigs, you can forgive him if he looked to the heavens and screamed, "Nooooooooo!" Because there is something rotten in the Twins clubhouse and I don’t mean Lew Ford's flip flops. Outfielders are dropping left, right, and center—we lost three and a half this series (the bottom half of Jason Kubel) and Michael Cuddyer's looking a little jumpy. Terry Ryan has hired two full time body guards for Little Nicky Punto, Tiny Centerfielder, and Jason Tyner played the games this weekend like a man just trying to make his mark before he meets his maker.

We're still alive, man!

The rest of the Twins rallied the best they could, with Radke and Silva partying like it was 2005 (Now with more run support!), even keeping the Travishafner/Pronkzilla from doing any major damage, although BG did assume the crash position every time he came up. LNP ran the bases yesterday like there was someone chasing him with a knife and fork and Dr. Morneau showed Captain Cheeseburger that revenge is a dish best served by hitting the crap out of the ball. Then today Castillo discovered a fabulous way to get around the bases without pain, Cuddy hit his first homer in 81 at bats, and Rondell White—well, I don't know how to say this, really, so I'll just out with it—hit a homerun. And boy, were the Twins happy, especially LNP who could finally add White to his Comparative Butt Chart.

Let's see….firm, but not as firm as Torii's, with the pleasing smoothness of Morneau's….

It was a fun weekend to watch baseball, and whether fans packed the Metrodome because of the Twins hot play or because it was about 800 degrees Farenheit (the temperature at which blogs burn) here in Twins Territory is hard to say. On Saturday, Batgirl was musing that an indoor stadium might not be such a bad thing, if you really sat down and thought about it, but Batling Kurtis quickly pointed out that if CC Sabathia had to pitch in that heat he wouldn't last two innings. It was an excellent point.

Better yet, we got to see two, count 'em, two temper tantrums by the Indians—one was Mr. Sabathia after Morneau went very, very yard on him. He called out the whole grounds crew to come out and fix some groove on the mound, because clearly the groove gave up the dinger and it must die. Then after he flied out to end the game tonight, Aaron Boone went into the dugout and threw Gatorade cups all over the place, which is just so classy, because the cups were evil and made him fly out and must die. Batgirl sincerely hopes he cleaned them up afterwards.

So, to sum up: Twins Outfielders Down: 3.5; Temper Tantrums by Indians: 2; RBIs by Jason Tyner: 5; RBIs by Travis "Crash Position" Hafner : 1; Three-HR Games by Casey Blake: 0; Cheesebugers Eaten: 84; Gardy Ejections: 1; Earned Runs Allowed: 6; Bitches Sat Down: 26; Total Temperature : 2400; Victories : 3; Happy Batgirls : 1.

BatNote 1: Do not forget, the Joe Mauer Sideburn Contest is in full swing. The JMSCSHC has decided there will be winners in TWO categories: Actual Sideburns and Creative Expression. Photos are due to Batgirl July 28th. Start growing!

BatNote 2: Batgirl made the mistake of trying to code after midnight, and messed up the whole first graph of Thursday night's entry. As a result, the link to the very cool Mother Bear Project got obscured, not to mention a picture of a handknit men's thong.

*nickname courtesy of Twink.

Stitch and Pitch

Cleveland at Twins. Indians 6, Twins 4.

It was knitting night at the Metrodome, and all the Twins gathered early to start work on their projects. Everyone had a different one. There was Juan Rincon with his reindeer sweater, Justin Morneau making a Canadian flag, Michael Cuddyer a tea cozy, Lew Ford his Dr. Who scarf. Matt Guerrier, finally able to knit again after weeks on the knitter's DL, is back working on some cotton manpris, and Johan Santana took a break from his relentless knitting of bears for the Mother Bear Project to make a zebra striped thong, which he worked on all game.

There was, as often happens when groups of knitters gather, some taunting. Most of it was in good fun, but some of it cut a little deep. When Torii Hunter questioned Justin Morneau's intarsia skills, Morneau muttered, "Whatever. You don't know your moss stitch from your ass stitch." Them, of course, are fighting words. Meanwhile Juan Rincon was happily knitting away at when Carlos Silva took one look and shook his head.
"Juanie, ponchos are so five minutes ago."
Rincon sighed. "Carlos, why are you such a slave to fashion? I like ponchos. They combine the very best qualities of a sweater and a blanket in one wearable garment. Sometimes I like to sit around my house wearing just a poncho. It feels so good to feel the breeze through my armpits and also my pee pee while my torso is snug and warm."
"Hey," said Little Nicky Punto, who appeared in front of the pair carrying two bulky packages in his arms. "Have you seen Cisco?"
"No," said Silva.
"Probably still waiting for Ozzie to put him in the game," said Rincon.
"Oh," said Punto. "Well, tell me when he gets here. Oh! Gardy's in his office!"
And with that, Punto took off.
A few minutes later, Gardy appeared in the clubhouse wearing an outfit that was decidedly not MLB-standard.

Silence spread over the clubhouse. One beat. Two. Three. Finally, Torii Hunter's voice broke through.
"What the hell is that?"
Gardy narrowed his eyes. "Little Nicky Punto made it for me. I think it's nice. He's got spunk, that LNP!"
Just then, Francisco Liriano walked through the door. Little Nicky Punto jumped up, ran to the pitcher, and slid head first into his feet. "I made you a present!" he exclaimed, getting up and handing Cisco a package.
"Thank you, Little Nicky Punto," said Francisco, looking genuinely moved, or at least very very tired. But when he opened the package, his face changed into puzzlement.
"I thought you could wear it today," said LNP.
"But…." said Cisco. "I have to pitch. I cannot wear your ridiculous scarf and hat."
"Why not?"
"The yarn is too thick."
"It's very breathable."
"It does not even match."
"Who cares? It’s made with love!"
"But I do not wear scarves and hats. I pitch shut outs and strike people out and make them question their self-worth."
"Are you saying—" Punto's eyes filled with tears—"you don't want to wear my scarf and hat?"
And Punto's eyes grew so round and sad, and Liriano was taken back to his first knitting project, when he handed a pair of fun fur gauchos to his sweet mother who took one look and said, "I hate gauchos!" and his heart broke into tiny little pieces and since then he has had to work out his feelings of anger and regret and shame by making opposing batters feel very very bad about themselves. And Liriano looked down at the diminutive infielder and forced a smile on his face.
"I'll wear your hat and scarf Little Nicky Punto," said Liriano. "I'll wear it proudly!"

"Oh, yay!" said LNP.
"But if it interferes with my pitching, I will have to have you eaten."
"Deal!"
"Deal."

Greenies Are Bad.

Twins at Texas. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Rangers 9, Twins 4.
Saturday. Twins 4, Rangers 0.
Sunday. Rangers 5, Twins 2.

Batgirl and Jeb went to see Superman Returns on Saturday, and I do not think it will spoil anything to say there is some kryptonite used in the course of the moving picture. Kryptonite is basically a chunk of Superman's home world that landed on Earth after the planet went all Alderaan and it's super deadly to Superman. (Can anyone shed any light on how this is? Because having your own world be toxic to you seems like particularly bad planning to BG. Unless it's like that old Todd Haynes/Julianne Moore movie where she ends up dressed all in white surgical clothes living in some bubble in Arkansas or Arizona or, you know, France. But that doesn't seem quite right.)

Anyway, the Kryptonite is all part of Lex Luthor's diabolical plan to—well, BG's still not so sure but basically the aftereffects look a lot like the ones of global warming in Al Gore's PowerPoint presentation. "Superman will never let you [DO WHATEVER IT IS THAT YOUR EVIL PLAN IS]," says Lois Lane. "But he's not counting on this!" says Lex Luthor, pulling out a tube of the green stuff. "Where did you get that, you bald-headed bitch monkey?" demands Lois. "Don't worry your pretty little head about that," says Luthor. "Don't patronize me!" says Lois. "Patronize this!" says Luthor.

It went something like that, anyway. The point is, there's Kryptonite, Lex Luthor's a bastard, and Kate Bosworth doesn't make a very good Lois Lane but any movie that has Parker Posey in it is okay with Batgirl. And eventually, as happens, Superman stumbles upon Luthor and said diabolical plan and pretty soon our guy is on the wrong end of a Kryptonite popsicle stick. This is when things start to look pretty bad for the Man of Steel and he begins to roll around and around and Luthor's thugs start kicking the crap out of him. And it's horrible to watch, truly painful, because—that's Superman! Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! He fights for truth and justice and he's a huge superhero and you're not supposed to kick him.

Well, I think you know where I'm going with this. Watching Superman get beat-up by a bunch of deadbeats is roughly how it feels to watch Johan Santana give up two home runs in one game. That's just not supposed to happen. And even if someone did lash a bunch of Kryptonite to him (Um….exploded Venezuelan rock?) you should, Mr. Texas Ranger, have a little more respect.

The thing about Superman stories, though, is that truth and justice always prevails (unless it's Superman 3 or 4, in which case crap prevails) and you know eventually the guy's going to be okay and the dudes that kicked him are going to be extremely sorry, and if Superman doesn't get you, will, and so we must comfort ourselves that somehow, someway these guys will get theirs, and either end up encased in the earth or orbiting the planet forever trapped in a big piece of space plexiglass.

(And if you have no idea what BG's talking about, get thee to a video store, for god's sakes, and while you're at it, rent The Karate Kid, because you all are making Batgirl feel very, very old.)
And as painful as it is to watch, we've seen this story enough to know we just have to bide our time until Superman returns.

BatNote: A long All-Star break ahead of us. May BG suggest you pass it by playing Kurtis' Lew Ford's Astral Battles! and also taking NYBrian's Which Twins Pitcher Are You Quiz?

The Hapless Revenge of the Lady Skimmingtons

Twins at Kansas City. Royals 6, Twins 3.

The Shire of Kauffman was hardly the most distinguished in the land; in fact after a prosperous beginning several years ago it had become the lamest shire in all of the kingdom. Every year the landed gentry of Kaufman tried to improve their lot, even convincing other noblemen from around the land to move to the lowly fiefdom with promises of long term contracts and cries of, "All we need is a veteran presence!"

Lately, though, things had begun to turn around for Kauffmanshire, thanks largely to interleague play, not to mention the pitching of one Lord Duckworth who had won three straight. But Lord Duckworth was not very popular among the peasants of neighboring HumpDomeShire, as his knights tended to steal their women and fondle their chickens.

"We must do something about the nefarious Lord Duckworth," said local blacksmith Wee Nicholas Punto.

"We must challenge him to some kind of competitive activity!" exclaimed Michael Cuddyer.

"But what?" asked Torrance Hunter. "Lord Duckworth is master of all Kauffmanshire! He can get all the landed gentry to do battle with us!"

"Yeah, but they suck," said Punto.

"Excellent point, my good man. Nonetheless, what can we, a misfit ragtag band of peasants and tradesmen and Triple A refugees, do against a man like Lord Duckworth?"

Well, after some discussion it was determined that the poor of HumpDomeShire would challenge Lord Duckworth and the likes of Sir Mientkiewicz and Sir Grudzielanek to a game of chickball (which, of course, had derived from the Ancient Greek game of bak ball) which involved players trying to hit a egg as far as they could and run quickly from chicken to chicken. The team with the most chickens at the end of the game won. (You sort of had to see it.)

"Chickball it is!" cried Punto.

"We'll show that Lord Duckworth!" cried Lewis Ford.

"For our women!" shouted Cuddyer.

"For our chickens!" cried Punto.

When Lord Duckworth heard of the peasants' challenge, he quacked with laughter. "This ragtag misfit band of peasants and tradesmen and refugees from the Lost Land of Triple A thinks they can take on Lord Duckworth? Why, they are nothing but a band of Lady Skimmingtons!"

Well, when the match began, Lord Duckworth made quick work of the HumpDomers, making even hot young groomsman Joseph Mauer ground weakly to second chicken. Meanwhile, among the chickball players, the mood was growing a little testy, and from each dugout the insults began to fly.

"Fie upon thee, you beslubbering, beef-witted bum-bailey!" shouted town doctor Justin Morneau.

"Forsooth say I, you yeasty, elf-skinned footlicker!" called back Sir DeJesus.

"Bathe thyself, thou mewling Bitch Sox loving pignut!" screamed rockpicker Bart Bartlett.

Young Bartlett proved to be able to put his leather where his mouth is, showing all of HumpDome his fine glovework and excellent leadership qualities. Meanwhile, young Mauer proved the finest chickball player in all the land when he golfed an egg in the dirt resulting in two chickens for the peasants. And for a time it looked as if these ragtag bunch of misfitters might prevail. And Lord Duckworth was quickly sent to the bathing pit.

"Yay!" said the women.

"Yay!" said the chickens.

But the exuberance of the Humpdomers quickly got away from them and egg hurler Jesse Crain kept putting landed gentry on chicken, and soon all the people of Kauffmanshire won a dozen free donuts. The game fell apart when HumpDome sheepherder Young John Rincon was temporarily struck with a vision of the future. "Someday," he said, "there will be a game such as this, but instead of chickball it will be called Crazy Pepe's Chug and Toss and it will be a beautiful game and it will go something like this..."

Well, the rest is Humpdomeshire history, and when notified of the error, Rincon was heard to say, "No one wants to be in my pantaloons right now."

After the game, the tradespeople and peasants and refugees left a little older, a little wiser, and all out of chickens. As for the chickens, as they left in the hands of various very happy looking Kauffmanshire knights, one was heard to mutter under his breath, "I hate you guys."

BatNote: Liriano leads the whole "Final Vote" boondoggle by a "slim" margin over AJ. You can bet all of Bitch Soxia will be trying to change that today. (EDIT: And they have, Cisco is now in second place). So right now, go vote for Cisco ten times, then vote again ten more at lunch. Tell your boss Batgirl said so. For Cisco!

BatNote 2: A while ago, Batgirl posted about The Portage Grand Slam Gala at the June 17th game. The Portage is a St. Paul organization devoted to helping at risk girls. Now, the Portage is offering a 2 for 1 ticket deal to the gala. For $45 you get two lower reserve tickets to the July 17th game, plus dinner before the game, a chance to meet Tony Oliva, and you're also entered in a drawing to throw out the first pitch at a future game, not to mention supporting a worthy cause by doing what you’d do anyway—going to see the Twins. For more information, please see The Portage Grand Slam Gala.

M&M Pep Talk

LA at Twins. Twins 6, Dodgers 3.

On the Metrodome Plaza before the game, best friends Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau sat on a bench eating grilled corn and talking intently.

"Joe, man," said Morneau to his friend. "You have an attitude problem."

"Huh?"

"I mean, you don't have enough of an attitude. You're third in All-Star voting but you’d be first if you just acted the part a bit. You can’t just get national headlines by being good, you know. You've got to be a showman."

"Oh, well, if I make the All-Star team, it be will a real honor, but I can't really control that, I mean—"

"Oh, cut the crap, Joe. You are so hot right now."

"No, man, I'm just seeing the ball really well. It's a pleasure to help the team."

"Don't give me that Minnesotan crap, Joe. Say it. 'I'm hot.'"

Mauer sighed. "Justin, I'm not going to—"

"And it's not just hot, like, baseball hot. You're hot hot, dude. Come on, it's not enough to wear those sideburns, you've got to own them!"

At that point, Juan Rincon and Carlos Silva walked by. "Hey guys!" called Mauer with a wave. But the two were so deep in conversation they didn't notice him.

"Man, I sure am tired from staying up all night making those fireman outfits!" Silva said, his voice carrying down the plaza.

"That's right," replied Rincon. "I haven't seen such balls to the wall sewing* since the night before Little Nicky Punto's Sondheim revue."

And with that, the pitchers disappeared from view. Mauer turned to his friend, puzzled. "What was that about?"

"Dunno," shrugged Morneau. "Anyway, Joe, the point is you're one hot dude. I mean, here—" he pulled a compact out from his man-bag and opened it. "Look at yourself."

Frowning, Mauer studied his image. And then slowly, something came over him. He drew himself up and smiled at his friend.

"You know what?" he exclaimed. "I am hot!"

"That's right, Joe."

"I'm batting .932. I'm dating a former Miss USA. I'm the exclusive local spokesperson for the excellent Grip N' Go brand from Land o' Lakes."

"Damn straight."

"It's hip because it’s portable!"

"Sing it, Joe."

"I am hot!"

"That's right. There's nothing hotter than you! Name one thing hotter than you!…Hey, what’s that siren?"

From off in the distance, a siren came wailing. As the ballplayers listened the sound came closer and closer. And then from around the corner appeared a big yellow fire truck.

"What the—"

The truck pulled up in front of the two friends, and Johan Santana climbed out.

"Buenos dias, my friends," said Santana. "This is for my home village. They cannot afford a fire truck. I decided to get them a fire truck because I am Johan Santana. Now I am going to take this fire truck to the parking lot and give it a good washing. I hope that I do not get too soapy and wet."

And with that, Johan climbed back into the truck and drove off.

Mauer and Morneau sat silently for awhile as the bright yellow truck and shirtless Cy Young award winner disappeared down 6th street. With tight lips, Mauer folded up the compact mirror and put it back in the man purse. Then, Morneau sighed. "Okay," he said. "Well…that was pretty hot."

*Props to Ysolla for this term.

Excellence, a Love Story

LA at Twins. Twins 9, Dodgers 2.

In the 6th inning of tonight's game, Joe Mauer hit a single. The hit didn't do anything special, just moved LNP to third—but as one the Metrodome crowd got to their feet to applaud. The FSN cameras caught the faces of some of the fans—eyes full of wonder and delight, shaking their heads and muttering in awe to each other. You could hear the echoes from the future, I saw Joe Mauer when he was just 23, they will say to their kids. He went 5 for 5 against the Dodgers, and it was incredible… That's what the crowd was applauding on Mauer's fourth hit of the night and eighth of the series—the sense of greatness, the sense of history.

Upon watching the crowd's reaction, DickN'Bert started talking about seeing Rod Carew play—BG wasn't really sentient then, but she imagines it was something like this, some combination of joy and wonder, some electricity, some feeling that every beautiful hit resonates through baseball's past and its future.

Maybe Goober can tell us.

A player like Joe Mauer comes around once a decade, maybe two. The last truly great player we had—among plenty of very very good ones (And I'm not counting Winfield and Molitor who came to us when they had no futures on which to dream)—was Kirby Puckett. I remember when he went 11 for 12 against Milwaukee we tell our kids. It was incredible...

Yes, a player touched with greatness comes along once a decade. Unless, for some reason, you get three of them at once. There's Johan Santana, from whom greatness exudes from each pitch (and butt wiggle.) And when he doesn’t win the Cy Young, it will be because he loses it to the number 2 guy in the rotation, the Kid—his career is so young but with each strikeout he makes you stand up, eyes full of wonder and delight. Unless, of course, you're facing him, and then you stare helplessly off into the distance, wondering how just baseball gods could allow you to look like such a foolio, and you slink into the dugout muttering to yourself and questioning your whole belief system and your career choice and your parentage and possibly your sexuality because frankly, as embarrassing as it was, it was mad hot.

How many Hall of Famers do we have on this team? We can't say, of course, but we hear the echoes. Mauer. Liriano. Santana. If the Twins end up being the greatest third place team in history this season, we'll still be blessed, because we got to watch them play.

The Invisible Hand

LA Dodgers at Twins. Twins 8, Dodgers 2.

BatMom called during the eighth inning of tonight's game, sometime after the Twins scored their eighth run, to ask, "Batgirl, why are the Twins so good now?"

"I don't know," Batgirl said.

"Because they were so bad before," she continued. "I mean they were really really bad."

"I know," said Batgirl.

"And now they're good. Really really good."

"I know," said Batgirl.

"And that Joe Mauer!," she said, pausing to toke up on some catnip. "He really can hit!"

"Yes."

"But he could hit before! And we sucked!"

You'll have to excuse BatMom, she gets a little saucy on catnip. But the point remains—the same conversation is happening between moms and daughters all over Twins territory, and I don't know if any of them have come to satisfactory resolutions. Theories abound, of course—from the resurgence of the pitching staff to the Revenge of the Red Wings to the majestical miraculous medical ministrations of Dr. Morneau—but Batgirl has a different theory:

We are winning because Joe Morgan is a giant boob.

Hear me out, here. Obviously no one can predict what the baseball gods will do and we must not try to comprehend their ways, for it is blasphemous for our puny little minds to even attempt to understand them. They are divine, unfathomable, impenetrable, and we are but their bitch monkeys.

But sometimes, it's all too obvious.

BG and Jeb watched the ESPN broadcast of the Red Sox game two weeks ago and, of course, the whole thing made Batgirl want to tear out her soul and shred it to bits. The Batbaby can provide better commentary just by pooping. Among the things we learned from Mr. Morgan:

1) He totally knew releasing David Ortiz was a big mistake and Ortiz was going to be as good as he was. (Never mind that no one actually released him.) He could just tell by watching him in batting practice that he was going to be amazing. TR made a huge mistake and everyone knew it at the time; just because TR tried to trade him and no one else wanted him doesn't mean other GMs didn't realize Ortiz's potential, too—they just didn't want to give anyone up for him.

2) The Twins called up Jason Bartlett from Triple A because they really liked his speed. Now, this may be true, but it's sort of like saying the Revolutionary War started because some Bostonians spilled their tea.

3) And finally: there are three teams in contention in the AL Central—El Tigres, the Bitch Sox, and Cleveland. Sure, it would be a long road for Cleveland to climb, but they could still do it. Now, the Twins, you see, the Twins are out of it, because it's not unimaginable to pass two teams, but three? Inconceivable! Never mind that the Twins were one half game back at the time and could have passed them (and probably did) the next #$?&@! day. No, Cleveland's--totally in this thing. The Twins? Totally out of it.

And that's what did it.

Holy crap, did you hear that? asked baseball god #1.

I told you to put that guy on mute said #2.

That's the stupidest #$%$#%^ thing I've ever heard, said #1.

Well what do you expect? asked #2.

It's like he's never actually watched baseball! protested #1.

It's like he has crap for a brain agreed #2

Well, let's show this assweed.

The Twins have won all but one game since then, and have gained absolutely no ground in the division. They have, however, completed the absolutely miraculous task of vaulting a whole half game over Cleveland and are now 6.5 games on top of them. It's all very pleasurable for those of us who get to watch—or it will be until the end of the year when the Twins accept their wild card berth and Joe Morgan smiles his ass smile and says, "I knew they could do it."

Dusted.

Chicago Cubs at Twins. Weekend Round-Up. Sweeeep.
Friday. Twins 7, Cubs 2.
Saturday. Twins 3, Cubs 0.
Sunday. Twins 8, Cubs 1.

I don't want to take anything away from the Twins this weekend. Cynics might say there's nothing impressive about sweeping a team as hapless as these Chicago Cubs, but anyone who's paid attention to the Twins over the last year knows we could be held scoreless by a bunch of monkeys playing Wiffle Ball. And the fact is, this whole streak of awesomeness started against the Boston Red Sox, who, last time Batgirl checked, were Good at Baseball. And if you look back over the course of our season you might find us decidedly not sweeping teams of the Cubs' caliber. (Or you know, on second thought, maybe you shouldn't look back. We're having such a nice time here, and it's Monday morning and it's Freedom Week and everything, why hurt ourselves so?) And what we had here was good defense, timely hitting, great pitching, and big ol' boom boom sticks. Friday was Justin "is Good" Morneau and Johan Santana combining for another Canezuela gem, on Saturday the Rochester Red Wings showed rookies are doing it for themselves, and on Sunday Bradke and just about all of the offense combined to turn the Cubbies into Batgirl's 10th grade volleyball team, minus the spunk and Bangles tapes. It is, after all, just another manic Monday.

The Twins tried to put an end to the Cubbies' suffering but there was only so much they could do. The North Siders kept finding new and creative ways to screw up—like Todd Walker and Phil Nevin sipping tea and munching on cucumber sandwiches as a ball rolled slowly between them—and no matter how hard the Twins tried, they couldn't get out. Torii Hunter did his best to hit into a double play with RISP but ended up scoring a run anyway. "I did my best, man," he would say regretfully after the game. "They just suck really, really hard." Little Nicky Punto felt so bad about it that after scoring he paused to mount catcher Henry "Cranko" Blanco comfortingly. (Goober: See, that's a difference between playing the Bitch Sox and the Cubs. When you score on the Bitch Sox you try to take their catcher's heads off, when you score on the Baby Bears you take the chance to have a nice snuggle.)

Watching Dusty Baker's face during the three game series was rather like reading "De Profundis," but without the profundity. Each time they cut to him, the mélange of emotions on his face was slightly different—here disappointment tinged with frustration, here anger with a note of agony, here dismay with a soupcon of psychosis. You got the impression the FSN director's default was to cut to Baker on every play given it was more likely his team would do something painful. It was like a three-day long Tums commercial (but without the profundity.)

Batgirl's not making fun of the Cubs by any means. She knows suffering. She knows what it is to scream things at the TV like "CALL FOR THE FRACKIN' BALL YOU NUMBNUT SHITBRAINS!" She knows what it is to tear the TV out of the wall and put her head through it. She knows the garment-rending and the eyeball gouging. We were there not so long ago. But the Twins have found their mojo, the future is bright, and BG's feeling so chipper she's going to challenge the Wiffle-Ball-playing-monkeys to a rematch. That's right. Next off day in Kenwood Park on BG's old t-ball field, we're going to do this thing. Oh, it's on, you bitch monkeys.

If I Could Turn Back Time

Twins at Houston. Francisco Liriano 4, Roger Clemens 2.

The Astros fans camped out for days trying to get tickets for the first show in the newly announced Roger Clemens Farewell Tour. Excitement hung in the air thick like full-fat mayonnaise, tinged with hope and longing and memory and the faint scent of stale brats.
"I can't believe we're going to get tickets," said one fan, just as the gates opened.
"Oh!" exclaimed another, "I hope he sings 'Believe!'"
"I was there when he retired last year," said a third. "It was amazing. You should have seen the costumes."
"It couldn't have been as good as the retirement tour of '04," said the first. "Now that was a tour! The laser light show afterwards was kickin'."
"I don't think any of this has really had anything on the retirement tour of '03, though," mused the second. "Now that was a tour! You know, I really thought that was going to be his last show!"
The other fans looked at him in surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah! Aren't I a dipshit?"
"Yeah!"
Meanwhile, inside the clubhouse, Clemens was preparing for tonight's performance, spreading Retin-A on his face, getting his plastic surgeon to add just a little more ass-skin to stretch out the area around his eyes, rubbing his arm with plants from the Genesis Planet, drinking shots of his special concoction of walnut oil and virgin blood with Ponce de Leon, and pulling the velvet curtains over that strange self-portrait that oddly seems to age more horribly with each passing day.
"I'm still beautiful," he whispered to himself.
"You're still beautiful," de Leon agreed. "Have some more walnut oil."
"ESPN is showing the game, right?"
"Right."
"All the networks are here, right?"
"Right."
"The house is packed, right?"
"Right."
"They think I can save them, right?"
"Right."
"Who's pitching for the other guys?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some kid," said deLeon. "I think you had 75 wins before he was born!"
"I—what?" Something flashed through Clemens' face which he quickly restrained, and behind the thick dusty velvet curtain another pustule appeared on the portrait's face. And then it was time. "I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Gammons," he shouted as he strode out onto the field.
Five innings later, Clemens returned to the clubhouse to shower and ready himself for the throngs of press waiting in air thick like mustard, tinged with anticipation and asskissing, while somewhere a game was still being played and a Kid who was born when Clemens had 75 wins showed those who still watched that the ingénue always prevails, especially when he has a kickass fastball. As he strode out to meet his press, a little kid wearing a Twins hat and Francisco Liriano shirt stumbled into his path.
"Wow," the boy said, eyes wide. "Roger Clemens! You used to be big!"
Clemens gasped, then drew himself up.
"I am big," he said grandiosely, "it's the ballparks that got small."

The Smartest Guys in Minute Maid Park

Twins at Houston. Crooked E's, 5; TC's, 3.

The argument rages on. Was last year's wild card run by the Astros the work of a plucky group of overachievers? Or was it the final pump-and-dump scheme by the masters of Enron Field? With inflated properties such as "the Killer Bees" -- a Fastow shell entity if I've ever heard of one -- and Minute Maid Park itself, it's hard to tell how seriously to take the Astros. But one thing is sure: when a check swing almost flies out of the park, anyone wishing to find the real Homerdome need only get on 35W and drive south.

We can't win them all. I know it's obvious but I'll say it again. We can't win them all. The game is just too weird for that. It all started very well, of course, with the Silvanator back to his Silvanating ways. The ball dove away from the batter's bats. Silva never was far from the strike zone. He wore his pants high and tight like he was starring in the "Chacarron" video. Like they were painted-on denim and he was the first kid in his school to buy acid-washed jeans. Tight and right. But there are just too many variables in baseball, too many unpredicatable moments, to win every game. Eight in a row will just have to do.

Speaking of variables, how 'bout that Kyle Lohse? Now, I've always felt a little bad for Kyle. Not that he hasn't brought it on himself. But for several years he seemed like a nice young man. Quiet. Sort of serious, in a California way. Like Johnny Depp trying to hide his Edward Scissorhands hands. Then the sucking time came. And let no one for whom the sucking time has not come cast aspersions on those for whom it has. Because who knows how you might react. Will it be with a wistful smile and reflections on the Great Wheel of Life? Or with a bat to Ron Gardenhire's door? Hard to know.

This was a winnable game. It never seemed more winnable than in the top of the seventh, when Carlos himself tagged a single to center to start the inning. Standing on first base, he seemed to say, "This isn't so hard. Look at me. El Chacarron stands at first victorious. He compels you to bring him home." And yet there he stood as Castillo and Punto flied out. Mauer walked and Silva -- looking slightly less hubristic -- moved to second. Cuddyer worked the count to 3-1 before poking the ball to the third baseman. El Chacarron stood at second, beached.

And that was that. The game was over, of course, from the second Kyle walked onto the field. The sucking followed him like a giant cloud; you could barely see him through the plumes of sucking. Viewers throughout the five state area were slapping the sides of their TVs trying to clear up the sucking on their sets. And the problem is especially bad in Houston -- a town that knows how to work with sucking. They know that if you paint lipstick on a pig, there are some who might say, "that's dang attractive pig. Turns out I enjoy seeing lipstick on a pig. Indeed, I might like to put the innovators who lipsticked that pig up on the front page of my magazine. And perhaps those very same innovators might like to contribute to my opera hall and planetarium."

It's just a game. And sometimes over the course of a long season, when you're playing in a bandbox, and the home team keeps smacking it into the wall like it's wallyball or something, you lose. And when you lose, you don't take a bat to Ron Gardenhire's door and you don't loaf while backing up home and you certainly don't funnel your losing into off-book partnerships. You take your lumps and come back to work tomorrow.

Kenny-boy knows that now. Maybe Kylie-boy will learn.

This entry composed by Goober, kindly subbing for BG. Thanks, Goober.

Pardon Me, But...

Twins at Houston. Twins 6, 'Stros 5 (10 innings).

Batgirl tries to be dignified. Staid. Even-keeled. She wants to set an example for the children—because really, all BG thinks about is the children—that life is full of ups and downs and it’s a long baseball season and you win some and you lose some and sometimes it rains and sometimes there's Carl Everett. But--GOOD GOD BATGIRL IS SO BLEEPIN' HAPPY RIGHT NOW!

I mean, BG was pretty happy on—oh—Friday when we'd won five straight and Silva and Radke had partied like it was 2005 and Jason Kubel was going Boom! Boom! Boom! and Jason Bartlett was, you know, there and did Batgirl mention the five straight? Now, we’ve been down that road before, of course, followed generally by losing six straight but nonetheless—oh, the happiness!

"It's just more fun like this," Batgirl and Jeb said solemnly to each other. "We'd rather lose with various youngins named Jason than be mediocre with middling veterans on the CIA most wanted list." And we'd win again and Batgirl and Jeb would nod solemnly again and say, "It's not that we're winning, per se, it's just so much fun to see those guys out there." And then we'd win again and BG and Jeb would say, "The point is we're looking at the future!"

Batgirl has actually been moved to tears twice during this streak of awesomeness—the first after Kubes hit his grand salami oh-so-many wins ago, and then tonight. The Twins had been losing 4-1 and Batgirl sighed to herself, "Self, it's okay, we have to lose sometime, and losing once every eight games is okay and Roy Oswalt is good at baseball." And then the seventh inning hit and the J-Men (which is like G-men, but stupid) each hit singles and then Tiffles pinch hit for Rad and Jeb said something disparaging and promptly apologized, for Tiffee got a RBI, then Castillo did, then Little Nicky Punto hitched up the green Speedo and hit a double to tie the game, and that's when Batgirl wept.

It was 4-4 then, and suddenly you just knew we were going to win. Because that's what the Minnesota Twins do, you know, they win baseball games. Especially on the road. Our first go ahead run was a rather adorable tribute to small ball—Castillo singling then stealing, LNP walking, and Chairman Mauer throwing himself towards first to avoid hitting into a double play to end the inning. A little Crazy Pepe on the part of the Stros, and the Twins had what would of course be the winning run.

Well, Joe Nathan's saved more games in the last few days then he has all season and that wears on a chap, it really does—he's used to saving a game and then sitting back in the bullpen for three or four weeks crocheting booties for Humane Society kitties, drinking Colt 45 out of a brown paper bag, and thinking what it would be like to be Vice President of a team that didn't suck. So you can't really blame him for blowing the save; he was probably just anxious about falling behind in his bootie-quotient.

And at that point the Houston Astros fans seemed to think they had hope, which is very sweet and all, but they did not know they lived on the Island of Dr. Morneau, where hope goes to die. "Small ball, my ass," said the Good Doctor. "Let's blow this popsicle stand." One pitch, one swing, one ball flying many many moose antlers away and that, my friends, was all she wrote. And the Twins had suddenly won eight straight and were a whole game above .500. And Batgirl and Jeb turned to each other and said, "Oh, #@$& it, it's just fun to win."

BatNote: Joe Mauer has finally cracked the top five in All-Star voting. It's good, but not good enough. You may have voted 25 times, but have your dead ancestors? Your pets? Your toes? Doesn't your pinky toe have an e-mail address? Well, get one, dammit.

Weekend Recap

Minnesota @ Pittsburgh, 6/16-6/18
W 4-2, W 5-3, W 8-2

Oh.

Oh, my.

My word.

A sweep. On the road, even. Without the benefit of a DH, no less. (Though some will say, and others already have, that has been true all season.)

Two sweeps in a row. Nine home runs over the last two series--four for Kubel, three for the Doctor. 31 runs. 54 hits. 26 walks. Staff ERA of 1.42. 53 strikeouts. 11 runs, 9 earned. A seven-game winning streak.

Hit-and-runs were executed, bunts were placed, bases were stolen. Bats went BOOM! And BOOM! And BOOM! again. Pitchers pitched out of jams and sometimes went multiple innings without creating any. Bases were loaded, and runners were then brought home.

Fans were given hope, and that hope was not cruelly crushed. It was not even mildly dented. Tricky plays were executed. Ordinary plays were executed. Third place was snatched from Cleveland's jaws.

Who are these people, and what have they done with our Twins?

Just Another Day

Are you sitting down? You should sit down. This is going to come as something of a shock.

You know the Twins? The Minnesota Twins?

They won a road game.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Settle down! No need to start packing for the Apocalypse just yet. Now, if they should win the series, then by all means do start scanning the horizon for horsemen.

It was an epic pitchers' duel, hearkening back to the great Santana/Schilling matchup of '06, made all the more dramatic by the thunder and lightning and Biblical amounts of rain outside the window for those of us watching in the Twin Cities metro.

The young guns on the mound were stupendous. For the Twins the 'Cisco Kid was sitting the bitches down left and right, right and left, and even the occasional switch. And our batters faced Pirates' pitcher Ian Snell with this look on their face like "huh??" after every pitch. There was remarkably little assbattery involved, really.

Digression: I noticed early in the game that Cuddyer looks like he hasn't slept in a week. And not the good kind of not sleeping in a week, either. What's up with that? Infield needs a scoop!

But, you see, 'Cisco made a wee tiny mistake in the third, and there was a runner on, and then inning after inning went by and nobody who wasn't a pitcher did nothin'. And it was starting to look a lot like just another day on the road for the Twins. To wit, a loss.

Especially in the 6th when 'Cisco fielded a bunt and kinda overthrew it in the Doctor's general direction and the runner moved to second with one out. But 'Cisco is 'Cisco, and he doesn't give a fig for your runners in scoring position, oh no. He just got himself two outs and left the guy standing there at second wondering if everyone had forgotten about him. They had.

But then in the 7th, all of a sudden, our boys solved the puzzle of Ian Snell. LNP walked. The Chairman singled (naturally). He Who Sleepeth Not doubled and LNP scored. Thus endeth the shutout. Yay!

Next the good Doctor hit a sacrifice fly (because he cares nothing for personal glory; the team is all), and the Chairman came home and we were TIED. Wow.

And then Sweetcheeks came up with one out and a runner on third and I admit I kind of put my hands over my eyes. But Dick said something about a single and I looked up just in time to see Cuddy cross the plate.

So the Twins were leading 3-2 and Snell got the hook and Damaso Marte came on and did what he usually does to the Twins, curse him, which is send them back to the dugout. 'Cisco came back out for one more inning, which turned out to be just long enough for him to get one more strikeout and reach a career-high eleven Ks.

"Just another day," Liriano said. "I strike out a lot of people."

Just another day for YOU, 'Cisco. You and your Santana-like hotness. But a very special day for us fans back home.

So the ninth rolls around and we still have a lead and poor worn-out Nathanator is warming in the pen, which I don't understand because Boo did great in the 8th. So I think to myself, I think, "Self, we need some more runs. If only to give poor Joe a little wiggle room. Or twitch room, as the case may be."

Well, the good Doctor and Sweetcheeks must have been thinking along the same lines, because they both singled. And Lewwwwwww came up and put a decent bunt down third base way, which is good 'cause Gardy had this cute little cocktail dress with matching heels all ready for Lew to wear back to the hotel if he didn't, and then...

...my cable went out.

%$!# storm.

Of course WCCO radio had turned into the Weather Channel while I wasn't looking, so I crossed my fingers and turned on my computer in the middle of an elecrical storm. And I'd like to say I did it for you, dear readers, but that would be untrue. My cable went out with runners in scoring position and I had to know what happened.

And Gameday told me that they walked my boy Bartlett because he's dangerous with that bat, I tell ya. Then the Pirates changed pitchers, and the new guy walked Rondell White with the bases loaded. We had a TWO run lead! And then there was some striking out.

So the Nathanator comes on, and I'm a little worried because frankly he threw more pitches the night before than he had in the entire month of April. But I should not have worried, because he is the Nathanator and 1-2-3! The Pirates got Nathanated.

And the Twins won. On the road.

It's true.

Flag Day

tap-tap-tap
Is this thing on?
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Um, hi. I'm infield. Usually I post over at Third Base Line (there's a link in the sidebar somewhere, if you're curious), but BG asked me to entertain you all while she's lolling on the beach in California. (I expect souvenirs, BG!) I tend more toward sarcasm than sass, but I'll do my best.

Let's just ease into this with that old standard, the running commentary...

Inning the First
Radke loads the bases with one out, partly thanks to Kubel and Bartlett both losing Big Papi's popup in the teflon roof (2010...2010...), but he gets out of it with a couple of popups that actually find gloves.

The Red Sox? Leaving the bases loaded? In the first inning? Against RADKE? Inconceivable! Good job, Brad! Now cut it out with the baserunners, already.

Inning the Second
Boston starter Matt Clement seems to be on a personal quest to throw as many balls as humanly possible without actually walking in a run. He probably wishes he'd walked Jason Kubel, though, because Kubel takes the one and only strike he sees way, way up into the right field upper deck, to heights only Morneau had heretofore reached. One hopes Justin isn't territorial about his landing spot; the last thing this team needs is pouting power hitters.

Boy, is this game starting off SLOW, though. After just two and a half innings, an hour has gone by and Radke and Clement have racked up over 100 pitches between them. "Efficiency" is not the word of the day in the early goings.

Inning the Third
In the bottom of the inning, Clement loaded the bases without any "help" from the roof by issuing three straight one-out walks. Then Torii Hunter came up to the plate and did what he does best--hit into a double play.

New rule: with runners on and less than two out, we pinch-hit for Hunter. I don't care what freakin' inning it is.

Inning the Fourth
Kubel comes within a sneeze of having a two-homer game. Everybody wants Rondell White to get on base, including Matt Clement, who helps him out with a ball to the shoulder. Jason Bartlett (free at last!) welcomes himself back to the big leagues with a single to center. I'm so happy for him I jump right out of my Birkenstocks. Then we get a run the old-fashioned way on a Castillo double. Fast-forward to Joe Mauer's two-out at-bat, when the AL batting leader...grounds out to second??? Oh, say it ain't so, Joe...

Inning the Fifth
Dick & Bert interview Johan Santana. They barely get past "congratulations on your 1000th career strikeout" before Radke gives up the inevitable tater, a solo to Coco Crisp. It's kind of a relief to have that out of the way, really. You knew it was coming, you just hoped it wouldn't be one of those soul-crushing 20-run homers.

Okay, now, see? Hunter + runner on 1st = grounder to the shortstop. Thank the umpire for calling him safe--it could have gone either way. Morneau is out at 2nd. Clement deals a four-pitch walk to Kubel and then leaves the game with some sort of physical problem (as opposed to the six walks). Some guy named, appropriately for Flag Day, Van Buren comes in and gets Rondell White to pop out to short to end the inning, which is kind of like getting my cat to beg for cheese. She just loves cheese. Especially havarti.

Inning the Sixth
Bartlett bobbles a grounder, drops it, grabs it up again and STILL gets the double play started. Now that's impressive. And just a teensy bit lucky.

And, in the spirit of the eternal maxim "he who maketh the great play to end the half-inning, batteth to open the next", Bartlett smacks his second hit of the night as he leads off the bottom of the sixth. Ah, hits from the shortstop...how divine.

Castillo's at-bat takes about ten hours, since Van Buren feels the need to throw three pickoffs for every pitch, but he finally coaxes a walk. Punto puts on a bunting clinic to advance the runners, and Van Buren can pitch to Mauer (yikes!) or intentionally walk him but then face Cuddyer with the bases loaded. Talk about Scylla and Charybdis. Whew. Glad I'm not him. He goes with the intentional walk.

Bartlett nearly gets nailed in the back with a pickoff attempt at third. Wouldn't it have been funny if the ball had sailed off into left? Cuddy's bases-loaded walk is worth a snicker, though. Hey, free RBI! Van Buren trudges off to celebrate Flag Day in the dugout.

Did I mention it's Flag Day? Oh, yes, it is. And with the bases still loaded Justin Morneau plants his flag in the left field bleachers. Oh, Canada!

Inning the Seventh
Go, Radke. Sit. Relax. Enjoy the rare and wonderful luxury of run support. Let Willie Eyre face the Red Sox for the first time. He needs the experience. Besides, he wears his socks the right way.

Inning the Eighth
So, someone decides to jump out of the stands and go running all over the field until they're tackled by the Boston batboy. This makes Willie Eyre laugh too hard to pitch straight, and he gets the hook after two straight two-out walks. Breathe, Willie. Breathe.

Inning the Ninth
Lohse comes on in relief with a seven-run lead. You'd think this would make me feel secure, but oh please by all that's holy don't let him blow this I'll do anything really I will just get us out of this game with a win.

Hey, whaddaya know? He did it!

Twins win, 8-1. And I've got a sneaking suspicion who the B.O.D. will be...

And a Good Time Was Had By All

Boston at Twins. Twins 5, BoSox 2. (12 innings).

Goodness, Batgirl said to Jeb at about 8:30. 7th inning already? This game has gone so fast!

A good thing, too, as BG and Jeb are catching a cab at 7am to go to California where Jeb will formally receive his professional smarty pants certification, plus Casa BG is going to have an open house on Sunday so the whole darned place had to be cleaned and kitty litter scraped out of various nooks and crannys while the kitties themselves need to be dumped off at BatMom and BatDads, plus there's the whole packing thing, so, you know, thanks for the quick game and let's just score off Bloody Sock so we can—

Well, just as Jason Varitek so rudely sent a Johan K. Santana pitch long, the BatPhone rang. It was Batgirl's dear friend, Zana Redstocking, who had just picked up the phone to say how awesome Johan is when Mr. Varitek committed his unspeakable act. Since Jason Varitek is Zana's boyfriend, BG can only assume Ms. Redstocking exercised some psychic power, and BG asks politely that she not do that anymore, at least when Johan's on the mound. He's sensitive.

"That's the game," BG said. "Johan's going to pitch like this and lose the #@$@#$@ game."

"No," said Ms. R, "Schilling is inconsistent. You'll win."

"To win we'd have to score," said BG, "and we don't know how to do that."

Silly Batgirl. Dost thou forget Michael Cuddyer and his boom boom stick? True, it wasn't a grand slam—but the Twins can't have a grand slam every game, can they? (And Cuddles only hits those when we lose.)

BG was envisioning at that point a two-headed BOD, Cuddles and Johan holding hands and skipping toward victory. Because—well—Johan. Remember his last start? Remember how it wasn't so good? Well, this one was so good they went back and gave him a win for that game. He struck out the first five—which, if you're counting, goes, "Sit down bitch and bitch and bitch and bitch and bitch. All of you, please, sit down." It got so that when in the third a BoSox ball fell just out of Lew Ford's reach for a hit, BG was glad because it seemed such a shame to waste an out on something that's not a K. On a night when Curt Schilling moved closer to 3000 strikeouts, Johan fanned his 1000th batter and BG is dearly looking forward to the next couple of thousand. He may have them by the end of the season.

Well, of course, as anyone who has to get up early to catch a cab tomorrow knows, the game was not short, not at all. The 1-1 hot-hot-Cuddles-on-Varitek tie lasted through nine, ten, and at some point Zana Redstocking calls and says, "Please, please, I don't care who wins anymore, I just want to go to bed." Opportunities came and went like the days of our lives—eleven, twelve—then, like sand through the hour glass, the tie game slipped through Jesse Crain's fingers.

But it wasn't as bad as it could have been. LNP played a "small" part in the Twins' victory; with the bases juiced and one out, Alex Gonzales hit what seemed to be a basehit, until Little Nicky snapped his green speedo and dove for the ball. They couldn't get the double play, but he kept a sure two run play to one run (not to mention the Doctor who made a great grab on Castillo's errant throw), leaving us with the bottom of the ninth, the middle of the order up, and--dare I say--hope.

Well, with one out, Cuddles took one for the team, then the Doctor (who had been "out" in an earlier inning trying to stretch a single and said a very very bad word) hit a ground rule double and they walked Sweetcheeks—and the rookie stepped up to the plate. Our hearts are in our throats—he's just a kid, it would be so easy to mess up, he's been doing so well, all we need is a sac fly, come on Rookie!—

And, well, boom. And it was just so beautiful.

That is what it is for us now—we don't get to watch the standings and dream of post-season, but we do get moments like these—Johan Santana striking out five in a row, Cuddyer showing Johan he wouldn't allow his start to go to waste this time, and a kid with a lot to prove stepping up in the twelfth and hitting the ball all the way to 2007.

And now, at the very end of the radio broadcast came the announcement that the T-Fat era is over. BG wishes he'd proven everyone wrong and become the third baseperson of our dreams—he's one crazy-ass loon and that, in itself, is enough to endear him to Batgirl. Good luck to you, T-Fat, I'm genuinely sorry it didn't work out. And welcome to the bigs, Jason Bartlett. We're very pleased to see you. Here's to the J&J boys—long may they reign.

Batgirl will be gone until Monday. Infield will be popping in once in awhile and Goober will take care of BOD, post pictures of the BatBaby, and anything else he feels like, and the BatBaby may come and spit up.

The Battys

Baltimore at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 7, O's 5. (12 innings).
Saturday. O's 9, Twins 7.
Sunday. Twins 4, O's Goose Egg.

It's Tonys night and Batgirl is sure all the Minnesota Twins are huddled around Torii Hunter's big screen TV eating Kyle Lohse's meat pies and arguing over their own picks. Little Nicky Punto likes the intoxicating twenties flair of The Drowsy Chaperone while Michael Cuddyer prefers the toe-tapping charms of Jersey Boys, while Juan Rincon sits sulkily in a corner stroking his Pretty Woman DVD and muttering, "Julia was robbed."

In that spirit, Batgirl has decided to award THE FIRST ANNUAL BATTY AWARDS, based on this weekend of baseball. Awards lean heavily toward Sunday because now that BG's 33 26, she can't remember so far back.

And now, without further ado: The 2006 Battys!

Best Use of a Boom-Boom Stick in a Victory: Dr. Justin Morneau for Friday's 12th inning homer allowing BG to go to bed. Also nominated, Dr. Justin Morneau and Dr. Justin Morneau.

Best Totally Fruitless Use of a Boom-Boom Stick: Michael Cuddyer, hitting his second grand slam of the week in a losing performance on Saturday.

Best 'Nam Flashback: T-Fat, who dodged much broken bat shrapnel to field a grounder today. Also to T-Fat: Best Know Your Limits, for stretching to the very outer limits of his postage stamp range to miss a Miggy double down the third base line by only two or three feet. Keep reaching for your dreams T-Fat!

Best Performance by a Blind Man: I'm sorry, home plate ump Ed Rapuano, but if Joe Mauer says it’s a ball, it's a ball. When the Chairman strikes out after getting to 3-0 with the bases loaded, you can pretty much guess you did something wrong.

Best Revival: Torii Hunter and Michael Cuddyer for popping up and GIDP respectively after the Twins loaded the bases in the first inning on Saturday, in a stunning rendition of last year's smash hit The Bases Are Loaded But Nobody's Home.

Best Tease: Francisco Liriano for walking Brian Roberts to lead-off the game, making them think they might not make asses of themselves the rest of the game. Psych!

Best Mime: Ron Gardenhire, illustrating for Ed Rapuano the intricacies of a foul tip with commitment, passion, and precision. Next up for Gardenhire—Man in shrinking box.

Best Payback: Little Nicky Punto showing Rapuano a real foul tip--in his face. Squeaked Punto, "That's for Cuddy, you bastard!"

Best Payback 2: You see, Carlos, you make the team wear pixie vests, you're going to blow. Let that be a warning to you.

Best Reason to Hide LNP in a Toybox:

Best Reappearance of a Missing Man: The Nathanest of Joes, reemerging from the mists of time to pitch in two games this weekend. Please don't leave us again, Joe.

Best Bad Day: Joe Mauer, going 1 for 4 on Sunday. Get it together, Chairman. Jesus.

Best Everything: Francisco "the Kid" Liriano. 7 innings, one hit, six K's, and one fabulous future.

Mauerist Propaganda

Twins at Seattle. Twins 7, Mariners 3.

Picture Courtesy of Eric

Boundless loyalty to Chairman Mauer!

Cheers for the grand victory of Chairman Mauer's revolutionary line!

Go forward through great difficulties following Chairman Mauer!

Chairman Mauer is the Red Sun in our heart! Our hearts are linked with Chairman Mauer's heart forever!

Take the golden road pointed out by Chairman Mauer!

Chairman Mauer's great guidance gives us limitless strength!

When navigating the sea, depend on the helmsman, when carrying out revolution depend on Chairman Mauer!

Set off a new upsurge in the study of Chairman Mauer's work!

Carry out the strength to denounce Carl Everett to the end!

Chairman Mauer is the greatest leader! He shall remain our Chairman forever!

Chairman Mauer's thought heals the deaf-mute!

Pour it on!

BG Picked the Wrong Day to Stop Sniffing Glue

Twins at Seattle. Mariners 10, Twins 9. (11 innings)

Please note: BG started this entry in the middle of the game and, if you watched the game, you understand why it makes no sense at all.

10:58 pm: Okay, it's nearly 11:00 and we're in the 5th inning. Right now the score is 5-4 but BG expects it to be about three times that by the time this damned thing ends at 4 or 5 am. Jeb has just announced his plan for victory: "If we get 6 or 7 hits in an inning and Boof only allows one home run each inning, we might just win." As much as Batgirl is loath to criticize her husband, who is after all her lord and master and she is but his property, she must humbly and respectfully dispute his math because it takes us at least ten hits in an inning to score one run.

I mean, there are so many ways to make outs, really there's a whole world of possibility out there, and it's important to discover each and every one of them, to really invent new and wonderful ways of working out of scoring situations, to explore each and every corner of this unfathomable vastness, this incomprehensible infinity, because it reminds us that the only limits are those of our imagination. Somewhere in Twins Territory there is a child with a problem to solve and that child sees Lew Ford run toward third with Luis Castillo still on it, and he says, "My goodness, there is no problem I cannot overcome, for the universe is limitless and the world is my bitch." And it is beautiful.

And then—

11:25 pm: Oh, goodness. The funny thing about starting these entries when the game isn't over yet is things can change awfully quickly. When BG started, the game was rather close and sometime later Raul "Please Go to the Other League" Ibanez hit a Dennys Sampler Reyes pitch straight to the Moon Over My Hammy, and it was sad because of course the Twins could have had so many more runs if they hadn't been inspiring young children with their exploration of the limitless expanse of possibility, but you win some, you lose many many more--and poor Joe Mauer and Joe Nathan and Jo-Han--but what are you going to do?

And then—

12: 01 am: Well, and then, to begin, Juan Castro doubled with one out in the eighth. Then Luis Castillo walked. Then Lew Fordwalker—who, despite a couple brain farts on the basepaths and losing his shoe on an extremely silly defensive miscue in the eighth, has been having a kick ass game—hits a single and suddenly the bases are loaded with one out. For some teams, having the bases loaded with a five-run deficit means a possibility of getting back into the game, which must be very nice for them. The only reason to keep watching, really, was the fact that Chairman Mauer was up and he is quite clearly the greatest baseball player ever. Well, the Chairman walked. Mike Hargrove seemed upset with his pitcher for it—he clearly didn't realize walking Joe to score just one run was probably the best possible outcome for him. And of course that was the end of it, for if the Chairman can't do it, well then, I mean, look, Torii popped out and now Cuddy's up and it's 1 and 2 and—

Boom!

Now, the thing about this grand slam thing is you score four runs at once. This is extremely awesome, especially when you're behind by four runs. And as fun as finding new and crazy ways to blow scoring opportunities is, BG posits that this is actually even more fun.

1:02 am: Less fun, however, is staying up until 1:02 just to watch Carl Everett rip out Batgirl's heart and hit it to Vancouver. BG never liked him.

BatReminder: Have you Voted Chairman yet? You have? Have you voted 25 times? No? Well, get to it, darn it. Click on the poster to the left and vote your pants off, vote like you've never voted before!

Cupcake Day: The Number of the Beast

Twins at Seattle. Mariners 4, Twins 2.

It is sign of the horrible perversity of Satan that the date he put into his Palm Pilot for the End of Time would coincide with something as pure and good as Cupcake Day. And when BG woke up this morning, checking carefully out of her window for boiling seas, bloody moons, and a two-horned Beast, she had one last wish—that each and every person on earth would be able to enjoy his cupcake before the End came. Batgirl savored hers early (thanks to BatBandwagoner who caused 6 + 6 cupcakes to appear on her doorstep this morning), with a tall glass of lactose-free milk (though, really, why bother with the Lactaid when the end is nigh?).

It didn't happen, of course, unless the End is very much like every other day except with more cupcakes. Batgirl thinks, ironically, it's the goodness of Cupcake Day itself that may have saved us all (the power of Cupcake Day compels you—take thatPrince of Darkness!). Whatever the reason, we seem to have survived, eschatologically-speaking, though not so much baseball-wise. I don't know what's a more ominous sign—the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse prancing down your street or the Twins with late-inning scoring opportunities. And exactly how many plays do we need to watch the left side of our infield botch before we call in those horsemen ourselves?

You see, the thing about the Beast is he comes well after the apocalypse has started—in other words by the time he's skipping around making fire fall from the sky and giving everyone UPC code tattoos, earth has already entered a great-big rebuilding phase. And the Beast was there tonight at SafeCo, lingering on the field as the Twins continued their sloppy defense, at the plate as one after another blew a scoring opportunity. He was there, putting his mark on those who will not be saved, and maybe he'll be there tomorrow batting for the Twins because God knows, he can't do any worse than the guys we have now.

Edit: infield has a pretty great analysis of the blown pop-up in Saturday's game.

It's Medicinal.

Twins at Oakland. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 2, A's 1.
Saturday. A's 2, Twins 1.
Sunday. A's 5, Twins 1.

Oh, man, you guys, BG had this whole entry started, but the fact is it's 11:00 and she's so tired her eyes are bleeding. As you all know we are approaching the anniversary of Batgirl's birth (also "Cupcake Day!"). A simply day, of course, is not enough to honor the occasion and Batgirl generally likes to declare the surrounding time "Batgirl Week," which has thus far entailed lots and lots of food including All-You-Can-Eat sushi at Martini Blu tonight. It turns out, when pressed, Batgirl can eat a great deal of sushi.

There also was, Batgirl must admit, several glasses of some sort of blue-colored drink (orange vodka, sake, blue curacao, and pineapple juice) more than Batgirl would normally have ingested, but you see, boys and girls, drinking makes the pain go away. And Batgirl was in so very much pain. It all started so promisingly—sure for a long time on Friday it looked like we were on the road to handing El Presidente another soul-crushing loss, because we're the Minnesota Twins and crushing people's souls is what we do. And it was the 7th inning, the President had given up two hits, and unfortunately one of those hits involved Frank Thomas and his boom boom stick, and the Twins, of course, had their heads deeply up their ass-bats (and BG doesn't mind getting shut out by Barry Zito, but, really—Kirk Saarloos?). Then Cuddy led off the 8th with a base hit and the good Doctor strode up to the plate and BatDad said, "Wouldn't it be great if he hit a homer?" And Batgirl, Jeb, and BatMom all agreed that, yes, it would indeed be great if he hit a homer, and, well, boom! And yes, it was great. Dammit.

It seemed to portend such good things, because last year the Twins never would have won that game (since winning would after all, have required scoring runs). But with one swing of the bat the Doctor said, "No, no, this is not last year, and this year I have not suffered from pleurisy or a concussion or leprosy or the heebie-jeebies and I can hit the ball many moose antlers when the situation calls for it." And so, on Saturday, when Bradke found his groove (or something very like it) it seemed that the Twins would find a way to win for him, and really there were so many chances, so very many chances…

Batgirl listened to Saturday's game while cooking dinner—an artichoke pesto lasagna—and if her dinner guests wondered what the odd flavor was in the white sauce, well, that was Batgirl's youth. I don't know what’s more discouraging, hearing somebody pop up a late-game crucial bunt or having the go ahead run score because Morneau and Castillo decided it would be a great time to play Keystone Kops on a routine pop-up. But the thing is, it wasn't a great time, not at all, in fact it was a totally shitty time and Batgirl doesn't know why you would do that to her so close to her birthday.

So, basically, if I have this straight: now that the pitching is somewhat under control, the hitting has decided to go all craptastic again. Meanwhile, the Batbaby can field better than this infield, with only slightly more drool, and all of that leads a (bat) girl to drown her sorrows in blue curacao. At least she knows where to send the rehab bill.

BatNote: The Twins may not have been interested in giving BG an early bday present, but look what the mega-fantastic Duke from Oakland is sending her:

That is an A #1 Torii Hunter BP home run ball, signed to a very close personal friend of Batgirl's.

Sweet.

Sincerely

Dear First Base Ump:

Okay, you know what? Batgirl doesn't like to complain about calls. Because bad calls are a part of the game, yadda yadda, and when a call doesn't go your way it's your job to buckle down and win anyway (as opposed to bitching about it the whole $?@%!#? game). And as you may remember on Tuesday nothing seemed to go the Twins' way, umpire-wise, lots of bad calls at first and then Cuddy was out on a foul tip with two on and two out in the eighth, which was pretty curious because the ball never actually hit his bat, which I think is sort of required in a foul tip, don't you?

But, you know, part of the game, blah blah blah. Bad call. You win some, you lose some. It all evens out, unless you’re the Angels in the ALCS. Umps are humans, except for the ones that are Cylons, but those tend to be quite accurate, really.

But you know what I do mind, Mr. Umpire Man? When a kid's—no, no the Kid—has got a no hitter in the sixth—yes, a no freakin' hitter, not a one-hitter or a two hitter, but a no hitter which means he has not allowed a hit—and there's a close call at first you better be damned sure you get it right. And you know what, you blue bellied boobie? You blew it. Carbrea was out by half a step and you cost the Kid his bleepin' blargin' no hitter because you have a depth perception problem and you've been too embarrassed to tell anyone because you're an ump and you can't be an ump with a depth perception problem (clearly) and then they'd fire you and you have no other skills, except for macramé, but that doesn't pay very well and besides every time you express yourself in macramé your brother Stan beats you up and it hurts and maybe that's what's responsible for your depth perception problem in the first place because when Stan found you hiding in the closet making a macramé owl he hit you in the brain and you've never been the same since except for the one thing that you are and always have been a total freakin' moron and a stupid-ass crap weasel and I hate you.

Jerk.

Sincerely,
Batgirl

p.s. You suck at macramé, too.

Where Dreams Go to Die

Twins at Los Angeles in Anaheim. Angels 6, Twins 3.

Scott Baker was sleeping happily, his stuffed TC Bear tucked sweetly into his arms, a small smile spread softly over his baby-soft face, when suddenly a strange feeling of dread washed over him. He was not alone in the room. Someone was there with him, standing over his bed looking intently at him, someone….not human.

Suppressing a girly-scream, Baker unconsciously hugged his TC closer to him and slowly opened his eyes. What he saw chilled him to his very bones.

"Nutty!" he breathed.

"Hello, Scott Baker," murmured Nutty.

"What are you doing?" Baker asked, clutching his blanket to him. "Are you okay?"

"No, Scott Baker," said Nutty, in an eerie cool voice, like the calm before the storm. "No, I'm not okay. We have to have a talk."

"Now?" gulped Baker. "Can't it wait?" The truth was, he did not like the look in the protective cup's eyes, no, he did not like it one bit.

"No, Scott Baker," said Nutty, his voice low and threatening. "We have to talk now. Have you seen this?"

Nutty handed Baker a newspaper, which is sort of strange because he doesn't have hands.

"Yeah," sighed Baker. "I know. If I don't pitch bueno today they're going to send me down."

"You know?" said Nutty. "You know?"

"Well…sure."

"Why didn't you tell me?" shrieked the cup.

Baker rolled his eyes. "Nutty, I don't tell you everything, you know. It's not like we're married or something."

Nutty's eyes narrowed. "That's right, Scott Baker. That's right. We're not married. I am your athletic cup and I can make you or I can break you, you hear me? What would you do without me, after all?"

"Um…." Baker said, looking around. "Get another cup?"

"That's not funny Scott Baker! You don't treat Nutty right and your dingleberries will never be protected again, you hear me? I'm not going back. I'm not."

"Back where?"

"To the minors, Scott Baker! Do you have any idea what it's like down there?"

"Well, yeah I have a pretty good—"

"You don't know! You don't! Those buses? They're not air conditioned, Scott Baker. Do you know what that means? I can’t take it, I really can't—"

"I know, but—"

"And the other athletic cups, they're all old and bitter. And Lohse's down there, have you ever met his cup? That guy's a dick!"

"I—"

"It's where dreams go to die, Scott Baker. I had dreams once, you know! So I want you to go to the park today and I want you to pitch as bueno as you possibly can, because—because—" He could not continue. A whimper emanated from him mouth and just like that Nutty began to sob.

Baker shifted slightly in his bed. "Oh, Nutty…"

"Don't Scott Baker!" howled Nutty. "Just don't! All I do is think about you and now I need you to protect me, okay? I want you to be my protective cup!"

And with that, he hurled himself into Baker's arms, bawling like no athletic cup has ever bawled before. And despite it all, Baker's heart softened and he held Nutty close. "There, there," he whispered, patting him on the back. "There, there. Don't worry, Nutty. It will all be okay."

Blog Lag

Twins at Anaheim of Los Angeles. LAAAAA 4, Twins 3 (11 innings).

Oh, gosh, you guys, Batgirl's getting too old for this. Sure, when she started this blog at 23 she could handle these extra inning west coast games, but now as her 26th birthday draws nigh she's really feeling it. And apparently so are the Twins. Really, the whole thing's utterly unfair—the Angels get to play in prime time while our boys have to be up well past their bedtimes; Joe Mauer has only recently started staying up past 9, and Lew Ford is generally supposed to be lights out by 10 CDT, though sometimes he slips Corri a mickey so he can go play Warcraft. The point is, you can't blame Rondell for getting picked off second by three miles in the 10th or the Doctor for letting balls sail by his head willy nilly, no more than you can blame BG for drooling on her keyboard after 11.

Not that the jet lag hit everyone—at first Bradke seemed something like Mount Vesuvius; you knew it was going to blow, it was just a question of when. And then the sun set in the West and Bradke was like, "oh, hey, did the season start? Why didn't anyone tell me?" and suddenly there were all these gorgeous Radke-of-Olde things like ground outs and strikeouts and maybe even one-two-three innings, I don't know, I'm too tired to count. As for Jesse Crain, BG felt about as good with him entering the game in the ninth as JFK felt about those missiles going to Cuba, but thanks to some diplomacy and a nice slider, the whole thing was pretty non-apocalyptic. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to have the same control on his pickoff move to first in the 11th, the Doctor let out a big yawn at the wrong time, and the ball traveled past the Doctor, up the first baseline, outside of the stadium, over the state line, and to Las Vegas where it spent some time at the Bellagio, hired some prostitutes, got caught up in a whole crooked defense contract deal, and married some chick it met at the bar. Oopsie.

The point being, BG's taking some comfort in Bradke's performance in the middle innings of the game, and even some comfort in the fact that when he loaded up the bases he managed to keep things under control (How Boof-esque!), and that now she gets to go to bed.

Light blogging this week on account of how incredibly sleepy BG is.

Sweeeeeeeeeeep.

Seattle at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday: Twins 3, Mariners 1
Saturday: Twins 9, Mariners 5.
Sunday: Twins 4, Mariners 3. (10 innings.)

You know what Batgirl likes?

Winning.

Winning rules. Like you know how we used to win games? And it was awesome? Like that.

Or, say, like this weekend. A crazy thing happened at the Triple H this weekend, my friends, and I do not mean Johan Santana's hair today. (BG understands, Mr. President, humidity does a number on her hair, too. You should see it right now. In fact, why don't you come over?) The Minnesota Twins swept a three game series, which means they won three games in a row. And you know how they did it? This might sounds nuts, but I swear on Batkitty #2 it's true: They won with good pitching, timely hitting, good defense, and Lew Ford.

When Johan Santana allows the most runs of your starting pitchers in a series [oops, not actually true-Jeb], you've had a good week. First the Kid made the Mariners look very, very silly waving their bats around in the general direction of the ball, then Boof "John" Bonser pitched himself into a huge jam with the bases loaded and no outs in the first, then struck them all out just to show them he could. (Note to Radke: please don't try this.) and Johan had an off-start for him, meaning three runs over seven innings and probably needs a spanking.

The leather flashing was pretty awesome, too. Sweetcheeks saved Liriano's scoreless streak, and perhaps the game on Friday with a shoestring catch with the bases loaded, then there was Luis Castillo's triple play (in a good way) featuring a pretty heads-up move by the Doctor and T-Fat, LNP showing his tiny superhero skills at short (Heh. "Short.") and Naked Batting Practice throwing out a runner and skipping with glee and Cuddy saving the game and the Veep's self-esteem with a snow cone catch in the 10th tonight [Mmm….Snow Cone –Jeb], and more that I can't even remember because of all the defense.

While the Twins were impressive, the Seattle Mariners' ability to run themselves out of every potential scoring situation deserves some note here. After awhile, you began to think they were doing it intentionally, like some kind of bizarre performance art without the flagellating yourself with a dildo. Except maybe metaphorically. Luis Castillo tried desperately to make them feel better by getting nabbed on the basepaths twice today, shouting each time, "My comrades! I die for you!" The gesture was not appreciated.

Oh, and the homers! All the homers! The Chairman, the Doctor, Viva Castro, and Cuddles all hit bombs, and at the very end of the game, in the bottom of the tenth with the score tied and the bullpen weary, Lew Fordwalker stepped to the plate and closed his eyes and NBP said, "Lew, you've switched off your targeting computer! What's wrong?" And Lew said, "Nothing, I'm all right," and Mr. Winkles said, "Come on kid, let's blow this thing and go home!" And he does, he does blow this thing. (In a good way.) And the Twins jump up and down at home plate and Batgirl jumps up and down, and all over the universe people dance while fireworks explode over their heads, gnomes dance, the protective cups dance, even the Ewoks dance [[until Jeb goes over to the forest moon of Endor and beats them all over the head with a baseball bat-Jeb]]. And it is beautiful.

A History of Revenge

Cleveland at Twins. Cleveland 11, Twins 0.

4) They seemed like such a happy couple, neighbors said. Sure there was some fighting over the upbringing of their son, who was a rather moody chap, but you'd never know the queen was having an affair with the king's brother and conspiring with him to viciously kill her husband. In fact, no one would have known a thing had the king's ghost not decided to take a quick jaunt around the castle one night and tell the son everything. And boy was the son pissed, so much so that at the Elsinore softball game he hit two three-run home runs against his uncle/father. Unfortunately, his brother/ cousin later poisoned him with an ass-bat.

3) Okay, there was this other king, right? And his brother was a total moron. He let his wife run off with this pantywaist prince, and once again it was the king's job to clean up the mess. He was going to bring a world of hurt down on the prince and his whole city-state (with the help of the world's greatest warrior, who was completely immortal—except for this itsy bitsy little part on his heel, but who would ever hit that?) just as soon as he could set sail. There was just this little problem—he'd offended Artemis, who is so touchy—and she sent a bad wind and they couldn't leave port to go kick some Trojan ass. So he asked a prophet what to do and the prophet naturally advised that the king sacrifice his daughter. The king was like, "Is that all?" So he had his wife send the girl up to a mountain under the pretense she was going to marry that same world's greatest warrior. (The queen was surprised because the warrior had not shown that much interest in girls before, but what are you going to do?) When she found out the truth, well, she was majorly p.o.ed. So, when the king came back from the war she stabbed him in the bathtub and then hit two three-run home runs off his lifeless body.

2) There was this king who thought his marriage was going really well. Sure, there'd been some stress, like when his brother seized the throne from him, but the king got it back when Zeus had the sun set in the east in support of his candidacy. It sounds weird, but it was really impressive at the time. So he banished his brother, ruled Mycene, and all was well. Until he found the queen in an extra-hot embrace with his brother. Boy, did that tick him off! So, under the pretense of reconciliation, he invited his brother over for din-din. He gathered together his brother's sons, killed them, baked them into a pie, and fed them to their father as the main course. He felt much better then. But his brother would get his revenge. He had a new son and he squirrled him away in a cave where he raised him and threw BP for him every day so, when the boy finally came of age, he could exact his terrible revenge at the annual House of Atreus softball game and barbeque.

1) In October of 2002, Twins general manager Terry Ryan released Casey Blake. Actually, Blake took it rather well.

Idol Redux

Cleveland at Twins. Twins 6, Cleveland 5.

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away there was a young girl named Batgirl with a plot of land, a hoe, and a dream of self-sufficiency. And she said: "I will take my plot of land and my hoe and my dream and with it I shall create a blog and this will be a blog devoted to the principle that baseball is fun and the Twins are beloved and the word "ass" is inherently hilarious and can be used as any part of speech, except for perhaps articles and conjunctions and maybe even pronouns and certainly prepositions. And through this blog I shall lead my baseball team to glory."

But there was a problem. You may not recall, it may seem strange to your modern ears, but in April of 2004 our bullpen assed it up all over the place. And so Batgirl took her land and her hoe and her dream and started a competition called Bullpen Idol, and that competition would motivate this band of Fultzs and Mulhollands and Rincons and Romeros and Roas and Ball Fours and this new guy we got from the Giants who's supposed to be our closer, whatshisname, to new heights of glory, or at least less heights of assitude.

Times have changed and since Mr. Joe Nathan was crowned the winner of Bullpen Idol three years ago our pen has been our shining star. But this year the cracks started to show more clearly than Paula Abdul's Happy Happy Fun Drink habit and suddenly games have gone quickly asswards when we get to the pen and it isn't right, it isn't fair, because we have Juan Rincon, we have Joe Nathan, and isn't that enough? Isn't it?

Tonight, it was. Tonight, it worked just like it was supposed to, just like the halcyon days of the aftermath of Bullpen Idol. The President faltered—he does that sometimes to pretend he's human but we know the truth. Casey "We Get It, We Get It, We Let You Go And We’re Sorry" Blake and Pronkzilla and Perez took the lead away from us and our 4 run lead became a one run deficit. Ass! I cried. Whoever will save our president now?

Never fear. We have Juan Rincon, we have Joe Nathan, and that, my friends, is enough. It's the Vice President's job to take the place of the President if he should be unable to fulfill his duties, and boy howdy did he. Down went the Indians—one, two, three! Four, five, six! It was sizzling, it was Santana-esque, it was Nathan-esque, it was what earned him the Bullpen Idol crown in the first place and launched his storied political career! After Sunday's ass-arm performance, we needed someone to step up and show the kids how it was done.

And that's why you, Joe Nathan, are the Bullpen Idol. Now and 4-ever.

The Blogger's Minute: Young Guns

No round-up this weekend, Batgirl's all Boof'ed out. In lieu, BG gives you her Blogger's Minute this week, from the Twins Magazine on WCCO.

It's been quite a week in the Twins clubhouse. With two of the starters demoted from the rotation, you have to wonder if Scott Baker and Brad Radke are watching their backs. It doesn't help that the demotions are getting progressively worse—with Silva in the bullpen and Lohse in Rochester, it's hard to even imagine what the fates have in store for the other two. You expect to wake up in the morning and find Baker has been demoted to Siberia or Purgatory, and that will leave nothing left for Radke but the 2nd through 9th levels of hell or, worse, Kansas City.

But of course one man's misfortunate is another man's spot in the starting rotation, and for the young pitchers in the Twins organization the struggles of the increasingly-less-Fab 5 must seem like the best Christmas present ever, even better than the Star Wars storm trooper blaster Francisco Liriano got last year from his mom. This weekend I think the average age of the pitchers was about 17 years old and the only worry is whether or not they'd be too distracted by the upcoming junior prom to focus on pitching to Carlos Lee. There's a lot of pressure in going to prom, after all, what with getting the tux rented and trying to remember the corsage and trying to convince your dad to let you use the Beemer even though you took it test driving that one time without his permission and got that itsy bitsy scratch on the door and got grounded for, like, ever and what's a scratch on the Beemer in the grand scheme of things and maybe Dad shouldn't be so hung up on the material, anyway. It's not like it's a Jaguar or something cool.

Anyway if these guys struggle, there's a whole organization full of young pitchers to take their place. Last year's first round pick Matt Garza lit up double A last week, and there are a few rookie league pitchers who might fit the bill. If that doesn't work, there's a kid on my 5 year old next door neighbor's t-ball team that's got a fierce arm. He's a shortstop, but so was Joe Nathan. When Joe Mauer's your battery's elder statesman, anything's fair game. It might sound crazy, but so's legally changing your name to Boof.

Kyle SMASH!: A Reenactment

Through Top Secret channels, Team Batgirl was able to obtain security camera footage from the Metrodome yesterday. It seems Kyle Lohse did, in fact, pay a little visit to Gardy's office after learning of his demotion. Unfortunately, due to the patent civil rights violation and the fact that Batgirl doesn't know how to do video capture, she can't post it here. Instead, she gives you a reenactment, with Legos.

Face contorted with hatred, Lohse gathers himself outside the office.

A practiced bash with his bat makes quick work of the office door.





As if in slow motion, Lohse approaches his target.





Take that you stupid chair!





Die, books, die!





Nearly blind with rage, Lohse topples the bookshelf.





You'll never log on to Batgirl again, Gardy!





Now more animal than man, Lohse busts up Gardy's desk.





How do you like my ERA now, bitch?





Mission accomplished, Lohse makes a final obscene gesture towards the camera.

BatNotes: if you want to go to the June 11 game, BG needs your check by the end of next week. Please email BG if you want to go.

Batling infield is part of a group doing the AIDS walk on Sunday and is holding a fundraiser yard and jewelry sale as part of the CARAG neighborhood yard sale. If you’d like to sponsor her in the AIDS walk visit her page.

Batgirl's close personal friend will be reading from The Shadow Thieves Friday night at 7pm at Barnes and Noble Maple Grove.

Dubious

Twins at Detroit. Tigers 2, Twins 0.

The mood in the visiting clubhouse was grim before tonight's game. News of Kyle Lohse's demotion had spread quickly and the team was stunned.

"I just can’t believe Kyle's gone," muttered Torii Hunter

"I wonder how he took it," mused Little Nicky Punto.

"Did anyone see it happen?" asked Luis Castillo.

Silence over the Twins clubhouse, then a voice, in barely a whisper, could be heard. "I saw," breathed Michael Cuddyer.

One by one, the team looked over to the clubhouse corner, where Michael Cuddyer was huddled, his eyes wide, his face white as death. "I saw," repeated Cuddyer, voice quaking. "His eyes turned red and flames came spouting from his ears. He began to spin 'round, faster and faster he span until he was just the wind itself, but the wind was no summer wind filled with green grass and dew, no no, this wind blew death. It sucked the breath out of six hot dog vendors. The wretched souls suffocated, then dessicated, their remains sucked into the tornado of his rage—yes those men sold their last hot dog today."

"Oh no!" cried Dennys Sampler Reyes.

"Man," said Punto. "I guess he was pissed."

"It's true," breathed Lew Ford. "He made the plane to Rochester divert to the Dome, so he could beat on Gardy's door with a bat."

"How do you know that?" asked Rondell White.

"Oh, he called me on my cell afterwards. He says hi."

"Gosh," said Punto. "I feel really bad. I wish we could have done more for him."

"What could we have done?" asked Justin Morneau. "We scored four runs for him!"

"I know! Four runs! Last year he would have kissed us all for four runs!"

"He did!" said Ford, looking far away for a moment.

"You know…." mused Littly Nicky Punto, "Maybe that's the problem?"

The players turned to look at him. "What do you mean, Little Nicky Punto?" asked Shannon Stewart.

"Well," Little Nicky said, standing up (though no one noticed the difference) "last year the pitching staff was awesome right?"

"Si," said Juan Castro.

"And we sucked, right?"

"Si," said Castro.

"And this year we're pretty good but the pitching staff blows chunks, right?"

"I see what you're getting at!" exclaimed Ford. "Maybe the pitching staff's sucking is our fault. Maybe we're too good offensively!"

"Yeah!" agreed Mauer. "and Johan didn't win the Cy Young last year because of us!"

"Well," said Torii Hunter, jaw clenched, "We're not going to make that mistake again."

"No we're not!" agreed Morneau. "Come on guys, we've got to go out and suck!"

"Yeah!" yelled Ford.

"For the pitchers!" squealed Punto.

All across the clubhouse, the cries rang out. "For Johan! For Brad! For Carlos! For Nutty!"

"And for Lohse!" added Mike Redmond quietly.

The players gazed at each other intensely, fire in their eyes and their bellies. "That's right," whispered Hunter, eyes full of tears, "for Lohse."

Modest Proposals

This email was intercepted by the NSA and forwarded to BG, who has level one security clearance. Thanks GenH!

To: Ron Gardenhire (NoNoNellie)
From: Terry Ryan ()
Subject: Proposed Pitching Rotations
Priority: Urgent

Gardy...Let me know what you think!..xxxooo TR

Option 1
Day #1: El Presidente
Day #2: Liriano
Day #3: El Presidente
Day #4: Liriano
Day #5: El Presidente (problem, El P back-to-back starts?)

Option 2
Day #1: El Presidente
Day #2: Liriano
Day #3: T-Fat (Lots of potential!)
Day #4: Dan Gladden (Not bad in '89)
Day #5: Jim Thome (…Hey, maybe we should trade for him?)

Option 3
Day #1: El Presidente
Day #2: Liriano
Day #3: Mr. Winkles (pro: amulet of keen, con: gnome)
Day #4: BatMom (pro: lefty! con: smokes catnip)
Day #5: Meryl Streep (so versatile!)

Option 4
Day #1: El Presidente
Day #2: Liriano
Day #3: Radke
Day #4: Lohse
Day #5: Baker
j/k!!!!!!!!!! LOL!!!! : )

Option 5:
Day #1: El Presidente
Day #2: Liriano
Day #3: Blyleven (pro: good curveball, con: adverbs)
Day #4: Mudcat Grant (pro: good singer, con: needs cane)
Day #5: Walter Johnson (pro: lots of strikeouts, con: dead)

Wink Wink

Chicago at Twins. Bitch Sox 7, Twins 3.

When Ron Gardenhire arrived at the Dome—slightly late due to his annual Ma Ingalls Day After Mother's Day Annual Brunch—he walked into his office, took one look, and walked right toward the clubhouse bellowing, "LEW!"

Lew Ford looked around. "Me?"

"Yes, Lew. You," said Gardy, appearing in the doorway. "Could you come here a moment?"

"Uh...sure..."

With trepidation, Lew Ford followed as the manager stalked back down the corridor to his office. When they got to the doorway, Gardy motioned grandly towards his desk. "Do you know anything about this?"

"Oh," Lew said. Sitting on Gardy's desk chair was a diminutive creature with a white beard and red hat happily chomping on a line-up card. Lew looked around. "…Maybe."

"Get him OUT!" yelled Gardy, turning a lovely shade of magenta.

A moment later, Ford was dragging the creature out into the hallway. "I told you not to go in Gardy's office," he hissed.

"What was I supposed to do?" the creature hissed back. "I was hungry!"

"You are such a—"

The two appeared in the clubhouse door, arguing with each other, while one by one the players stopped to stare at Ford's companion. "Ford!" said Kyle Lohse. "What the hell is that?"

"I think it's an elf," said Scott Baker, scratching his head.

Ford's eyes grew wide. "Man, I wish!" he exclaimed. "Elves are spellcasters!"

"Oh, like you'd know what to do with an elf," the creature said to Ford. Ford scrunched up his face and glared in response.

"I believe that's a gnome," announced Rondell White.

"Yeah," sighed Ford. "He's a gnome. They're pretty much worthless."

"Hey!" said the gnome.

"Well, it's TRUE!" said Ford.

A small crowd gathered around the bickering pair. "LewLew, what's he doing here?" asked Brad Radke.

"Oh," Lew said with a heavy sigh, "Corri won't let him stay at home. I had to put him somewhere."

"Yeah, but Lew…why do you have an elf?"

"Gnome," corrected White.

"Oh!…well, I was playing Warcraft one night and I fell asleep with my forehead on the keyboard. I don't know what I pressed but next thing I knew, Mr. Winkles was sitting next to me eating my copy of Yoda: Dark Rendezvous."

"Oh," said Radke. "Mr. Winkles?"

"At your service!" enthused the gnome, taking a bow. "Would you like a hug?"

"I…well, sure…"

Just then, Terry Ryan walked into the clubhouse, humming the Nutty tune to himself. When he saw Mr. Winkles, he stopped short.

"What the hell is that?" Ryan asked.

"He's a gnome," said Ford. "He came out of my computer from Warcraft and started eating all my Robert Jordan books and Corri said he couldn't stay and so I put him in my locker and made a nice little nest for him...which I didn't have to do--I could have just put him out on the street--but he went into Gardy's office even though I told him not to and now Gardy's mad at me again and—"

"Can he pitch?" interrupted Ryan.

"Uh…" said Ford, stopping short. "I don't know...He's got Shield Bash."

"Great," said Ryan. "He starts tomorrow."

*******

Nutty sez: Hi Boys and Girls! Did you like today's entry? That Mr. Winkles sure is crazy! Poor Lew Ford having someone follow him around like that! Scott Baker had a rough time today and I thought it would cheer everyone up to hear Nutty: the Remix! This was made by mbennett, one of the fabulous diarists at Twinkie Town. Thanks, mbennett! I sure enjoyed recording the voice for your phat remix!

Bad Twin

Chicago at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 10, Bitch Sox 1.
Saturday. Twins 8, Bitch Sox 4.
Sunday. Bitch Sox 9, Twins 7.

There are dark forces at work here, my friends, dark forces indeed. For one thing is perfectly clear after this weekend of baseball—the Twins are locked in an immortal struggle for their very souls, an epic battle between Manichean opposing principles—good/evil, light/dark, sucking/not sucking. There were simply two different teams on Sunday night—the first, bathed in halos and lights and awesomeness, responded to a three-run first by scoring seven runs in the bottom of the inning. The Twins played pinball with the Bitch Sox infield, and then capitalized when their defense went TILT—Boom, Boom, Boom! Basehits everywhere, again and again, take that and that and that, Your mommy never loved you Mark Buehrle!

Ah, how beautiful it was. What we should have remembered is: the thing with beauty is, it's fleeting by nature. Just try to capture it, to keep it for your own—pick a rose, pin a butterfly, cage a bird, lure a shirtless Johan Santana into your velvet-walled, leather-floored basement lair and trap him in there and force him to do your bidding, except on some days when it's more fun for you to do his bidding, and you'll find the very quality you so lusted after has been lost (except Johan's). The next thing you know Silva's faltering, the Bitch Sox are rallying and there's Jim Thome, always there's Jim Thome, every second batter he's there, our offseason dream turned into our worst nightmare. And the Twins—what happened to the Twins? The first inning they play defense like a poem and then Boot! Boot! Boot! and we are through the funhouse mirror and there are evil twins all over the place booting the ball and Jim Thome rounds the bases and rounds them some more and we brought it on ourselves because virtue is rewarded and evil is punished, punished like Luis-Castillo-hitting-into-a-triple-play punished...and that crap doesn't happen by accident. (And, really, as bad as it was—did we deserve that? Did we? Really?) Suddenly we couldn't convert anymore and we'd get runners on and find new and exciting ways to strand them and by the end of the game we'd left everyone and BatMom on base. And poor BatMom, she hates being left on base, it gets so cold and lonely and it's Mother's Day after all and she deserves better, she really does. It's not her fault one twin turned out so good and the other so very, very bad.

The point is, sooner or later the two Twins are going to come head to head, are going to have a knockdown drag out battle for the soul of the team. Of course, only one will be left standing. Whichever one it is, let's hope someone hits him home.

BatNote: Kudos to Torii and the rest of the boys for swinging those pink bats. They looked good on you, guys. Brad Radke's mom would be proud.

Easy, Breezy, Beautiful

Twins at Texas. Twins 4, Rangers 3.

Before the game, Kyle Lohse stood in the middle of the clubhouse looking confused.

"What is it, Kyle?" asked NBP.

"I don't know," Lohse said, looking around. "There's like a breeze somewhere or something?"

"Huh," said NBP. "I don't feel it."

"It's weird," said Lohse. "Everywhere I go I feel this, like…wind."

"Huh," said NBP.

A few minutes later, Joe Mauer came by dressed snappily in Perry Ellis, to find Lohse turning around slowly, looking at something just behind him.

"Lohse, what are you doing?" Mauer asked, taking a big chug of his strawberry Grip N' Go.

"Do you feel that? That wind? It's like…following me."

"Uh….no."

"Huh.

A few minutes later, Juan Rincon came by to find Lohse turning back and forth 180 degrees, facing one wall, then the other. "Lohse! Que Pasa? Tu eres loco?"

"No," said Lohse. "It's just there's this weird breeze right behind me. Every time I turn around, it's still behind me…"

"Oh," said Rincon. "That's just Francisco Liriano breathing down your neck."

"Oh!" Lohse said. "Really?"

"Si!" said Rincon. "Didn't you know he was there? It's pretty hard not to notice."

With that, Lohse went over to the clubhouse mirror. He inched in next to Brad Radke who was working a thick sweet smelling pomade into his hair, only to look at his reflection and find that Cisco was, indeed, breathing down his neck.

"Huh," Lohse said. "You'd think I would have noticed that. What do I do about it?"

"Um…" said Rincon, thinking hard. "I don't know. Pitch bueno?"

"Right!" exclaimed Lohse. "Pitch bueno. I'll try it, thanks!"

So, Lohse strode to the mound with new purpose today as Francisco Liriano's hot breath warmed the back of his neck. "I've got to pitch bueno," he muttered to himself, "and get this guy off my $@*?!#& neck." And the funny thing was it worked—Lohse started the game well and Liriano retreated. But then Lohse would begin to falter, Rangers would get on base and threaten and there Liriano was again, breathing, breathing, breathing. "Crap!" Lohse would say. "Pitch bueno!"

And then he would, he would pitch bueno again, and Liriano would retreat, and it was really bueno because these are not the Kansas City Royals, mis amigos, to whom leaving RISP is as natural as breathing, these are the Texas Rangers and they are good at hitting the baseball. But Lohse kept them quiet; with the help of Cisco, Lohse was able to find himself again, was able to keep the Rangers in control and give the Twins another actual real live series victory and even--dare I say--hope. And that is bueno indeed.

Come to a game with Batgirl: Details here.

More Random Links from Goober. Webhamster. (Music will play.)

Do Not Operate BlogTron While Taking

Twins at Texas. Twins 15, Rangers 5.

I don't know, you guys. This is a little embarrassing but, well, as you know Batgirl's a little under the weather, in other words her throat hurts like a 33-1 series loss and there's a whole Grip and Go jug full of mucus in her nose and she feels like Dennys Sampler Reyes has been rolling back and forth over her chest after eating several Dennys Samplers and so at times like this a (bat) girl needs a little chemical assistance, because she has serious duties, blogging duties, and neither rain nor sleet nor a nose-load of snot can keep her from recapping the game, except for weekends and also yesterday and maybe some other times, too. But the point is there are many fine products out there to help a girl out during times like this, and not all of them can be used to make meth. (And speaking of that, Batgirl and Jeb did their real estate disclosures the other day and you have to fill out a whole form about whether or not you have a meth lab on your property. Which Batgirl and Jeb do not, but even if you do—how many people who have meth labs in their houses are actually going to feel compelled to disclose it? But, anyway, you also have to disclose whether or not there are any human remains—if that nice family in Poltergeist had only checked their disclosures, none of that might have happened—but you don't have to disclose whether or not the house is haunted. And, frankly, pretty much the first thing BG wants to know when she buys a house is, Um, hey, is this haunted? Meth lab is probably seventh or eighth between dog pee pee spot and black hole.)

Anyway, one of those fine (bat) girl-helping products is Theraflu. Theraflu has saved BG's life on many an occasion and she heartily recommends it to anyone with a cold, flu, or who just needs a quick lemon-flavored pick me up to help them get through the day. And every time she's taken it before, it's helped a good deal and she's had no side effects...no side effects at all, except for maybe a little logorrhea, but otherwise perfectly fine. What she means to say is never before has she hallucinated.

Don't get me wrong. These hallucinations were awesome. I mean, our line-up? You should see what they can do when you're hopped up on Phenylephrine. First, Li'l Rod leads off, which is sort of adorable in Holy-God-The-Red-Wings-Are-Our-Only-Hope kind of way. And then, well, he gets a hit. And then Mauer walks and Sweetcheeks gets a hit and Cuddles doubles (ooh, that's fun to say. Cuddles doubles, cuddles doubles, cuddles doubles…) and the doctor goes BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! and next thing you know there are five runs and we've batted all around the mulberry bush and the crazy thing is we're not done yet. The Twins keep hitting, Cuddles keeps doubling, Sweetcheeks draws a walk, Lew Fordwalker makes a balletic catch, and Rondell White gets not one but two two two glorious hits in one game and we score more runs and more and even more! That makes fifteen runs if you're counting, and Batgirl can barely count that high, especially all hopped up on Theraflu, but you know what? It doesn't matter. If this is a dream, it's a beautiful dream and I'll drink Theraflu tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow to live in this beautiful dream again and the point is I can't recap the real game because I don't know what happened in the game you watched and maybe I don't even want to know because my game ruled. Or, as Bert Blyleven said in the game reset, "Six runs in the first inning really set the tone of this ballgame."

And how!

Batgirl Down!

No recap tonight, Batgirl's got some horrible cold and can't seem to see through all her congestion to type. It's too bad, because she's pretty sure she saw ESPN's sideline reporter fondling Kameron Loe's boa constrictor, which apparently spent the game in the locker room, and you just know that thing went after Little Nicky Punto.

Dick N' Bert, Through Time

Detroit at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday, Tigers 9, Twins 6.
Saturday, Twins 7, Tigers 6.
Sunday, Twins 4, Tigers 2.

Italy, 79 AD
Dick: Gee, Bert, we sure haven't seen a volcano in some time.
Bert: That's right Dick. In fact, I think Mount Vesuvius has gone six whole innings without erupting!
Dick: Six whole innings? That's amazing.
Bert: I know. Six whole innings!
Dick: Is it warm in here?

Europe, 1347
Dick: That's a really nice rat you have there Bert!
Bert: Yes. Mostly he likes it when I lick him.
Dick: Good thing rats aren't disease bearing!

London, 1666
Dick: This is sure the greatest city in the world!
Bert: Yes, all the buildings so close together make it so you can really get to know your neighbors.
Dick: With such narrow streets...if there were ever a fire it would sure travel quickly!
Bert: You're so funny, Dick.

San Francisco, 1906
Dick: Has it ever occurred to you that most of this city is built on sandy landfill?
Bert: Huh. Really?
Dick: Also, there's a major fault line nearby the city!
Bert: That's funny. You know, if the tectonic plate ever decided to shift, that sure would be trouble.
Dick: Yes, it's a good thing that that hasn't happened yet.
Bert: Did you hear something?

Atlantic Ocean, 1912
Dick: Goodness, I sure love ocean travel. Isn't this new luxury liner amazing?
Bert: Yeah, it was really built good. I hear it's unsinkable!
Dick: Good thing they didn't overstock it with lifeboats. That would really weigh it down.
Bert: Is it cold in here all of a sudden?

United States, 1918.
Dick: You know what? I really think we've got that Spanish flu conquered!

United States, 1952.
Bert: Also, polio!

Chernobyl, 1986
Dick: Damn, that nuclear power sure is safe!

San Francisco, 1989
Bert: Hey, there hasn't been a major earthquake here in a long time!

Today
Dick: Wow, Bert, Johan Santana has a no hitter through six innings.
Bert: A no hitter?
Dick: A no hitter! Isn't that amazing?
Bert: Wow, I really hope someone doesn’t jinx him.

Watch the Game With Team Batgirl: A Reenactment

With Batmom and Batdad baysitting Batbaby, Team Batgirl heads out under the teflon sky for a game of baseball.

Lego Batgirl watches Carlos Silva's fine pitching.



Lego Goober: I ran out of room.



Dougie leads off from first.



Lego Batgirl: Huh, Dougie still pulls out his back pockets when he's on offense.



Lego Batgirl: Why do you think he does that?
Lego Jeb: Hmm, I'm not sure. It wouldn't seem to lend to aerodynamics.
Lego Batgirl: If anything, you'd think it'd create drag...



Lego Batgirl: ...ass-drag.



Lego Jeb: I agree, Batgirl, I wonder if Dougie is aware of that. If only we could measure it, we could warn him. Hmm, the magnitude of the drag will depend on the viscosity of the atmosphere in which he's playing... and I'd like to arrive at a Reynolds number by measuring the degree to which the flow is laminar or turbulent. Hmm, if only we could explain to him that the exposed pockets will increase both the wake and energetic eddies...



Lego Batgirl: Or we could yell, "Hey Dougie, careful for ass-drag!"



The seventh inning stretch arrives.



Lego Suz: Um, there's no way we're not going to score against these guys, right?



Huh.

Not Dead Yet

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 6, Royals 1

Was it going to be different tonight? Did Johan's performance last night restore all balance to the universe and give the pitching staff permission not to suck? (Which, really, Batgirl would have done ages ago, if someone had only asked.) We couldn't tell as Bradke took the mound tonight. We prepared to watch as we watch all of his first innings, with our hands in front of our eyes, ready to gouge them out at the first sign of trouble. And the first two batters worked him and worked him good, but Radke won each battle. Then there was the single and, oh yes, we had danced this dance before. Next would be a double, next a home run just past the right field foul pole, ba ding ba dang ba damn, a 3-run deficit. But not tonight, ladies and gentlemen, because tonight Brad Radke had a plan. Pitching Inside the plan was called. Clearly, his mother watched the game on Friday night and clearly she heard Bert Blyleven ranting about the Twins sissified treatment of the inside corner and clearly she called up her son and said, "Bradley, Snookums, Bert says you are being a big pussy." And clearly Brad did not take well to his mother calling him a pussy. And so, when Matt Stairs strode up to the plate with one on and two out, he cast a glance over to the dugout and meet El Presidente's eyes, and El Presidente nodded at him steelily and Bradke nodded back and then—one, two, three strikes you're out. Sit down, bitch.

The next inning—and, oh, this year when the first inning doesn't kill you the second does—and Douglas Mientkiewicz and his luscious long locks lined a 1-2 pitch for a double, and our hands slowly crept up to our faces again. But no, no, because Brad Radke is Pitching Inside and Emil Brown is sitting down and Mark Teahan is sitting down and suddenly there is fire in Radke's eyes. Yes, yes it says, This is how it should be. Yes, yes, it says, tonight I am in command.

Every inning, the fire burned more brightly, every inning he strode on and off the mound with utter surety, utter clarity, utter focus, utter kickassedness. Smoke is coming off of him by the fifth inning and Rick Anderson wants to douse him because surely that can't be healthy but Wayne Hattaway says, "No, son, there is nothing we can do for him now." And when it is finally over, when Radke has pitched inside to the tune of 7 innings, 4 hits, 1 run, 7 strikeouts, when he is in the clubhouse and the lockers around him burst into flames, melting all of Lew Ford's Star Wars guys, Brad Radke calls up his mother and says, "I am Brad Radke, and I am not dead yet."

The Darling Skies of May

Seattle at Twins. Twins 5, Mariners 1.

Short, short tonight. Batgirl and Jeb spent the evening at the Dakota listening to Cyrus Chestnut and James Carter rock the freakin' house. Mr. Carter wore a red silk suit with black pinstripes and Batgirl thinks everyone should have one of those, especially Mr. Johan K. Santana, who would look mighty fine, Batgirl thinks, in such a suit. We almost saw it, too; apparently the quartet's drummer dropped out due to a profound case of existential despair and Mr. Chestnut called Mr. Santana and asked him to play the drums for them tonight. And Johan said, "Oh, Cyrus, there is nothing I would like more than to lend the rhythm to your funkarhythmia, for your jazz music stirs the fire in my blood and I play drums like I make love, which is to say excellently, but you see Cyrus—I have a game to pitch."

Oh, yes, Johan Santana had a game to pitch. Enough of these off-season cobwebs, this World PP Classic hangover, because his team needs him even more than Cyrus Chestnut did, because they have been very very very bad at baseball, and what we needed was someone to step up and—well, stop sucking.

And the Twins followed—there were hits, palpable hits, RBIs by Punto and Hunter and White and timely Morneau and Mauer hits and balls dropping in front of people and four whole runs in one inning. Sure, Jarrod Washburn sat down something like 16 Twins in a row, but you know what? It doesn't matter. If you recall from last season Batgirl was quite clear—we can strike out, pop out, foul out, ground out as many times as we want as long as we score four runs a game. This all seemed like a perfect strategy at the time because how many times is the Twins pitching staff going to give up five runs a game, huh?

Huh?

But tonight, four runs was an orgy of excess, because tonight we were in the hands of Mr. Johan Santana who strode up to the mound in his red silk suit, under which he wore absolutely nothing at all, and he said, Hello. I am in charge. The adults are here now, we are in control, and I pitch like I make love, which is to say, totally awesomely, and I am Johan Santana, and I am here to make you sit down.

Nutty, the Athletic Blog

Seattle at Twins. Mariners 8, Twins 2.

[Please view Nutty Opening Credits]

Hello, boys and girls! I'm Nutty, the Athletic Cup! I was born inside Scott Baker's pants one day, now I float around and I have a lot to say!

Today, I want to talk to you about double entendres. Do you know what a double entendre is boys and girls? It's a French phrase, except in the French you say double sens. Isn't that nutty? In French, you might think my name is Nutty, Le Cup D'Athletique, but really it's Jean Paul: Le Protecteur de Pee Pee. It's just like my dad always said, "Oh, Nutty, those French are sure crazy sons of bitches."

Well, anyway, double means two. It can also mean a hit that allows the batter to gain two bases but I think that might be a painful issue right now, and Nutty doesn't want to cause anyone pain. A double entendre is something which has a double meaning and can often be used for humor. Like my name. Nutty! Nutty because I'm a little nutty and also because I kind of look like a Brazil nut. Get it? It's funny!

So, I'm about to make a joke, boys and girls, are you ready?

Ha! Get it? May Day? Nutty cracks himself up sometimes! This is funny because it's May Day! And I'm saying Mayday! And not "May Day" like workers-of-the-world-unite May Day. Nutty himself isn't so sure about socialist stuff. I really believe in sharing, don't get me wrong. Sharing is good, boys and girls. But Nutty's Uncle Knackers tried to form a union once. He and all the other athletic cups went on strike once during the annual Pickersgill family reunion rugby game and the Pickersgill line died out pretty soon after that, and there was no annual rugby game anymore. Talk about cutting off your nuts to spite your face!

So, boys and girls, in the picture above, Nutty is saying May Day! because it's May Day, but also like the pilots do when they've been shot and they're plummeting rapidly to earth while their plane is being torn apart and consumed by the relentless flames of a searing inferno, and they scream Mayday! Mayday! into their radios as if anyone can stop them from dying a hideous, excruciating death. And that's funny because of how bad the Twins are!

Did you know "Mayday" actually comes from the French too? It's really "M'Aidez," which means, "For the love of god help me because I have to watch this train wreck from my front row seat strapped to Scott Baker's nads!" I don't really know why the French have a word for that, but it sure comes in handy, boys and girls, it sure does.

See you next week!

For Nutty! t-shirts, please see the BatStore!

(The white shirts have the lyrics on the back, the black shirts are plain.)

And Can You Blame Him?

Twins at Detroit. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Tigers 9, Twins 0.
Saturday. Tigers 750, Twins 1.
Sunday. Tigers 6, Twins 0.

A small contingent of Twins players and coaches was gathered outside the clubhouse bathroom before today's game, whispering to each other and glancing at the closed door nervously.

"You try," hissed Rick Anderson to Steve Liddle.

"What do I say?" asked Liddle, wide-eyed.

"I don't know," said Andy. "Anything."

Casting a glance around him for support, Liddle approached the bathroom door and knocked gently. "Kyle? Kyle, are you in there?"

No answer.

"Kyle," Liddle said, knocking again, "it's Steve. Will you answer me?"

From the other side of the door, a voice emerged. "I'm not going out there!"

"Come on, Kyle," said Liddle. "You can do this!"

"No, I can't!"

Liddle sighed. "He's not coming out," he said to the crowd.

"Offer him a cookie," whispered Lew Ford.

"Lew has a cookie for you, Kyle!" said Liddle.

"I don't wanna cookie!" yelled Lohse.

Little Nicky Punto and Luis Castillo joined the fray. "What's going on?" asked LNP.

"Lohse's locked himself in so he doesn't have to pitch to the Tigers," said Anderson with a sigh.

"I don't blame him," muttered Castillo. His eyes traveled unwittingly to the corner of the clubhouse where Carlos Silva and Brad Radke were huddled together, holding each other and weeping softly.

"Did you offer him a cookie?" asked LNP.

"Yeah. It didn't work."

Punto's eyes grew wide. "He doesn't want a cookie?"

"He can have my lucky rabbit's foot," said Rondell White, joining the group. "I take it with me wherever I go."

A moment of silence.

"Uh….that's okay, Rondell," said Anderson.

"What are we going to do?" moaned Liddle. "Game time's in ten minutes."

Anderson sighed. "If he doesn't come out, someone else is going to have to pitch. Where's Guerrier?"

From the back of the room came a high-pitched scream, then the sound of a pair of feet running out of the clubhouse door, down the hallway, into the parking lot, and towards Lake Michigan.

"Kyle!" said Liddle, pounding on the door. "You come out here right now and take it like a man!"

"I donwanna!" yelled Lohse. "You can't make me!"

"I have to pee," said Little Nicky. "Kyle, let me in, I have to pee!"

"Kyle," said Liddle warningly. "Nicky has to pee."

"I don't care!"

"I'll take care of this," muttered Wayne Hattaway."Get out of my way!" And as the Twins scattered, Hattaway launched a flying side kick at the door. The door fell off its hinges and Hattaway strode towards Lohse, picked up, slung him over his shoulder, and stalked out of the clubhouse toward the field, Lohse screaming the whole way.

The coaches exchanged glances.

"There he goes," said Andy with a sigh as they watched him go. "I sure hate to do this to the poor kid."

"Oh, it'll be okay," said Liddle. "How bad can it be?"

The Shocking Truth

Thanks to TD for the link.

The Pit and the Pendulum

Twins at Kansas City. Twins 7, Royals 3.

This entry sponsored by:

Whiplash, the Cowboy Monkey.

Ow.
My neck.
Is it going to be like this all year? I just want to know. I'm not going to be angry, really I'm not. I just want to be prepared. To take precautions. If we're going to be absolutely horrible one series and play like a professional baseball team the next, if we're going to only manage one run against El Fatto del Triple A one game and then score seven runs the next, I'd just like a little heads-up, that's all. It's not too much to ask, after all Batgirl has given. That way, she knows—oh, okay, we're going to be incredibly inconsistent all season and just when you're ready to write us off we're going to redeemify ourselves and just when we redeemify ourselves and it looks like we're getting it together we're going to make Batgirl fall into a black hole of despair such that she will never see the sun's beautiful beams again? Great. Thank you!

Hey, Twins, you know what would be cool? I mean, if you guys really wanted to establish yourself as crazily inconsistent? Really make your mark and let everyone know you have more personalities than Sybil? Finishing the month at .500. That would be COOL. Because, frankly, the schedule has been a little grueling and, frankly, Mr. Johan Santana is never quite himself in April, and Batgirl has often said to herself, "Self, if we can finish April at .500 I'll be really happy." And everyone wants to make Batgirl really happy, right? Of course to finish at .500 we'd have to sweep the Tigers, and to sweep the Tigers we would have needed to be swept by the Royals and if we had been swept by the Royals, Batgirl would be no longer with us in the "sane" sense and perhaps even the "alive" sense on account of the major stress-induced aneurysm, so, you know, it was nice to have dreams and all of that.

At the very least we can all take some time to thank all the gods of baseball that we're not the Kansas City Royals. Because just when you're talking about how incredibly bad at Base Ball we are, then you see the Royals play hot potato with the ball for a few innings and you realize how very lucky you are. I mean, we might not be able to hit worth a crap, and lately we can't really pitch either, but at least we know how to catch the baseball. Did you listen to the game today? Every time the a Royal let a ball through his legs or dropped it out of his glove or threw it nine feet over someone's head a little piece of Dazzle died inside. It hurt him. It hurt his soul. What's that saying? I thought I had trouble until I met a man with no shoes, and then I met a man with no legs, and then I met a Kansas City Royal. Something like that.

The point is, it's games like this that make us stop and count our blessings, including Blessing #1, Johan K. Santana. Because he struck out ten today and seems to be finding his form, and that, my friends, is worth a little whiplash.

BatNote Come see Batgirl's close personal friend at Birchbark Books in Minneapolis on Saturday at 2:00.

Very Protective

Twins at Kansas City. Royals 3, Twins 1.

It was in the sixth inning that the music began to play.

Dee doo doo doo, dee doot doot doo,

On the mound, Scott Baker turned white as a sheet.

"Oh, no," he muttered. Baker looked right and left. No one else had seemed to notice a thing. Maybe he hadn't—

Dee doot doo doo doo doot doot.

He had. Baker surreptitiously looked down, and hissed, "Not now!"

Dee doo doo doo, dee doot doot doo,

"Hey, Scottie," called Justin Morneau from his post at first base. "Why are you talking to your crotch?"

Dee doo doo—dee de doot doot doot!

"Oh, crap!" whispered Baker, as his pants burst open and the opening credits began to roll:

He was born inside Scott Baker's pants one day,

He came on out to see what was up.

Now he floats around and has a lot to say,

He's Nutty--the athletic cup!

Yes, Nutty had come out once again, and was ready to spread his own special brand of joy and love throughout the world. "Hi boys and girls!" he exclaimed as he floated near Scott Baker's head. "I'm Nutty, The Athletic Cup!"

Joe Mauer quickly called time and rushed toward the mound, the home plate ump close behind.

"Not now, Nutty!" said Baker through gritted teeth. "I'm pitching!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Scott Baker!" enthused Nutty. "It's always a good time for Nutty, the Protective Cup! Boys and girls, do you know what a slider is? Here, Scott," said Nutty, floating into Baker's hands, "show them a slider grip!"

"I'm not going to do that, Nutty!"

"You're no fun, Scott Baker!" said Nutty. "Hey, Joe Mauer, will you show the boys and girls a slider grip?"

"Man," said Mauer, "I'm not touching your cup!"

"Fine Joe Mauer!" sniffed Nutty. "Be that way! You should know it's not a good idea to piss off a protective cup!" He glared pointedly at Mauer's crotch.

"Young man," said the ump, "can't you get your athletic cup under control?"

"No!" exclaimed Baker. "If I could he wouldn't come bursting out of my pants like this!"

"Bursting out of your pants with love, Scott Baker! I just want to spread my message of happiness and baseball to children all across the world. How about a change-up, Joe Mauer! Show the kids a change-up!"

"How the hell did this happen?" asked the ump.

"I don't know," said Baker. "I was at practice one day and he just came out and starting talking to me. Now he won't leave me alone. It's horrible, horrible!"

"That's right Scott Baker!" exclaimed Nutty cheerfully. "I'm your best friend!" He cleared his throat and began to sing in his high voice:

[To hear Nutty's melody click here! Now, you can sing along with Nutty!]

I was born inside Scott Baker's pants one day,
I came on out to see what was up.
Now I float around and have a lot to say,
I'm Nutty—the athletic cup.

"Look," said the umpire turning to Baker, "either you put that cup back in your pants or I'm going to boot you out of this game."

"Boot Scott Baker?" exclaimed Nutty. "How could you, Umpire! He's my friend! You're mean and I hate you!" Nutty whirled around and whizzed over to home plate.

"No, Nutty!" called Baker, "Don't!"

"It's okay, Scott Baker!" called Nutty. "I'm here to protect you!"

And with that, Nutty turned again and flew directly into the ump's crotch while Scott Baker put his head in his hands and began to weep softly.

From the bench, the other Twins watched, wide-eyed. "Wow, that cup is crazy," said Ruben "Reuben" Sierra.

"I guess that's why they call him Nutty," said Little Nicky Punto, shaking his head.

Rondell White turned to him and blinked. "Well," he said. "Not really."

Recovery

Twins at Kansas City. Twins 2, Royals 1.

First thing's first:

M-I-E-N-T-K-I-E-W-I-C-Z

Ahhhhhhhh.

That's better.

At Batgirl's two week retreat she learned to take pleasure in the simple things. A child's smile. The smell of a spring flower. That rash clearing up. It helped her, it did, because when the Twins have runners on first and third in the seventh with no outs in a one-run game and fail to score, it's important to remember the smell of a child's rash. Batgirl learned that. She also learned to accept the things she cannot change and the strength to change the things she can and the wisdom to know the difference.

The truth is, Batgirl wasn't so happy about going on her retreat. She walked into the BatQuarters one night and Goober was there, and Jeb, and Sooz and the BatKitties Three, and they all said things to her, hurtful things, even the BatBaby who has drinking problems of her own let me tell you, and then there was this cab waiting for her and they threw her in by the scruff of her neck. But first she had to go to the dentist because she activated her TMJ on some Big League Chew and the dentist wouldn't give her Novocain because of her Ambiorix habit, and he drilled a hole in her jaw and it hurt like a Jim Thome homer, I tell you what. Then Batgirl went right to the airport and boarded the plane covered in blood and saliva and Batkitty hairball and Big League Chew, which is really hard to get out of your hair if you fall asleep chewing on it, and BatMom says use peanut butter but she says that about everything, and meanwhile Batgirl's bleeding all over her seat, and the flight attendants gave her the stink eye and someone whispered that she must be a Bitch Sox fan, and it hurt, it did, but not as badly as that whole dental procedure without Novacain and that just ain't right, is it? I mean just because Batgirl's got a little bit of a problem she has rights, too, she has rights to painkillers and whatever else it takes to numb the pain of daily existence because have you seen our team ERA? Batgirl can't even count that high when she's sober. Which she is now. Totally.

But that was just the physical journey, and as Batgirl learned the last two weeks it's the spiritual journey that counts. It's appreciating the present moment. Breathe in and out. I am one with the me. I am awake and aware. I am me living this moment conscious all the time that I am me being awake and aware of how the Twins do not know how to play Base Ball. It is so much better this way because Batgirl was heading for trouble, I mean there was that one time when she got totally hopped up on Happy Happy Fun Drink and ran the cop down with her BatPrius and had to spend three months in prison and prison will rip apart your soul, you know, it will take it out of your chest and chew it up and spit it out and stomp on it and turn it into BatKitty litter and BatKitty #1 is having digestive issues if you get my meaning—in other words prison is almost as bad as watching last week's games. But that was then, this is now, and Batgirl is all about positive self-affirmations and visualizing success and T-Fat handles a mean wet baseball and Lew Ford runs his little heart out and Ruben "Reuben" Sierra does what he's supposed to do because he is a "professional baseball player" and Little Nicky Punto goes wee wee wee all the way home and there's nothing pretty about it but we win and it is as if a million little pieces come together and Batgirl breathes in and out and, for tonight, is at peace.

A huge belated BatThankYou to RD for filling in so wonderfully during Batgirl's "rest."

Arrange flowers, grasshopper.

Many thousands of feet above Peoria, Illinois, Rick Anderson came upon Tony Batista at the back of the Twins' charter.

"Um, T-Fat? You know we had a...pretty rough weekend. Why do have a such a happy look on your face?"

Batista raised his eyebrows. "With all due respect, Coach, I do not believe that my 'look' is either happy or unhappy. I am merely expressing the serenity that comes from the practice of mental discipline combined with a strict physical regimen."

Carlos Silva overheard the two of them talking. "Andy, are you asking T-Fat why he's taking all this so calmly?"

"Oh Carlos," said T-Fat, "it is worse than fruitless to become angry. Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment."

"Huh?"

By now a number of Twins had joined them, gathering close to hear Batista's words.

"But aren't you just a little mad?" asked Joe Mauer.

"Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one getting burned. So said my teacher."

"Your teacher?" squeaked Little Nicky Punto.

"When I went to Japan, I was volatile, consumed by my passions like many of you. Until, one day, returning to my hotel room after a what I used to call a 'rough night' at the plate, I tripped over a monk in the street."

"'I believe that you are angry and frustrated,' the monk said to me, rising, 'We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make our world.'

I couldn't understand what he was saying, either. 'All I know, old man,' I said, 'is that I made three strikeouts tonight. Can I get a hit every time just by thinking about it?'

'No, kohei, but you can learn to subdue yourself and thereby achieve inner peace.'

I'm ashamed to say that I kicked him in the nads...The next night, after another awful game, I was walking down the street seething in anger and I saw him again.

'Detach from your anger,' said the old man, limping slightly.

Again, I laughed. But the next night I had another horrible night and my team got swept by the evil Yokohama BitchStars. I was pulling my hair out as I walked back to the hotel that night and saw the same old man with the freaky eyes. By then I was ready to listen to anything.

'Okay, sir, tell me what you know,' I said.

''Weakness prevails over strength. Gentleness conquers. Become the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea.'

'Become the sea? Tame the breeze...huh?'

Oh, just come to my Shaolin temple and I'll show you the way.'"

"Sweet!" interrupted Lew Ford.

"Yes it was, sweet, Lew..." said T-Fat. "Sweet with the awakening of awareness."

"Huh?"

"Just watch my flashback."

"How am I to become a great baseball player when you've made me take a vow of poverty and live in this monastery?"
"Health, contentment, and trust are your greatest possessions...a fancy new stadium won't necessarily make you win--look at the Diamondbacks; plus, you could use losing an inch or two around the waist."

"Why must I trim this plant, Master?"
"It's a tree, kohei, and you must learn the patience of a man who sees a tree grow...a baseball season is very long."

"Why must I make flower arrangements, master?"
"Because some series are just never going to go your way and you have to take refuge in the world's simple beauty--even knowing that it is transitory. Plus, did you know that samurai used to practice flower arrangment? It's true, look it up."

Back on the Twins plane, the players listened wide-eyed.

"Wow," said Lew Ford, "did you have to fight some ninja or something, then?"

"No, I maimed the Emperor's son with my pruning sheers and had to flee for America. I then wandered from adventure to adventure."

"Oh!" squeeked Lew, "And like the guy said, 'if you have a problem, and no one else can help, then maybe you can hire...'"

"No, that's the A-Team."

Angels 8, Twins 2: Here's how it could have been worse, a Top 10 list

10. Could have lost 8-2 to the Royals.

9. Lewwwww could have gotten thrown out at third on his steal attempt after he blew the sign and got Castro nailed.

8. J-Ro could have gotten the save instead of being only a bit player.

7. S. Cheeks Hunter and Stewart could have smashed into each other on that fly ball instead of letting it drop between 'em.

6. Luis Rivas could have been our starting second baseman.

5. Luis Rivas could have gone 4-for-5 for the Angels.

4. T-Phat! could have batted cleanup. Oh, $#!], he did!

3. The Twins could be undefeated in Pixie Vests instead of 1-1.

2. could be pitching (for the Twins) tomorrow.

1. Rondell (The Other) White (Meat) could have gone hitless.

Because he cares, an RD update: Click on DougieDefence for a trip to the KC Royals web page, where you can find several Doug Mientkiewicz surprises in the slideshow on the main part of the page.

Yankees 9, Twins 3: Have you read the back of your ticket?

Whimsically speaking, there's a valid reason the Twins didn't sweep the Yankees. Look at the back of your ticket and check out the list of prohibited items. They don't want guns at the Metrodome, which makes sense, and you're not supposed to bring in your own likker, oversized bags and laser pointers.

And also on the list of prohibited items, right there between projectiles and balloons, is BROOMS. There are no BROOMS allowed at the Dome, and it makes you wonder how in Swiffer's name are the guys supposed to sweep the Yankees if we can't bring in brooms. Someone thought to bring one because there was a nice angled floorsweeper sitting in the trash outside Gate F a few minutes before the first pitch.

OK, that being said, Bradke had to friggin' know that he wasn't gonna get the kind of run support that he's gotten in those starts against the Jays and A's, and that six runs in six innings doesn't pass for "getting in trouble early and then shutting 'em down."

And Rondell? Calling Rondell (The Other) White (Meat)! Stop it right now. We took a vote after the game and it was a unanimous verdict among RD, Sweet-n-Sassy and the Sassyettes that you should spend the off day on Monday in the batting cages at Grand Slam in Eagan. Set the speed real slow to start out and then work your way up to major-league speed. Pretend the mechanical arm in Bradke ... or some guy you owned in high school back in Georgia. This is getting ridiculous. It was kinda cool to say that our guys had won 5 straight and could afford to have you swing your way out of this morassic malaise. WAS is the operative word here. Four more at-bats, three more strikeouts, four hits for the whole season. And don't even think about using the excuse that you stunk today because Hoobastank was in the house.

That being said, Twins life certainly looks better on Easter than it did on Palm Sunday. Ruben Sierra will be in uniform on Tuesday and RD is hoping that Gardy hangs out around the go-karts over at Grand Slam, quietly eyeing work in the batting cage. Gardy, if you don't like what you see, there's a 40-year-old hitter coming your way. Can it be any worse?

Twins 6, Yankees 5. JustIncredible, eh!

So, like, what's up with Rondell (the Other) White (Meat)? I mean, yeah, he got a hit tonight but no designated hitter, no major-league batter for that matter, is supposed to have 0 as the first number in his batting average.

And this thing? Gardy got a good inning out of him Friday night with a 4-run lead and then he goes with him in a clutch situation tonight. Then -- Wham! Bam! Slam! -- a 4-2 lead becomes a 5-4 deficit and Posse Latino needed to take over the mound to keep things from getting any worse. Gardy calling on Crain in that situation, alas, was like saying "I Love You" to a phone-sex operator. He wasn't gonna get anything of substance in return.

And this Santana guy? What's up with El Presidente? That's three straight struggling starts and ... (Therapist's Note: RD isn't really considering Johan's situation a problem.)

DAMN, AIN'T IT GREAT NOT TO HAVE TO DWELL ON ANYTHING THAT LOOKS LIKE A PROBLEM TONIGHT!? PROBLEMS ARE FOR YANKEE FANS, JOE TORRE AND MARIANO RIVERA TO PONDER WHILE THEY UNWRAP THEIR BUTTERFINGER BUNNIES TOMORROW MORNING.

JUST WHEN IT LOOKED LIKE RIVERA WAS GOING TO PUT ASUNDER WHAT THE TWINS HAD CREATED IN THE NINTH INNING -- LUIS CASTILLO'S FOURTH HIT AND JOE MAUER'S FULL-COUNT, CASTILLO-RUNNING SLAP TO LEFT FIELD -- UP STEPPED JUSTINCREDIBLE.

White had swung at strike three and S. Cheeks Hunter had taken a called third. Confidence had been replaced by uncertainty in a two-batter span.

And then, like the Easter Bunnies that will make their chocolatey hops through many of our houses early tomorrow morning, Morneau slapped a grounder. Hop, it went. Hop, hop, hop. Between the second baseman Cano and the first baseman Cairo. Into right field.

Castillo, whose speed made it all possible, scored the tying run. And Mauer, whose bat made possible whatever Castillo couldn't do on his own, came across home plate. Twins 6, Yankees 5.

JustIncredible circled back toward the dugout, where giddy teammates came to meet him, taking running leaps and slapping him on the helmet. Lewwwwwwwwww Ford got in an especially good hit and L-Rod almost got credit for a takedown. All those blows to the helmet could be why, during his post-game interview on FSN, JustIncredible said "you know" 10 times in about 100 seconds. (Remembering back to some of last year's interviews, RD was ready to count 'em, all fingers and toes at the ready.)

Uhhhhhh, you know, if, like, JustIncredible keeps, you know, getting key hits like, uhhhhh, that one, you know, he can, like, talk any friggin' way he wants, you know.

Sweep tomorrow, eh! It'll be the first one for the Twins over the Yankees since 1991, which is remembered as a very good year.

Twins 8, A's 2: Maybe they are stirred by the sound of Dominican thunder

So we're feeling better than we were at this time Sunday night, huh? That 1-5 start still has a chance to become a 157-5 finish, and it would be a good idea to start putting aside part of every paycheck, allowance or casino heist into your playoff ticket fund. Oh, do we get giddy when Kyle Lohse pitches the way that he did Thursday afternoon, a continuation of his Spring Training prowess. But this time it was for real and against a team with serious skills.

And the hitters! The A's starters, earlier this year, had pitched 27 straight scoreless innings -- and today's starter, Joe Blanton, had pitched eight of 'em last Friday night at Seattle. The A's starters, by the way, are supposed to be (and are) darn good. So don't be looking at this like one of those sweeps against Kansas City or Tampa Bay that made the Twins early last season look better than they really were.

In fact, RD recalls a conversation with his Sweet-N-Sassy after a sweep of Kansas City early last season, when she asked, "We're winning, but why are we having so much trouble with these lousy teams."

RD recalls saying sumthin' like, "A win is a win is a win. Don't matter whether you win 5-4 or 15-4."

Well, RD was wrong.

This was a sweep that could/should mean sumthin'. S. Cheeks Hunter belted 2 home runs, both of 'em key; the Twins clustered their runs for yet another day, scoring their first half-dozen in batches of 3; Mike Redmond (who needs an appropriate shorthand reference) got 3 hits, LN (25th Man)Punto got 2 and it didn't matter a whit that JustIncredible, Rondell (the Other) White (Meat) and combined to go hitless.

And then there was the sound of Dominican thunder -- the fastballs of Francisco Liriano. You could see the box score instead of the game itself and say to yourownself, "Six batters! Five strikeouts! How long can Gardy keep him in the bullpen?" You gotta think that Kyle Lohse woke up this morning and drove to the ballpark wondering the same thing.

And you gotta think that Scott Baker is going to bed tonight wondering the same thing, knowing that maybe (just maybe) he better pitch his a$$ off against the Yanquis tomorrow night to maintain his place.

And you gotta think that Bradke is going to bed tonight with a smile, knowing that if he does retire at the end of the season, his crafty right jabs will be replaced by thunderous left knockout punches.

The Yanquis are coming to town, with their billion-dollar payroll and not-quite deserved swagger. It would have been a serious pooper to go into this series 1-8 and l@' down. Instead, the Hometown Nine is 4-5 and l@' pretty much like we want 'em to l@ For now.

Twins 6, A's 5. Don't pass over this opportunity to be the Batgirl!

RD was as surprised as anyone to find Batgirl's keys to the blog under his doorstep this morning, with an admonition to watch over her domain during the spiritual retreat that became necessary after the Grandstand Grill incident. But he will endeavor to keep hope alive, with the help of 3-run homers and Joe Nathan's closing skills.

However, a problem arose that RD needs to turn into an opportunity.

Tonight, RD had the privilege of celebrating the Passover story with food, wine and more food at the West Metro home of some dear friends. After the ritual four glasses of wine, four questions, brisket, gefilte fish and the ransoming of the afikomen by a pair of wayward teens, RD and host Kingfish didn't retreat to the basement until the bottom of the 8th. RD was pleased to see BooBerry return to his set-up role and Joe Nathan's FU-Oakland ninth. RD is sure he saw the closer utter these words after his game-closing third strikes, "You want another slider, dude? Then go to White Castle." RD raised a fifth glass of wine and toasted the season's first winning streak.

Here's the problem: RD missed the first 7 1/2 innings. He knows, from postgame radio chatter and mlb.com, that JustIncredible bombed a 3-run homer and went 3-for-4 and Torii Hunter launched a majestic and important homer and Juan (Jason Doesn't Live Here Anymore) Castro played some excellent defense and Cleveland lost and Frank Thomas' DH-ing a$$ was on the bench all night.

But RD doesn't know how it felt out there on the season's first dollar-a-dog night and the Twins' initial venture into the world of the Pixie Vests.

So, tell me. Close your eyes, pretend you're Batgirl (or RD) and take a paragraph or two to tell everyone what happened through your Twins-addled eyes.

This offer may NEVER be repeated. So act now.

Miracles.

Oakland at Twins. Twins 7, A's 6.

Goodness. Well. Things sure change quickly, don't they? I mean, here we were down 4-0 in the 3rd and to win the game would mean we would have to score five whole runs, which as any Twins fan knows is an absolutely impossible feat, I mean no baseball team has EVER scored five whole runs in one game—maybe over three games they could score five runs, maybe, if, like, some kind of miracle happened, if, like, someone stopped by and turned loaves into fishes and parted the Red Sea and healed Corey Koskie and then said, oh, by the way, as evidence for my future sainthood I am going to bless your bats and you are going to score two whole runs this game and if you wouldn't mind mentioning it to the Vatican I'd really appreciate it, if you're not too busy totally sucking because I understand that takes up a lot of time and energy and I certainly wouldn't want to impose, because I'm just that kind of guy. And meanwhile Batgirl's all bitter because she waited in line at the upper deck Grandstand Grill for forever and missed the starting lineups and the woman who was waiting on her could not seem to figure out how to work the cash register trons and she scanned Batgirl's drivers license instead of her credit card and kept punching in the wrong things and tried to charge Batgirl for three beers when she only wanted one beer, and she didn't even want it, really, it was for Goober who had forgotten his ID, and fatherhood has made him look so youthful, and then the woman didn't give her the little lettuce and tomato pack with her veggie burger and if Batgirl's paying four bucks for a freakin' veggie burger she wants her sheet of lettuce-like substance, dammit, and then Batgirl had to wait several minutes because the receipt tron was jammed and the woman wouldn't let her leave even though Batgirl didn't want her receipt and the woman kept saying, Just give me your credit card and I'll try again which did not sound like a promising proposition to Batgirl, and then finally Batgirl was allowed to leave and she fled for the condiments and Goober, who was in line behind Batgirl trying to secure hot dogs, shouted, No, don't leave me! and Batgirl's like, So long sucker! and starts sucking down the beer she bought for him because of the stress and ten minutes later Goober appears by the condiments dazed and shaking with a tray full of nothing like what he had ordered after having paid several times more what he was supposed to and he didn’t even care, he just shouted, Here, take my money, just let me go! Please! Please for the love of god! and we finally make our way up to our seats and we've missed Bradke making short work of the A's in the first inning and—hey! Look! Bradke had a one two three first inning! Wow, he must be on tonight, he must be really riding the home opener wave and we forgot all about our forced captivity at the Grandstand Grill because we were so happy and then Boom! Boom! Boom! and suddenly we're down 4-0 and, you know, loaves into fishes and Grandstand Grill veggie burger into something edible and all that. And then it’s the bottom of the 3rd and Shannon Stewart gets a hit to lead-off the inning. And that's very nice because it was the first hit of the game and it's always refreshing to get a hit because then we can't be no hit and that's always a small comfort. At least we weren't no hit, we say to ourselves, sighing gently and thinking how we had dreams once. And then Luis Castillo gets a double and he speeds his way around the bases and that's pretty fun to watch too, it's nice to have a legitimate #2 hitter, too bad no one's ever going to hit him in but then Chairman Joseph Mauer does hit him in, he hits both of them in, for a grand total of two runs and, you know, call the Pope. And we're just so dazzled by this display of offensive prowess, of the whole line-up doing what it’s supposed to do, we barely even notice when Torii hits them in and suddenly it's 4-3 with two men on and, you know, I don't want to sound crazy here, I mean I know the whole Grandstand Grill experience scarred me emotionally, but we could win this thing. Really. I mean it. And then T-Fat strides up and suddenly Batgirl sees into his mind and he is thinking to himself What is the sound of one hand clapping and If an ass-bat falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it still make a sound and a perfect peace spreads over him and then—

Boom.

And all over the Dome stale hot dog buns are turning into fishes and swimming away, swimming, swimming. And somewhere in some forest in some distant land an ass bat does fall and no one is there to hear it, but Batgirl knows it makes a sound and that sound is "Touch 'Em All, T-Fat." Touch 'em All.

Scary Story

Twins at Cleveland. Weekend Round-Up.

Friday: Cleveland 11, Twins 6
Saturday: Cleveland 3, Twins 0.
Sunday: Cleveland 3, Twins 2.

Listen, my children. Gather 'round. Come closely—no, that's close enough, I have intimacy issues—for I have a tale for you that will chill you to the bone. Do you know the story of the monster known as the Travishafner? Part phantom, part beast, he travels with the wind and the night looking for innocent souls on which to feast. He is voraciously hungry and he will not rest until he has devoured the ERAs of every Twins pitcher. You cannot plead with the Travishafner for he knows no sympathy, no mercy—he is driven only by his need to feed. No, my children, do not wander alone in Jacobs Field at night for the Travishafner lurks there waiting to pounce on you, and when he is done with you there will be nothing left but a pile of bones and your own screams still hanging in the air. You cannot run from him, for he moves as fast as the wind. You cannot hide from him, for he can smell your fear.

Some say the Travishafner is just a myth. They are the lucky ones.

"I have seen him," said Kyle Lohse. "He has red eyes and sharp fangs and he can kill you just by looking in your eyes. Also he hit two home runs off me."

"I have seen him," said Scott Baker. "He has superhuman strength and he blots out the sun and he also hit a homer off of me."

"I have seen him," said Johan Santana. "He has a heart of ice, a soul of darkness, and he breathes fire. I got him out because I am Johan Santana. But I would have appreciated some run support."

No one knows where the Travishafner come from. Some say he is a government experiment gone horribly awry. Some he is a demon banished from hell and forced to walk the earth. Some say he is from North Dakota. But I think the Travishafner comes from inside us. I think our fear created him, and our fear continues to make him stronger.

We cannot stop him, that is clear. The Travishafner will continue to prey on us at least seventeen more times this season. All we can do is try to overcome him, to take our fear and imagine it as a little round white ball and attempt to hit it very far with long wooden sticks. At least it's worth a try.

Courage, Camille

Twins at Toronto. Blue Jays 6, Twins 3.

The first thing you need to know is that Batgirl has a cold. Or the flu. One of those things that you don't want to have. The second thing you need to know is that it's all Jeb's fault. For he went on an airplane recently and "forgot" to wear the SARS mask Batgirl for got him, despite the fact that she and the Batkitties decorated it with glitter, and while Batkitty #3 is not strong with the glitter and may have gotten parts of herself stuck to the SARS mask, it's the thought that counts. The point is, Jeb has been traveling a good deal this year and every other time he gets off a plane he brings with him some sort of bubonic plague or another. You would think they would stop letting the plague-infested oozing-pustule rats on the planes, but Northwest has had to make a lot of budget cuts lately and somebody's got to make those $6 snack boxes. But somebody wanted to be a macho macho duck, somebody thinks SARS is totally three years ago, somebody thinks glitter doesn’t go with his khakis. Glitter, my dear husband, goes with everything.

In other words, there may have been a baseball game played tonight, though Batgirl cannot be sure. And the Jackal and Boo Rincon may have turned the sixth inning into a rousing game of CPC&T (that's Crazy Pepe's Chug and Toss, for those of you unfamiliar with the storied history of Caracas street fairs), but that could just be the Theraflu talking. Do you know that if you actually take the recommended dose of Cold-Eeze tablets in one day, your mouth turns into ass? It's true! In fact, while the Cold-Eeze did nothing at all to reduce the duration of Batgirl's cold, it did certainly increase the duration of her ass-mouth. In other words, much like Retin-A started as an acne medicine and became an anti-wrinklefier, the FDA is about to approve Cold-Eeze to promote ass-mouth. The point is, we may have lost tonight, and stranded a few runners and beaned some people and walked someone with the bases juiced but you cannot blame the Twins, for surely they were distracted by Batgirl's plight. How can you focus on baseball when Batgirl is suffering? How can there be music and laughter and children and moving Shannon Stewart over to third when he's on second with no outs and a three run deficit? I ask you. I ask you.

p.s. Want to see what Batgirl's like heavily medicated? Come see her close personal friend at the Red Balloon in St. Paul at 2pm on Saturday. It will be Dayquilrific!

Time After Time

Twins at Toronto. Twins 13, Blue Jays 4

Before tonight's game against the Jays, the Twins hung out in the clubhouse doing their knitting and needlework and scrapbooking, chattering about this and that, that and this. Lew Ford came in slightly late, eyes ablaze with excitement.
"Hey, you guys," he proclaimed, "did you get that e-mail?"
"Yeah," said Jesse Crain. "I tried that stuff. It doesn't work."
"No, no, not that one." Ford said. "About last night? At 1:02 and three seconds last night it was 1:02:03 4/5/06!"
"Huh?" asked Rondell White.
"1-2-3-4-5-6!" Isn't that cool?"
"Not as good as Cupcake Day," mumbled Brad Radke, combing his snazzy new goatee.
"The e-mail said it will never happen again!" said Ford. "Think of that!"
"Wait," said Torii Hunter. "The one I got said it will happen every thousand years."
"Wow," said Ford. "Every thousand years!"
"Wait," said White. "That’s not right either. I mean the same thing will happen in 2106, right? April 5, 2106? So it's every hundred years. That e-mail's totally wrong."
"Tell me about it," groused Crain.
"Not necessarily," insisted Ford. "I mean, who knows if there will even be clocks in 2106. Who knows if there will even be time?"
"What's wrong with him," whispered White.
"Can you imagine?" Ford asked the room. "A world without time? There would be no clocks or calendars. No speed drills or deadlines or curfews. You could play Doom all day long!"
"Wait," said Brad Radke, dropping his comb. "A world without time?"
"That's right," said Ford. "1-2-3-4-5-6!"
As Radke stared at Ford wide-eyed, something popped inside his mind. A world without time, he thought as he took the field. A world without time, he whispered to himself as he gave up a double to Frank Catalanotto. So, how would you know when to meet your hairstylist? he muttered as he gave up a dinger to Troy Glaus. Maybe in a world without time you wouldn't have any hair? he whispered as he gave up another dinger to Lyle Overbay.
In the dugout, Rick Anderson and Ron Gardenhire exchanged glances.
"Lew must've popped his brain again," said Anderson.
"I've got to keep him away from Brad before his starts," grumbled Gardy.
"Hey, Gardy," said Radke as he skipped into the dugout, "What would the world be like if no one had any hair? What would we have on our heads? Or would we not have heads anymore? And if we didn't have heads, how we would wear hats? And if we didn't wear hats how would anyone know what team we were on?"
"Come here for a second Brad," said bench coach Steve Liddle, hiding the bottle of chloroform. "I've got to show you something…"
Well, fortunately for the Twins, repopping Brad Radke's brain isn't that hard, once you get through all the gel, and when you get everything in place again he does just fine. Meanwhile, someone seemed to have repopped the Twins offense as well. When Sweetcheeks singled in the Twins' first run of the game, everyone in the dugout looked so gosh darned happy, because no one expected that, they expected the getting on base, sure, but hitting those guys in? Radical.
"Hey," said Juan Castro, "this scoring runs is fun."
"Let's do it again!" yelled Luis Castillo.
"Hey, Lew, tell the Jays about your e-mail."
"Gladly!" said Lew. "Hey, guys?" he shouted out to the Blue Jays fielders. "Did you guys know what last night was?"
Well, as you can imagine, Lew blew all of the Jays fielders' minds, too, and a couple errors later the Twins were back in business. Shannon Stewart kept on pace to hit 162 home runs, Luis Castillo's hustle was matched only by Joe Mauer's, our 4, 5, and 6 guys all had RBIs, Torii had a grand slam, and T-Fat actually drew a walk. In other words, thanks to situational hitting and hustle, not to mention some very long balls, the Twins batters overcame an early 4-run deficit and ended up with thirteen whole runs on the night, doing things pretty much how they're supposed to do it, and then some.

Blows your mind, doesn't it?

How Rude

Twins at Toronto. Blue Jays 6, Twins 3

I know this happens every season. I know that it takes El Presidente some time to find his form. And that’s okay, it is. Because El Presidente can do whatever he wants, he has a mandate (and I don’t mean that thing that happens when you’re a guy and you become friends with this other guy and he has all the same interests as you and you have so much to talk about and so you go to restaurants and museums together and everyone thinks you’re a couple but you’re not, you’re just friends, and your girlfriend doesn’t understand, because why can’t you go to museums and restaurants and the theatre with her, isn’t she good enough? What does he give you that she can’t? And you say nothing, nothing, it’s just that Steve is good company and you go out with your gal pals all the time and do gal pal things so why can’t I hang out with Steve? And she says but most guys hang out by sitting around drinking beer and scratching themselves, they don’t do things they could be doing with their girlfriends. And you say, I’ll drink beer and scratch myself right now if it will make you happy. And she says, that’s not the point. And you say what is the point? And she says there’s something going on between you and Steve, isn’t there? And you say no, no, it’s not like that, I mean I like Steve, but I don’t like Steve, and she says, yeah, but he’s pretty cute, and you say, Sure, but he’s no Johan Santana.) Not that kind of mandate. The other one where he can take his sweet time becoming totally awesome and we’ll spot him a few games in April because all of Twins Nation will support and love him because he is their president and everyone makes mistakes and we’re all a bit logy in April, especially with the daylight savings time and stuff, I mean Batgirl herself is still jetlagged from the whole thing, plus she’s got a sore throat which is probably Jeb’s fault because he’s been traveling a lot and you know how planes are. But that’s beside the point. Which is, Johan, you just go right ahead and give up all the hits you want in the next couple of weeks, your approval ratings will not suffer, our hearts will not falter, for you are Johan Santana and you are here to strike people out.

Still, it seems awfully impudent, doesn’t it? All those people getting hits off of Johan? And a homer? Have they no respect? I know he gives up homers from time to time but usually there’s no one on base, because they can’t get on base because he is Johan Santana. Who the heck do they think they are? I’m looking at you, Bengie Molina. You have a serious manners problem and I’m not afraid to say it, and I don’t think you’re going to be getting any mandates at all from any of Twins Nation.

As for the debut of the New! Improved! Twins! Line-up!, now with T-Fat! well, it was pretty exciting there when the Twins scored a run in the first inning. I mean it—a real live run. Like, Shannon Stewart lead-off base hit, Luis Castillo Bunt, Chairman Mauer reach on an error, R-White sac fly run. Really. I shit you not. Everybody did what they were supposed to do, everybody executed, and I don’t mean in the lethal injection kind of way. But after that, well, things got pretty flaccid. Unlike Johan, guys, you don’t have any wiggle room—we’ve been hurt, we’ve suffered, we want to see that you’ve changed, really changed. Sure, I know what you’ve said, you’re sorry, you were drunk, it’s just that I make you so angry sometimes you can’t help yourselves, but you’ll never do it again if we just come back to you. But BG, for one, will believe it when she sees it.

What I’m saying you guys, you Twins batters, is that I like you, but I don’t like you yet. I have needs. Two homers in one game is really cool and all, and Stewie did a nice one man I’m-not-dead-yet show and T-Fat I think will have an error and a homer every game, and yes there were points last year when two homers would have seemed like an orgy of excess (as opposed to an orgy of moderation? Which would totally be the Twins. I can just see Joe Mauer saying, you know this orgy is great and all, but it seems a little immodest. Can we scale it back a bit? And has anyone seen my Grip n’ Go?), but next time try putting runners on base, see? It leads to more runs. And more runs leads to more victories and a happy Batgirl. And mandates for all.

Ah, That's Better

A few notes on tonight's hott hott SPRING TRAINING OPENER, starring JOHAN K. SANTANA:

-Bert Blyleven actually referred to the home country of El Presidente and the Jackal as "Venezuela" several times. Really! I shit you not! Who was it that finally sat him down and told him, very gently, he's been mispronouncing the country's name in front of all of Twins Territory all this time? Or did Danny Gladden drink too many Glueck beers one night and let him in on the awful truth? Or one night was he reading something about the WBC and he stared at the name and said, "My god! There's no 'I' in team, and there's no 'I' in Venezuela either!" And while we now have our sportscaster actually pronouncing the name of the home country of several of our players correctly, Batgirl must ask—what have we lost?

Lordy, next he'll start using adverbs correctly.

-Batgirl shall be referring to Tony Batista as Tony Fatista for the time being. Not because it's funny to make fun of fat people, because it isn't. But because after management gives you a huge chance signing you after you've been released by your Japanese team you don't show up 15 pounds overweight for spring training on Batgirl's team. She might stop calling him Fatista when he takes off the weight. Maybe. Tony, Tony, Tony, BG has no idea how you fielded those balls at third around your giant beer belly, but honeyballs, God wants you to get in shape. He told me so.

-Dear Coco Crisp—thank you for leaving the Indians. Appreciate it! Love, Batgirl

-Joe Vavra looks like he needs Visine.

- And finally—believe it or not, we had three real live actual A#1 homeruns in the game, including a monster first pitcher by Sweetcheeks (welcome back, honeypie) and one by BATGIRL'S BOYFRIEND, already matching last year's regular season team home run total. There's nowhere to go but up!

-TWINS WIN!

Fan Appreciation: A Reenactment

Detroit at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 7, Tigers 3.
Saturday. Twins 3, Tigers Zilch.
Sunday. Twins 6, Tigers 4.

This weekend, Batgirl was watching the Twins dispose of the Tigers in fine fashion along with the Lego guys. The Legos were really quite emotional the entire series, saying good-bye to all their friends and counterparts. They don't know who's going to be back next year, and also the Legos don't have a lot to do in the off-season, they play some Lego Scrabble and catch up on their Lego reading and sometimes do some impromptu Lego Shakespeare—but really baseball is what gives their Lego lives meaning.

Well, anyway, on Friday night when the Twins Fan Appreciation Days commercial went on, I don't mind telling you that things got pretty teary eyed. And it wasn't long before the Legos had jumped up as one and demanded to reenact it for themselves. So without further ado, the Lego Twins thank you for all you have done in '05.

Fan Appreciation Commercial: A Reenactment:

Lego Lew Fordwalker:

Twins fans……YOU'RE something special!

Lego Chairman Mauer:

And for that…





…we tip our caps.




Lego Bradke:

Our way of saying thanks to everyone…





…across Twins Territory.









Lego Dr. Morneau:

You, who drive for hours to get here.




Lego Li'l Sweetcheeks:

You with your sign…





… and lucky jersey.




Lego Boo:

You..





…with your family in the upper deck.




Lego Nathannator:

You, who stay and cheer…





…until the final out.




Lego Stewie:

The Minnesota Twins salute each and every one of you.




Lego Gardy:

Thank you Twins fans.

A Bump in the Road

Kansas City at Twins. Royals 10, Twins 6.

Quickly, quickly, all those Royals homers hypnotized Batgirl into intense sleepiness. Like sheep jumping over fences, like cows jumping over the moon, the ball kept sailing over the wall, one dinger, two dingers, three dingerzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Really, if you can't sleep some night, you should try it, just close your eyes and replay the 6th inning of this game—unless you are Travis Bowyer, in which case I wouldn't recommend it. If you are Travis Bowyer I recommend getting the memory chip removed. There, there. You won’t feel a thing. It's all going to be okay.

Anyway, as regular readers know, Batgirl played volleyball her sophomore year of high school, and if you have read closely you may have realized that her team was not very good. Batgirl's JV volleyball team made the Kansas City Royals look like the St. Louis Cardinals, the problem being that none of us knew how to play volleyball. We certainly never won a match, and Batgirl is unsure whether or not we even won a game, though Batgirl can say with some certainty that we did occasionally score points.

Probably.

Now, BatDad was a high-powered executive and rather busy with myriad better things to do than come to watch his daughter get hit on the head with volleyballs. And yet, BatDad came to every single one of Batgirl's volleyball games and he cheered his BatDad heart out, though for what BG cannot imagine. Batgirl is not sure, but she thinks this must have been even more painful than all the junior high choir concerts put together. (Though, actually for one high school concert, BatDad sat in front of the video camera, and when Batgirl's choir watched the video the next day, we got to watch BatDad nodding off through the whole thing. So I guess he didn't suffer that much.)

But the point is that he came, and Batgirl still doesn't know why, but she does know that what he experienced watching those games was something akin to what we're going through now as the Twins Quest for .500. There were moments of excitement, when Batgirl landed a serve or actually bumped the ball with her arms instead of her face, but mostly it was a bunch of pubescent girls in kneepads and polyester standing around while the ball dropped—plunk—right in the middle of the floor.

The point is, you and I, we are the only ones left. The lights are out and it is cold in here and I am so very, very hungry. Every once in awhile I think someone is coming to save me—I see a man with a blanket and some vegetarian Dome Dogs and he is smiling at me and he says, "Shh, shhh, it's going to be all right now, I am here to help you," but then I blink and he is gone. I do not care. I do not want to be saved—not yet. For these are my Twins and if they are going to spend the last games of the season getting hit in the nads with volleyballs, Batgirl will be there to watch every last bounce. For she is Batgirl, she is a Twins fan, and she needs serious and immediate psychological help.

Dingers for Dollars Update: Oh, sweet Jesus, some dingers! LNP and Li'l Rod both went long tonight. Those homers were the last two of our very generous matching grant, and including some LNP homer bonuses, that makes:

$ 3232 for hurricane relief.

Thank you to Little Nicky Punto and Li'l Rod for hitting DINGERS FOR DOLLARS.

The Passion of J.C. Romero

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 6, Royals 3.

We've discussed Crazy Pepe's Chug and Toss quite a bit this year—any number of our pitchers have engaged in some high-spirited bouts of the game this season. But Batgirl feels she has erred, for in her posts she seems to have glamorized CPC&T, and that is something one should never do. For, as we have seen tonight, there is a darker angle to Crazy Pepe's game, one which has caused it be banned in six countries.

Crazy Pepe's Chug and Toss, as regular readers know, involves chugging as much of your favorite beverage as you can and then throwing a ball ninety miles an hour wherever the heck you feel like it. If all goes well, before the night is done, you've beaned six or seven people.

But every once in awhile, a condition develops described in medical journals as "Crazy Pepe Rage," in which the body of the person who is chugging and tossing becomes slowly overwhelmed by the humor choler, which, according to medieval physicians, causes one to become peevish, irascible, and extremely pissed off. No one knows for sure what causes Crazy Pepe Rage—some say it is the chugging, some the tossing, some think it is something in the combination of chugging and tossing—but what is clear is that every once in a while in a game that celebrates fun and freedom and chugging and tossing, things go Way Too Far.

Like tonight. Here, J.C. Romero was having a perfectly respectable bout of CPC&T. There were no wild pitches or walks, unfortunately, which most really satisfying rounds have, but those two hit batsmen were something really gorgeous, something to be really proud of, something that would have made the venerable Crazy Pepe himself stand up and say Cheers!

But perhaps Gardy sensed something in J.C.'s posture, perhaps it was the wild look in his eyes, perhaps his skin took on the characteristic yellow tint of someone overcome with the humor so closely identified with bile. For right after the second hit batter, Gardy turned to Steve Liddle and said, "I think this round of Crazy Pepe's Chug and Toss is about to go Way Too Far." So Gardy went out to pull him and then, well, things got a little dark.

I don't want to go into too many details about what happened—let's just say J.C. started walking off the mound and as Gardy passed him he decided to make one more toss. As J.C. stormed into the dugout, Steve Liddle tried to stop him--I know you are suffering from Crazy Pepe Rage, he was going to say, but let's take it easy and do some deep meditative breathing like the Crazy Pepe Rage experts say. But JC would not have it. There was some finger pointing, there was some yelling, there were words said that would have made Crazy Pepe—really, a very mild-mannered chap—blush.

The thing that is very important about Crazy Pepe Rage is that you stop chugging and/or tossing immediately, because then things might go Way Way Too Far (see: tossing ball at Gardy) and Batgirl fears that when he went into the clubhouse JC Romero continued to chug/toss. We cannot be sure of course, but one thing is certain—as Kyle Lohse watched JC storm his way into the showers, he smiled to himself and muttered happily, "Who's Tantrum McSpazzyPants now?"

Let Us Now Praise Johan Santana

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 3, Royals 1.

Perhaps I had a wicked childhood
Perhaps I had a miserable youth
But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past
There must have been a moment of truth

For here you are, standing there, pitching for me
Whether or not you should
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good

Nothing comes from nothing
Nothing ever could
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good.
--Maria Von Trapp
"Something Good"
The Sound of Music

I don't deserve him, and I know that. Every night when I go to sleep I wonder how I got to be so very lucky. There are so many girls out there who are lonely, who are going to bars and searching personal ads and using internet dating services, who spend their evenings desperately trying to meet that special someone because their pitching staffs don't have someone who is so brutally hot. There's no reason I've been so blessed—all I can do is shake my head in wonder that he is mine.

You know, though, who I feel really bad for? Not the ones who are still questing endlessly and tirelessly for their sweet baboo, but the ones who have settled, who have committed their lives and their hearts to some lesser pitching ace and have to deal with the feeling of terrible emptiness inside them when they gaze into his eyes and realize he is not Johan Santana.

Is your pitcher leading the majors in strikeouts? Is your pitcher tied for the ERA lead in the AL? Does your pitcher inspire terror in every opponent's heart? Does your pitcher wiggle his butt in that incredibly cute way before some pitches? I thought not.

(I don't know why Johan does that butt wiggle, but I think every pitcher should start doing it, because it could possibly be the source of all his power. I think when the Twins take BP the pitchers should be out taking BWP, or butt wiggling practice. I think Johan should stand in front of them all and lead them all in butt wiggling, first a slow motion demonstration, then he helps them all get the feeling for the butt wiggle by putting his hands on each pitcher's hip, one by one and moving them around slowly in a circle, round and round—wax on, wax off, wax on, wax off--Ah, yes, Mr. Vice President, you have it now! Then all together the pitchers stand and practice their Johan Santana Butt Wiggling with Johan himself studying each butt carefully and shouting helpful tips—right, left, right, left, come on Brad, let's put your hips into it! Crain you look like BatKitty #2! you're not having seizures there, Baker! stop doing the robot Boo! Come on, boys, imagine you are a beautiful woman putting on a red silk sheath dress and it—oopsie!—catches a little on your hips and you must wiggle, wiggle, wiggle your butt to inch it down. Here, let me show you!)

Oh, sorry.

The point is, I don’t even want to imagine what this season would have been like without Johan, but at the darkest moments he comes to us, like an angel with joy-filled eyes and a tendency to sit the bitches down, he strokes our hair and he whispers in our ears, Shhhh, shhhhh, I am here now, it is all going to be all right, for I am Johan Santana, and I would like to make love to you.

Er, I mean…

BatNotes:: Speaking of people Batgirl doesn't deserve, a huge BatSmooch to Count Chocula/the Veep/ Twitchy McXanax/the Nathanest of Joes for saving his 40th game tonight in fine style. However he was able to get 40 save situations this season BG cannot imagine.

Dingers for Dollars Update: No actual dingers tonight—in fact for the Coors Light Cold Blast DicknBert had to pick a bleepin' sac fly—but at least we finally got some dollars, thanks to the Boo appearance and Chocula save, three strikeouts, and a totally-trucking-hot bonus from bubblemint. With the help of another retroactive pledge, that makes:

$ 2643 for hurricane relief.

Also, thanks to everyone who purchased items from the BatStore from 9/6-9/21. Batgirl will make a $114 donation to the Red Cross. Thank you, all.

Now, come on, guys, let's hit some dingers.

Mission...Quest...Thing

Kansas City at Twins. Royals 5, Twins 0.

It was an exhausted group of baseball players that settled into the bunk room at the Metrodome after getting back from Chicago Sunday night. The players barely talked as they brushed their teeth and washed their faces and got into their night time man dresses and sleeping hats.

"Man," said Jacque Jones, crawling into his bed. "I'm so beat. That was some series."

"We scored three runs in three days!" said Matt LeCroy with a tremendous yawn.

"Takes a lot out of you!" said Luis Rivas, stretching sleepily.

"You bet your sweet ass," mumbled Michael Cuddyer. "Good night everyone!"

"Good night!"

And all the players went into their beds, all lined up in a long row, cradled their little stuffed T.C. Bearsthem, and fell asleep. A gentle snoring sound filled the room as chests rose up and down in perfect harmony.

The players, with nothing at all to trouble them, slept hard, and so no one noticed at first when the room filled with an eerie light, nor did anyone stir when the door opened and an extremely large man flew in on a giant potato with the number 14 carved on the side. The man surveyed the sleeping bunch, shook his head, and waved his magic wand.

"WAKE UP!" he shouted. "WAKE UP YOU LOSERS!"

One by one, the Twins sat up in the beds, eyes wide, clutching their TC Bears close to them.

"Who is it?" shouted Bret Abernathy.

"I'm scared!" squeaked Little Nicky Punto.

"Why," said Jacque Jones. "It's Kent Hrbek on his magic potato!"

"Damn skippy," said Hrbek. "I am Kent Hrbek and I am visiting from the Great Beyond."

"Heaven?" gasped Lew Ford.

"No, Bloomington." He held his hands out grandly. "Twins players, I have come because Twins Territory is in grave danger. A great evil threatens to overcome us, and you are the only ones who can stop it. My boys, you must go on a quest. The fate of all of Twins Territory is in your hands.

"A quest?" exclaimed Li'l Rod.

"Sweet!" shouted Lew. "Mordor, here I come!"

"Am I going to get eaten?" asked Little Nicky Punto.

"Probably," said Kent Hrbek. "But that doesn't matter. Some times great struggle requires great sacrifice. My boys, I am giving you a mission. I have come here tonight to ask you to Quest for .500."

As one, every player in the room gasped.

" I know! I know!" said Hrbek. "The journey is going to be long and hard and I don't know if everyone will survive it. You will struggle mightily against great odds and even against the Royals. You will journey into the darkest night of your souls. Also…I'm afraid you're going to have to score some runs."

"What?" exclaimed LeCroy.

"Impossible!" said Rivas.

"Nothing is impossible for a team of professional baseball players."

The players looked at each other blankly.

Hrbek sighed. "Okay, how about…Nothing is impossible when you have Johan Santana. Now, go, my children. You are in a battle for your very souls, or at least your dignity. The way will be dark and cold and there will be much to fear, but if you stick together, you will see the light of day again. Go and score runs and catch the ball and fight against adversity and learn something about yourselves and come out stronger for the journey, secure in the knowledge that you've saved Twins fans from terrible tomrent. You'll be heroes! Are you with me?"

"YEAH!" shouted Jason Bartlett.

"YEAH!" shouted Justin Morneau.

"SI!" shouted Juan Castro.

"Now!" shouted Hrbek, "Let's go out there and kick some Kansas City heinie!"

Full of the fire of hope and passion, the players stormed out onto the field and proceeded to strike out, ground out, and pop out their way to another shut out loss. Afterwards, they filed back into the bunk room and plopped on their beds and snuggled their bears close to them.

"Well, he said the way would be hard," said Joe Mauer.

"He said there would be obstacles," agreed Justin Morneau.

"He said sometimes we would doubt ourselves," nodded Jacque Jones.

"What's important," said Matt LeCroy, "is not that we lost, but that we live on to fight another day."

"That's right!" exclaimed Michael Cuddyer.

"Tomorrow!" cheered Michael Ryan.

"Huzzah!" squealed Jason Tyner.

Just then, Lew Ford came running into the room carrying a sheet of paper. He hopped up on the bed and waved the paper around excitedly.

"Hey, guys!" he shouted.

"What?"

"We did it!" he said, pointing to the paper excitedly.

"We did what?"

"Look!" he said, holding up what appeared to be a box score. "We did it...we made .500!" With a hoot, Lew threw the paper up in the air and yelped, "Take THAT Sauron you one-eyed bastard!"

In the corner of the room, Brad Radke and Johan Santana looked at each other.

"Should we tell him?" whispered Radke.

"Naw," said Johan. "He looks so happy."

Here We Go 'Round The Prickly Pear

Twins at Chicago. Weekend Round-up.
Friday. Bitch Sox 3, Twins 1.
Saturday. Bitch Sox 8, Twins 1.
Sunday. Bitch Sox 4, Twins 1.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
--W.B. Yeats

What Willie is saying here is that that really, truly sucked. It would have sucked apocalyptically if we weren't well past the End Times now. The thing is, after the apocalypse hits, you'd think all the sucking would stop. You'd think that after everything's already gone down, after the moon turns to blood and the seas boil and your kitties are stricken with incurable kitty blackheads, and you've gone through the whole oh-the-world-is-ending-that-wasn't-in-my-plans-"I-would-have-liked-to-have-seen-Montana" thing, there's not really anything else anyone can do to you. You would be wrong.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
-T.S. Eliot

I don't know what I was expecting. Why I thought things would be different now. Why I thought when the Twins couldn't be motivated by a Quest for the Postseason or a Quest for Batgirl's Sanity that they would suddenly really get themselves together for a Quest for .500

I had recently suggested that the Sucking Force operating on the Bitch Sox was greater than the one operating on us. That is not true. Math has never been Batgirl's strong suit. I think I've got it worked out into a simple equation. Will may need to help me out here, but I think I'm correct:

If "x" is the Twins Sucking Force and "y" is the Bitch Sox Sucking Force and "K" is a Johan Santana start, then you get: x+K < y

x-K though? That gets you this weekend.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I hit a pop fly
And that has made all the difference.
-R. Frost

I guess the point is, really, Batgirl gives and she gives, and she does not complain, at least some days, at least a couple of them, there must have been a game or two in there where Batgirl has not complained about all her relentless giving. And she doesn't ask for much—or at least everything she's asked for (The division championship, the wildcard, four runs a game, victory for El Presidente, some shred of dignity, a reason to live) has been utterly and totally rejected. Which is totally fine, really, it's totally fine, and BG's had this twitching disorder her whole life, really. But in the last few games of the season, Batgirl does have a request, a very simple one, really, best summed up in an excerpt from "September, 2005:"

I would like very much if we hit
Some bleepin' blargin' dingers.
--W.H. Auden

A BatConfession

Twins at Chicago. Twins 4, Bitch Sox 1. (11 innings)

We're friends, now, aren't we? You and I? Over these last two seasons, haven't we really built something together? Some kind of trust, some kind of affection. I mean, if Batgirl were to have a problem, well, you'd be there for her, wouldn't you?

Because, you see...I have to tell you that all is not well in the BatHousehold.

Perhaps you've sensed it. Something a little off with Batgirl. As if she's not quite focused on her solemn duties, as if something is distracting her. And you haven't wanted to say anything, you haven't wanted to be rude. And Batgirl appreciates that, she does. But let there be no secrets between us. Really, after all this time, how could there be? I should have told you from the beginning.

It's just that, well, BatKitty #2 has a…problem.

Now, before we go any further, I must tell you that not long after we liberated a young BatKitty #2 from the Humane Society, back when he was just a BatKitten, we took him to the vet to get his schnoobers removed. Why, I still remember the very day! The snow covered the earth like a white blanket. I wore red, the vet wore blue! What a lark! What a plunge!

Now, Batgirl has a lot of stuffed animals, including a rather corpulent stuffed bear by name of Pudge. About a year after he was removed of his schnoobers, BatKitty #2 developed a great affection for said stuffed bear and could often be found kneading that bear's pudgy belly, as cats do. It's a very cute behavior, probably stemming from trying to get milk from their momma's as babies. And, well, we thought it was adorable. "Look! BatKitty #2 is petting Pudgie!" But then, one day, during a particularly enthusiastic round of petting, we noticed his hips were really getting into the kneading action, really, they were moving back and forth quite a bit, almost as if they were gyrating…

Well, suffice to say we saw something we never wanted to see. And soon BatKitty #2 proved himself to have a great, well, affection for, not just that stuffed animal, but all stuffed animals. He would come into Batgirl's bedroom to find them all on the bed, resting so innocently, and he would put on his silk BatKitty bathrobe and sidle up to them and put on some Barry White and say, "How YOU doin'?"

Soon, we learned to put the stuffed animals in unhumpable places, and BatKitty #2 forgot about his weird fetish. But recently BatKitties #2 and #3 were wrestling and it seemed to give him some ideas and those hips started gyrating and, well, we saw something we never wanted to see again.

We've had several long talks with the BatKitties about inappropriate touching and about our strict no-humping policy, but for some reason it just hasn't taken. And the thing is, BatKitty #2 doesn't even know what he's doing—he doesn't have the mechanisms down correctly, it's just this instinct takes over sometimes at the sight of some really hot stuffed animal or, unfortunately, his adopted sister. If he were actually trying to procreate, let's just say he would be extremely unsuccessful.

The point is, BatKitty #2's attempts at making sweet love to both Pudgie the Stuffed Bear and BatKitty #3 remind me a lot of the Twins offense. There's a lot of yowling, a lot of flailing about, and absolutely no contact. It's all harmless, except for the nausea and the psychological scars.

Poor Johan Santana will probably be kept from his second consecutive Cy Young award by the sheer incompetence of our hitters, who do not have the excuse that their schnoobers were removed at a tender age. If only the voters had been watching our season they'd know what an absolute miracle it is he's won 14. He should get the Cy Young, the MVP, and quite possibly the Purple Heart.

I don't really know how we won tonight—it can only be that whatever tremendous sucking force has been dragging us down all season, the one currently operating on the Bitch Sox is even more powerful. There's a giant sucking sound coming from the South Side, and as much as we really tried to lose the game tonight, it just didn't happen. And then something strange happened—we tried to win. It was as if some atavistic good-baseball-team instinct kicked in and we actually started playing like a team with schnoobers. After a couple days to think about what he did, Lew Ford comes in and gets all sparkpluggy again and starts scooting around the basepaths, Big Leroy earns a month of free Krispy Kremes with an RBI single to give the Twins the lead, and Jacque Jones—who really put the offensive in offense in Monday's 7-6 loss—drives the stake into the quivering heart of the Bitch Sox with a two-run double. That's my team! Those are my boys! Lark! Plunge!

We saw in the last two days that the instinct is there, deep within the Twins--yes, these are bats, these are balls, these are bases, this is what we do with them. The thing is, no matter how he tries, BatKitty #2 is never going to score again--but maybe, just maybe, the Twins can.

****

Dingers for Dollars Update: Li'l Sweetcheeks went yard today, giving him the DFD tie with Cuddles at 3 a piece, plus we have individual pledges for Boo and Chocula, not to mention a thanks-for-beating-the-Bitch-Sox bonus from Tribe Scribe, which makes $304 on the day and:

$2592 for hurricane relief.

Thanks to Jacque Jones for hitting a DINGER FOR DOLLARS.

Lost.

Twins at Oakland. Series Round-Up.
Monday, A's 7, Twins 6.
Tuesday, A's 8, Twins 3.
Wednesday, Twins 10, A's 4.

After having been blown thousands of miles off course, Twins flight 005 crash landed on an uncharted tropical island. Many souls were lost in the crash, and more quickly afterwards—poor Luis Rivas survived but got too close to the plane's engine and fell victim to its tremendous sucking force.

Still, there were some survivors—dazed, mentally disturbed, emotionally crippled, they tried to absorb the horrificness of the disaster they had experienced. For a few days, the Twins passengers thought they might be rescued. They tried to establish a radio signal, they lit a signal fire, they swept the Bitch Sox. But soon it became apparent that no one was coming to help them; that they were stranded and must deal with this flaming, twisted, pathetic wreckage on their own.

You'd think those were troubles enough, but on their first night the castaways were awakened from their slumber by an earth-shattering pounding noise. The rhythm was of footsteps, but the noise, it was too loud, no creature could possibly be that large. The ground shook as the terrible sound reverberated through the island--Boom! Boom! Boom!

"Ack!" screamed Joe Mays, "it's Cleveland!"

But despite all the booms, it wasn't Cleveland. The castaways stared in wide-eyed terror at the direction of the footsteps, watching as the very trees seemed to bow to the creature's might.

"It's a monster," said Terry Tiffee.

"We're all going to die!" screamed Jason Bartlett.

"I think the island is angry at us," said Johan Santana.

"I think that might be Gardy," said Lew Ford.

"Fiddlesticks!" squeaked Little Nicky Punto. "I am not afraid of any monster!" And he grabbed one of Terry Mulholland's cuticle-trimming knives and started to run headlong into the forest, hesitated, and then started running again. The last anyone heard from him was a far-off scream, followed by a very loud crunching noise, then a satisfied belch.

"Well, that was predictable," said Brad Radke.

"Even though he was the smallest of us, he had the biggest heart," said Jacque Jones.

So the stranded Twins began slowly to adjust to life on the island. Some dreamed of escape and even sold their Golden Valley homes, some became lost to rage and smashed up the clubhouse, while others tried to make do by being really hot and pitching awesomely.

"I think this island is blessed," said Johan Santana. "I think we were sent here for a reason."

"What are you talking about, Johan?" asked Dr. Morneau, skeptically.

"I think the island has something to teach us all. I think the island called us. I think this is a magical place where we will learn about ourselves and about sucking and come out stronger for it."

"I think you're full of crap," said Dr. Morneau.

"You'll see," said Johan. "It's fate."

One day, a man appeared on the island. He said he was from Seattle and he just needed a change of scenery. The players trusted him because he had been an All-Star and he looked strangely hot as a chick, but then he tried to kidnap Scott Baker and was released.

After a while, some of the castaways got sick and tired of doing nothing so they tried to build a raft. Unfortunately, they made the body of the raft out of some bats saved from the plane wreckage, but the raft was doomed because those bats couldn't hit water.

The castaways began to lose hope, and to unravel. They let grounders go under their gloves, failed to run out squib bunts, and missed the cut-off man again and again and again and again and again.

Then, Johan made a startling discovery. Buried underneath a pile of brush he found a mysterious hatch in the ground. Every day, he went to dig out the hatch, sometimes he dug out five or six feet a day, sometimes he dug out as many as thirteen, and then when he got tired he called Joe Nathan to dig out three more feet. When he had it dug out, he called Michael Cuddyer to get his boom boom stick to blast the hatch open. And then he called the players together to look in the hatch. It was an endless tunnel that seemed to lead only to darkness.

"It's dark down there," said Brad Radke.

"But I think I see something," said Johan.

"I don't know. I'm frightened."

"But, look there," said Johan. "Squint your eyes together. Don’t you see it?"

"What?" said Radke. "I don't see anything."

"I do," said Johan. "I look down the long dark tunnel of the hatch and I see hope."

"You do?"

"Yes," said Johan. "It's all we have."

"I don't know," said Radke, squinting. "I don't see it, and even if I did..." He shook his head. "You wouldn't, by any chance, see a DH down there, too, would you?"

Tune in next season to find out.

* * *

Dingers for Dollars Update: One thing about Cuddles, he loves him the charity. That's three homers for him since we started DFD. Today, with the matching grant and the Cuddy individual pledges, he was good for $298, plus a LeCroy double bonus and a LeCroy infield single bonus from Ovie, plus pledges for a Boo appearance and two Boo strikeouts making:

$2288 for hurricane relief.

Aaar! Batgirl's Sleepy!

Due to intense BatSleepiness and the whole West Coast game thing, BG won't be doing game recaps until Wednesday when she'll do a series round-up. In the spirit of International Talk Like a Pirate Day, though, she would like to ask her readers to submit Pirate thoughts and dialogue for the players during the game. BG humbly submits the following:

In Search of the Moral High Ground: a Reenactment

Chicago at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Bitch Sox 2, Twins 1. (10 innings)
Saturday. Twins 5, Bitch Sox 0.
Sunday. Bitch Sox 2, Twins 1.

Okay. Listen. If we're not going to score any runs, which apparently, despite Batgirl's very simple Plan For Ultimate Victory, we're not, what we need to do is flash some leather. And by flash some leather, I don't mean letting balls go through our legs. Poor LNP, Lew Fordwalker, and Jesse Crain had games they'd like deleted from their memory chips this weekend—which is too bad, because the Twins made some mad hot plays this series. To celebrate the good and encourage the players to keep reaching for those stars, Team Batgirl is presenting the weekend's best plays, in Legovision. First, the honorable mentions:

Little Nicky Punto shows off his vertical to catch a Carl Everett line drive!

Jason Tyner runs down the ball in center!





Jason Bartlett makes a diving stop!





Stewie catches the ball, then crashes into the wall!





A tumbling Jacque Jones grab!




And now Team Batgirl is proud to present Batgirl's Play of the Weekend.

Johan Santana pitches to Pablo Ozuna. ("I have news for you. I am not right handed.")





Ozuna hits a tapper down the first base line.





With his superhuman reflexes, Johan dives for the ball--





--then springs for Ozuna!





Ohhhh, Pabloooo, I am coming for you!





Please to sit down. Thank you. Good-bye.

Congratulations to Johan Santana for Batgirl's Play of the Weekend. Now, please, Mr. President, never do that again.

Dingers for Dollars update: No dingers today, alas, but there's a retroactive pledge from infield, a thanks-for-beating-the-Bitch Sox-on-Sat from TribeScribe, and today $5 for a Boo appearance, and RD pledged a dollar per point differential on the Vikings loss plus a $10 Bears win bonus, so that makes $44 on the day and $1063 TOTAL for hurricane relief.

Now, let's hit some more dingers. Come on guys, it's for charity.

What I Meant to Say Was...

Twins at Tigers. Twins 9, Tigers 3.

For an explanation of DINGERS FOR DOLLARS, please scroll down to the bottom of this entry.

Or nine runs is fine, too.

Apparently, what the Twins needed was a little motivation. Now, for most teams, things like ‘the division championship’ and ‘postseason play’ and ‘dignity’ and ‘keeping Batgirl off the sauce’ would be motivation enough to score a bunch of runs, but as we all know, the Twins are not most teams.

Tonight, Fox Sports Network decided to donate $1000 for each home run hit in the game to the Red Cross. Now, if the whole network of Fox Sports stations were not doing the same promotion, Batgirl would be a little suspicious, for offering money for every home run the Twins hit in a given night is rather like offering to donate ten bucks for every person who attends a Devil Rays game.

Or so Batgirl thought. But tonight, the Twins hit three grade ‘A’ numero uno one hundred percent real extra juicy home runs. Yes, three. According to DicknBert, the Twins have not hit three home runs since a game against Milwaukee in late June, though whether they meant three home runs in the same game or three home runs total was unclear.

I’m not sure the team’s been very clear on the concept of the homer, but it’s really not that hard once you grasp the fundamental truth about it—and I know this is hard, but bear with me—when you hit a dinger, you are guaranteed to score a run. Like tonight. Matt LeCroy came up with the Twins down 1-0 while DicknBert were talking about the Doctor’s wish to gain ten pounds in the offseason, and just as DickorBert said, “He’s going to be a big boy,” Big Boy himself went long. And tied the game. Just like that. Easy, breezy, beautiful, Big LeCroy. And while the Twins have been shut out at least 40 times this season, they have never been shut out when they’ve hit a homer.

Now, here’s the other thing. There’s a whole other dimension to the home run thing, and that is: if you hit a homer with someone on base you score both yourself and the person on base. So if there’s a runner on, as there was for Bart in the eighth, you score two runs. And if there are two runners on, as there was for Luis “Babe” Rivas in the third, you score three runs.

We’ve all been on and on about the Twins inability to do the little things right this year, but BG’s feeling is if the boys managed to hit a few more dingers, a failure to advance to runner wouldn’t mean as much. And also, since we’re going to adopt Batgirl’s Happy Kitten Plan For Ultimate Victory, scoring four runs a game is a lot easier if you can hit some dingers.

So, anyway, apparently the Twins hit homers best for charity. So, for the rest of the season, for every homer the Twins hit, Batgirl will donate $1000—no, wait—Batgirl will donate FIVE DOLLARS to hurricane relief.

It’s almost the same thing.

Who’s with Batgirl? Make your pledges below, one dollar to one million dollars. BG will keep track all month and at the end of the year she'll post some options for giving. It's all right if you can't, of course, you can talk about homers or Travis Bowyer or Babe Rivas, too.

More Like It.

Twins at Detroit. Twins 2, Tigers 1

Now, really, was that so hard?

Look guys, let’s make a deal for next year. You can leave as many guys on base as you want. Really. BG won’t even blink an eye. You can leave everyone in the dugout on base, Wayne Hattaway, too, you can strand Batgirl and the Batkitties Three. You can strand the whole U.S. freakin’ army on base—heck, take the Navy, too. It’s all good. BG cares not, as long as you score more runs than the other team.

This isn’t really that difficult. Not when the pitching staff gives up 2 runs a game (when they’re not on strike that is). Not when Kyle Lohse, who has shed his Tantrum McSpazzypants persona and is very, very sorry, shows us that we’ll miss him if he’s gone next year. (Of his clubhouse-smashing endeavors, Lohse would say regretfully, “I just wanted the bats to hit something!”)

My dear Twins, you can put runners on all day, we know you can. Today, for instance, you had thirteen hits, three walks—one of them intentional—and a hit by pitch. That makes by Batgirl’s California math eighteen baserunners, of which you scored two. Which, again, is totally, one hundred percent fine with Batgirl because you won. And two runs off 13 hits, that’s respectable, kind of. (I mean, jeez, could you imagine getting 13 hits and not getting any runs? How pathetic would that be?) But the point is, under Batgirl’s Happy Kitten Plan For Ultimate Triumph you can put runners on all day with walks, hits, errors, bunts, whatever you want, and then, my friends, you can totally strand them ‘til the cows come home! You can first-pitch swing into double plays, strike out, pop out, whatever! The world is your oyster! Just as long as you convert on 2-3 of those opportunities a game, enough to score more runs than your opponents.

“But Batgirl,” you say, “how can we score more runs than the other team when we don’t know how many runs they’re going to score, huh? We’re not psychic, except for Old Man Mulholland, and maybe Mike Redmond since he got hit in the head.” Well, I say, let’s make this even easier.

Fact: you, Twins are 186-1 this season when you score four runs or more and, Fact: you are 10-960 when you score fewer than four. So, under Batgirl’s Happy Kitten Plan For Ultimate Triumph you score four runs a game. That’s two base hits with the bases juiced, or, say, one sac fly and a three-run double, or two sac flies, a base hit with RISP, and a walk-off bunt for Little Nicky Punto, or even—and I know I’m asking a lot here—one grand salami. Because salami is delicious and I think you like to eat it—are you hearing me, Matt LeCroy? Strand as many was you want, but score four runs a game and Batgirl bets you won’t be going home once October starts next year.

By the way, we’ve had the privilege of seeing two career journeymen minor leaguers make their debuts this year. There was Glenn Williams—ah, yes, that was ages ago, back when we were still young and had dreams—and now Chris “Hunts Is Fine But I Prefer” Heintz has been in the minors for ten years without a major league call-up, but this year he batted .304 in Rochester and was the Red Wings’ MVP, and the Twins made room for him on their 40-man roster. On Saturday, Heintz had his first major league appearance, on Sunday he got a start and a hit, tonight he his first RBI, scoring the Twins’ first run of the game, and last week he was turned into a chick for the first time. He has seemed absolutely giddy on his first tour with the show, and he is a reminder, even during these dark times, what a privilege it is to play the game, and what fun it is to watch it. Also, he is delicious with French fries.

BatNotes: Batgirl would like to take this moment to congratulate her beloved husband who handed in his dissertation today and is now Dr. Jeb. He has worked almost as hard on it as the Twins have to score runs this year. Unfortunately, Dr. Jeb then dove into the fountain near the registrar’s office and that’s when the BatCell went dead. BG is sure he’s fine.

Things That Are More Fun Than This

A List Composed During Sunday’s Game
by Batgirl, with some help from Team Batgirl

Twins at Cleveland. Weekend Round-Up.
Don’t ask. Seriously.

1) Batkitty #2 goes through a phase sometimes. I do not want to be specific about the phase, but let’s just say it earns him the nickname Sir Pukes-a-lot. He is an artist that works in kitty vomit, and like the best artist, he is constantly pushing boundaries. He makes an active effort never to puke in the same place twice, so you find kitty vomit where you least expect it. Sometimes, after a long day of blogging, after a nice bubble bath and a fine glass of wine from a box, you crawl into your bed and find that you have lain down directly in a pile of regurgitated Science Diet and kitty bile.

And that was more fun than this,

2) Her senior year of high school, after about a four-year crush, Batgirl worked up the nerve to ask Jamon Heller to the senior prom. She did it right after Fiddler on the Roof rehearsal, in the hallway. Jamon said to Batgirl, “Well, Batgirl, we’re great friends, but shouldn’t prom be something …romantic?”

And that was more fun than this.

3) When Batgirl was in fourth grade she fell off of her bed and hit her head on her Garfield wastebasket. The wastebasket had a big Garfield on the front and on the back had several panels in which Garfield made wry comments about his canine compatriot and his owner, and perhaps also expressed his love for lasagna. The wastebasket was also metal and had come apart at the seam to form a jagged edge. It is this edge that Batgirl’s head collided with, and when she drew her hand to her face, she felt something kind of sticky. So she went into the bathroom and found the entire left side of her face was covered in blood. So she padded down the hallway and knocked on BatMom and Dad’s door. They opened the door to behold their nine-year-old daughter with a face drenched with blood. And Batgirl just asked to be sure, but indeed—

That was more fun than this.

4) In 2003, Goober ran his first Twin Cities Marathon. At mile 10, his knee gave out, but he finished the race because he followed a 300-lb guy wearing an “I’m Running With Jesus” t-shirt and because he carried a homer hanky, as he was going to see the Twins in Game 4 of the ALDS that afternoon and he had faith in the Twins to carry him through. His feet swelled up so badly it killed all of his toenails, and when he took off his shoes after the marathon all his toenails had turned a tarry black. Goober then went to watch the Yankees hand the Twins their buttocks in Game 4, then over the next few weeks his toenails all fell off, one by one.

And that was more fun than this.

5) Once, Batgirl had to get a spinal tap. During the tap, the nurse told Batgirl to curl her toes and it would help with the pain. And the miracle was, it did help, it really did! Batgirl was instructed to lay on her back for a couple of days, otherwise the tap might leak and then she would get horrible headaches and have to go in to get it all patched up—a process in which they take the patient’s own blood and re-inject it into her spine at the spot of the lumbar puncture. Batgirl did get terrible headaches and had to go get the patch procedure on her birthday at a place called “United Center for Pain.”

It was well-named, and it was more fun than this.

6) Her freshman year of college, Batgirl was on vacation with some friends and work up in the middle of the night with an intense pain in her pelvic region. After several minutes in which the pain increased exponentially, Batgirl went to get her friends and they took her to the emergency room. Batgirl was doubled over in pain by this time, scared and weeping. The doctor asked her a few brusque questions then turned to his nurse, stroking his mustache, and proclaimed, “Strap her in for a pelvic.”

And, well, you know...

7) When Jeb was in 6th grade he fell off his bike and badly mangled the fingers on his left hand. In order to reset said badly mangled fingers without causing young Jeb to perish from the pain, the doctor needed to give him Novocain. Now, if you really want to kill all the nervous communication from the elbow down, there’s one real sweet spot for sticking that needle in and that spot is the funny bone. After the doctor inserted the needle, he looked at young Jeb apologetically and said, “I’m going to have to really work this in to make sure the anesthetic gets good coverage,” and started wiggling the needle around in his funny bone.

More fun. Loads.

Readers, help Batgirl add to her list. What else?

Jugg-Er-Not.

Texas at Twins. Twins 8, Rangers 6.

After Carlos Silva’s unearned-run-o-rific loss on Monday, the Twins starting pitchers gathered at Café Brenda’s to drown their sorrows in mock duck tacos and several bottles of organic wine. There wasn’t a lot of conversation, really—mostly the pitchers sat slumped in their chairs chugging the wine straight from the bottle, and every once in awhile one of them would start weeping gently.

Finally, Kyle Lohse smashed his wine bottle on the floor and said something that rhymed with, "Truck this bit!" He shook his head and continued, "Truck it! I’m sick of this trucking bit!"

"Yeah," said Radke, throwing his bottle against the wall, where it shattered. "This trucking bucks!"

"Truck. Truck. Truck." muttered Carlos the Jackal, lost deep inside his wine bottle.

"Truck!" said Lohse, standing up and overturning his chair. "You know trucking what? If they're going to trucking buck, why are we working our trucking basses off? Huh?"

"I don't trucking know," slurred the Jackal. "Trucking mufffle fuffle."

"Truck yeah!" said Radke, flipping the table over. "Truck them. If they want to trucking buck, we'll show them! We'll trucking buck too!"

"Mur-FUFFLE!" agreed the Jackal.

"I am trucking down with you homies," said El Presidente, walking over to the nearest female Brenda's diner, dipping her backwards, and planting a long, slow, deep, wet kiss on her lips.

"It's bril-trucking-iant," said Lohse. "We'll trucking buck, and then they'll be trucking sorry. It will trucking show those trucking bassbowls a thing or do. See how they trucking like it.

"Chacarron," mumbled the Jackal.

"Chacarron!" exclaimed Bradke.

"Your ideas are most trucking excellent," said El Presidente, looking up from his kiss, "but, alas, I must inform you that I do not know how to trucking buck. I will, however, support you in your trucking bucking endeavors. Now, if you will excuse me, my brothers, I must make love to this beautiful woman."

So, the Minnesota Twins starting pitchers set out to trucking buck, and trucking buck they did. On Tuesday, after giving up a grand slam in the second inning to David "Please Get Out of Town and Don't Come Back, I'm Begging You" Dellucci, Lohse strode into the dugout and screamed, "Brew you, you trucking basspipes!" at the top of his lungs, then cackled manically and ran for the showers, where he blasted the shower stereo and danced merrily to "Don't Phunk with My Heart."

In the dugout, the players looked confusedly at each other.

"What's with Kyle?" asked Chairman Mauer.

"Don't know," said Fidel Castro. "Well, we better start our inevitable comeback!"

Today, despite his very best efforts, Bradke was not able to give up a grand salami, but still, by the time the second inning was done the Rangers were ahead 5-0, and he felt his work was done. As he walked into the dugout, he spread his arms out magnanimously and proclaimed, "My work here is done, you worthless band of truckweasels!" Then he skipped into the clubhouse where he blasted the shower stereo and dancing merrily to Kelly Clarkson's, "Behind These Hazel Eyes."

In the dugout, the players looked confusedly at each other.

"What's with Brad," asked Li'l-Rod.

"Don't know," said Lew Fordwalker. "But one thing I know, our pitchers need some runs. Come on boys, let's do it for Brad!"

"Offensive juggernaut away!" cried Little Nicky Punto.

Yes, it was a huge deficit, but no deficit is too big for the Minnesota Twins offense. Two four run innings later, and the Minnesota Twins had taken a three run lead—"Three runs is perfect," Li'l Sweetcheeks had explained to Li'l Rod, "We want to give our bullpen some padding, but we also want it to be a save situation for the Veep. He had a rough night last night, and he needs a good outing."

"Great plan!" said Lil Rod, "I'll make it happen!"

After the game, Bradke could be found sitting in on a clubhouse bench staring blankly at a minute piece of dust on the wall. Concerned, Fordwalker trotted up to him.

"Hey, Mr. Radke, why the long face? We won!" He grinned. "Look, I know it wasn't your best outing, but we're here to back you up! That's what we do on this team, we back each other up!" Fordwalker's eyes filled with tears. "It's such a beautiful thing. Next time you're out there, and you're struggling, I just want you to remember, your team's got your back, okay?" And then Lew put a comforting hand on Bradke's shoulders, stared meaningfully into his eyes for a long moment, and then skipped off to join the rest of his team.

As Bradke watched Fordwalker go, Kyle Lohse sat down heavily next to him. They watched their teammates slap each other on the backs in silence, then Lohse muttered, "Wanna go get trashed on organic wine?"

"Truck yeah."

Laborious

Rangers at Twins. Rangers 7, Twins 0.

As most Twins fans know, Monday in the Twins organization is Brown Bag Lecture Series day—each of the players brings a bag lunch and gathers in the clubhouse to hear a lecture on some edifying topic or another. What makes the Twins' BBLS so special is the speakers are not outside experts, but rather the players themselves, who take it upon themselves to become experts in whatever the lecture topic for the day is. The more cynical among us might think this is merely a cost savings measure on the part of a tightass owner, that asking baseball players to be able to lecture on string theory, the works of Jane Austen, and First Amendment law is rather like asking a bunch of minor leaguers and career utility players to be the starting infield of a championship baseball team—but, really, Batgirl doesn’t think you should be so cynical. Adopt a kitty. You'll feel better about the world. Anyway, she'd like to point out that Jim Thome is known for his expertise in astrophysics and Flemish art.

Well, today was Juan Castro's turn to lecture, and his topic was, appropriately enough, U.S. Labor History. Castro arrived at the Dome at 4:30am in order to use the InterTron 4600 in the Twins clubhouse, but he found Lew Ford already stationed there playing Everquest.

"Lew," asked Juan, "have you been here all night?"

"Merrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmfffff," said Lew.

"Right," said Castro. "Well, I need to use the InterTron. I'm doing the lecture today."

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmp," said Lew, and he crawled into Joe Mauer's locker, cuddled up with a jersey, and fell asleep in a little ball on the floor.

Eight hours later, when the Twins arrived for the BBLS, they found an agitated Juan Castro pacing in front of the lecturn.

"What's with him," whispered Juan Rincon, eating a Cheet-o.

"Don't know," said Joe Nathan. "He was nothing like this when he did yonic imagery in Georgia O'Keefe."

"Man," said Rincon, shaking his head, "that was a great lecture."

"Yeah," said Nathan wistfully.

As soon as the Twins settled in, Castro took to the lecturn and began to speak.

"My friends," he began, "we toil in the fields while the ruling class reaps the benefits. It is our hands, our sweat, our tears that support this society, yet do we see any of the benefits? Do we have a voice? No. We break our backs trying to score runs for the ruling class, and what do they tell us in return? Score more runs! I ask you, my fellow players of baseball, is that right? Is that fair? They are treating us like commodities, and they will continue to do so as long as we let them. But it's time for us to show them that they don't control the means of production, we do! It's time for us to show them what happens when we unite. The workers of the world have nothing left to lose but their chains."

"My god," said Terry Tiffee. "He's right."

"Well, this is what I've been telling you all along," said Chairman Mauer.

"Well, you know what we have to do," said Michael Ryan, "we have to show the bourgeoisie what happens when we shut production down!"

"Run production, that is!" exclaimed Castro.

"We're striking!" shouted Michael Ryan.

"Striking out!" added Brent Abernathy.

"Solidarity now!" squeaked Little Nicky Punto, throwing his little fist in the air.

"Solidarity!" the players shouted, standing and cheering wildly, and in a rush, they stormed the playing field, ready to reclaim the value of their individual labor by grounding out a lot.

But not all the Twins were in such a rush to organize, indeed after the burgeoning labor movement left, a few could be found sitting in the folding chairs of the lecture hall, sitting in stunned silence. Bradke was there, rocking slightly, and Johan K. Santana was there, muttering to himself wildly in Venezuelian, and Kyle Lohse was there, staring at a spot on the wall, slowly shaking his head back and forth, back and forth. And Carlos Silva was there, too, eyes focused on the doorway through which the players had left, then he closed his eyes, drew in a deep, beleaguered breath, turned to his comrades and said, "Aw, shit."

For Victory!

Cleveland at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Cleveland 6, Twins 1.
Saturday. Twins 3, Cleveland 2.
Sunday. Twins 7, Cleveland 5.

Quick—quick—Batgirl's computer is dying. The power cord has powered its last blog entry, and Batgirl must rage, rage against the dying of the light until Apple sends her a new one. It is times like this that we must band together, we must hold hands, we must collect all our energy and send it right to Batgirl's BlogTron 3000.

Batgirl could of course just give up. She could look at the battery bar of her BlogTron as it slowly sinks—oh, like the sands through the hourglass!—and call it a day. But did the Twins call it a day on Friday when Radke gave up three early runs and CiCi Sabathia started pitching one perfect inning after another?

Well, yes, I guess they did. But that was Friday. Ages ago. Batgirl had a working BlogTron on Friday. What about Saturday—huh? Did the Twins call it a day when Twitchy McXanax got his first blown save in, like, forever? No. They said, "I know we don't have any offensive capabilities, and I know each run is like childbirth for us, and I know we couldn't score enough to get El Presidente the win, but this is our Vice President, he needs us now, so come on, my friends, let us bunt, let us bunt like we've never bunted before, let us bunt as if our very lives depended on it. Let us bunt to victory!"

And yes, my friends, they did. Who needs boomie boomie sticks when you have pushie pushie sticks and the Cleveland defense (Thanks guys!). Only the Twins can score off two bunts—or should I say that the Twins can only score a run off two bunts? Semantics. All that matters is Little Nicky Punto is the best walk off bunter ever. And he's ours, ours I say!

And today. Scott Baker got his first start in the Metrodome, just two days before he has to start his junior year of high school—which is a very scary year, there are lots of changes, and prom to think about, and PSATs and SATs, and he has Mrs. Dorsey for precalc, and she'll fail you, she's not afraid, even though you're a sweet pitcher and can get her Johan Santana's autograph—but Scott Baker, he pitched his tail off and just because Cleveland got all, like, "Hey! Guess what! We can get extra base hits! We can hit homers! In your face!" we were not afraid. We even got the bases loaded and did we weep and rent our garments and run to our respective mothers? Well, maybe Batgirl did, but did Shannon Stewart? No. He hit the ball. With the bases loaded. For a hit. And scored runs. He, in fact, scored two runs with one hit, which Batgirl didn't even know was possible. And then later, we had the bases loaded again and Mike Redmond did not flee, he merely stripped off all his clothes and said, "I think it's time for a little naked batting practice."

Boom! Pow! Redmond hit the ball right at "rightfielder" Casey Blake—oh, how cruel you are, Naked Batting Practice, how devious, how gorgeously Machiavellian—and Casey Blake, well, he didn't exactly field the ball, unless fielding means he let it bounce out of his glove and roll to the wall, in which case that's exactly what he did.

Next time, my friends, next time you are in trouble, next time you need to find a little extra of that ineffable something inside you, close your eyes and imagine Mike Redmond on second base, standing there in all God's glory, naked as the day he was born, his pee pee flapping in the indoor-stadium breeze. That, my friends, is the pee pee flap of victory.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Ass-Bats

Twins at Kansas City. Royals 1, Twins 0

"Look at this," Justin Morneau said as he stood in the visitor's clubhouse of Kauffman. "Corey sent me a present." Beaming, he pointed to a brightly wrapped package sitting in his locker.

"Really?" said Terry Tiffee. "Cool!"

"Yeah," said Morneau. "I miss Corey."

Both the players sighed heavily.

"Well," said Terry, after a respectful pause, "aren't you going to open it?"

"Yeah," said Morneau, stroking the package wistfully. "I just want to make the moment last, you know?"

"Yeah," sighed Tiffee.

After a few moments, Morneau did open the package—carefully, so as to preserve the maple leaf wrap—and found nestled in a box a long thin piece of wood. Next to it was a small note reading simply, "Eleven and a quarter inches, maple and unicorn hair. Quite whippy."

"What in the world?" muttered Morneau.

"Why," exclaimed Tiffee. "He sent you a magic wand!"

"Huh?"

"A magic wand from Ollivanders! You know? Harry Potter?"

Morneau shook his head.

"The books? Haven't you read them?"

"Read?" Morneau blinked uncomprehendingly.

From the corner of the clubhouse, J.C. Romero perked up. "Did someone say read?"

Excited, Tiffee motioned him over. "Look, Corey sent Dr. Morneau a wand from Ollivanders!"

"Wow," said J.C. "Can I try?"

"Uh, sure," said Justin.

Carefully, Romero lifted the wand from its box. "Wow," he said. "Eleven and a quarter inches. Maple and unicorn hair. Quite whippy."

"Do you think it works," whispered Tiffee, eyes wide.

"I don't know," said Romero. "Let's try." Drawing himself up, J.C. pointed the wand over to the other end of the clubhouse, where Lew Ford was standing. Levicorpus! he murmured, with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Before their eyes, Lew Ford went up up up into the air and turned over, hanging there as if he had been hung by an invisible hook. "Hey!" Ford squeaked, as the whole clubhouse burst out laughing.

"You mean that thing works?" asked Morneau incredibly.

"Looks like," said Tiffee.

"You think," muttered Romero, "we could use this to help? Maybe, you know, fix the bats?"

"Gimme that," said Morneau, body checking Tiffee out of the way and grabbing the wand from Romero's hand. Holding the wand out in front of him, he shouted, "BRING ME THE BATS!"

Romero sighed heavily. "That's not how it works," he said. "Let me try." Clearing his throat, he held out his wand and proclaimed, Accio bats!

As the players watched, a whole bat rack worth of bats flew into the room, several hitting the floating Lew Ford on the head as they went by. With a loud crash, the bats fell into the middle of the floor. As all the players gathered, J.C. pointed the wand at the bats and called, Assius Removus!

A green gas began to emanate from the bat pile, and suddenly the clubhouse was filled with a noxious fume, but as the players started gagging, J.C. waved the wand around some more and the gas dissipated.

"There," he said smiling. "That should do it!"

Three hours later, the Twins filed into the clubhouse dejectedly, having managed exactly no runs on thirteen hits, which is pretty magical in and of itself. As they went silently to their lockers, Jacque Jones saw the wand lying on a bench.

"What's this?" he said, picking it up.

"Oh," said Romero, passing by, "We tried to use it to enchant the bats, but I guess it didn't work."

"Damn skippy!" said Jones. "What, did you Imperius me, too, to hit into all those DP's?"

"No," shouted Kyle Lohse, from the across the room, "you did that on your own."

"Oh," Jones cleared his throat. "Anyway, where did you get this wand?"

"Koskie sent it to Morneau."

"Koskie?!" Jones exclaimed. Shaking his head and cursing, he flicked the wand about a bit. "Do you know what this wand's made of?"

Romero and Tiffee exchanged a glance. "Unicorn?"

"It just feels like unicorn, you moron, but this wand is clearly made of ass. You just put more ass in those bats."

Over in his corner, Lohse shook his head. "Not possible," he muttered darkly.

"Oh," said Romero, staring dumbly at the wand. "Well, shit."

"Um," said Lew Ford, still dangling in the corner and rather red in the face, "Can you let me down now?…Guys?…Guys?"

What Time Is It?

Twins at Kansas City. Twins 7, Royals 4.

At game time, Batgirl called Team Batgirl and the BatKitties together for a very special announcement. "Things have been a bit rough around here," she said, "what with the Twins' offensive problems, the BatKitty blackheads, and Batkitty #1's steroid violation, and I just wanted to say it's okay now. I'm going to carry Team Batgirl on my back. It's Batgirl Time!"

Jeb, Goober, Sooz, and the Batkitties exchanged glances, then Jeb said, "Huh?"

"It's Batgirl time!" Batgirl insisted. "You know how Jose Lima always says it's Lima Time? And you know how that inspires the Royals really to be the best they can be?"

"Um…" said Jeb. "No, not really."

"Well, okay," Batgirl said, scowling. "If you're going to be that way. Sure, the Royals have had it a little rough. Sure, they wear sleeveless pixie shirts. But I think Jose Lima has been a real comfort to them. That's part of what it means to have Lima Time, you know. It's not all about pitching well or getting batters out or having your natural hair color. Lima Time is about coming together as a team despite adversity, it's about growing as people when times are tough, it's about giving your teammates a shoulder to cry on when they lose 17 games in a row, it's about helping them look themselves in the mirror and say, 'Just because I play for one of the worst baseball teams since the invention of BakBall and we are the laughing stocks of the American League doesn't mean I'm going to be down about it! I'm going to go to the park and try my best and no matter what happens I'm going to hold my head high, for I have Jose Lima on my team, and after the game we will all hold hands and together we will chant at the top of our lungs, THANK YOU LIMA TIME!"

"I'm pretty sure that's not how it works," Sooz said mildly.

"Yes, it is! Lima Time is about the smile of a child, the smell of a newborn baby, the neon in young lovers' eyes. Lima Time is about rainbows and daffodils and fairies. Lima Time is about the indomitable human spirit, about joy and laughter, Lima Time is inside all of us, if we only look carefully enough."

"Um, Batgirl?" said Goober, coughing slightly.

"What?"

"That's not what Lima Time is about, Batgirl. Lima Time is about slowly losing your composure. Lima Time is about hurling the ball at Lew Ford after he attempts a bunt. Lima Time is about ERAs over six, nineteen game losing streaks, about putting a bunch of runners on base then sitting in the dugout and watching Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble serve up a gopher ball to Justin Morneau while your roots grow out. Lima Time is about driving your poor fans to despair, about the tragic, epic sucking time of a noble organization. That's what Lima Time's all about, Batgirl."

"Oh." Batgirl frowned. "Really?"

As one, Goober, Sooz, Jeb, and the Batkitties nodded.

"Well," said Batgirl. "Never mind then."

A Message From Our Sponsors

Twins at Kansas City. Twins 3, Royals 1. (10 innings).

Desperate Times

Weekend Round Up. Twins at Texas.
Friday. Rangers 6, Twins 0.
Saturday. Twins 7, Rangers 2 (11 Innings)
Sunday. Rangers 2, Twins 1.

Wait?
What happened?
Was it all a mirage?
Wasn't there--forgive me, but I must ask--wasn't there very recently a time when we didn't watch the games in utter agony, knowing that if our opponents scored at all, all would be lost?
Wasn't there a time when the ass-bats went away?
I feel that there was, I feel it as if it were honestly yesterday, or at least last week.
I remember Bitch Sox sweeps, late inning heroics, three run home runs, players of the week, I remember Tony Gwynn, Kent Hrbek on a potato, Whitesnake, I remember mama, I remember sunshine and daffodils and hope—oh yes, I remember hope.

Do you remember hope?

Something must be done. Batgirl, I'm afraid, is becoming a little unhinged. Nobody quite likes the look in her eye, least of all me. And I, I am Batgirl. So, you see, we have a problem.

What happened? Did I anger the Gwynn somehow? Did I? I did my best, you know, I tried to please him, I did everything I could, but it wasn't enough.

Clearly, I need to do more. And I think, if you'll watch this footage, I have.

The Lego guys use their Equity break to chit chat.

Lego Terry Mulholland to Lego Lew Ford: "Do you like gladiator movies?"





"Well, Grandpa Terry, I—oh, Batgirl? You need me?"





"Sure, Batgirl," says Lego Lew, "I'll come over there."
"Hey," mutters Lego Terry, "Batgirl doesn't look quite…on…"

"Hey Batgirl," says Lego Lew, "it sure is dark in here….ACK!"





"Huh? What? Where am I? ...Why does my head hurt?"





"What the—"





"Hey, um, does someone smell smoke?"





"Holy Gandalf's Ghost!"





"It's burning my ass!"

I know you're angry, Tony, and I think you can see that whatever it is, I'm really sorry, and I'll do whatever it takes to placate you. Just give me a sign, Tony. If you want me to sacrifice Lego Lew Ford, keep the ass-bats going. Whatever it takes, Tony, to make you smile on us again.

Bumfuzzled.

Chicago at Twins. Bitch Sox 2, Twins 1. (10 innings).

My darlings,

For almost two full seasons now, Batgirl has been blogging on the Twins for the edification of those around her. She takes her duties very seriously, and she has managed to fulfill them through rain and sleet and snow and dark of night and sucking time and batkitty steroid violation—for she is Batgirl, and that is what she does.

But after today's unfortunate loss, as Batgirl went about her daily duty of trying to analyze and illuminate the events on the field with the perspicacity and baseball insight that her readers have come to expect, someone sent Batgirl a picture. And that picture stopped Batgirl cold.

Batgirl is frozen, she is speaking in tongues, her brain has scrambled, her stomach churns. Batgirl is afraid she can no longer go on—at least not until somebody writes a caption to--or tells the story behind--this photo.

Tragically,
BG

You Gotta Have Heart.

Chicago at Twins. Bitch Sox 6, Twins 4.

In the ill-fated 5th inning of today's game, Aaron Rowand hit a foul that ricocheted directly off of Twins catcher Mike Redmond's head. While, years ago, an evil scientist kidnapped Redmond, took him to his evil lair, and installed a layer of a weapons-grade metal alloy over Redmond's whole skeleton—it still hurt like a bitch.

The pain soon ceased, but when Redmond went into the dugout he found the world seemed different to him. It was as if all his senses had been suddenly heightened. He sat on the dugout bench, staring at his own hand as if he'd never quite seen it before. Even the very calluses seemed to pulsate with life.

"What are you doing?" said Justin Morneau, walking by.

"Justin," said Redmond, still fixated on his left hand. "Have you ever really looked at your hand?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, really looked at it? It's like a small miracle."

"Wha—"

"What if, you know, the atoms in our hands very tiny worlds, and in those worlds, there were very tiny baseball teams, and somewhere in one of those worlds a very tiny player, even smaller than Punto, is sitting in a very tiny dugout staring at his hand?"

"Uh—"

"And what if we are all living in an atom on the hand hair of a giant? And somewhere, that giant is sitting in a giant dugout, and—" Redmond stopped as he looked up suddenly. "Justin!" he exclaimed. "You have a very lovely aura."

"What?"

"It's a sort of soft yellow, like the color of early morning light," Redmond said, tilting his head thougtfully. "I think if the laughter of a child were a color, it would be the color of your aura."

Morneau stared at him for a long minute. "Uh," he said, "I gotta go."

"Bye!" Redmond said cheerfully, then he turned his attention back to his hand. "A giant dugout," he muttered thoughtfully. "Makes you think."

"Hey," whispered a voice. Redmond looked up. Terry Mulholland was sitting next to him.

"Hey, Terry. Justin Morneau's aura is like the sweet laughter of a child."

"I know," muttered Mulholland. "I can see it."

"You can see it?" exclaimed Redmond wonderingly.

"Yes," said Mulholland. "But keep it down, will you? I was hit in the forehead once, too, and since then, I've been able to read everyone's auras. Yours, for instance, is strangely flesh colored. And Gardy's—"

"A deep, dark, violent red," said Redmond. "It scares me."

"Yes. And—" he pointed out to the field. "A.J.?"

"Why—" Redmond gasped appreciatively "—he looks like a pansy!"

"Now," said Mulholland, "look at Mark Buerhle."

Dutifully, Redmond looked at the pitching mound. And a strange chill passed over him. He looked to Mulholland speechlessly.

"Your eyes don't deceive you, my son," muttered Terence John. "Mark Buerhle has no aura."

It was true. Frantically, Redmond looked around, and everywhere people had auras—from the shining gold of Johan K. Santana to the eternal night black of Joe "Not My Day" Mays. Everyone but Buerhle.

"Why?" he whispered in horror.

"There's only two reasons a man wouldn't have an aura," said Mulholland, eyes fixed on Buerhle. "Because he's dead, or because he doesn't have a soul. I don't think he's dead."

"But—but—" sputtered Redmond, "how can that be?"

"I guess," Terence John said darkly, "he gave it up somewhere."

That was all the men said, but really it was all they needed to say. Despite the fact that he'd been hit in the head, Mike Redmond still could put two and two together. Mostly. Certainly, no one expected the Sox to be as dominant as they were this year, and certainly Mark Buerhle has been known to take one for the team on occasion, and certainly the devil has been seen hanging around U.S. Bitchular Field...

But is it fair? Would Mark Buerhle really sell his soul to the devil for Bitch Sox dominance? Let's look at the evidence.

Mark Buehrle one year ago:

Head Shot 2004

Mark Buerhle now:

Head Shot 2005

Reader, you be the judge.

The World Series of Love.

Wow.
Wow.
My darlings.
My dears.
Did you ever?
I mean—did you ever?

Did you watch?
Because if you didn't, well, if you didn't, you missed, well—

You missed poetry. You missed art. You missed sunsets and sonatas, symphonies and strikeouts, did I mention the strikeouts? We had Keats v. Shelley pitching tonight, Monet v. Van Gogh, Mozart v. Vivaldi, Iron Chef Sakai v. Iron Chef Chen, Boy v. Girl in the World Series of Love.

We were not fans tonight, my friends, we were an audience in a great hall, in tuxes and ball gowns, pince-nez and pearls, watching two masters at work, and when they were done all we could do is stand up and applaud—speechless, amazed, and yes, a little turned on.

It wasn't the post-season, but it felt like it. Johan didn't have a no-hitter, but it felt like it. And Freddy Garcia, well, he did have a no-hitter—and boy it felt like it. Every batter, the oppressiveness of that big goose egg in the box score seemed to grow.

You could see it in the Twins at bats--as the game went on, they got more careless, more anxious, more like the free swinging spaz monkeys of yore. In the 7th inning, our three, four, and five guys took about 12 seconds to get through the Twins' half of the inning, and most of that time was taken up by LeCroy running to first on his grounder.

And then in the eighth—

Oh, wait. Wait. We're not there yet. Let's start at the beginning. Even when the game started, we had some idea of what we were in for. Santana v. Garcia. Should be a good game. If both pitchers are on, it'll be a real tight one.

They were both on.

Perhaps it was the thrill of August baseball. Perhaps Santana and Garcia were responding to the best way they knew how.

Whatever it was, we knew every run was going to be precious. And when the first batter of the game, pesky little Pablo "Pods Who?" Ozuna got on and stole second, it seemed like if he scored, that might be the game right there.

But he didn't score, for Johan Santana is wise and good, and Johan Santana is here to sit you down. And sit them down he did--until the fourth inning when Carl Everett led off with a walk. (How rude, Batgirl whispered disapprovingly.) And then Paul "He Hurts Us" Konerko took a ball all the way to the left field wall, and Shannon Stewart went back back back back--and smashed into the wall. And caught the ball. And threw it to second to stop Everett from advancing. And then crumpled to the ground, declaring, "Oh, I am slain!"

Stewie was out, Mike Ryan was in--and replacing Stewie's bat with Ryan's is sort of like replacing real coffee with Folgers crystals. The coffee, my friends, is a little weak tonight, no matter what you tell the people with the cameras.

But Johan was perfect after that--in the fifth, the sixth, the seventh--as he had to be. Freddy Garcia matched him, batter for batter, and the Twins were no hit through five, six, seven innings. We had a chance in the sixth--DJ Cuddles got to second on an error, Li'l Abner advanced him to third--but Michael Ryan couldn't hit him in. So it was Little Nicky Punto's turn, with two out, and he took a great big breath and said, "I am strong, and I am Little Nicky Punto, and I can get into places other people cannot!" and he hit the ball to right and Jermaine Dye went back back back back back--and smashed into the wall. And caught the ball. And crumpled to the ground, declaring, "Oh, I am Fortune's fool!"

(He totally copied, whispered Batgirl disapprovingly.)

Then, the eighth inning. Johan makes two Bitch Sox sit down, then Geoff Blum got a hit--the first for the Sox since the third inning. Then Pablo "Really, You're Good, I Get It Already" Ozuna steps up and hits a long fly ball to deep center field, (Have you no manners? whispered Batgirl disapprovingly.) back back back goes Lew Ford and--and he catches the ball. And he crashes into the wall. And crumples to the ground.

And he gets up, holding the ball into the air and he shouts, "FRODO LIVES!"

You know what happens next. How many times is it that someone makes a great defensive play to end an inning and leads off the next? Surely Lew can break up the no-no. For, isn't it Lew leading off the eighth? No? Oh, it's Jacque Jones. Hi, Jacque. How are you? Oh, really, that's too—

Boom.

Smash.

The ball sails out of the park, and there is no going back back back for any of the outfielders, unless they just wanted a better view of how incredibly far out of the park Jacque Jones' homer was going.

Twins 1, Sox 0.

All that was left was the ninth inning--Johan was done and it was time for Twitchy McXanax to take the mound. Pop out. Then a walk. Then a strikeout. And, one more--oh, I wouldn't swing at that, Aaron Rowand, but if you must, well, all I can say is:

Sit down, bitch.

Twins win.

Household Saints.

Mariners at Twins. Twins 7, Mariners 3.

Last Wednesday during the Twins' 14 inning marathon against Seattle, (oh! It seemed a marathon then, didn't it? How naïve we were then! What babes in the extra inning woods!) when they were trying to salvage a game from the last place Mariners, when they were trying to leave SafeCo with some shred of the last pathetic remnants of their tattered dignity before they faced the obstreperous Athletics and the nefarious Bitch Sox, when it seemed we had not scored a single run since the All-Star Break and might sink below .500, Batgirl took a bold, and some might say slightly eccentric step—she prayed to Tony Gwynn.

And Tony Gwynn, in his infinite wisdom, in his omniscience and omnipotence and omnivorousness, chose to hear Batgirl's prayer—yes, my friends, he heard and he answered, and the offense exploded and the Twins won the game.

Now, Batgirl thought that that was it, that Tony Gwynn had granted his grace on her and on the Twins for one glorious night. She had not asked for anything else...no, she did not dare to expect anything else! The Twins, surely, would be on their own from now on, raging, raging, against the dying of the light—

But, no, my friends. I am here to testify. I am here to tell you when you ask something of Tony Gwynn, well, he answers. A lot. For that cold dark night in Seattle, Tony Gwynn looked down (or, probably up) at the Twins, he saw them, and he said, "That's good." And he said, "Let there be an end to the Sucking Time." And he said, "Let there be Brent Abernathy, let there Joe Mauer, let there be—oh yes—let there be Johan Santana." And he waved his wand and said, "Let there be winning. Let there be joy and rejoicing in Twins land."

And there was. And it was good.

My dears, since that game in Seattle, the Minnesota Twins have won seven of their last eight games, and have gone from eight games back in the wild card to—are you ready? Are you sitting down? Are you sure? Because you want to be sitting down for this—three and a half.

I know what you are saying, for Batgirl says it to. You stare at the computer and you tilt your head and you say, "Three and a half? Why, that doesn't sound like a lot. That sounds almost, well, doable."

And I am here to tell you that it is.

The Twins cannot do it alone, of course. They need the Angels to kick the holy crap out of the Athletics—or vice versa, Batgirl does not care—and the Yankees to perform with their usual grace and aplomb against the freakin' Devil Rays. They need Toronto to remember they are Toronto, and for the Bitch Sox to conduct themselves the way they usually do in August and September (Good start, guys!). But they need more than that my darlings-- they need Tony Gwynn. So I want you to get out your Tony Gwynn baseball cards, your bobbleheads—both mini and regular-sized, your Tony Gwynn posters and commemorative Tony Gwynn Dairy Queen Blizzard cups, your Tony Gwynn mobiles, your Tony Gywnn thongs; I want you to take all of these things and put them in a prominent place—no, no, not there, a dignified one, please—and every time you pass this place, I want you to stop and bless Tony Gwynn for all he has given us.

The power of Tony Gwynn compels you.

An Open Letter from Batgirl to Her Batlings

Twins at Chicago. Twins 5, Bitch Sox 1. Sweeeeep!

My dears,

A tough season, this has been. We have seen things, horrible things. We have seen a sucking time of epic proportions. We have seen a plague of ass-battery sufficient to wipe out one-third the population of Europe. We have seen six shutouts, series sweeps, runless streaks to shock and horrify you. Oh yes, my friends, we have seen Corky "Corky" Miller.

We have seen our boys out of contention since June—how were we to know when the Twins were on their goodwill tour through the NL West that month that it was only going to get worse? How were we to know that when Glenn Williams went down, he would take the last of our offense with him? How were we to know about Bret Boone?

It has been hard, my darlings, and Batgirl will not lie to you. Batgirl would never lie—except of course when she makes things up. I am not going to pretend we might not slump again tomorrow (After all, we face the Mariners now, and it is one thing to face Oakland and Chicago...), I am not going to pretend that the playoff light at the end of tunnel shines with the intensity of anything but the most distant star in the firmament (though was it—just a little—brighter tonight? yes, yes, I think it was...), I am not going to pretend we are going to catch the Bitch Sox after their simply amazing first half, I am not going to pretend an outfield of Abernathy, Ford, and Cuddles does not strike fear in Batgirl's heart.

It hurts to talk about these things, but we must, for if we do not talk about these things we cannot fully appreciate what a tremendous delight it was to sweep the Bitch Sox this week.

Take this, my dears, hold it close. Tuck it away in the dusty trunk deep inside your heart. No, no, other one. In the fourth chamber. There we go. No matter what happens from here on out, my dear ones, no matter how long and dark the off-season is, whenever the night is dark and the wind is cold, I want you to close your eyes and take this memory out, and as it fills your hands with warmth and light I want a small smile to cross your face as you think, It was beautiful.

With love,
Batgirl

And Now, Some BatHaiku

Twins at Chicago. Twins 9, Bitch Sox 4 (16 innings, 5 hours, 9 minutes)

Batgirl Catches Up On Her Correspondence

Twins at Chicago. Twins 4, Bitch Sox 2.

Dear Burger King,

There is nothing appetizing at all about chicken fries. Meat in stick form is never a good idea, nor is confabulating food groups. What is next, whopper pie? Gross.

Make it stop,
Batgirl

Dear Lee Iacocca,

Your ads are stupid. Please take them off the air before I hurt someone.

No longer responsible for my own actions,
Batgirl

Dear Little Nicky Punto,

Um, you were the hottest thing tonight and if Batgirl were two feet tall, she'd be all over you. Those stolen bases! That leather you flashed! Those hits! Someday, you'll be BIG like the other boys!

Enthusiastically,
Batgirl

Dear Lew Fordwalker,

You are the B.O.D. tonight even though everyone's going to say we should give it to LNP, but they don't make the rules. Batgirl makes the rules. You know about rules. Like the one where the run scores even if after you slide into home you tumble into the ump and your batting helmet falls over your face and you look like a dork. A run's a run. And a great throw is still a great throw, no matter that your arms do big windmills after making it and you kind of flail around center field like an epileptic wookiee. No one was watching. Really.

Smiling brightly,
Batgirl

Dear Dr. Morneau,

You've been playing very good baseball lately and have been displaying some real smarts but that doesn't excuse the facial hair.

Seriously,
Batgirl

Dear Cuddles McDimply,

You know how you weren't very good at third base before? You're a lot better now, and that save in the ninth was positively Koskie-esque. But, well, see above.

Don’t make me come over there,
Batgirl

Dear Juan Rincon,

Ay caramba.

Breathing heavily,
Batgirl

Dear Twins Defense,

Earlier in the year you really blew major chunks, but I dare say that with a little perseverance, hard work, and a little faith, we may just regain the moral high ground yet.

Optimistically,
Batgirl

Dear Twins Offense,

You're playing .750 ball when you score four or more runs. That strikes Batgirl as pretty awesome. I bet most teams don't have that kind of record with four or more runs. That must mean our pitching staff is pretty darned good. Maybe you guys should be good, too! That would be fun.

Thoughtfully,
Batgirl

Dear Paul Konerko,

You kiss you mother with that mouth?

Have a chicken fry,
Batgirl

Dear AJ Pierzynski,

You know how when you pop up and you get really frustrated so you sort of twirl the bat and slam it down at the same time?

I've missed that.

Wistfully,
Batgirl

Dear Minnesota Twins,

Now that we're in third place, we have to look to the little joys to get us through the rest of the season—like the whiskers of a kitten, the laughter of a child, the sweet smell of a September call-up—and of course, beating the Bitch Sox. Thanks, guys for remembering the little things.

Because little things mean a lot,
Batgirl

Hair Mettle

Twins at Oakland. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 1, Athletics 0.
Saturday. A's 5, Twins 2.
Sunday. Twins 2, A's 1.

Now that Torii Hunter's out for the season, the question of who commands the stereo has created a lot of tension in the Twins clubhouse. After much squabbling, a Mike Redmond hissy fit, and some major agita on the part of Kyle Lohse, bench coach Steve Liddle developed a stereo-privileges wheel, using a kit he ordered from Parenting magazine, to determine who would be in charge on any given day. The wheel also served to designate tasks such as taking out the clubhouse garbage and reminding Gardy to take his blood pressure pills.

The wheel proved very successful, though close observers noted that Lew Ford's turn kept falling on an off-day. When questioned, Liddle said enigmatically, "Baseball is a game of inches."

On Friday, for the first time, the chore wheel favored Justin Morneau who was so excited he showed up five hours before game time with his entire CD collection, which he had had his mom ship down just for the occasion. Indeed, the Twins clubhouse was ready to rock.

So, when Johan Santana walked in to the visitors' clubhouse at McAfee Coliseum, he was greeted with a sound unlike any he'd ever heard before.

"What is this mierda?" he shouted, putting his hands to his ears.

"It's Whitesnake!" said Morneau, flashing the universal signal for "Rock on!"

"MY EARS! MY EARS!" screeched Santana, falling to the ground, writhing and clutching his ears.

"It's better than the crap Stew was playing yesterday!" muttered Jason Bartlett.

"Hey!" Stewie said. "Renee Fleming is one of the greatest sopranos ever to tackle Gounod!"

"I'll give you two million dollars if you shut it off," whimpered Santana, still writhing.

But it was to no avail. Santana offered his Cy Young award, his first born, a position in the Santana Cabinet, but Morneau would not relent. And as Santana took the mound, he found "Here I Go Again (1987)" echoing unrelentingly in his head.

And the rest is rock history.

The next day, it was Johan's turn to work the stereo, and to the surprise of many he reached into Morneau's CD collection.

"Tu eres loco?" asked Silva.

"It works," said Santana. He turned to Morneau. "What is this--" he articulated carefully— 'Twisted Sister?' It is good, si?"

"It ROCKS!" said Morneau, flashing the hand signal again.

To make a long story short, everything was going very well for the Twins until the 6th inning. During the Twins at bat, Joe Mays decided to slip into the dugout to visit the little boys room and thought he might take some time to listen to some Morrissey.

You know what happened next.

Suffice to say on Sunday, when it was Carlos Silva's turn both on the mound and with the stereo, instead of playing the hot new track he, Santana, and Juan Castro had recorded that weekend called "Livin' La Vida Loca," he left the stereo to Morneau and the Twins came out thrashing to the sounds of Quiet Riot.

Rock on, my friends, rock on.

Big League Taste.

Twins at Seattle. Twins 7, Mariners 3. (14 innings, 4.75 hours.)

Oh, my friends.

Batgirl is under the weather, possibly because of a bad bag of Big League Chew. The chew itself was green around the edges, but BG thought that was a sour apple flavor. BG is very fond of sour apple flavors, especially when they come in the form of appletinis, which are even better than DQ Blizzards, under certain circumstances. For while you can not down five or six Blizzards after a soul-suckingly depressing night of baseball, a few appletinis really takes the edge off, and pretty soon you might not remember that the Twins were shut down by Joel Pineiro, who only avoided a trip to the minors by the grace of Ryan Franklin's wee little steroid suspension. (Curiously, Pineiro was seen giving Franklin a Strawberry Cheesequake Blizzard just before the suspension. Could it have had some extra flavoring? The Stanazalol makes it go down easier.)

But BG digresses. The Big League Chew didn't really taste like green apple—it tasted a little more like some combination of Brillo pad and elastic death, but Batgirl, well, she kept chewing in hopes that a delicious green apple flavor would come out.

Naïve? Possibly. Stupid? Most likely. Fatal? Potentially. But sometimes, when faced with a giant bag full of cadaver-flavored chewing gum—despite all evidence that you should put on a yellow chemical suit and stick the thing in a biohazard waste can and call the special biohazard guys and have them take it far, far, away—you just open the pack and start chewing away.

And sometimes, when faced with a baseball team who couldn't hit BatMom toked up on catnip, when you know that each game is going to be an exercise in cadaver-flavored agony, when you can only watch in horror as the .500 mark approaches like a great big donkey toot, you just sit down in front of the TV at game time, open the bag, and start chewing.

The thing with Big League Chew is it takes a really, really long time to get through a bag, even one that hasn't turned, especially when it's a west coast game, and as you near the end, your jaw hurts and you begin to hallucinate slightly, and then it's not even the end because the bag magically replenishes itself and you just keep on chewing, even though it Hurts. So. Bad. and then you hallucinate even more and when you’re hallucinating you see Kent Hrbek who floats in on his magic potato and spreads love and good cheer and cheeseburgers and fishing lures wherever he goes, and you say, "Hrbie, honey, my jaw is sore and my teeth are rotting out and my tummy don't feel so good and I don't have any feeling in the left side of my body and I think I've been poisoned and maybe I'm chewing on shredded corpse, plus we only have Mike Redmond on the bench and Matt LeCroy is just trying to hurt me, I mean you don't strand that many runners on base in one night unless it's personal, and whatever I did I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry, just please can we win this game so I can go to bed?"

And Kent Hrbek looks down from his giant potato and shakes his head and says, "Dude, Batgirl, what the hell's in that Big League Chew?" Then he floats away, singing Chacarron in a falsetto.

Then it's the 14th inning, you've chewed on just about the whole ass-bag, your mouth tastes like foot, you're upchucking up, down, and all over the town, you're dehydrated and you're pretty sure you're going to die soon, and you turn your head up to the heavens and you pray.

Batgirl did. No, she did not pray to God, but rather she prayed to Tony Gwynn. Because humanity is divided over the existence of God, but everybody knows there's a Tony Gwynn. And he is beneficent and omnipotent. And so Batgirl says, "Please Tony Gwynn, let us win this game. Please. Please?"

And then Batgirl takes one more bite of shredded ass-gum and something amazing happens, something truly remarkable, something which can only be ascribed to the wonder that is Tony Gwynn.

She tastes green apple.

Was it real? Another hallucination? BG doesn't know, but damn it tasted good.

Two Thousand Words.

Twins at Seattle. Mariners 1, Twins 0.

Kyle Lohse during the game:

Kyle Lohse after the game:

Mojo Joe-Joe

Boston at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 12, Red Sox 0.
Saturday. Twins 4, Red Sox 3.
Sunday. Red Sox 11, Twins 7.

Something crazy happened on the way to the Twins' loss this afternoon—and I'm not referring to the aliens that borrowed Shannon Stewart's brain and forgot to return it by game time. (And, really, it isn't nice not to return things on time. This isn't Netflix, you know. We have needs here, people.) And I'm not referring to Joe Mays pitching like my four-year-old next door neighbor in the first inning. (Clearly he was emotionally scarred by ChacarronGate--Mays, that is, not my neighbor, who has come to expect duplicity from his heroes.) Nor am I referring to Soy Cheese Romero's ass-arm antics, for, alas, there is nothing crazy about those these days. That's what happens when you're made out of soy.

No, no, the craziness had nothing to do with any of that. The crazy thing was in the 9th inning Jacque Jones came out with two outs and the bases loaded and I suddenly thought, "You know, we just might win this thing."

We didn't, of course—Schilling struck Jones out to end the game and the Twins' rally. But it was a beautiful rally—three runs in the ninth inning, all scored with two out, one that ended with the tying run at the plate. And I know that ending the game with the tying run at the plate isn't usually a good thing—but I say when you can get there from being down 11-4 at the bottom of the ninth with two outs and no one on, it's pretty impressive. Especially when you consider where we've been.

The point is, somehow the Twins got a little mojo back this weekend. Somehow every scoring opportunity didn't seem like it was created just to taunt us. Somehow every lead the other team got didn't seem insurmountable. Somehow it seemed like we might actually score runs.

And score we did—twenty-three over three games, which I think previously was about the total of runs we've scored since the All-Star Break. Granted, we were helped extensively by the Boston Red Sox defense, which made Shannon Stewart's brain fart in the first inning today (he caught a foul and threw it into the stands when it was only the second out, allowing a run to score) look like coming up with the theory of relativity.

I don't know what happened to BoSox starter Bronson Arroyo on Friday—maybe he just doesn't get a lot of oxygen to his brain way up there or maybe he wore his white-boy braids a little too tight last year and the effects haven't quite worn off or maybe he just gets so distracted by having to correct people on his name all the time ("That's Bronson. Bronson, I say!"), but I haven't seen such bizarre play in the field since—well, you know, the Twins at Fenway last week. Arroyo's mishaps allowed the Twins to score four beautiful runs in the first inning, and they didn't stop scoring the rest of the game.

That momentum carried on to Saturday, where the Twins came back from a three-run deficit to tie the game in the 6th (Joe Mauer even got a hit with the bases loaded) and we were all taken back to a time when the Twins did things like rally and, you know, score.

Yes, there was a resurgence of mojo this weekend, and yes it was beautiful to see. (My goodness, we won a series! We had a winning streak!) Oh, yes, my friends, Batgirl is italicizing rampantly and without remorse—that's right!—for her team has gotten their heads out of their ass-bats and are having fun. She cannot promise it will last, of course, but our boys have allowed us to watch a game and hope again. And that is a beautiful thing.

Chacaron, my friends, Chacaron.

The (downsized) RD Report -- Oakland 5, Minnesota 2. May be updated later, may not be.

To: Gardy
From:
Re: JC

Please stop using him.

Thanks for your consideration.

The RD Report: Twins 4, Oaktown 3: (A giddy and sass-restored RD fires off some memos!)

To: Ken Macha, manager, Oakland A's
From: RD
Re: What you did

Hey, Skip, you OVERMANAGED in the seventh inning. Rich Harden, just about the hottest pitcher in baseball, gives up a homer to DJ Cuddy BOOM early in the game and you don't give him a chance in the seventh. And you bring in a reliever named Kiko. Kiko? DumbBooty! It makes RD wonder how you'd use J.C. Romero. Probably bring him in with the bases loaded, right?

To: DJ Cuddy BOOM
From: RD
Re: Your future

Perhaps nobody benefited from the release of Bret BOOne more than you. Now, the rotating cast will be at second base and you won't hafta share time at third with well-meaning guys named Nicky and Luis and Juan. If you keep hitting 3 homers every 2 games, you'll be chasing Aaron and Ruth and Barry in no time. Seriously, though, bro: Relax, swing smart, field pretty well and third base'll be your's. Carpe third base!

To: JustIncredible
From: RD
Re: Coming home
Great slide, dude. You looked a little spent coming around third base on Lewwwww's game-winning triple. In fact, you looked a bit like my ol' dog Chuckles, whose breed is billed as the . Nice to see you smiling after the game.

To: Lewwwwwwwwww
From: RD
Re: Your triple
You know that thing about canceling "Lew Ford Bat Day" on Sunday because you were 7-for-700? It was just a joke. Kind of.

To: Carlos Silva
From: RD
Re: Cojones
Can you explain the concept of cojones to the non-Venezuelan starters in the rotation? They could use some.

To: The Vikings
From: RD
Re: Training camp
There's still another 2 months of baseball. We don't care yet. Besides, RD is a Bears fan.

To: Justin Duchschererererer, losing pitcher
From: RD
Re: Your name
What's with the extra "er" in your name? It doesn't make any noise and it sure doesn't make you a bettererererer pitchererererer.

To: Tinger
From: RD
Re: The game
Hope you enjoyed it as much as we enjoyed seeing you on the Jumbotron. L'shanah haba-ah b'Metrodome, chaver. Stay safe, friend.

The RD Report: Oaktown's 3-5-7 over Minnesota's 54-52

Seriously, if the one-hit wonders Oaktown's 3-5-7 played the Twins, our guys would probably win the game. After all, for all of our struggles, the Twins would match up favorably against an all-girl hip-hop act from the Bay Area that pretty much disappeared after the unforgettable Juicy Gotcha Krazy. (And, hey, we did have TWO hits in the series opener, not to mention the TWO runs we scored this time!)

It was Oaktown's Athletics that showed up at the Metrodome Tuesday, fully confident that at some point in the evening something good would happen that would allow them to win their 193rd game in a row while the Twins would drop their 44th straight, falling to 6th place in the AL Central.

There was no panic among the Oaklanders as the Twins took a 1-0 lead on J-Jo's home run, which was hit while RD was attending his alley's National Night Out festivities, which included brats and creamed corn and an overload of dessert creations.

Nor was their panic with Michael Cuddyer hit a 1,234-foot home run in the 7th to tie the score at 2.

Why should there be? After the efforts of Joe Mays and Matt Guerrier did a fine job of holding the A's over seven innings (We'll overlook that Mays walked Oakland's Nos. 8 and 9 batters in the fifth because, after all, Twins bottom-of-the-order batters are ALWAYS reaching base in that fashion) Gardener Ron Managerhire brought in Cesar (J.C.) Romero to start the eighth.

What a Joker, huh?

After failing to retire any of the 107 batters he faced, and throwing first-pitch strikes to 3 of them, Romero left the mound and hightailed it to Target Center for a late audition with the And 1 streetballers. Incredibly, after not being able to make a move before the July 31 trading deadline, General Manager Terry Ryan took advantage of the Intersport Trading Loophole to ship Romero to And 1 for the baller known as Half-Man, Half-Amazing. He's never player there before, but Managerhire suggested that his new player would immediately take over at second base.

"Can't be any worse that Boonie, right?" the Gardener told RD in an exclusive interview.

The final two offensive attempts were mere formalities. Four straight guys struck out, Lew Ford hit an infield single that was measured at 84 feet and then two more guys grounded out and the A's moved 98 games ahead of the Twins in the wild-card race.

The good news: Tomorrow is Dollar-a-Dog Night and a Twingo Game, and isn't pitching for the A's.

RD'll be there. Will you?

The RD Report: Oakland's Friggin A's 2, Twins 1

RD is sad with the direction that the season has taken. He is beyond being angry and is feeling somewhat melancholy, and imagines that others are feeling the same way. It kinda blows. I mean, two hits. TWO hits against a pitcher who hadn't won on the road all season. That's enough game detail.

RD's been pondering a lot of things and knows that it would be better not to share most of them right now. Instead, here are a few random thoughts to take your mind off ass bats and ass gloves and ass call-ups from the minors and the whole incredible world of assidity:

*RD will NOT eat chicken fries and he will NOT succumb to one of his favorite BK temptations -- an Angus Burger with bacon and cheese --until the damn commercials stop. I will not BOB MY HEAD. One nation under chicken fries? RD would sooner sleep with the AFLAC duck.

*RD needs WCCO to stop running that Torii Hunter-runs-into-the-wall radio spot. The man ran into the wall and is done for the season. It feels like an airline commercial on the day after a plane crash. Please, some decency! Promote Terry Tiffee bat night, or something.

*Speaking of Terry Tiffee. Here's a little advice from RD: "Terry, swing the effin' bat!" It's sorry enough to see you batting clean-up, but not getting the bat off your shoulder in the eighth inning. What were you thinking about during those 6 pitches? Chicken fries?

*The State Fair is coming! RD has it on inside information that one of the new foods this year is a "grilled chocolate sandwich." Knowing that makes RD feel almost as useful as he did when he found out a few days back that the Bret BOOne experiment was going to end on August 1.

*Speaking of BOOne, RD saw something incredible on Saturday at Game Day Sports in Ridgedale. BOOne Twins' jerseys. Somewhere in the Twin Cities is a sports apparel buyer looking for work.

*RD has always liked the Oakland A's. It dates back to his college days when he went to see Asleep At The Wheel at the old Lariat Lounge in Chanhassen. The drummer -- Lucky Oceans -- was wearing an Oakland A's logo sweatshirt, official lookin' except for the logo, which read: "The F------' A's." RD always wanted that friggin' sweatshirt. (No, Dr. Decency, the bad word was spelled out on the sweatshirt, but RD knows that some Bat-children read this site and he wasn't gonna drop an F-bomb before bed and regret it in the morning.)

*RD is wondering whether to watch the Twins tonight or go see the And 1 streetballers at Target Center. Your thoughts?

A Tragedy of Errors: A Non-Reenactment.

Twins at Boston. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Boston 8, Twins 5.
Saturday. Boston 6, Twins 2.
Sunday. Boston 4. Twins 3.

There was nothing pretty about this weekend of baseball, even with Bronson Arroyo pitching. The Minnesota Twins seemed to take Batgirl's Thursday proclamation of "It Could Be Worse" as some kind of challenge. Friday's game was particularly bad—not only did Torii go down and J.C. Romero give up a grand slam to my high school history teacher, but in the fifth inning the Twins engaged in some defensive follies worthy of a clown posse at a baseball-themed circus. A really depressing baseball themed circus. To call it the Keystone Kops would be an insult to the crime fighting acumen of those fine kops. To call it a comedy of errors would imply that there was anything funny at all about what transpired on that baseball field. To call it Crazy Pepe's Chug and Toss would be an affront to that noble game and its grand history of chugging and tossing.

It started when Carlos Silva put two batters on with two out, and then Johnny Damon stroked a single to right and by the time the play was over Damon had come around to score (after having gotten hit in the head with Li'l-Rod's throw home) two errors were charged on the play (the fact that there were only two was a great act of charity on the scorekeeper's part) the ball had earned a spot in the pinball Hall of Fame (and possibly a Purple Heart) and Batgirl was gathering some blankets getting ready to dive back in her hole.

It's really hard to explain what happened—the English language really only has so many words for "ass"—so with some trepidation Batgirl set out to reenact the play for her readership, using Legos.

But something strange happened, as you'll see from the tape.

The Lego guys prepare to take the field to film the scene. Lego Bill Mueller and Lego Tony Graffanino head to first and second. Lego Johnny Damon strides to the plate.

Meanwhile, the Twins Legos get their directions.





"I'm supposed to do what?" exclaimed Lego Carlos Silva.

"Nun-uh," said Lego Justin Morneau. "I always cut off the ball. I'll look bad if I don't cut off the ball! I've got a rep, here!"





"They've got me missing the ball, like, twice!" grumbles Lego Joe Mauer. "That's not in my contract. I don't do physical comedy."

"What is this, Amateur Hour?" said Lego Silva. "F*** this sh**. I didn't go to Lego Juilliard for this. Come on guys, let's walk."

"YEAH!"





Then, with a strange gleam in his eye, Lego Morneau turned toward us and put his hand up.
"There's nothing to see here," he said. "We're done for the day. Put the camera down."





With a menacing expression, Lego Morneau takes a step forward.





"I SAID—"





"PUT. THE. CAMERA. DOWN."

It Could Be Worse...

Twins at Yankees. Yankees 6, Twins 3.

It could!

We could have invented a whole robot race to do mindless labor and those robots could have decided to exterminate all of humanity and we could be the only survivors of a massive attack, running around on the last remaining Battlestar leading a rag-tag fugitive fleet trying to avoid the Cylons and perpetuate the human race even though we ran out of deodorant a frackin' age ago.

And if we were, I bet we'd say, "Man, what I'd really like right now is to see Joe Mays give up a three-run homer to Wiggle-Bat Sheffield. That would rock.

Or, hey...

We could be engaged to a young up and coming Jedi that we've known since he was just an itty bitty annoying little bastard and we could be pregnant with his twin babies and then that Jedi could get manipulated and turn to the Dark Side and hunt down and kill all the other Jedi, then get made into hamburger by Obi Wan Kenobi.

And if that was the case, when we are giving birth, literally dying from fear and heartbreak, we would think, "Gee, what would be super fun right now would be to see Aaron 'I'm Not So' Small, late of the Albuquerque Isotopes, retire 12 Twins batters in a row."

Oh, or, how about this:

We could be astronauts thrown through time and space and we could crash land on a strange planet. We could then be taken captive by a group of simians with British accents who treat humans like animals. The dirty apes would then torture and vivisect and lobotomize us and be really condescending, too.

And, if that happened, when we tried to make our escape and run to the "Forbidden Zone" only to discover the remnants of Lady Liberty, when we fell to our knees in horror, when we looked up to the heavens and screamed, we might say, "Gosh, what I'd like right now is to watch Joe Mays load the bases with a one-run deficit, and what I would further like is to see Robinson Cano then hit a single with the bases so juiced to put my team behind 6-3."

Oh, oh, I know!

We could be on a terraforming colony on some distant planet, and then the aliens invade the planet because the alien queen thinks it would be a really nice place to raise a family. And these aren't nice aliens, like ET or Gonzo, but really grody, aliens with acid for spit and they start kidnapping us all, one by one, and impregnating us with grody alien babies and then encasing us in these giant slime-cocoons.

And should that be our fate, when the alien babies start exploding out of our tummies, we might think, "Boy, what I'd really like to do right now is watch the Minnesota Twins lose two of three to the Yankees."

Or we might not. If we're lucky, when the alien Cylon Sith apes come to take us away and impregnate us and patronize us, we might think of happier things, like BatKitties or Blizzards or Johan Santana. Or we might be sitting there with the Sith babies exploding out of our tummies and we might look back on the last two weeks of Twins baseball and think, "Well, it could be worse."

Suck No More?

Twins at Yankees. Twins 7, Yankees 3.

Oh, wow. It doesn't take a lot to make Batgirl happy these days. I mean, just yesterday in the sixth inning Batgirl and the BatKitties Three let out cheers of joy that shook the whole house. Jeb came bounding upstairs—thump thump thump thump—and burst into the room. "What? What happened?"

And Batgirl turned to him, tears of joy streaking down her face. "WE GOT A HIT!" she exclaimed. "OH SWEET JESUS WE GOT A HIT!"

Jeb was, shall we say, not impressed. Some words were said that are not appropriate for a family blog. He would have been impressed, though, had he been watching the game and had spent the prior two hours in mortal terror that we'd be no-hit. Really. BatKitty 2 was so worked up that somewhere in the 5th he got the shits.

Well, there was much more cause for BatCelebration tonight, not to mention some serious BatKitty Indigestion. In the first couple innings it seemed like the Yankees were just toying with us, letting us load the bases just to throw our incredible offensive pathetic-osity in our face. Which, you know, is just mean.

But that's just the way the Yankees are. Mean. Like putting up that 150 year old pitcher against us just to taunt us. I mean, it was one thing to throw Randy Johnson at us—he's supposed to be good—but to highlight the soul-sucking impotence of our bats by pitching Al Leiter—why, that's a real low blow, Torre. A real low blow.

Leiter was particularly cruel tonight, taunting us by completely sucking. 5 I.P., 7 hits, 5 walks, a hit batter, 847 pitches—all that, and we could only manage one run off him. (Though—to be fair--it's a distinct possibility that we were still experiencing a suckover from yesterday's game.)

But you know what happens when you're mean? You get struck out by Johan Santana. And then you feel bad about yourself. And then you sit in the dugout and say, "I've just been struck out by Johan Santana, who is clearly a superior specimen of personhood than I, and it has made me re-evaluate both my actions and my motivations and my overall purpose on this earth."

And sometimes, when you're mean, you get thrown out by Torii Hunter. Like, say, in the bottom of the 3rd. There was one out and runners on first and second, and Gary "Wiggle Bat" Sheffield hit a single to centerfield. Because he's mean, Derek "Number Two" Jeter decides to try to score from second base (I mean, Derek, sweetie, we suck offensively, not defensively. Read the memos more carefully!). Torii "Sweetcheeks" Hunter makes an absolutely perfect throw to Joe "Chairman" Mauer—I mean, my god, angels wept with joy when Torii made his throw—and Jeter had to go sit on the bench and think seriously about what he did—nay, who he is.

And sometimes, when you're mean, it comes back to bite you on the ass. For the Yanks overplayed their hand tonight and the Twins came to realize the depth of their suckitude. It’s one thing to get shut down by Randy Johnson, but clearly there was a point in tonight's game where the Twins were shocked out of their dull-witted assbattery by the horror of what had proceeded earlier. There was a point where the Minnesota Twins offense stood up and decided they were going to Suck No More.

I can't say exactly what the turning point was—though it wasn't in the top of the 3rd, when Scott Ullger, acting as 3rd base coach presumably because he lost a bet, decided to send Bret Boone from first on Justin Morneau's double to left in the 3rd. Now, the ball was pretty much heading toward Posada by the time the Boone-ster rounded 3rd, and as Boone was heading home Posada grabbed the ball, recited all 17 verses of Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman," and braced himself for impact. Boone sort of threw himself at Posada, as if a bird against a picture window, and then bounced off the Yankee's catcher, crumpling to the ground like a sparrow who had lived its last. Hunter and Jamie Burke it was not.

No, it would take a few more innings for the Twins to wake up, but you know what? Once they woke up, they woke up but good. Three runs in the seventh, two runs in the eighth, one in the ninth. And that, my friends, makes seven runs in one game. Seven runs! The crazy thing about this game was the players who were supposed to be our offense actually were. Justin Morneau, Joe Mauer, Torii Hunter, Shannon Stewart, Jacque Jones. They hit the ball. With runners in scoring position. They scored runs and got RBIs and—oh, it was so beautiful. Like a flower, a sunset, or a Bitch Sox loss.

The game was a little more stressful than it needed to be, and Batgirl may have wept tears of joy when Gardy brought in the Vice President to get the last out in the eighth, marking the Nathannator's first appearance before the 9th inning all season. Clearly, Gardy wanted this almost as bad as BG did.

'Til tomorrow, then, my friends, and remember sometimes when things are at their very darkest Joe Nathan strikes out A-Rod to end the game, and we can look off into the horizon and see just the faintest glimmer of light. And that, my friends, is worth celebrating.

BatNotes: Also worth celebrating-- the super-awesome Batlings who got hereby circled!

DQ Something Different

Twins at New York. Yankees 4, Twins Goose Egg.

The first thing you have to know is a few months ago they built a Dairy Queen a few blocks from Casa Batgirl. It's right on the main drag, too—it's pretty much impossible to come or go without hearing the siren call of the blizzard machine. Jeb and BG were gripped with horror when they saw it going up.

"What are we going to do?" Batgirl asked.

"If we start going to DQ," Jeb said, shaking his head, "we'll never be able to stop."

"We must never cross the threshold," Batgirl agreed. "One step over and we'll be lost forever."

And Batgirl and Jeb have been very, very good. Sometimes one of them will say, "I think we should go to DQ," and the other will knock the first down to the ground, pin his hands back, and sit on him until the blood fever passes.

It is important that you know all this, so you understand what I'm saying when I tell you that after sitting through all nine innings of tonight's game (with perhaps a wee trip to the bathroom when J.C. Romero came on to replace Jesse Crain with the bases juiced and Matsui coming up. Really—When you gotta go, you gotta go!) Batgirl stood up and announced she was going to Dairy Queen. She would, in fact, be getting a Banana Cream Dream Pie Blizzard, because she heard they were quite delicious. She would be more than happy to get Jeb a Blizzard as well, or perhaps a Mr. Misty. Now, would he get the hell out of her way?

"No," Jeb said. "I won't."

Whereupon Batgirl explained to Jeb that she was going to get a Blizzard one way or another. It would be to Jeb's advantage to move, because otherwise she would have to go through him, and that might get a little messy.

"Batgirl, no," Jeb said. "Think about what you're doing!"

At which point Batgirl explained to Jeb that she had thought about it, she'd thought about it quite a bit, in fact, while the Twins were batting tonight (and she uses that term loosely) she had done nothing but think about how after the game she would get a Banana Cream Dream Pie Blizzard and would he GET OUT OF HER BLEEPIN' BLARGIN' WAY?

BG doesn't really want to say what happened next—let's just say during the game they showed a replay of what
Torii Hunter did to Jamie Burke a year ago tonight. Suffice to say, a mere minutes later BG had placed her order, and the die had been cast.

The Blizzard, BG will have you know, was quite delicious. Banana-y, Cream-y, Dream-y, and Pie-y all at once. She got one for Jeb, too, to eat when he regained consciousness. Jeb is not a flavor-of-the-month type guy—he picks his topping (in this case, Oreo) and sticks to it, which is one of the many reasons Batgirl loves him.

As for the game, well, BG has been carried away on the succulent wings of pie, in Blizzard form. The Rubicon has been crossed my friends—there is no turning back now.

The Pitcherhood of the Traveling Pants.

Twins at Detroit. Weekend Round-Up.

Friday. Tigers 12, Twins 6.
Saturday, Game 1. Tigers 2, Twins 1.
Game 2. Twins 5, Tigers 2.
Sunday. Tigers 5, Twins 2.

It was Joe who found the pants. Maysie is a bit of a clothes horse and is always hunting in vintage shops for something truly fabulous. Of course, he could afford to wear the latest fashions, but that's just not Joe's style.

Anyway—the jeans. He says he doesn't know why he picked them up—anyone who's looked in Joe's closet knows he needs a new pair of jeans like he needs a new pair of pumps, but he said there was just something about them that seemed to call to him. So he took them into the dressing room. And when he put them on, well, they were just perfect. He looked long and lean when he turned around he noted with pleasure that they hugged his butt just right. So he bought them, and when he got home he put the bag in his closet and he forgot about the jeans.

It was probably a month later when we were in Joe's room keeping him company while he packed for the Detroit series. Joe needs a lot of moral support when he packs. That's the thing about being best friends with someone since, like, birth—you have a sixth sense for things like that. And the four of us, well, we knew each other better than we knew ourselves. We'd been through everything together, including packing with Joe. Anyway, Kyle was going through Joe's closet trying to pick out a few good outfits when he came across the bag from the vintage store. "What's this?" he asked, pulling the bag out.

"Oh," said Joe. "I bought these jeans for like five bucks! They're fabulous, but I forgot all about them!"

"Fabulous, huh?" asked Kyle. Without another word he took off his pants and slipped on the jeans.

Well, I don't mind telling you that we were all kind of stunned. I mean, he looked amazing. Kyle's a good looking guy, but there's just something about the right pair of jeans.

"That's funny," Joe said. "They fit me really well, too. Pass 'em over." And then Joe put them on and I swear, suddenly he looked like a supermodel.

So then Scottie piped up. "Can I try?" Now, Baker is a few inches shorter and much thinner than the other guys, but the weird thing was, when he put on the jeans, well, he looked just great. He looked more thin than skinny all of a sudden, and his normally nonexistent butt looked tight and perky.

"You look hot," Kyle said. And we all had to agree.

"You know what?" said Joe. "I think these are magic jeans. I think they make everyone who wears them look fabulous. Here, Carlos, you try."

"Oh, come on," said Carlos—the last of us. "No pair of jeans that fits you guys is going to fit me." Carlos is shorter and rounder than the rest of us and has huge body image problems as a result. Of course, he's totally beautiful, maybe not in that stick figure way, but still. He just doesn't know it.

"Just try it," said Kyle. "Come on!"

Carlos sighed and took off his khakis and put on the jeans. He pulled on them like he expected them to be tight, but they went on like they were made for him. And when he zipped them up and turned around to show us, well, we all gasped.

"Carlos…" Joe said.

"Carlos, you're gorgeous!" Scottie said.

And Carlos, well, it was like he knew it. He looked in the mirror, shaking his head. "Wow," he said.

"Wow," we all said.

"That does it," said Joe. "These are magic pants."

Well, we sat in silence for some time, absorbing the significance of our discovery. I mean, what do you say when you have a pair of magic pants?

"Well," said Kyle. "Clearly these pants found us for a reason. I mean, we're heading into the Detroit series and we have a real chance to pick up some games. These pants can help us!"

"That's right," said Scottie. "Why don't we each wear the pants when we pitch, and then when we're done we'll hand them over to the next guy!"

Joe squealed. "That's a great idea!"

"I think we should have a ceremony, you know?" said Kyle. "I think we should, like, swear on the pants or something."

"That's a great idea," said Carlos. He took off the magic pants and spread them in the middle of Joe's room. We got up and stood in a circle and held hands.

"We pledge," said Joe, "that we each will wear the magic pants during our very important starts during the Detroit series. After our start, we will immediately pass on the pants. We promise we will tell each other everything that happens in the pants. We promise not to wash the pants, ever. We will promise to honor and respect the pants by pitching the best we possibly can. We promise not to give up six RBI's to Craig Monroe. We promise to use the power of the pants to lead our team to victory!"

At which point, Carlos raised his hand. "What if the pants help us pitch the best we possibly can, but the offense really sucks and we lose anyway? What if our baserunners start acting like they're monkeys with massive head injuries and they run us out of every situation?"

Joe smiled and squeezed Carlos's hand. "Trust in the pants, my friend. Trust in the pants."

Ron Gardenblog III

Twins at Detroit. Twins 10, Tigers 5.

Hey, Batgirl.

So, um, I'm suspended for the game tonight and I thought I'd use this chance to apologize to you and your readers. I said some things on Monday that I really shouldn't have said. I know you didn't fall down that hole on purpose. I know you wouldn't do that, Batgirl. Sure, you milked it for all it was worth (I mean are you on DQ's payroll, BG? I thought you were lactose intolerant!) but I don't think you did it on purpose.

And you know how I said Hunter Wendelstedt was a big—well, it rhymes with "trucking bassbowl." That was a little uncalled for. Sometimes we say things, Batgirl, we say things we don't mean because we're angry. I'm sure it's happened to you. It's just, I bet when it happened to you no one put it on the internet. And I bet no one remixed it to a groovy dance beat. And I bet your wife didn't listen to both the thing-you-shouldn't-have-said and the remix. I'm suspended for one game, but I'm grounded for two weeks. Meanwhile, Hrbie keeps leaving the thing on my voice mail. Very funny, lard ass.

Okay, anyway, so my point is I'm really sorry. It was nice of you to edit out all those bad words, though I noticed you seem to have a slightly different standard when someone else blogs for you. But that's your prerogative, I guess. I'm just saying.

Well, anyway, it's just the 4th inning, but the game's going pretty well. We scored 5 runs in the second inning which was pretty cool. Sure, when I manage, the guys can't get a run to save my life, but they go all Offensive-Powerhouse for Scottie Ullger. Even Morneau got a hit, and he couldn't hit a pitch thrown by my Aunt Fanny, and she died in 1995. But it was nice to see that there is a force more incompetent than our offense, and that is the Tigers D. It was cute when Pudge tried to throw to the first baseman, and the first baseman wasn't there. No wonder he lost a jillion pounds; his soul's getting eaten away every night. That's got to be, oh—

Huh. Well, you know? The ump just warned both benches. Interesting. Fascinating, really. Jason Johnson goes butt-hunting for Little Nicky Punto, and they warn both benches. Well.

Normally, this is the kind of thing that would really pi—I mean, make me angry, but not today. There's no way I'm going to call the umpire a trucking bassbowl, because you shouldn't call people names. There are several reasons for this, including: 1) It isn't nice and 2) You get grounded. And Ullger did a good job of protesting the warning anyway—really, he sort of sauntered out and muttered a few things and meekly went back into the dugout like a good little boy. That's appropriate behavior—we shouldn't kick dirt and throw things at umpires because umpires are our friends. Even though it is absolutely ridiculous that they warned our bench when we didn't do a single darned thing. Even though they've taken away the inside part of the plate from Johan. Even though we can't protect our guys now. Even though we've gotten screwed on that all year. Even though this rule is the most moronic thing to happen to baseball since Hunter Wend—Ah, never mind. Well, anyway, Ullger did a good job; he just registered his disapproval and sat back down and, now, the game can continue, nice and civilized, and no one has to get tossed, and no one's wife has to get upset. It's a good way of doing things, if you don't mind being a huge pansy.

Huh. Well, you know the funny thing? They just called a Craig Monroe foul ball a homer. The third base ump didn't see it right and called it wrong, and then they had a conference, and then, well, I guess the other umps didn't see it either. The funny thing is Craig Monroe saw it—he started running then stopped and turned back toward home and said a very naughty word, the kind of word that can get a grown man grounded. Everyone in Tiger stadium—or whatever the heck it's called now—saw it, apparently, except for the four umps. I guess that's the problem when you spend so much time with your head up your bass.

Well, Scottie's barking a little more now, but I have to say, he doesn't really have the hang of this. What you have to do is kick the dirt around home plate so the ump has to clean it off. Otherwise, you just look like a chicken flapping around out there, and unless you lay out a big chicken turd right there on the field, it's not going to do anything. And if Little Nicky Punto can hold you back, well, you’re not angry enough, I tell you what. And now the whole dugout's barking. Heh, I think Newmie just questioned whether the ump's parents were married upon the occasion of his conception and eventual birth. Ooh, Liddle got in a good one. He may be a pretty boy, but he sure can swear. And I think Radke just—oh. Oh my! Wow, well, I never would have thought of putting those particular words together in that particular way, but, you know Radke's a bit of a surrealist.

Oh, huh. Well, Brad's in here with me now so I'm going to pass this thing on. One sec.

Brad Radblog.

Twins at Detroit. Twins 10, Tigers 5.

[EDITED].

Area Bat Girl Rescued From Hole

Baltimore at Twins. Twins 3, Orioles 2.

AP WIRE REPORT
Minneapolis, Minnesota

Emotions ran high on the Metrodome Plaza today as a local girl was rescued from what was once thought a bottomless pit.

Twins Territory resident Batgirl, age, um, 27, was pulled from the Holy Crap That Sucked Monument three days after she fell in during the Minnesota Twins ill-fated weekend series against the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.

Ms. Girl lived on stale cake and dirt but what really kept her alive, she says, was hope.

"I knew I wasn't going to be down there, forever," said Ms. Girl. "I knew they'd come for me—eventually."

But would they come in time? On the last day of her confinement, Batgirl reports, she began to have strange hallucinations.

"(Former Twins pitcher) Rick Reed came to talk to me. He's been doing a lot of spelunking since his retirement, and he was coming up from China. We had a really good conversation. I thought maybe he could save me, but I've learned it's not a good idea to pin your hopes on Rick Reed."

Things grew worse as the day wore on.

"I was starting to get really cold and lose feeling in my head," said Ms. Girl. "I heard this weird creaking noise and I saw a man was lowering himself down. At first I thought it was Miguel Tejada coming to step on my heart. But then I saw that the man was wearing a Twins uniform and when he saw me he smiled the most beautiful smile, and I knew who it was."

"Come on Batgirl," Jones said, "it's time to get you out of that hole."

After the rescue, authorities worked effortlessly to reunite her with the rest of Team Batgirl. After a long search, they found the remaining members enjoying some nice Dream Pie Blizzards at Dairy Queen. When questioned, Girl's sister-in-law Sooz said that all three flavors were quite delicious, but she liked the French Silk one the best.

Hole Lotta Fun

Baltimore at Twins. Twins 4, Orioles 3.

Well, it's cold and dark down here, but that's the thing with holes in the ground—you don't fall down them for the amenities. The rest of Team Batgirl threw down a couple blankets and some cake pretty soon after Batgirl's endless plummet, which was thoughtful of them, except the cake had a bite missing from it. Batgirl's first thought, of course—after "Who took a bite out of my cake?"—was of her duty to her readers. Quickly, she tapped out a message in Morse code asking the rest of Team Batgirl to blog for her until they could get her out. There was a long silence, and then a blogtron came drifting down into the darkness suspended by a jerryrigged parachute followed by a crank-operated TV.

Well, okay.

Now BG's been cranking, she's been cranking hard for two days and so she's managed to catch much of the action. The reception's a little wonky though—Jeb has apparently stationed one of the BatKitties near the hole with a tinfoil antenna/helmet thing. The thing with BatKitties though is it's hard to get them to stay still. Sometimes, bugs fly by. BatKitties like bugs.

But that's not important. You don't care about that. The truth is, Batgirl is stalling here because she's not sure what to write. See, she watched the game, but there's not a lot of oxygen in this here pit and, again, the reception is weird, so she can't really trust her senses. The thing is, Batgirl seems to be under the impression that we won tonight. More than that, BG really gets the sense that we scored more runs than the other team.

Could this be true? BG's been Morse coding furiously, but no one from Team Batgirl seems to be around—Guys? Guys?—so she can't get any confirmation.

This much is clear. Lohse was totally 2002 in his performance, allowing two earned runs through six, and we went into the late innings tied. Now, BG's watched a lot of games lately, so she had a pretty good idea of how that was going to end up. The Twins were destined to lose this one by one run, it was just a question of when that run would score. Perhaps the 7th, when Shaggy Guerrier came on in relief and—Zoinks!—put runners on first and second. Or when he was relieved by J.C., who came on to face Rafael Palmeiro with those two runners on, for--well, it might be the lack of oxygen talking—but BG remembers pretty clearly that J.C. isn't always at his best when he inherits runners, and as Batgirl distinctly recalls, Palmeiro's gotten a little more "pop" in his "bat" lately. But J.C. coaxed a double play out of him, and somehow we survived the 7th.

But in the 8th, ah, surely this would be our downfall, for J.C. gave up a lead-off walk, and deep in the earth Batgirl felt a great rumbling that she assumed came from some organ of Gardy's or another. Walks, you see, will haunt. Especially lead-off walks given up by J.C. Romero in the 8th inning. But a sweet Bret Boone over-the-shoulder catch and a smooth 3-6-3 later and once again, we were home free. And then Batgirl started to wonder: Could we—possibly—hold them long enough to score a run of our very own?

No. No. As we learned on Monday, hope is the pill they give you to make it all hurt more in the end, and thanks to a base hit, a passed ball, and a sac fly the Twins went into the bottom of the ninth, once again, down a run.

But then—oh—again, BG's not sure about this. I mean nobody got any hits or anything, and there was absolutely a ground out and a strikeout, and did our catcher just try to steal a base? Who thought that was a good idea? But somehow Joe Mauer was on 3rd with two outs and things got very still inside Batgirl's hole. It's possible this is the point she passed out and started hallucinating, because a few batters later Jacque Jones hit a long ground ball to Miggy Tejada--who has a new Corvette courtesy of the good folks at Chevrolet--and then the next thing Batgirl knew the Twins were rushing the field, jumping up and down, and even—could it be?—smiling. Smiling! Also, Jacque Jones looked like a giant sandwich.

Well, look, it was probably just a dream, or something, but even so, it's a dream BG wanted to share with all of you, because it is a beautiful dream, one of togetherness and peace and joy and warmer blankets and, like, a protein bar or something? Anything?

Okay, things might be a little disjointed for awhile. BG doesn't know how long she's going to be down here. It's going to take a series win, maybe two, and BG hopes that it comes quickly because she misses the BatKitties. Plus, the food sucks.

Ron Gardenblog II

Baltimore at Twins. Orioles 3, Twins 2. 11 innings

Oh, great, so I get tossed from the game and I have to blog for BG again. That's just fabulous. That's exactly what I need, to do your [EDITED BY JEB] entry for you while you are sitting in your [EDITED] hole eating [EDITED] bon bons. I mean sure, Batgirl, you make like it was an accident and all, but I know the truth. You talk all Tom Paine, but as soon as things got a little tough you saw the nearest hole and dove right into it. You don't see me diving into holes—oh, no. I've got a [EDITED] job to do. I've got to manage this bunch of halfwits, pantywaists, and [NOW, REALLY GARDY]wads. I've got to pitch BP for them every day. Do you know what my ERA is this week? It's 1.25. And the only reason it's so high is that I pitched to the players' kids on Sunday morning. That little Ford boy's got some pop. I'm going make him my DH. He can't do any worse, I tell you what.

Okay, well, I lied, BG. I can’t take it any more either. That pitch Mauer looked at was such a classic strike the Teamsters called a meeting about it. I just had to get out of there because when a grown man wants to cry, he likes a little privacy.

It's hard, BG. My pitchers, well, they've pitched their tails off, BG. The whole pitching staff is totally tail-less now, BG, but that's just the kind of guys they are. Absolutely willing to sacrifice their tails for the team. And you know what they get in return, BG? Bupkis. Bup—[EDITED]—kis.

Look at Big Carlos tonight. Have you ever seen anyone pitch so well in your life? Have you? Nine innings, eighty-five pitches, with one mistake to Sammy Sosa. One mistake. My guys, they can't take the pressure any more. They're cracking. After the Sosa homer, Big Carlos goes in the dugout and just starts washing his hands, over and over again, and I tell him to cut it out, and he says he can't, he just has to keep washing because he's "unclean." I'm no shrink, BG, but that doesn't sound good. Yesterday, after giving up the dinger to Jeff DaVaWhoever, Joe Mays comes into the clubhouse with this really funny look in his eye, puts the Gatorade bucket on his head, and introduces himself as the Queen of England, and he fancies a scone and then would like to attack France.

It just ain't right, BG, I tell you what.

You know how they say that if a million monkeys typed on a million typewriters one of them would eventually produce War and Peace? Well, give me that damned monkey and I'll bat him clean-up. I don't even need the War and Peace monkey. I'll take the DaVinci Code monkey or the Thinner Thighs in 30 Days monkey. I'll scatter the monkeys through the line-up and put a whole bunch of monkey chow on second base and see what happens. Worse comes to worse, the other team's infielders slip on the monkey chow and can't execute the double play.

You know what the crazy thing is, BG? I actually let myself hope when we came back in the ninth tonight. When Torii hit that double and then they made that retard-o play on Boone's bunt, I thought we could come back and win. I thought the agony might stop. Oh, BG, I clapped my hands together and I said, "I believe!"

You know why that happened BG? Because sometimes it's not good enough to rip off a man's testicles. Sometimes, BG, you gotta stomp on them, too. And you know what? Even without testicles, I'm still going to pitch a no-hitter at BP tomorrow.

Oh, [EDITED] BG, I don’t know. There was a time when I thought it would be really fun to be a manager, but I can't help but think there's got to be another job. I'd rather wipe a million monkeys' [EDITED] than live through another week like this one. In other words, I don't really know what you're doing down there in that hole, but I've just got one thing to say: Make room for me.

Paineful

Weekend Round-Up. California Angels at Twins.
Friday. Angels 3, Twins 2.
Saturday. Twins 5, Angels 4.
Sunday. Angels 2, Twins 1.

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

So says Tom Paine, but the truth is, Tom Paine was a big weenie. He might have rallied the populace during war time, but he never fell twelve games back of the tyrannous Bitch Sox. Sure, the Continental Army may have sucked it up big time for the first few months of the War Against the British, but I don't think they ever committed two errors in one inning to allow three earned runs.

Yeah, British rule blew; I don't want to take anything away from our Founding Fathers and what they fought for. But, really, could some high-priced tea and a little billeting here and there be nearly as bad as facing Bitch Sox rule of the AL Central for the whole freakin' season?

I think not. In the last couple seasons, the Twins have governed the Central, but they haven't been obnoxious about it. They haven't been grabby. We liked to exercise a kinder, gentler leadership. We never seized hold of the division like some kind of power-mad pinstriped generalissimos—no, we asked nicely. We gave everyone else a chance.

But the Bitch Sox—no, no. They don't falter. They don't slump. They don't lose. Ever. And I'm here to say it's not nice. It's not just bitchy, it's fascist. And fascists are bad.

Now, I'm lashing out a bit. The tragic events of this series were not entirely the fault of the Bitch Sox. We did manage to lose three of four to the Angels, not due to the crushing weight of the yoke of oppression, but by skill alone. I mean, when your pitchers only give up eight earned runs over four games to one of the best offensive teams in the game and you still lose three of four, well, that takes some serious talent. There should be a monument built to that performance. We could dig a giant hole in the middle of the Metrodome Plaza and dedicate it to this weekend. Tim Pawlenty could call a special legislative session and leaders of both parties could come together and work day and night to move the Holy Crap That Sucked Monument Bill through as quickly as possible, for the good of the whole state, and when they announce the success of the bill, they'll hold hands and afterwards have a nice snuggle. There could be a band, and a ribbon cutting ceremony, and free cake, and everyone will come and gape at the giant hole we dug for ourselves.

Oh and Team Batgirl will be there, because they love their Twins and they also love free cake. They will hold hands and move in awed silence toward the hole, they will stand over the rim and gape into the endless blackness.

"I never knew a hole could be so deep," Jeb will exclaim.

"Or so dark!" Sooz will marvel.

"Or so very, very cold," Goober will say.

And Batgirl will peer into the hole, frantically looking for some bit of light therein, she will get down on her hands and knees, and push her head into the hole trying to find a little bit of meaning, she will lean so far forward in her desperate search that she will tumble into the hole and begin her slow plummet through eternity.

And Team Batgirl will stand over the hole, shaking their heads, listening as Batgirl's screams slowly fade, growing softer and softer until they, too, vanish into blackness.

"Well," Goober will say, "that sucked."

And Jeb will shake his head. "Only the Twins can help her now."

Will they, Twins fans? Stay tuned.

Batgirl Catches Up On Her Correspondence

LAA of A at Twins. Angels 3, Twins 2.

Dear Bret Boone,

Hi! Welcome to Minnesota, Land of 10,000 Lakes! We’re glad you're here. I have really good news for you—you won yesterday's round of Minnesota Twins: Hottest Chick!! Turns out as a chick, you're mad hot!

Well, the BatFamily was at the game tonight, and we sure cheered loud for you. In fact, everyone did. I bet that felt pretty good. I bet it would have felt even better to get a hit!

What I'm saying is I can imagine it must be really hard to go into a new clubhouse and all. You really want to fit in! Usually, when people try to fit in to a new group, they make a huge effort to be like everyone else in the group. I can see that's what you were doing with the bat tonight. But, you know, the Twins have always respected mavericks, and I think Torii Hunter's much more likely to let you hang out with the cool kids if you do something really different, like convert on those opportunities. Give it a try, see what happens! You know, the last guy we acquired during the All-Star Break went oh-fer on his first day, too, and he ended up being the team MVP! Isn't that cool?

Welcomingly,
Batgirl

Dear Mike Scoscia,

BatMom got a good gander at you when you were coming off the mound and wanted you to know that neon red isn't really a very slimming color. She suggested black, perhaps with some kind of vertical stripe pattern to draw the eye upwards.

Helpfully,
BG

Dear Vladimir Guerrero,

You know I'm not sure red is the best color for you either. You know what would be a really good color for you? Dark blue. Dark blue would make you look really, really, really hot.

Thoughtfully,
BG

Dear Brendan Donnelly,

Hi, I'm Batgirl! Let's talk about things that aren't cool. ABBA, for instance. ABBA isn't cool. Wearing socks with sandals=not cool. Black socks and shorts, also not cool. And you know what else isn't cool? THROWING AT PEOPLE'S HEAD.

Or is the ball just a little slippery without pine tar?

Curiously,
BG

Dear LNP,

You sure did a good job leading off the seventh inning with a walk. Given that the strike zone was the size of, well, you, I think that was pretty impressive. After all, in a one run game your job in the late innings is to get on base, no matter what, and then the next guy can bunt you over into scoring position! It's perfect! A well-oiled machine!

Enthusiastically,
BG

Dear Juan Castro,

Meet Sooz for bunting practice tomorrow at noon, okay? I suggest you be punctual.

Ominously,
BG

Dear Kyle Lohse,

Okay, you know what? You kept the Angels to three runs. That's impressive. The Angels are so good they're from two cities! You got Vladimir Guerrero out twice. Vladimir Guerrero is really scary. Did you know his last name means "warrior" and his first name means "I kick your ass all over the place?" It's funny because it's true.

Okay, the fifth inning wasn't your best. You know how they led off with a single, a double, and a triple? That was kind of scary. It made BatMom bury her face in her hands, which is very sad. But it could have been a lot worse. Darin Erstad hit a ball that would have been an out if Matt "Twinkletoes" LeCroy hadn't fallen down trying to field it, and you could have totally lost your sh&t there, I mean you could have gone all Tom-Cruise-On-Oprah, but you didn't. Maybe it was just because Bret Boone came over and patted you on the butt afterwards. I thought that was pretty cool. That's just the kind of move we can expect from a veteran like Bret Boone. Before we had Bret Boone, who would have come over and patted you on the butt, I ask you? We haven't had a good butt-patter at second base since Lombo!

But I digress. Other than that one inning, you were hot with a capital K, even a backwards K. Thanks for not sucking this year!

Appreciatively,
BG

Dear Matt LeCroy,

You know how you fell down trying to field that ball at first? That was funny. Both funny ha-ha and funny hmmmm.

Conflictedly,
BG

Dear Chone Figgins,

Usually, it's spelled differently. That's why we get confused.

Phonetically,
BG

Dear Torii,

Call me.

Warmly,
BG

Some Theories on the Origins of Sucking

Twins at Kansas City. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 5, Royals 4.
Saturday. Royals 12, Twins 8.
Sunday, Twins 3, Royals 2 (12 innings).

THEORY #1: Once upon a time, God ruled heaven with the beautiful angel Lucifer at his side. But Lucifer suffered from the sin of pride and soon he gathered a group of angels to try to overthrow God. It did not go well, and Lucifer and his minions were cast out of heaven. The fallen angels then constructed Yankee Stadium from where they plotted their evil revenge—they would get back at God by tempting his most treasured creation—baseball-player-kind—to play like ass-crap. Despite his omnipotence, God let the demons battle for the souls of ballplayers everywhere—for he had given both players and angels free will. It was their choice whether to follow the path of good or the path of sucking. It couldn't be helped.

Oops.

THEORY #2: Once upon a time, the great god Zeus ordered the Hephaestus the craftsman to make the world's first woman. Hepaestus made Pandora, a lovely creation in the image of Aphrodite. The other gods gave Pandora gifts—Athena granted her life and a fab wardrobe, Aphrodite a beautiful smile and some bling, and Zeus gave her curiosity and a strange sealed jar which he warned her never to open. Then Zeus sent her down to earth to live among baseball players. Unable to control said curiosity, Pandora opened the jar and out swarmed terrible beasts named E-4, KL, GIDPwRISP, and Frank Thomas. As a curse from Zeus to humanity, poor Pandora had let out all the world's sucking. In penance, she spent the rest of her days as a Cubs fan.

Oops.

THEORY #3: Once upon a time, Tezcatlipoca ruled the earth. As you would expect from the god of evil, night, and sorcerers, Tezcatlipoca got his jollies leading baseball players down the path of sucking. The rest of the gods—especially Quetzalcoatl, the god of benevolence—were not happy with Tezcatlipoca's rule and so they created a race of giants to destroy him. The giants, though, were out for the whole season with a knee injury, so Quetzalcoatl had to do it himself, and he struck the evil god into the waters with a staff. But Tezcatlipoca turned himself into a tiger and pulled his enemy to earth, causing a great hurricane which destroyed most of the world. The humans that survived were turned into ignorant monkeys, who then disguised themselves as relief pitchers and snuck into the bullpen for Saturday's game.

Oops.

WHAT I AM trying to show, here, is that sucking is something humankind has been trying to understand since its very beginnings. Every system of mythology and faith has an explanation for the origins of sucking, a tale for mothers to tell their wide-eyed children when they ask, "Mommy, why must we lose to the Royals?"

In other words, it's been a hard few days. After the irrational exuberance caused by the sweep of the freakin' Devil Rays, Twins fans could hope that we had gotten the sucking behind us. We were quickly proven wrong in a week when Ervin Santana won and Johan Santana lost. The Star Tribune called two games on two distinct nights the Twins' worst loss of the season, and they were right both times. Batgirl is tense, the Batkitties are at each other's throats, and even the most even-keeled of Twins bloggers are getting a little crabby. Or a lot. Yes, we came out of this Weekend Round-Up ahead, but it was not pretty, and Batgirl has to spend the All-star Break getting her eyes reattached. You'd think she'd have learned to stop gouging them out during the 2002 ALDS, but some lessons just don't take.

The point is, the Twins played .500 ball this week, we played to a split with the Kansas City Royals, and unlike Mr. Cranky Pants BG believes we're better than that. This is the third All-Star Break in a row where BG's gone in believing the team is better than its recent play. The two previous years, she was right. And this year?

A lot needs to happen for our boys to contend for the division title. The hitters need to take some pressure of the pitchers by, well, hitting. The pitchers need to remember that they're good at baseball. The infield needs to mind their p's and q's and stay the heck away from El Monstruo.

As for the Bitch Sox, well, let's not worry about them. They've been playing incredible baseball and if they keep this up they're going to do something historic. All BG asks is that we give them a run for their money, if they falter, that we're there to catch them, and that Justin Morneau start hitting homers again. Is that so much to ask, really?

It's time for us all to have a few days off, to look at where we've gone and where we're going, to find ways to be a little more Quetzalcoatl and less Tezcatlipoca.

In closing, BG would like to present her Keys to the Second Half:

STOP SUCKING!

And that concludes Batgirl's KEYS TO THE SECOND HALF! Okay, boys. Go home. Get some rest. And when you come back, let's play ball.

Blondes Really Do Have More Fun!

Twins at Kansas City. Royals 8, Twins 5.

Okay, first of all, Batgirl owes everyone in Twins Territory a huge apology. It was just last Wednesday that Batgirl wrote a post about the Royals pitching staff suffering from a massive suck lag.. Things were said. Words were used. Words like, "incompetence," and "pain," and, well, "suck." BG even made fun of Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble, and I ask you, what has he ever done to her? Nothing, that's what.

Well, ever since then, the Twins are 0-2 against that incompetent, painful, sucky, Gobble-y pitching staff, and as Benjamin Franklin famously said, she who laughs first, well, has to watch her team drop two to the Royals. And, let me tell you, nothing, I mean nothing's worth that.

So, Mea Culpa. Batgirl is sorry. Elle regrette beaucoup. Batgirl will never do it again. From now on, she will blog with nothing but the utmost respect for the boys in grape. I mean, just look at the game today! Jose Lima came in with an ERA that matched his weight—if he weighed 760 pounds that is. That must be respected. Proper respect--or "props," if you will--must be given. Attention must be paid. This is no marshmallow, no pantywaist, no Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble—oops—I mean, no turkey. This is Jose "Lima time!" Lima! Just because he's only won one game this year, because he has an ERA higher than Batgirl's in her 6th grade softball team, just because he sucks total ass does not mean we should not respect and fear him.

And wasn't there something different about Lima this time? BG couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something to his appearance, something new, something springy and girlish, as if he'd taken off a little of that stubborn winter-weight or found something to take care of that not-so-fresh feeling....





Oh, wait, I see, now that you mention it, it was pretty hard to miss actually. Huh.... Interesting choice. ...As long as he's happy.

This brings up point #2, which I'll express in form of a quiz:


Q: What Do These People Have In Common?

Cybil Shepard	Lindsay Lohan	Jose Lima

Come on, boys. It's Lima Time.

While the Dome Burns...

Twins at Los Angeles or Anaheim, or whatever. Angels 7, Twins 6.

In the early 1800's, the new nation found itself trying desperately to remain neutral while war raged in Europe. With no army to speak of and most of their navy on the D.L., Twins Territory simply didn't have the manpower to fight a war.

Meanwhile, The Anglican Empire of Great Britain had been fighting the Napoleonic Wars for some time and was having a depth problem as well—one which it solved by stopping Twins ships and impressing anyone who even looked British. (And by impressing these sailors, I do not mean that the British could, like, recite pi to the 100th digit or do a killer tap dance, but rather I mean that they took the sailors, stuffed them in a burlap sack, and said, "Guess what? You're in the Royal Navy now! Pip pip!"

Well, one day the Anglicans—called Angles for short—ran across a ship called the U.S.S. Minnesota Infield. The ship was ragged and full of holes, seemingly patched together with a curious combination of haste and reluctance. The ship was staffed by cast-offs from other ships—deadbeats, misfits, and lame-os, and most in the course of service had managed to injure themselves in some ridiculous way or another. It seemed the whole crew was hobbling, bandaged, blind; indeed the ship's doctor, one Mr. Terrence Ryan, was once heard to remark, "I'd shoot the wounded to put them out of their misery, but then there'd be no one left to sail me home."

This did not stop the H.M.S. Adam Kennedy from boarding the Infield, and before anyone knew what had happened, they'd bound and gagged Ship's Boy Little Nicky Punto, stuffed him into a laundry bag, and welcomed him to the Royal Navy.

But Little Nicky Punto was the son of a friend of the President of Twins Territory, and when he got word of the boy's impressment, he decided he had had enough. The President passed an act prohibiting trade with the Angles. Called the Non-Intercourse Act, it was deemed by many to be way harsh.

So it came to pass that in 1812, Twins Territory declared war on the Angles. It was a questionable decision, given the shoddy state of the Infield, not to mention the rest of the roster.

But the Angles were worn out from a tough series against the Oakland Frenchies and at first it seemed that the young and completely unqualified country might whip their red-hatted heinies again, especially with General Johan Santana starting. Even the Infield managed to score some impressive early victories at sea, not to mention the unheralded U.S.S. Backup Catcher.

But the war took a dark turn in the seventh inning. With the bases loaded and the boys desperately needing some insurance battles, Col. Lew Ford flew out. (Ford would later be court-martialed, but acquitted on the grounds that "everybody does it.") Then the Angles came up to bat. Quickly, Chone "Shawn" Figgins blockaded Chesapeake Bay, then Vladimir Guerrero did the same to Long Island, and suddenly the Angles had blockades on first and third. And then Garret Anderson came up to bat.

Well, suffice to say, pretty soon the Angles had hit the boys in blue where they lived and were marching on the Metrodome Plaza. Before anyone knew what had happened, Johan Santana had given up the lead and the Angles had taken over the Metrodome.

Oh, how the Angles enjoyed ransacking that beautiful symbol of Twins power, that elegant embodiment of the young nation! They looted the place, stealing valuable bobbleheads from the souvenir shops and gorging themselves on Dome Dogs. Then, they set it on fire. Laughing, they sat on the Plaza eating BBQ corn while the Dome burned to the ground.

Oh, yes, the Angles hoped to strike at the heart of the young country, to divide its people and set them against their leader. Little did they know that the heart of Twins Territory was much more than a building…

The Twins in the Dome hadn't had much warning about the Angle invasion—indeed they were all set up for a monster truck rally that evening. But when word came, they barely had enough time to flee to their Hummers with their lives. Corporeal LeCroix didn't even have time to save his crawdads.

As the Dome burned, the team gathered at Benihana—exhausted, scared, covered in soot. There were some tears shed, and yes, there was some despair.

"We're ruined," said Sgt. Luis Rivas of the Infield.

"It's over," said Pvt. Jesse Crain of the Bullpen.

"This is ass-crap," said Lt. Kyle Lohse of the Dawghouse.

"Guys," said a voice. "What are you doing?"

They all looked up. First Lady of Twins Territory Corri Ford was standing on a table, holding a large sheet of rolled up blue plastic in her hand. "Stop your moaning!" she commanded. "It’s just a building. No one was hurt, and we can live to take on these Angles another day. Anyway, the heart of Twins Territory isn't the Metrodome."

The players looked around. "It's not?"

"No," she said. "I have it right here." With a flourish, Mrs. Ford unrolled the blue plastic to reveal the smiling portrait of Bob Casey. "I cut it out of the wall before we left."

Silence, then a few sniffles could be heard all across Benihana, then sobs. Pretty soon all the Twins were crying and hugging each other—and not macho back-slapping man-hugs, either, but real full-body hugs.

"She's right," said Lohse.

"A-men!" said Crain.

"Come on guys," said Rivas. "Let's go give Bob his home back. Let's go rebuild the Dome."

"Um," said Corri, "yeah, but this time can we build one that doesn't suck?"

The Los Federalist Papers of Anaheim

A decade after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, Congress sent a Constitution on to the states to be ratified. But ratification was all but certain. Due to problems caused by the weak Articles of Confederation, the new Constitution outlined a much stronger central government than was provided for in the earlier document, and many feared that the new Constitution would mean a return to a British-style monarchy. Eventually, a compromise was reached—the states would ratify the Constitution if it would eventually include a Bill of Rights designed to protect individual liberty.

The debate was not over, though; indeed, the ideological dispute between the Federalists, who valued a strong central government and a privileged ruling class, and the anti-Federalists, who were concerned with individual liberty and the common man, would frame the development of the new country. While both sides had high-profile proponents, none were more famous than Alexander Hamilton Scioscia for the Washington Federalists of Anaheim and Thomas Jeffenhire for The Minnesota Democratic Republicans—later shortened to "Twins."

The two men did not like each other very much, it must be said. In a letter to his colleague Col. Ken Macha of Oakland, Virginia, Scioscia wrote:

Mr. Jeffenhire is at the head of the faction decidedly hostile to me and my team. In respect to foreign politics, the views of this gentlemen are, in my judgment, unsound and dangerous. He has a womanish attachment to France and a womanish resentment against Great Britain.

Soon afterwards, in a letter to Terry Ryan, Jeffenhire wrote:

If he loves the British monarch so much, why doesn't he just marry him?

Then, in an e-mail to his mother, Scioscia said that Mr. Jeffenhire had questionable parentage, at which point Jeffenhire sent his own mother flowers with a card that read, "Alexander Hamilton Scioscia has a stupid ass-face." Scioscia said that Mr. Jeffenhire's bullpen ace was "a big fat hairy cheater," and Jeffenhire suggested that Mr. Scioscia should "put his Brendan-Donnelly-pine-tar-glove where his mouth is." Jeffenhire then accused Mr. Scioscia of preferring "the calm of despotism to the boisterous sea of liberty," whereupon Mr. Scioscia responded that Mr. Jeffenhire's mother had been "quite boisterous the preceding evening, I can assure you."

One evening, Mr. Jeffenhire was celebrating his birthday at a house of ale with some of his "Twins," when Mr. Scioscia entered with a posse of Federalists, on a break from leafleting. As soon as the crowd in the ale house realized what was happening, they went deadly silent.

"Hello, Alexander Hamilton Scioscia," muttered Jeffenhire.

"Hello, Thomas Jeffenhire," sneered Scioscia.

"What brings you here on this lovely evening?" snarled Jeffenhire.

"Oh, just out looking for traitors," smiled Scioscia. "See any?"

"Why," snapped Jeffenhire, "I outta…!"

"Bring it, bee-yach."

But then Jeffenhire stepped back. "No," he said. "I will not sully my republican views with violence. There is only one way to settle this, Alexander Hamilton Scioscia."

One of the Twins, a Matthew LeCroix, looked up. "A dance-off?" he said hopefully.

"No," said Jeffenhire. "We should have a debate, like civilized people. Our side against their side. "

"Fine," said Scioscia. "We'll debate."

"Fine," said Jeffenhire. "I have the perfect man for the job, he's just off his high school debate team. His name is Scott Baker, and he's going to kick your monarchy-loving heinie."

"Oh, yeah?" said Scioscia. "Well, I'm going to use Santana!"

The Twins gasped. "Johan Santana?"

"No," said Scioscia. "Ervin Santana."

A moment of silence, then anti-Federalist Lew Ford whispered loudly, "There's an Ervin Santana?"

The Twins started laughing then, but as George Washington says, he who laughs first is so busy laughing he strikes out with men in scoring position. For Federalist Ervin Santana, while lacking in any real debate skill, possessed a truly ingenious strategy—he would take so long to get his point across that his opponents would entirely lose track of what he was saying and ground out.

Though, Santana did have a few bon mots—who can forget when he turned to Justin Morneau and screamed, "Unfettered democracy is anarchy!" causing Morneau to lose his thoughts entirely and stare blankly back at him for five to ten minutes.

Young Master Baker got in some good lines, too—he caused much hooting amongst the Twins when he struck out Darin Erstad with a quick, "Those who labor in the earth are the chosen people of God!"

But, for the Twins, it was not to be. Baker did his best, but as Benjamin Franklin says, without run support, what in the hell can you do?

The most poignant rhetoric came, though, not in the debate itself. In the final round, the referee began making some mysterious calls. Mr. Morneau was caused to leave the debate platform prematurely, followed by Mr. LeCroix. As he walked out of the ale house, Mr. LeCroix was heard to yell, "Give me a plot of land, a hoe, and a dream of self-sufficiency, and give the ump some bleepin' blargin' EYEGLASSES!"

But it was no use. The Federalists had emerged victorious, and the Democratic Republicans would need to wait another day. And wait they would. As Scioscia started victory-dancing all up in his enemy's grill, Jeffenhire stared at him with his cool blue eyes and growled, "This isn't over, Scioscia. This isn't over."

I Do Declare

Twins at LAAAAAAA. Twins 7, LAAAAAA 5

The Declaration of Independence of the Minnesota Twins
In ANAHEIM, July 4, 2005

The Unanimous Declaration of the Twenty-Five Minnesota Twins, Plus T.C. Bear

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Baseball and of Baseball's Gods entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of Baseball Player-kind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all baseball teams are created equal, that they are endowed by the Baseball Gods with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Free Agents. --That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Players, deriving their just powers from the consent of the Players, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government. When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government.—Such has been the patient sufferance of these Twins; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present Commissioner of Baseball is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these Twins.

We, therefore, the Minnesota Twins, in General Congress, Assembled, in Anaheim, where we executed with RISP for once and are rather chuffed about the Whole Thing, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of Twins Territory, solemnly publish and declare, That these Minnesota Twins are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to Bud Selig, and that all political connection between them and the State of Bud Selig, is and ought to be totally dissolved. We also declare that Bud Selig is a Wanker of Highest Order. Assemblyman LeCroy would like to declare that he fancies some Tea or, even better, a Pudding. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Also, Your Momma.

The Minnesota Twins

Batgirl Begins

Weekend Round-Up. Tampa Bay at Twins. Sweeeeeep!
Friday. Twins 7, Devil Rays 4.
Saturday. Twins 4, Devil Rays 1.
Sunday. Twins 3, Devil Rays 2.

Note: Batgirl would like to apologize formally to her vast team of highly-skilled lawyers for this entry.

When Batgirl was just a wee Batlass, she was hanging out with her older Goober and his friends as they played a pick-up game of Base Ball. Batgirl found the game so intriguing that she toddled right over to the batters box just as Mike Dalhie was taking a swing with his phat new aluminum bat and—boom! Right in the noodle! Batgirl survived relatively unscathed, but from then on whenever she closed her eyes she saw a swarm of aluminum bats flying at her head.

Flash forward, twenty years later. Batgirl is in a Himalayan prison for reasons that aren't very clear, where she lives an aimless and angry life, and where the bats still haunt her. Liam Neeson appears to her one night and says, "Batgirl, I can help you. I can take your fear and your anger and give it focus." He then gives her a weed and takes her up to his mountain to be his paduan learner, where he trains her in special Jedi blogging techniques like stealth, agility, and photoshopping. He teaches Batgirl to control her fears, to embrace them, to turn them against her enemies. Then he tells Batgirl to ready for her final test.

"As proof that you are ready to join the League of Bloggers, I have one final mission for you…"

He motions with his hand and someone brings out a small cage. Inside the cage is a small, pale man in a Twins hat who is clutching a homer hanky to his chest.

"Batgirl, this is your last test before I can admit you into the League of Bloggers. You must snark this man."

"What?"

"He's a fan and he still has faith in the team. You must destroy him with your rapier (wit)."

Batgirl took a step back. "I'm not going to do that!"

"Come on, Batgirl," said Neeson, "he is weak, and we despise weakness in the League of Bloggers."

Batgirl took a step back. "Well, your League sucks! I'm telling Twins Geek on you!"

"Batgirl, you must comply. You will need strength for your first League mission."

"Mission? What mission?"

"You must go back to Minnesota and destroy the Minnesota Twins."

"Are you crazy? F--- that!"

"BG, the Twins went 2-8 in a recent ten game stretch and are now 9.5 games back. They must be destroyed."

BG closed her eyes. She had worked so hard for this, but it was wrong, all wrong. She flashed back to one dark day in her youth when she picked on a fellow Twins fan out of anger and despair and her best friend, a young lad named Torii Hunter, taught her about the difference between justice and vengeance, sass and meanness, baseball and real life, regular cheeks and sweet cheeks.

"No," said Batgirl. "I don't want to destroy the Twins. I want to help them. You're MEAN Liam Neeson! I hope Darth Maul kicks your ass!"

And with that, Batgirl kicked Liam Neeson square in the nads, freed the poor helpless Twins fan, and caught a private jet back to Minneapolis where she belonged.

But what did she find when she got there? Her Minnesota Twins were not faring well. The nefarious Bitch Sox syndicate had taken over the AL Central, and the forces of good—led by doe-eyed assistant D.A. Torii Hunter—were struggling mightily. What could Batgirl do against such odds?

Well, there was only one thing to do—sit down and blog—yes, blog like she's never blogged before! How ironic, that she would try to put the skills that had been taught to her for evil to use for good—but it was all she could do. And with heart aflutter, she found her childhood friend, the doe-eyed assistant D.A. with a heart of gold.

"So," said D.A. Hunter, "you've finally returned."

"I thought about all you said, Torii, and I realized I could not stay away. I was afraid, because it really hurt getting hit on the head with an aluminum bat, and my fear led to anger and my anger led to the dark side. But by taking the path of vengeance, I have learned about the path of justice, and I am here to help my team now."

"But why," he said, pointing at her blog-tron, "why do you wear a mask?"

"I am a symbol, Torii. I am more powerful as a symbol than I am as a person."

"But we need people to do good, not symbols. And—" he turned away "—I cannot love a symbol."

"Come on, Torii," said Batgirl. "We can discuss our passionate, enduring love later. We have work to do."

With Torii's help, Batgirl found the last incorruptible cop in town—one Sgt. Kyle Lohse, and together they set out to clean up the AL Central.

Lohse and Hunter taught Batgirl that by doing good you inspire others to do the same, and soon her team began winning again. The Twins—no, they weren't ready to take on the nefarious Bitch Sox crime syndicate just yet—they had other fish to fry. Instead, they decided to visit the basement of the AL East and try to deal with a wee little sting ray infestation.

And deal they did. On Friday, they psyched the D'Rays out by having Jesse Crain pretend to lose the game for Johan Santana, only so he could emerge victorious when Jacque Jones laced a Dewan "I Am Lou Pinella's Bitch" Brazelton pitch for a bases-loaded triple. Ha! Showed them! On Saturday, Justin Morneau got out his boomie boomie stick and helped the good Sgt. Lohse to a virtuous 4-1 win. And on Sunday—after being temporarily dazed by Scott Kazmir's fear-pollen mask—the Twins took out their tazers and squeezed out a 3-2 win to make for a sweep.

Now, Liam Neeson will say that the Twins aren't, by any means, out of the woods and could still be destroyed at any point—after all, you’re supposed to sweep the freakin' Devil Rays. That's what the freakin' Devil Rays are for. That's why George Steinbrenner invented them in the first place in his evil lab! But, as a wise man once said, it's better to sweep the Devil Rays than not sweep the Devil Rays—and Batgirl remembers a time last season when we distinctly did NOT sweep the Devil Rays. And that's no fun at all.

After the series, Torii Hunter came up to Batgirl and took her by the hands. "I should have known you were doing good, Batgirl. I'm sorry."

"No, Torii," said Batgirl. "Everything I do, I do for you."

Then Batgirl and Torii Hunter made out for a really really long time, until suddenly Torii drew away.

"Batgirl, I accused you of wearing a mask once. Well, you do wear a mask, and it's your real face. The blogtron mask is the real you, but she doesn't belong to me. This girl that left me so long ago for the bleepin' Himalyas still hasn't come back. Someday, when all the evil is conquered, and when all the blogging is done, maybe she'll return. For now, though, you belong to the people."

Batgirl only nodded. She understood. But she and Torii made out a little more first.

And then there was one thing left to do. Batgirl went to the phone and called up Sgt. Kyle Lohse, legendary good cop and Awesome Pitcher Numero Uno, who had pitched eight innings of super fantastic one-run ball on Saturday—because Batgirl wanted to say thank you.

"Hey, Sgt. Kyle, that was awesome!"

"It's Lt. Kyle now. I've been promoted out of the doghouse."

"Yeah! Now you're in the dawg-house! Man, you've been looking so good lately! I'm so happy for you!"

"Aw, stuff it, Batgirl."

Know When To Walk Away, Know When To Run.

From :

Texas Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers shoved two cameramen Wednesday, sending one to the hospital in a videotaped tirade that included throwing a camera to the ground and threatening to break others.

Rogers, who missed his last start for the struggling Rangers with a broken pinky he suffered during an outburst earlier this month, erupted at the cameramen as they filmed him walking to the field for pregame stretching before Wednesday night's game against the Los Angeles Angels.

The 40-year-old left-hander first shoved Fox Sports Net Southwest photographer David Mammeli, telling him: ``I told you to get those cameras out of my face.''

Rogers then approached a second cameraman. He wrestled the camera from Larry Rodriguez of Dallas-Fort Worth television station KDFW, threw it to the ground and kicked it.

The 6 foot 1, 210-pound pitcher saw two other cameramen who were recording from the Rangers' dugout and walked toward them. He did not make contact with the men, who were backing away.

``I'll break every ... one of them,'' Rogers said before he was escorted to the clubhouse by catcher Rod Barajas.

Pawns In the Game Are Not Victims of Chance

Kansas City at Twins. Royals 3, Twins 1.

After Tuesday's game, Juan Castro could be found huddled in a corner of the Twins clubhouse. As is well known, Joe Mays cannot stand to see a teammate upset, so he promptly went over to try to cheer him up. It used to be that Mays would use physical humor to help break the ice in such situations, until late last July when he did his famous orangutan-mating-dance imitation for one rather blue looking Doug Mientkiewicz, who promptly kicked Mays in the nads and then started weeping uncontrollably.

Well, so, this time, Mays opted to approach Castro more gently; he sat down next to the veteran infielder and convivially slapped him on the back.

At which point Juan Castro let out a girlie scream to the high heavens and ran from the room.

"That was weird," said Mays. "Huh. Well, better go tell Gardy all about my new pregame routine."

Before the game Wednesday, Castro reported that he'd been experiencing dizzy spells and would be unable to play. Gardy took one look at him and said, "Yeah, man, you look like hell." Gardy clapped him on the shoulder avuncularly, at which point Castro turned green and passed out.

"That was weird," said Gardy. "Huh. Well, better go try to hide from Mays."

Well, no one had too much time to focus on Castro, as the Twins had a game to play. It takes a lot of concentration to drop the ball all the time and blow so many scoring opportunities.

No one heard anything from Juan Castro at all, in fact, 'til the seventh inning when Hector Carrasco beaned Michael Cuddyer in the wrist, and a strange keening noise came from the clubhouse. Gardy found Castro in a blithering heap on the floor.

"Juanie, I know you're not feeling well, but I need you to go in. Cuddy was hurt, and you have to run for him."

But Castro just shook his head violently. "No!" he said. "No! I'm not going out there!"

"What is it Juanie?" Gardy said. "What's wrong?"

"The curse has come upon me!" wailed Castro.

Well, Gardy's not a dumb man, and pretty soon he was able to put two and two together.

"Oh," he said. "You're scared because we're going through infielders like pancakes!"

"YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS!" screamed Castro.

Yes, Gardy had hit the nail on the head. Juan Castro was scared because they were going through infielders like pancakes. And not thick, buttermilky pancakes, either, but the kind of crepe-like pancake that is as light and thin as a butterfly's ass. For the events of the past months had caused Juan Castro to wonder: could the stories he had heard as a child been more than myths?

The evidence was mounting. First Brent Abernathy mysteriously disappeared from the active roster, then something ate Little Nicky Punto. Then Rivas went down, and then yesterday Glenn "Who?" Williams succumbed. Coinkidink? I think not. By the time Michael Cuddyer was making his way into the training room holding his wrist, Castro knew—it was all true, every horrible world.

"Gardy, you cannot put me out there," Castro yelled. "I am only one man, and El Monstruo, he cannot be stopped."

Gardy stopped. "What the $@*! is El Monstruo?"

"You do not know of El Monstruo?" He looked around the room quickly, then turned back to Gardy and whispered, "Back in my home village, we told stories of a horrible creature who preys on infielders. I used to think it was just a story, something to give young boys nightmares, but now, I am beginning to believe. I am afraid, Gardy. I am afraid of El Monstruo. We cannot stop his terrible mission. Once he begins eating a team's infielders, he will not stop until he has gone through the whole organization. He mostly comes at night. Mostly."

Representation by Natalie Dee.

"El Monstruo came into being when the Chupacabra mated with George Steinbrenner. He is merciless, and his appetite insatiable. You saw what he did to the Mets. Oh, Gardy, we’re all doomed. Doomed!"

Gardy scratched his head. "Um, Juan?"

"Well that's great, that's just $@$%!*' great man. Now what the *@$% are we supposed to do? We're in some real pretty $#!% now man..."

"Juan?"

"That's it man, game over man, game over!"

"Excuse me...Juan?"

"Yes, Gardy?"

"Get the hell out there and play ball."

Jetlag and the Modern Batgirl

Kansas City at Twins. Twins 11, Royals 8.

Batgirl tries so hard not to devote this site to her personal problems; she has a higher mission. Surely you do not care about her splinters, her blisters, her phalange. But sometimes her personal problems are so great that they interfere with her solemn blogging duties.

In other words, BG is still on Moldovan time, and finds herself overcome with an incredible desire to crawl into the BatBed at about 8pm. It's all quite strange, as--while Batgirl expressly disavows any relationship with nocturnal flying mammals of the order Chiroptera, as she is only a Batgirl in the sense that she is a girl who is employed by a baseball team to look after their equipment, (and by "looking after their equipment," one means, of course, sassing)—BG normally keeps rather nocturnal hours. Thus allowing her to look after her team's equipment well into the wee hours.

But now she is dazed, confused, exhausted, perpetually dehydrated, suffering from a rather unpleasant case of indigestion, and around 7 o'clock every night begins to slip slowly into unconsciousness. In other words, Batgirl has become quite sympathetic to the Kansas City Royals pitching staff.

It is a well-known fact that it supposed to take as many days to recover from your jet lag as time zones you have traveled across. It is a lesser known fact that it is supposed to take as many days to recover from your suck lag as runs you have let in by your pure incompetence.

I mean, first you've got starting pitcher J.R. Howell, who it seems like the Royals called up to give Zack Grienke someone to play Star Wars guys with. In three innings, Howell gives up six hits, four walks, and five earned runs. That's going to set him back at least 'til Sunday. Unfortunately for Howell, Sunday is his next scheduled start, so it's quite likely the cycle will start all over again.

After Howell came Mike "Knock on" Wood, who, while he gave up five hits over two innings, walked only one and allowed just two runs—thus looking like Cy Young in comparison. Less successful was Andrew "Please Make The Giant-Man Go Away" Sisco, who got to earned runs over one inning without giving up a hit. By the time Leo Nunez and Ryan Jensen got done doing the voodoo that they do, the Royals pitching staff had walked eight batters, which is exactly eight more than the Twins pitching staff.

The Twins pitchers managed to give up runs the old-fashioned way—by letting the Royals hit the crap out of the ball. Our first two pitchers had a suck lag of their own, before various people whose names start with "J" came in and stopped the bleeding. Poor Carlos was more Crapal than Jackal tonight and Terry Mulholland, well, apparently had too much carbonated green tea. Something is deeply wrong when the Royals pitching staff walks 84 batters, but we still can't put the game away 'til the 7th, when Jesse Crain stepped up and said, "I am Jesse Crain, and I've never suffered a day of jet lag in my life."

So, yes, we had some suck lag today. It happens. Unfortunately, it happens to the Royals pitchers every single day of their lives. It's not their fault—there's a lot of talent there, but most of them aren't even old enough to throw a curve ball yet. I don't know what's worse—being twenty-two-year-old J.R. Howell, who was just from the minor leagues untimely ripp'd, and forced to endure this agony because the club never bothered to get any real pitchers for the starting rotation, or to be Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble and to be deemed unworthy of said rotation.

So, boys, Batgirl feels your pain. She really does. And she's done some research into the issue. Drink plenty of water. Eat lots of protein. Don't take naps. Get some sunlight—melanin is good for you! Just try to adjust your body gradually. Be patient. It will take time, but we'll get there. We'll get there.

Negative Capability

Weekend Round-Up. Twins at Milwaukee.
Friday. Brewers 3, Twins 1.
Saturday. Brewers 7, Twins 6.
Sunday. Twins 5, Brewers 2.

It may surprise you, but in addition to her duties as Twins batgirl—which are all quite consuming, I tell you what—Batgirl also is a patron of the arts. She's particularly interested in the area's burgeoning Romantic poetry scene, and has a fondness for the work of the local poet known as John "Spanky" Keats, not only for his great appreciation of material beauty, but for his love of Batgirl's own Minnesota Twins. Naturally, Mr. Keats was quite happy when the Twins changed from Astroturf to grass, and certainly you know him from his many fine pro-outdoor ballpark editorials in Endymion Weekly.

Why, just Saturday night, after the Brewers came back on the Twins to guarantee a series loss and an incredibly ass-crap recent record, Batgirl went to her local ale house, a popular hang out for young poets, and found Mr. Keats in a dark corner scrawling away by candlelight. After buying herself a nice stiff whisky, downing it, and ordering another, Batgirl approached him.

"Hey, Spank."

"Hail, Batgirl," he said, nodding at the glass in BG's hand. "Bound for Lethe, I see."

"Damn skippy," Batgirl said, taking a gulp. "It's all the sucking. It wears on a girl."

"I know," he said. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though hemlock I had drunk."

"Exactly," said BG.

"I'm actually working on something right now about this series," he said. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure!"

"It's a little rough," he said. "But I think you'll get the idea." He stood up, and cleared his throat. "Imagine, if you will, a deserted Wisconsin hill in a barren land. A sensitive poet is taking a walk in nature, as is his wont, and he comes across a man lying listlessly amongst the tall blades of grass. The man looks quite familiar to the poet, though his face is pale and his eyes unfocused, and upon closer inspection, the poet sees it is the manager of the Twins. So the poet says...ahem:"

O, WHAT can ail thee, Skip o' Twins?
Alone and palely loitering?
The sucking has come upon us all,
And no birds sing.

O, what can ail thee, Skip o' Twins!
So haggard and so woebegone?
The vat of Gatorade is full,
And the line-up's done.

I see a stress rash on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

"That's nice," said BG. "I like the fading rose part."

"Thanks," said Keats. "I like it too. So, anyway, then, the manager looks at the poet and coughs weakly and slowly, he begins to tell his story."

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a foam cheese for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my mascot bear,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
The Twins fight song.

She found me roots of lager sweet,
And honeyweiss, and Munchen dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“Come play my crew of Brew.”

She took me to her new ballpark,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her beer gog'ling eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.

I saw sad Twins, and Prince Fielder too,
And my boys, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sucking has come upon us all,
And no birds sing.

"It's pretty good," BG said. "Dark."

"Yeah," said Keats. "Well, what can you do?"

"I don't know," BG said, taking another drink. "I just don't know."

Keats sighed and took BG's hands and looked deeply into her eyes. "Remember, BG," he says, "a thing of sucking does not suck forever." He titled his head and thought for a moment. "Or, conversely, sucking is ass-crap, and ass-crap sucking. That is all ye know and all ye need to know."

Batgirl nodded. "You bet your sweet ass, Spanky."

He smiled. "You sure have a way with words, BG."

I Swear It's Not Too Late

Twins 6, Tigers 2.

Batgirl is suffering from some serious Batjetlag, so you must forgive her if things seem a little disjointed. It's nighttime now in Moldova—normally Team Batgirl would be just ending an evening of drinking fine Moldovan wine, engaging in some clacile basket weaving, and watching the ceremonial sass dance.

In other words, it's time for Batgirl to go to bed, or at least so her body says, yet while the sun may have set in the former Soviet Republics, it is high in the sky in the wilds of Minneapolis and Batgirl wants a Diet Coke. Bad.

The point is, Batgirl barely knows her own name right now and is having strange hallucinations, including seeing something about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes being engaged, which is obviously wrong because a) ick and b) didn't Katie end up with Dawson? In Albania, they have a whole channel devoted to Dawson's Creek reruns and a theme park set up to look just like Capeside down to the Capeside Creamery, the Peach Pit, and the Hungry Diner with that hunky Luke pouring coffee. It was to here that Team Batgirl would often lead field trips for the sick children of that country, those who could get out of their hospital beds that is.

Needless to say, the days of our journey were long and the work hard, though rewarding. It must be said that in the beginning, we saw ourselves as givers, as healers—we embraced our roles, of course; it's why we had come. But we were so arrogant, so foolish. For we would soon learn that we were mere students and the children the teachers.

You see, every once in a while Goober would hook up a complicated inter-tron system using the phalange from his Blackberry, a wire hanger, and a goat, and he would check in on the Twins and report back. I must admit that at first we thought his phalange was broken for we could not believe what we were hearing. Seven runs in the what inning? Soy Cheese Romero did what? Glenn who? But gradually it all became clear to us and we realized something terrible: we had erred. Team Batgirl had erred. Team Batgirl had left the country in hopes of making the world a better place but, in their starry-eyed idealism, they had looked too far up to the heavens and forgotten the very earth under their feeties. They had failed the Batlings, failed the Twins, and everything was going straight to Hell.

(Which, incidentally, has its own theme park in the Croatian city of Korcula.)

Things were said. Feelings were hurt. Teeth were gnashed and hair pulled. And on that day, on that horrible day when we realized just what was happening during our absence, our hearts were not in our humanitarian work. Ah, yes, it is horrible to say—but surely, here, with you, Batgirl can be honest. She must be honest. Indeed, when we got to the children's ward of the Lake Snagov hospital in Romania—so close to the purported burial place of one Vlad the Impaler, also known as Count Dracula, who would sneak into bedrooms at night and suck the sass right out of a gal, and now we sleep safe in our beds but does Dracula ever really stay buried? I ask you?—our hearts were not in it. And when Batgirl was sitting on the bed of a young suspiciously sass-deficient lass with two puncture wounds in her neck, she found she had no sass left to give. And Batgirl began to weep.

"What is it? What is wrong?" asked the lass, her brown eyes wide as the Wallachian moon.

"I am so sorry," Batgirl said, in Romanian. "My heart is heavy today."

Well, pretty soon the whole story came out, and the poor sass-deficient girl, who has suffered so much, took Batgirl's hand in her own.

"In my village," she said, "we have a song for times like these."

And then, she began to sing.

To every season -turn turn turn
There is a sucking time -turn turn turn
And a time for all the ways there are to blow.

A time to pop up, a time to strike out
A time for a wild pitch, a time for a passed ball
A time to give up seven runs in the ninth
A time to serve a pitch up over the Berlin wall.

Well, a tear dripped down Batgirl's cheek. This dated Romanian folk song had taught her so much, as had the little girl who sang it.

"Thank you, little girl," Batgirl said. "I have learned so much from you. Truly, you are the teacher, and I am the student."

"It is my pleasure," said the girl. "Now, do you have Joe Mauer's e-mail address?"

Well, Batgirl did not, but when she met up with Team Batgirl at the end of the day outside of the Troilus and Cressida theme park she sang the girl's song and the tears began to flow then. It was not our fault—it was just the sucking time; a little late this year, perhaps, it caught us unawares. But we need not be afraid. We must simply look the sucking time in the eye and say, "I name you, Sucking Time, and by naming you, you lose your power!"

"How long do you think it will go on?" asked Jeb, in Romanian.

"It usually lasts 'til after the All-Star Break," said Sooz, in Uzbek.

"Yes," said Batgirl. "We have a long road ahead of us to hoe. But, as the Belarusians say, I think we shall come out of it better people, though our hoes may be dingy and worn. And by the end of the journey, the hoes, they will thank us, for a hoe is not made to sit on the shelf and look pretty, but rather it is there to, well, hoe. So, let's hoe, my friends! Let's hoe!"

So we came home, ready to face whatever the sucking time had in store for us. And, oh, we needed our garden implements today, for the Tigers, they had brought out their brooms, and the Twins were looking awfully dusty. But Carlos Silva as everyone knows has a very full gardening shed and he strode to the mound and announced, "Baseball players of Detroit, this may be the sucking time, but I am Carlos Silva and I am here to pitch with frightening accuracy. Yes, I am here to hoe you down."

Whether that was a terrible pun or merely a problem with English, we'll never know, but did it matter? For Silva pitched another complete game—though this time it took him ninety-one whole pitches to do so—and never got to a three ball count. Meanwhile, the Twins offense—well, it still blew but it blew productively. In the first inning, Jacque Jones came up the bases loaded and two outs and promptly struck out—yet the ball got away and pitcher Jason Johnson who, apparently still stunned by the news of Tom and Katie, forgot to cover home and two runs scored. And then Matthew LeCroy, he popped out, but the Tigers, still stunned by Jason Johnson, didn't catch the ball and two more runs scored. Yes, four runs were scored in the first innings, but this time they were all by the Twins, and that is cause, my friends, for Moldovan dancing.

The RD Report (Detroit 8, Twins 1)

You don't wanna know what RD thinks. Heck, RD doesn't wanna know what RD thinks. When he agreed to take the final two games of Batgirl's sabbatical, RD assumed he'd be leaving things in better condition than he found them. Ha! So much for setting up a triumphant return.

We're gonna keep this short.

This game was about the 5th inning. By then, Joe Mays had already pitched 4 innings of batting practice, the kind of miserable pitches that caused RD to wonder aloud and to himself, "If a man has nothing on (his pitches), is it best to leave him out there for all the world to see his nekkidness?"

But the 5th. Oh, the 5th. And it wasn't even a player who best exemplified the pain. It was the MoronFan -- stuffed with his Dollar Dogs and too dense to play Twingo -- who heaved a Tigers' FOUL BALL from the home run porch back onto the field. How dumb is THAT?

Then, there was DJ Cuddy Doom making a mental error to go with his two fielding errors. Fielding a ground ball and, with plenty of time to throw home and make a play, tossing to first base instead. 6-1, 7-1, what did it matter, huh, Mikey?

And then, for good measure, the slick-gloved Juan Castro tried to make a bare-handed play on a bouncer where he had NO chance to throw out the runner. NONE! Not even a bit! And when the ball missed his bare hand, the Tigers ended up with a double that barely reached the outfield. In other words, even the infield's glue had a Silly Putty night.

To review, the hometown pitchers made the visitors look like the 1984 Tigers instead of the 2005 Tigers. (For those too young to remember, go look 'em up!) The hometown batters allowed another suspect pitcher to play El Presidente for a night. The hometown fielding simply ... well ... uhhhhhh ... Oh, yeah. RD promised to keep this short.

There's just no reason to go deep here. Batgirl will return to find her team 10 games behind the B-Sox and barely ahead of Cleveland and the Tigers.

RD's advice is simple: Do NOT abandon ship. DO expect better.

Batgirl, we tried.

The RD Fanimesto, er, Manifesto (Tigers 7, Twins 2)

The day started out well, anyway. Ol' RD managed to score six tickets for next Tuesday's game against the Royals by answering a question on 'CCO. Dave Lee, whom RD likes very much, put your Manifestorian on the air and asked a few questions about whether it was tough being confused with the vintage reliever of the same name. RD didn't have the heart to tell him that we could very well be one and the same. Sitting in traffic on I-94, RD felt like he was doing his part to right the local baseball ship.

RD was confident enough that he spemt a chunk of the evening -- innings 1 through 6 -- watching Young RD's summer league varsity basketball team defeat St. Paul Humboldt. Returning to the RD-mobile, he turned on the radio, imagining a basketball/baseball doubleheader triumph.

Dream on. It was Tigers 5, Twins 2 and getting worse by the mile along Cedar Ave. It was 7-2 by the time we got to Killebrew Drive and time for action.

A-C-T-I-O-N.

From the despair of falling 9 games behind the Bitch Sox, the RD Manifesto took shape. It's advice for everyone. Batlings, ass-batters, managment, worker bees, everyone. It's in no particular order because it's been too difficult to sort out the mayhem of the past couple weeks. Just follow along and, yes, SAY AMEN everybody!

1. To Batlings and their sympathizers: Practice following the spaghetti heap of the Wild Card race. Maybe the Bitch Sox are going to be that good -- or stay that lucky. Start reading the standings thisaway:

Team W L GB
Boston 40 30 --
Twins 38 30 1
Texas 37 31 2
Cleveland37 32 2.5
Yanquis 37 33 3
Detroit 34 33 4.5

The Bitch Sox are fully capable of imploding, yes. But, alas, we're past the point of counting on it.

2. To Johan: You haven't won a home game since April 10. That's back when you had 1 child instead of the current 2. Yes, you're prol'ly as good a Daddy as you are a lefty. But for now, for the next 4 months, take my dear Sweet-N-Sassy's strong suggestion: Get an au pair. You can afford it!

3. To Justin: Quit whining. The shots of you jawing at umpires over called strikes, especially called third strikes, are getting tiresome. You can be great. You ain't great yet. Chill, focus, perform. And learn how to make the first baseman-to-pitcher toss without putting your pitcher in jeopardy on ground balls, OK?

4. To Terry Ryan: Find a hitter! Find this year's version of Shannon Stewart-for-Bobby Kielty. Find the hitter that will make everyone better, preferably someone who can anchor the middle of the batting order in the way that Shannon has taken over the leadoff role. Thanks, in advance.

4a. To Terry Ryan II: Find a hitting coach! Too many pedestrian pitchers are embarrassing your hitters. 14 hits in 3 games against three starting pitchers who wouldn't be good enough to unseat Kyle Lohse. Geezola. Send Scott Ullger to the Dick Such Retirement Manor and let Jerry White have a shot at the job.

5. To Gardy: Kyle Lohse to the bullpen, Terry Mulholland to the rotation. Now! Make a statement that things will change. Mulholland's ascension to the rotation in 2004 helped right a wrong-heading season. If Kyle has great stuff for 3 innings, as was the hardly-a-party line tonight, let him show that great stuff in middle relief and then get him out before the implosion.

6. To Torii: Keep leading by example and with your words. Maybe some of the younger players aren't tuned in yet. They will be. And keep laying off the lousy pitches. If you can do it, so can Cuddyer.

7. To Cuddy: Lay off the lousy pitches. Move your girlfriend to town. Your renaissance, according to what we read and heard, was timed with her earlier-season visit. No babies, though. We're not sure you can afford an au pair yet.

8. To Bradke. Figure it out, OK? Just figure it out.

9. To Cristian, DougieDefence and CanadianCorey: Don't get any ideas. You've all been replaced and it wouldn't be any better with you here. Corey, you're almost an exception, but you're injured AGAIN!

10. To All: Keep the love. Things look bleak right now. But there are 94 games to play and, providing everyone takes the RD Manifesto to heart and acts appropriately based on these suggestions, there's plenty of time to save the season. The longest journey begins with Joe Mays sticking it up Detroit's ass-bats Wednesday night.

Making the world safe for contemporary art.

Giants 14, Twins 7

Rad Bradke walked into the clubhouse and looked around. The Nathanest of Joes was schlumped in a corner with an old man as they poured over Lew's computer trying to compute the ERA of their evening. Torii was pacing back and forth cursing about the idiocy of interleague play. "Why do we need to have our pitchers bat in LA and then let the Giants have a DH? How did the Giants ever find a DH? Aren't they, like, illegal in San Francisco or something?" Joe Mauer was practicing jumping over piles of jerseys as if they were bases. Lew had a half smile half frown on his face.

It was, in a word, discombobulated.

Rad said, "Gentlemen, gather 'round. I've got something I want to show you." The rest of the players groaned as it appeared that Rad had some more of his "art" to show.

DJ Cuddles, headphones still on his head, said loudly, "Dude, is it Third Thursday already?"

Yes, it was in fact, Third Thursday. Ever since Rad had begun to be artistic, he had been visiting more and more museums and insisting on showing all of his finds every third Thursday of every month. At first it was cool as Rad had explored different artistic nudes even painting one himself. While the Chairman and JustIncredible loved the picture of the naked lady and still had it up at Hotel Joe, some players were growing leery of Rad's new taste in art.

Rad, see, had been exploring contemporary art. As a result, attendence at Third Thursday had plummeted. Guys said it made them feel dumb to see a picture of a pile of peanut butter and rotting hotdogs. Tonight though, Rad was on a mission.

"So guys, I found this new artist. She's got some great stuff." said Rad.

"Aw, man, why you gonna show us more photographs of cat pee?" wondered LeCroy as he nibbled on a crawdad.

"Yeah, Rad, Lew here says on his darn machine of compute that I had an ERA of 40.50 tonight. How is that even possible? How's your new fangled art gonna help that?" grumbled Old Man Mulholland.

"Well, boys, I got a photograph. It's different from one's I've shown in the past. I'm just going to put it out there and you all take a look."

(Awkward Pause.)

(Awkward Pause.)

(Awkward Pause.)

El Presidente, ever the politician, said, "Rad, are you sure you're all right? I mean, I know you've had some tough times and all. Are you sure you don't want to sit down?"

"K, I got this one. It's all good. Let me tell you about this piece. It's by a photographer named Erika Blumenfeld. Rather than focus on actual objects, Blumenfeld exposes her film to light over a period of time. For example, she did a series of photos every minute for two second intervals for a whole day to show the way light breaks at dawn and then dissapears at dusk. She's not photographing any person or object, it's like she's photographing time itself."

Lew, ever mindful of all things related to time, perked up his ears.

"This picture that's right here, the one I'm showing you right now, is a special picture that I commissioned from her. I met her outside her gallery in Santa Fe and told her about how we're having a hard time with all this weird interleague game stuff--"

"I hate this interleague crap!" interruped Torii.

"I know Torii, I know. That's why I did this. I needed to show you. This picture is an exposure photograph of us as a team taken over the past couple weeks. The darkness is the sucking time--the times we lose one run games when we shouldn't; the times we give up way too many runs in the first inning, the times our closer has an ERA of 108.00 on the evening."

Little Nicky Punto's tiny voice cracked, "What's the light part?"

That, my friends, is the time when we kick some ass. Remember what it was like to kick some ass?

. . . . . .

"Yeah, I liked that," said Shannon Stewart, "That was pretty."

"Isn't it though?" said Rad.

"I think it looks like a lightsaber," exclaimed Lew.

"And what do lightsabers do, Lew?" asked Rad.

Without hesitation or thought, Lew said with the conviction of a Jedi, "They kick ass."

"So boys, let's go to the light. Leave these frickin' National League candyasses and head on out. You with me?"

In unison, the team yelled, "YEAH."

As the team--filled with hope and making the sound of lightsabers--filed out, the young Chairman and JustIncredible came over to Rad. Young Joe asked, "Rad, can we have that picture? I'd like to hang it next to our naked lady."

"Yes, boys. Yes, you can."

Healthful Alternatives To Dollar-A-Dog Night

San Francisco at Twins. Giants 8, Twins 4.

Every Wednesday night home game this year is a Hormel Dollar-A-Dog Night, presented by Country Hearth. As any Twins fan knows, this is one of the great traditions of our town and our team.

And it was once a rite of passage. A slightly younger and slightly less wise kw, on a nonuple-dog-dare, once completed the Dollar Dog Challenge: one frank per inning, washed down with an ungodly amount of Leinenkugel's. I don't want to gross you out or anything, but I spent much of the next two days confined to a single room of the house. I'll give you a hint: it wasn't the bedroom.

But things are quite different lately. Television spots and promotional calendars make it quite clear that there is now a limit of TWO per person, and that the party is over after the 20,000th weiner is sold. There is no cheating whatsoever; the ballclub and the MSFC have teamed up to install a high-tech surveillance system to make sure that all fans adhere to the two-dog rule. They should just go ahead and rename it "Two Dollar-A-Dogs And Go Screw Yourself Night presented by Country Hearth," but they won't because it doesn't have the same ringy-ding.

Watching tonight's game, I couldn't help thinking that it's a certain kind of odd that the team from San Francisco would be our guests on a DADN. The Giants play in SBC (neé Pacific Bell) Park, a stadium with concession stands stocked with soy franks, garden burgers, and vegetarian sushi. We're #7 in the majors on the peculiarly-titled hot dog-eating stadium list, and SBC is nowhere to be found. No, they're #1 with PETA instead.

If you haven't noticed, people from San Francisco are all healthy and happy. Everyone who lives there smiles all the time, and looks 10 years younger than they actually are. That's because they all do extreme triathlons every weekend, and bungee-jump off the Golden Gate Bridge for fun during their lunch breaks.

Do San Franciscans know something we don't? Of course they do. They're smarter than us. The Bay Area is where they invented the iPod, the elected female representative, the rock band that people follow around everywhere, and the $2500/month studio apartment. They're clearly operating at a level far above and beyond ours, and they don't need synthetic collagen casings filled with ground-up pig snouts in order to have fun.

Well, bully for them. This game recap is dedicated to the City By The Bay and Giants fans everywhere... so let's get right to tonight's highlights from the MeatfreeDome, presented in stunning Legumevision.

Play ball!

In the first inning, Cauliflower Lohse allows lots of baserunners and gives up four runs.

Oh dear, I suck.

But C.L. battles back, striking out the side in the 2nd!!

Fear my heat, root!
Yes, sir!

There's a man on in the fourth... the Twins' hitting hero, Tofuu Hunter, steps to the plate!

It's deep, and it's outta here!

The Giants cling to a one-run lead going into the ninth, and the Twins go to the bullpen!

But several batters later...

Excuse me, did someone order a faux-Cobb salad?

The Giants celebrate the victory!

Yay! Yippee!

Hooray!

But nobody's a loser when they choose a healthy diet!

Yum!

Cuddy-oke!

Bat To The Future

Weekend Round-Up. Twins at Los Angeles Dodgers.
Friday: Dodgers 6, Twins 5.
Saturday: Twins 5, Dodgers 3.
Sunday: Dodgers 5, Twins 4.

FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 2005

Twilight slowly folded its translucent wings across a warm early summer Friday in the City of Angels. It was the kind of evening when the smog produced an iridescent Southern Lights show, all lavender and periwinkle and soft coral. Chavez Ravine's crown jewel, damp in the wake of the groundskeeper's hose, sparkled and twinkled a brilliant emerald-green. The five-layered wedding cake of mezzanines and loges wrapped tight around the field, its rows of seats slowly filling with happy families, phone-wielding chatterboxes, people wearing dark sunglasses.

Down on the baseball diamond, the evening's pregame ceremonies featured a parade of local heroes. One by one, many with graying hair and fresh dinner jackets, they slowly made their way into the chocolate-bordered quincunx. Each in turn was announced via public address, and each in turn raised their hand to acknowledge the crowd's warm welcome. These were the proud winners of yesterday, the World Champions of the year 1965, the Los Angeles Dodgers.

In the visitors' dugout, the grey-clad guests solemnly observed the happy procession. "Take a good look, boys," grumbled a grumpy Ron Gardenhire, the Minnesota Twins' aging cherub of a manager. "That there's the reason why we're wearing 40th Anniversary American League Champion patches, and not that other kind."

"I hate this patch," heaved Mickey Redmond, the backup catcher, his eyes burning with intensity as he grabbed repeatedly at the sleeve of his uniform. "It's itchy."

"Did you see how Maury Wills looked at me just then?" exclaimed star outfielder Torii Hunter. "Put me back in '65, I'll go 40 yards with that sucka. F'real."

"Hey," fresh-faced Lew Ford chimed in. "You ever wonder about things like that? I mean, like, going back to 1965? You know, maybe change things? Seriously, what would have happened if we'd won that World Series? If Sandy Koufax hadn't pitched that shutout in Game 5, then again in Game 7 with only two days' rest? If only there was a way to go back in time... you know what I mean? Guys?"

Each of the other Twins players and coaches had swung around to stare at their eccentric teammate. A pregnant pause, and then peals of laughter and uproarious bursts of disbelief. "Time travel?" "That's screwy!" "Man, you Internet geeks are weird!"

"There's no such thing," intoned Terry Mulholland, the team's resident 42-year-old salt-and-pepper lefty hurler. "I... er, I mean, um, my uncle, looked into it once. Yeah, my uncle. No such thing. It's all crazy talk."

"Geez, fellas," Lew pouted. "Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut. Never mind. If you need me, I'll be out back."

He left his seat and slunk back into the clubhouse tunnel. "You crazy, Lew!" Torii shouted after him. "You and your crazy-ass ideas! Time travel. Sheesh."

He walked, slump-shouldered, out beyond the locker room, and soon found himself standing all alone in the VIP parking lot. The warm evening air filled his lungs, powered his heavy heart. It was difficult being Lew Ford sometimes, he thought to himself... no matter how well he hit, how well he fielded his position, he usually felt like he was playing his way into the lineup - the lineup of people who were genuinely understood by others.

His internal soul-searching monologue was interrupted by a shiny silver sports car. It approached slowly, then came to a stop in front of him. The two side doors flipped upwards, revealing a frail, white-haired, liver-spotted man, who clung to the side of the car as he exited. He pulled himself to his feet with trembling hands.

"Oh dear," he mumbled softly, to nobody in particular. "This Los Angeles traffic is such a bother! It was so much easier with Eloise around, she was such a good navigator. Umm... hello? Excuse me, young man? Could you please park this in a nice safe place?"

"Mr. Pohlad," said the ballplayer. "Remember me? It's me, Lew. You sign all my paychecks. I play left field and DH, I don't park cars."

"Right, right, sonny," the old gent replied, offering a faltering yet friendly back-pat as he handed over the valet key. "I need to get to my box. No scratches if you want a tip!"

Lew felt the weight of the key in his hand, closed his fingers around it, let out a deep and sad exhale.

But then, sudden inspiration. He excitedly pulled his Sidekick II from the back pocket of his uniform, expertly flipped through its menus, to the address book labelled "My Connections."

"Hey, guys, it's me, SpaceMarine20," Lew hurriedly rambled into the mouthpiece. "I'm over at Dodger Stadium. I need a big favor, like quick. Big favor. Okay, here's the shopping list. I need a flux capacitor, a suitcase full of dollar bills printed before 1965, a packed iPod, a sports almanac, and a buttload of plutonium. That's right, one metric buttload. That's the one thing I can't afford to run out of. And bring the chopper... late-arriving crowd tonight."

Two hours later, the doddering octogenarian re-entered the parking lot. "Oh my, I've forgotten my meds again," he maundered. "Eloise was always so good at keeping track of that for me. Now where's that nice lot-boy? Hellooo... hell... WHA?"

Great Scott!

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1965

It was a balmy October morning in Los Angeles, and the city crackled with World Series Fever. So much so that few noticed the smooth silver car that crept along Grand Avenue, the one that looked somehow out of place among the Chevrolets and Fords.

Even fewer noticed that one of their baseball heroes, a tall and shy man who pitched for the Dodgers, one Sandy Koufax, was making his way along that very sidewalk. His hat was pulled down tight to minimize the chance of public recognizance. But the driver of the silver car knew exactly who the pedestrian was, and leaned out to address him.

"Hey Sandy," came the call. "Want a ride to the game?"

"No thank you, sir," the wily southpaw replied, without stopping or raising his head.

"It's a real nice, comfy ride," offered Lew. "Great sound system. You like music? Jazz? The Beatles? I've got Rubber Soul in here, even though it won't be released for another two months. Or are you more into Bob Dylan?"

"That's quite alright. Thank you."

But Lew Ford had not come all this way to fail at his monumental task.

Lew Ford was not about to return home empty-handed. He had not lived under the alias "John Carmack" in a West Hollywood bungalow for four months, become semi-anonymously assimilated into the beatnik subculture, nor had he stowed away that silver vehicle in the La Brea tar pits... just so he could come up short at this most crucial moment.

No, he had planned too carefully for this. He had done his homework about the star pitcher's psychological makeup.

"Mr. Koufax," Lew said. "I know how preoccupied you must be with Game Four, and with preparing for your start tomorrow... But there are a whole bunch of crazed autograph-seekers two blocks up, and all those journalists at the stadium will want to ask you all sorts of stupid questions. You don't want any of that, do you? Come with me, and I'll drive you right to the back entrance. I know a real fast shortcut."

The future Hall Of Fame hurler paused for a moment, weighed the stranger's words, cycled a deep breath. "Okay."

Once the passenger was safely buckled inside the space-age chariot, the driver opened the throttle. "I don't expect you to understand," Lew said. "But all I ask is that you please don't punch me... especially not with your left arm."

FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 2005

Lew emerged again from the car. It was good to be back in the future, he thought, back in good old two zero zero five.

But the first thing he did upon exiting from the vehicle was unleash a violent cough. The evening sky looked like scratched steel, thick with smoke and ash. Sirens screeched in the background, and the ear-shattering wail was sliced through by the periodic reverberation of automatic gunfire.

"This is a very confusing situation," said Sandy Koufax from the passenger seat.

An emaciated and disfigured elderly man, who wore only a torn plastic garbage bag on his body and a thick dirty grey beard on his face, advanced on the Delorean. "Give me your car," came the demand, an markedly unconvincing one.

"Ummm, no," Lew replied, surveying the scene in utter disbelief. "Where did Dodger Stadium go?"

"Base-ball?" the man said. "In L.A.? Look, mister clean-shaven guy with your futuristic space-car, they haven't played base-ball here since the team was contracted in '68. We like to call it the Chavez Ravine Luxury Towers now. That's a sarcastic name, in case you didn't pick that up."

He gestured at the former stadium - the once-proud structure was now blackened, rotted and bombed out, stripped to its most bare-wire structural elements. The bowl was populated by thousands of hunched and yammering lunatic hoboes with their bindles, some in tattered three-piece suits, some taking bites from the pieces of newspaper that swirled in the wind. There were makeshift shelters everywhere, fashioned from rows of stadium seats. Clotheslines zipped along between iron girders. The concrete field was dotted with trash-can fires, around which were massed close-huddled families, bone-thin dogs, and crying naked children.

"Whoa, this is heavy," Lew said breathlessly.

And indeed it was... the shoulder patch on his uniform had gained an enormous amount of heft, by virtue of a huge increase in thread count.

"I wouldn't hang around here too long," the transient whispered, pointing to the red inscription across the chest of Lew's shirt. "There's a lot of resentment around here for your kind. Has been ever since President Humphrey moved the nation's capital to Minneapolis in '75."

But it was too late. "Hey look," one approaching vagabond shouted. "It's someone from Minnesota! Let's show him our appreciation for everything the federal government's done for us!"

"Hey, Twins Boy!" another yelled. "Why don't you go back to Minnesota in your magical automobile and have the Griffiths buy you another world championship?"

"I've got a better idea!" a third shrieked. "Let's tear him up and sell his body parts!"

A small army began to mass, to slowly make their way towards the car, their stained hands and fingers outstretched. "Get the freak!" they chanted in unison. "Get the freak!"

"Aiiiigh!" Lew screamed as he clamored to get back into the Delorean. He mashed the center-console buttons, stepped hard on the gas to unleash every decimal point of the car's one point twenty one-jigawatt capacity. "Maybe messing with the time-space continuum wasn't such a good idea!"

SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1865

"Oops, too far," Lew gulped. "Gotta double back again."

FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 2005

When the doors of the Delorean flipped open once more, the driver emerged with the most extreme of caution. But his trepidation was unfounded - as he had properly returned his captive to his correct time and place moments before, he had fully undone the metaphysical damage he had exacted.

Yes, everything was back to a relative normal - the Dodger Stadium parking lot was filled with luxury cars and SUV's, and from over the wall the static crackle of an excited baseball crowd could be heard. Our hero sighed deeply in relief, the scene was exactly as he remembered it had been.

Just then, manager Gardenhire emerged from behind the heavy metal door. "So there you are, Ford," he barked hoarsely. "Stewie just used the left-field wall as a . We need you in there, stat!"

"Sure thing, Gardy," Lew replied, smiling wistfully. "Sure thing."

"You alright?" Gardenhire said, fixing his young charge with a cockeyed look. "You look a little flushed. Is this about earlier? Look, I know the guys can be harsh sometimes, but..."

John Lewis Ford gently touched the patch on his right sleeve, the one that celebrated the 40th Anniversary of the American League Champion Minnesota Twins of 1965. "It's okay, man," he said. "It's more okay than you know."

Skorch Herbert presents...

(D-Backs 4, Twins 3)

Many years ago, in a time mostly forgotten two teams from differing leagues faced off to battle for desert supremacy in a game of complicated rules involving much throwing, swinging, and running. Their names have likewise been lost to time, but we now know them as House Ryan's Twins of Caladanesota which is a land beset with water, potluck dinners, and Lutherans; and House Garagiola Jr's Diamondbacks of Arrakiszona which is a dry, arid wasteland filled with sand and ancient Caladanesotans.

In the beginning they were friendly matches, but as they played each other more and more over the years it became less so, until it eventually erupted into a bitter feud. This feud consumed both houses, and as soon as their matches were over, preparations would immediately begin for the next year's.

Back in Caladanesota Duke Ryan was ruling the empire with a wise and benevolent hand. He sent his advisors and scouts to infiltrate the native people of Arrakiszona and return with news on how to finally defeat the hated Diamondbacks for good. Upon hearing their advise he called Warmaster Gardenhire in to go over strategy.

"To rule Arrakiszona, you must use desert power." He solemnly told Gardenhire. Gardenhire nodded, fully understanding what needed to be done. To prepare for his next series against the Diamondbacks he had to learn the ways of the desert people and learn to use their techniques. He quickly met up with the resistance fighters of Arrakiszona who were slow to trust but eventually warmed up to him.

"Tell us again of the waters in your homeland." they'd repeatedly ask. He'd reply "The waters are so plentiful they fall from the sky and we install gutter helmets on our houses to protect the siding and keep the gutters clean. Plants grow so thick you need a Kubota lawn tractor to tame them. Liquid calcium supplements are distributed in handy Grip-n-Go containers". These tales held them enthralled, as they had heard the legends of a man who'd come from far away to lead them to freedom. They gladly taught Gardenhire everything he would need to know about desert power.

Gardenhire returned to Caladanesota and spread the word to his warriors, finally convinced they'd be able to go back to Arrakiszona and unseat House Garagiola Jr and Baron Melvin. "Desert power", he'd remind the hurler in the first match. "Desert power" was the reply he'd get in return. Although it took awhile for the lesson to work in practice, it eventually all clicked as they took the first game in the series. On the second night he reminded the starting hurler of desert power, to which the reply was only "Phht! No problem Skip, these yahoos will flail wildly at my offerings. That Beast Clayton in particular is going to feel mighty bad." And so victory came, and so Beast Clayton did.

By the third night, Caladanesota was on the verge of finally overtaking House Garagiola Jr for good, and the Arrakiszona Diamondbacks decided to employ some desert power of their own. So enraged by the embarrassments suffered at the hands of the Twins over the previous two matches, Feyd-Rautha Vasquez loudly declared "Kanly!" and called out the Twins to a final duel for control of the desert and proceeded to throw a harmless first half-inning. One of the desert people the Twins had enlisted, Sietch-leader Lohse, answered the call. Stepping to the mound, he fixed a steely gaze upon the lead batsman and said simply:

"May thy bat chip and shatter."

Well, that didn't work out so hot, did it? Not one bit. Lead-off contortionist Counsell hit a triple to open the half-inning and things started to look eerily familiar. Counsell came in to score and the Diamondbacks took a lead. Feyd-Rautha Vasquez was mortally wounded in the 6th, and it was up to the shaky Diamondbacks bullpen to try and hold on for victory.

Finally, in the top of the 9th, the Twins came to life, as Diamondbacks hurler Bruney handed out 2 free passes despite getting the early advantage. Down by a run with 2 outs and 2 runners on base the warrior LeCroy stepped to the plate and said to himself "Yum. Dessert power."

Bruney struck out the daydreaming LeCroy to nail down the victory.

Screw You, Mother Nature! (D-Backs 0, Twins 10)

It seemed that the elements were set up to work against Skorch. I was all set, with custom graphics even!, to use Santana's start on June 8th in a certain thematic direction. What happens? Power gets knocked out at my Hopkins-based compound, and I'm left scrambling for alternatives since I can't be sure I'll be able to access my secret files and notes. What a lousy super-villain I am, I don't even have a backup generator. You can very well bet that will be rectified on my Christmas wish-list, and the head of my contractor will roll.

Mother Nature, prodded by the metaphorical shotgun in the back of secret technology developed by NASA and the AMS, threw together a hell of a storm. It was one that knocked out the power sufficiently leaving me in doubt as to whether or not I would be able to give you the game recap that the government doesn't want you to see! Well, I can work around that, you fiends, but for last night I had to make alternate plans to watch the game. It was in the form of an impromptu Batling get-together at the Bulldog with (in order of appearance) HooliganKat, Mmmarkiep, Donnalove and AJ, Billhedrick, and Heraldguy.

Yes, Mother Nature had made things difficult for me to attend to my appointment, but I'm sure the Diamondbacks wish that she'd tried a little harder to disrupt their game last night, retractable roof or no. Johan Santana pitched a 4-hit, complete game shutout while getting lop-sided run support, courtesy of Arizona's newest softball pitcher, Claudio "Contractually obligated to give up a run per inning" Vargas. Santana came a 9th-inning popout away from fitting Royce Clayton with his very own golden sombrero, who'd struck out in his previous three at bats.

Vargas, who most recently had been pitching batting practice to Nationals opponents, was making his first start as a D-Back, and I imagine that Bob Melvin was less than impressed with his newest pitcher. Vargas gave up 6 runs in 5 innings, 2 of them thanks to a Freedom Jones homerun, and even let Santana get a hit and later score a run. Santana now has a career .300 batting average and has to be wondering what's so damn hard about it. Things didn't get much better for their pitching as the next two Arizona pitchers, Matt Herges and Mike "No relation to Donnalove" Koplove gave up 4 more.

The gathering at the Bulldog for the most part lasted until the final out. Mother Nature provided a great evening meant to be enjoyed outside, but our dedication to the team came through well. One in our ranks had to leave early, but that's forgivable. HooliganKat meanwhile earned herself the night's gold star for having the correct answer to the AFLAC trivia question. It was also noted firsthand that Heraldguy does look a lot like Terry Mulholland, and it led to speculation that it's really Heraldguy pitching on the days when it looks like Mulholland couldn't get zombie Ty Cobb's re-animated corpse out (I'm working on it!).

When I returned to the compound electricity still hadn't been restored. After leaving myself a post-it note on the fridge to have my contractor tossed into the moat with the alligators, I went to bed figuring I'd have to make sure I woke myself up without an alarm in time to get to work an hour early (on my birthday no less) to do my best to provide some of the much-missed Batgirl-style sass. Thankfully, this was one time where Mother Nature couldn't thwart my plans, and it's mission accomplished.

The RD Report (Twins 9, D'Backs 8 -- or something like that.)

RD wishes he could explain all of what happened Tuesday night when the Twins began their 12-game journey into the weirdness of the National League West. But, alas, some things are escaping him at this hour -- it's 12:02 a.m. right now -- and he can only hope that the morning papers (remember those?) clarify some of the action. RD needed help and didn't get it, and it's getting a bit in the way of the props he should be extending to Torii Hunter.

Of course, those props were best expressed in a fit of nonsexual man-love by Bert when he fairly squealed, upon the occasion of the center fielder's second home run: "WOW, IS TORII HOT!"

That was HOT with a !, not with a ? No doubt. So what if Bert Yoda'd the sentence a little bit. We knew meant he what.

Alas, there were other times when we had no clue. RD was in the RDmobile during the first inning and here's what he learned: Arizona's starting pitcher stole a base in some recent game and they had a party at his house afterward. Gordo doesn't think every team should have a player on the All-Star team. Dazzle knows that Pudge Rodriguez is going to be the AL's all-star catcher. It was cool in Arizona during the day, in the mid-90s. The Twins should have a lot of pitchers on the AL All-Star team.

Meanwhile, the Twins were falling behind 4-0 and, I guess if you listened real close, you got some hints that things were once again amiss in Radkeville. He was getting knocked around the ballpark -- from pillar to post, so to speak -- and the radio boys were chattering idly as if there were waiting for Herb to get the steaks from the Matchlight Charcoal-fired grill to their Cambria countertop. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Does this bother anyone else? I mean, some games go on and on and on, and such chatter is needed to fill the gaps when the manager visits the mound or Kevin Brown is looking (and looking and looking) a runner back to first base. But in the first inning? Stop it!

The TV wasn't much better, although this wasn't the fault of your announcers. I guess someone was miffed at Dick and made him describe ShannaramaStewart's sac-fly without the benefit of the cameras following the throw home. Then, for good measure, when Torii stole second in the 9th and set up the winning run, we had no clue what was happening until his funny little (because he got away with it) stumblebum routine on the back side of the base. At least Dick and Bert -- or "Dick'n'Bert" as Marney and Clay insist on calling them -- were watching the game and giving us audio clues worthy of ... worthy of ... a couple of radio guys.

Here's what really bites. RD got so distracted by being distracted that he's currently failing to write about Torii, who is HOT. Instead of singing his praises, RD is pretending to be Gwen Stefani and shouting "IT'S BANANAS. B-A-N-A-N-A-S" at his monitor. Torii: 5 times up, 4 runs, 4 hits, 2 solo homers, 1 double, 1 single, 1 winning-run scored, 1 postgame radio interview when they asked him about THE SWIMMING POOL beyond the center field wall instead of making him describe his offensive night in loving detail.

An aside: Bless Torii during that interview for putting in a plug for Tony Clark, the mammoth Arizona reserve who hit the mammoth 3-run homer in the 8th that tied the score at a mammoth 8-8. It was his third pinch homer of the season and Clark is batting something like .999 as a pinch hitter. "He's a good guy to have," Torii told Gordo and Dazzle. "Maybe for us to have one day."

(Deep breath.)

RD's feeling a bit better for having turned on the vents. RD is also feeling some pity for those who had to listen to the radio for all 9 innings and 17 runs and 83 batters and 9 pitchers. Listening to the postgame highlights -- specifically the highlight of the DJ Cuddy Boom home run -- RD heard Gordo call him "LeCroy" right before the pitch, just as Gladden was saying, "It's easier for a parent..." Huh?

Crack, bang, homer! Whatever.

It's Santana tonight, boys. Watch the game, OK? Thanks in advance.

In the meantime, Batlings, pretend you're a radio announcer and use the comment space to tell us what YOU would have said about Torii. Or whatever.

RD, out.

Happy Birthday Eve, Batgirl

Weekend Round-Up. New York at Twins.
Friday. Twins 6, Yankees 3.
Saturday. Yankees 4, Twins 3.
Sunday. Twins 9, Yankees 3.

When Kevin Brown looks back on today's game and tries to figure out where things went wrong, I really think he's going to have to look hard at the point where he hit Torii Hunter in the shoulder.

Now, I certainly don't think Brown hit Sweetcheeks on purpose. Torii's not someone you want to put on the basepaths, and certainly not with just one out. Brown may be punch-wall crazy, but he's not CC Sabathia crazy. The thing is, though, Torii doesn't like getting hit, even if it's an accident. I mean, no one likes getting hit, but Torii, well, the thing is, he really, really, really doesn't like it. Really. He gets mad. He says things. Things that can't be taken back. He might, for instance, exclaim something about fornicating and then suggest you engage in unnatural acts with your own mother. He might glare at you and bark at you as he goes to first. He might stand on first base directing 220 pounds worth of white hot (And I do mean hot) fury right at you.

See, when Torii gets like this, something happens inside him. He stands there on first, his blood superheating and becoming pure liquid rage, and that rage begins to burble and bubble and boil over, and pretty soon the molecules excite and expand and turn into a gaseous state, and the Torii-Hunter-rage gas spreads all over the Metrodome. Were you there this afternoon? Did you feel it? Did you breathe it into your nose, through your lungs, and did it then insinuate into your blood stream, and did you then feel the sudden urge to grab a bat and go kick some Yankee heinie? The Twins sure did. That Torii Rage Gas spread all the way over to the Twins dugout and the Twins inhaled it and became SUPER CHARGED.

And after that, well, the Twins began to score runs. Again and again they scored, and meanwhile poor Kevin Brown, having been so dizzied by the THRG fumes (for they have ill-effects on opposing players) started playing Crazy Pepe's Chug & Toss. Not a good combination. Because at one point, Kevin Brown was standing on the mound with one out in the sixth and a 2-0 lead, and at another point some twenty minutes later he was sitting in the clubhouse with his team behind 5-2 with only one out in the sixth. And all you can think as you scrub yourself a little too vigorously, trying to get the bad things out, is, "I really shouldn't have hit that guy."

Now, when Brown was pulled out the game, his team was only losing 3-2, which to the Yankees is really just a challenge, rather like All-You-Can-Eat-Sushi was to Batgirl for her Birthday Eve dinner tonight, which she's sort of suffering from now--but that's not the point. The point was there was a moment where this game was lost for the Yanks, and it was not in the top of the eighth when Jesse Crain saw that JC Romero had made a mess and promptly put on his pink frilly apron and got out his Swiffer and cleaned that mess up so well that the inning just SPARKLED, it was BETTER THAN BEFORE, I mean you could see your FACE IN IT, you could EAT OFF THAT INNING, but, no, that was not when the game was lost for the Yanks. Nor was it lost in the bottom of the eighth when Mike "Feet First" Ryan came up with two outs and a runner on third and got back the run Romero had lost; nor when Hunter, still bubbling, got a bases-loaded single two batters later for insurance run number four; nor even when Jacque Jones followed with a two-run single to give the Twins a six-run lead. No, the game was lost back in the sixth inning, right after Tanyon Sturtze came in to replace Brown and Michael Ryan stepped to the plate with the bases loaded. Ryan laid a perfect bunt down the third base line—oh! That bunt! Poetry could be written about that bunt! Women weep and men slay themselves and a thousand ships set sail over such a bunt!—and the Yankees seemed to fall apart. Sturtze couldn't catch it, Jorge "Get Me Out of Here" Posada couldn't field his throw, and Cuddy scored for the fourth run of the inning. It was a perfectly executed safety squeeze, and after Cuddy crossed the plate and clapped with joy, the camera flashed to Joe "Sword of Damocles" Torre in the dugout. Before our eyes, Torre leaned forward and his cheeks drooped and his wrinkles set in a little deeper. At that moment, he seemed to know—the game was over. The Yankees would lose the series. And Daddy was going to be pissed.

Now, BG takes no joy in the agony of Joe Torre—displayed again and again in Sunday's game as the camera showed him aging more each time his team bobbled balls, beaned batters, and generally bumbled around. Torre's an outstanding manager and doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve Steinbrenner's meglomanical, misguided wrath, nor does he deserve this aging band of muscle-bound fading superstars. Joe Torre deserves a team, one that can do things like execute safety squeezes, that can put together a roster of Triple A guys and B-teamers and still manage to execute like a fine machine, one that comforts its rage-crazed players by giving them five runs all wrapped in a bow.

Batgirl, for her part, did not need the five runs for her Birthday Eve present. All she needed was that bunt—simple, devastating, beautiful.

(But the series win doesn't hurt.)

Bee Careful.

It was truly a spelling bee for the ages.

In a departure from previous years, the Scripps Howard company chose to split the spellers into two teams, rather than having an individual single-elimination competition, in order to promote camaraderie and sportsmanship. The teams would face off, round after round, with one designated person from each team choosing words for each speller from the other team, or "throwing" the words. The teams would face off for a certain number of rounds, and by the end of the match, whichever team had the most spellers left would win. That way, the best spellers in the country would bring glory not just to his or her overbearing parents, but to the team as a whole.

It took Bee officials a long time to decide how to name the teams—several were for using winning words from past Bees, but others feared that, say, the chiaroscurists verses the succedaneums might create problems. After much discussion, the officials decided to use the opportunity to honor two of the many ethnic and cultural groups that make this country so great—after a lot of thought they settled on naming one team after the immigrants from South Asia who have contributed so well to American society and another in honor of people of the multiple birth persuasion, whether fraternal or identical. Ladies and gentlemen, in the 2005 Scripps Howard Spelling Bee, it is the Indians versus the Twins. May the better team win!

In the weeks before today's finals, the two teams played 12 preliminary matches. These matches were closely fought and deathly long; many of them lasting well into the night and featuring exciting heroics. Who can forget when young Shannon Stewart of Miami, Florida finally ended Thursday's match for the Twins with a surprise clutch spelling of NEPHALISM (From the Greek and French; total abstinence from spirituous liquor), or when Travis Hafner of Skyeston, North Dakota, dooked a surprise J.C. Romero NOPALRY (Derivation uncertain. A plantation of the nopal for raising the cochineal insect.) into left field to end last Tuesday's bonus-time marathon?

The series has had its share of surprising miscues, too, from Matthew LeCroy's rather shocking stumble on GROUND BALL (A batted ball that bounces along the ground) two days ago or when Jhonny Peralta completely blanked on how to spell YOU CALLED IT YOU CATCH IT, MORON (I got it! I got it! I ain't got it!.)

As a result of these highs and lows, coming into today's final match, the two teams had played themselves to a perfect tie.

Now, early commentators thought that today's final match would prove to be somewhat unbalanced as the Twins were bringing an ace word thrower to the mic today, one Johan Santana of Venezuelia, Minnesota, and the Indians were countering with this drunk man they found on the street:

A fair fight? I say not. Yet Santana faltered early on, hanging a word of obvious Latin derivation to Victor Martinez, which he promptly smashed over the left field fence. Before anyone knew what was happening, the Indians were up 2 spellers on the Twins after their half of the first round.

The Twins quickly gained a speller back when the hometown favorite, the prepubescent Joe Mauer correctly spelled MENISCUS (a cartilage disk that acts as a cushion between ends of bones that meet in a joint.) but by the third round, the Indians had the advantage again when Coco Crisp went long with COCKAPOO (The unholy combination of a cocker spaniel and a poodle.) Unknown to Santana, Crisp breeds Cockapoos.

For the most part, though, Santana was incredible—causing 14 spellers to flail wildly and burst into tears and run to their mommies. And his team soon tied up the match when the smallest speller, one Little Nicky Punto, rounded the bases with LILLIPUTIAN (see: Little Nicky Punto ).

The match went on and on, the Twins and Indians spelling equally well (or badly) as time went on. The game stayed tied through the allotted nine rounds, and went into "bonus time." The Twins began to suffer injuries—one Justin Morneau of the great state of Canadia left the match with a strained philange, while Little Nicky Punto got hamstrung over HAMSTRING (The one thing LNP hadn't hurt yet.) and will be on the DL for an unspecified period of time.

We should pause here to note the efficacy (kick-ass-ness) of the Twins relief throwers. While Joe Nathan faltered a bit in the tenth, he was able to maintain his composure and throw out a key ELEEMOSYNARY (of or pertaining to alms, charitable) to retire the side. Young Masters Nathan, Juan Rincon, Jesse Crain, and J.C. Romero managed to use their extensive knowledge of words with unknown origins and similarly pronounced variants to hold the Indians for five rounds.

The Bee had gone 13 rounds, and the spellers were getting tired, not to mention the observers. Most of the Twins had gone out with various and sundry spelling-related injuries and the only thrower they had left was one Terence John Mulholland, who had been recently showing signs of senility and could accidentally give an opposing speller a word like KITTY (kitty).

But then, in the bottom of the 13th round, young Lew Fordwalker of Tatooine, Texas stepped up to the mic and changed the momentum of the game.

In a surprise move, young Fordwalker stretched SUPERHETERODYNE into a double, and then waited for one of his teammates to spell him home.

And then came Jacque Jones, who, with one swing of the APPOGGIATURA (something to do with music, I really can't remember.) brought Ford home and gave the Twins the victory.

Good spelling, boys. Good spelling.

Old Throat.

Cleveland at Twins. Twins 6, Cleveland 2.

The security guard wasn't sure he could believe his eyes. It was the middle of the night, and he'd seen something in the windows of the building across the street. Yes, flashlights! There were flashlights moving around in the basement of the Metrodome. This particular security guard wasn't the type of guy to interfere, but something just seemed wrong. What were five guys with flashlights doing moving around the Twins clubhouse at 2am?

Around that time, a security guard inside the Metrodome noticed that the door connecting the Dome with the parking garage had been taped so it would not lock. Thinking nothing of it, he removed the tape, but when he went back he found the tape had been replaced.

Quickly, he called the police.

At 2:20 am, three plainclothes officers arrived on the scene. They careful made their way down the stairwell to the bowels of the Metrodome and found every door along the way had been taped. When they reached the basement, where the stairwell door leads directly to the Twins' clubhouse, they found it had been pried open.

The policemen entered the clubhouse and looked around and found nothing amiss, with the exception of an overwhelming smell of crawdad. But as they made their way toward the hallway, they heard a noise—someone was in Ron Gardenhire's office! They crept down the hall and entered the office and found five men dressed in black rummaging through Gardy's desk.

After the men were arrested, it did not take the police long to realize that this was no simple burglary. The men had been carrying bugging equipment. All five of them had aliases, and one was a high level scout for the Cleveland Indians. The Indians denied any knowledge of the affair, and the police were unable to connect the burglary to any larger organization.

Meanwhile, the local newspaper The Rochester Red Wing called up two young reporters, Brent Abernathy and Michael Ryan, to cover the story. The reporters thought they were covering another petty crime, until one day Abernathy got a strange phone call.

"You're on to something big," said a deep, old-sounding voice on the other end of the line.

"Who is this?" said Abernathy.

"A friend," said the voice. "I have information for you."

"What kind of information?" said Abernathy.

"Follow the money," said the voice.

"What do you mean? What are you saying?"

"Just follow the money, you nitwit!" the strange informant said. And then he hung up.

Abernathy ran over to Ryan. "I have a source!" he exclaimed. "He says this thing's huge."

"Who is it?" asked Ryan.

"I don't know," shrugged Abernathy. "Some old guy."

So, the young reporters looked into the bank accounts of the robbers and found a $25,000 check that had been made to the campaign of Cleveland pitcher Cliff Lee's son, who was running for president of his second grade class. The reporters called the author of the check, a Mr. Dustan Mohr of Denver, Colorado, who denied any knowledge of the break-in or the burglars. "I just wanted to help Cliff's kid get elected," he said. "I handed the check right to Cliff. I don't know what happened to it then."

Something smelled in the state of Cleveland. What did Cliff Lee know and when did he know it?

Abernathy and Ryan kept digging, aided by the mysterious source. When the source wanted to meet Abernathy, he would circle a page number in the reporter's newspaper, and when Abernathy wanted to meet the source he would move a flowerpot on his deck. They would then meet at a distant parking garage at three in the morning, and the source would give him dim hints on where to look next. One by one, the pieces started to come together—and they formed an arrow that pointed right to the Cleveland starting pitcher.

Then, one night, the source had shocking news.

"Your lives are in danger," he said.

Abernathy gasped. "Why? Because of the story?"

"No, dumbass. Because C.C. Sabathia is pitching tomorrow. He's crazy."

"Oh."

"Be careful," he said, then disappeared into the shadows.

One June night, the reporters went to the site of the break-in to keep an eye on their principal suspect who was the starting pitcher that night. Little did they know that their case would be blown wide open before their eyes.

It was the third inning. The Twins were behind 2-0 but had the bases loaded, and Torii Hunter strode to the plate. Hunter stared at Cliff Lee and shouted, "Hey, Cliff…Did you pay those guys to bug Gardy's office?"

The pitcher looked around. There was nowhere to run. "Um…yes," he said in a small voice.

Hunter put down his bat and shook his head. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"I just wanted to win!" exclaimed Lee. "I was scared!"

"Well, that's cheating," Torii Hunter said. "Cheating's bad!" Then he took Lee's first pitch and knocked it into the left field seats for a grand slam.

Lee could only nod. Hunter had made his point very effectively.

There is still one mystery left in the strange case of the Metrodome break-in. Who was this mysterious source who helped the young reporters along? Who had ties to the Cleveland organization but a loyalty to truth and justice? Who had the supple body to maneuver around parking lots at night? Who had the stamina to tip reporters day after day, sometimes out of the bullpen and sometimes as a starter? And who sounded so terribly, terribly old?

Readers, we may never know.

Ron Gardenblog

Cleveland at the Dome. Cleveland 4, Twins 3.

Batgirl says whenever I get thrown out of the game I have to do her entry for her. I'm not sure how that makes any sense, I mean I still have a job you know. Just because I'm not out there managing doesn't mean I don't have, like stuff to do. Do you know what it's like to have a job, Batgirl? Do you? Huh? I mean, sass isn't a job, it's really more of a hobby, don't you think? And not like a real hobby like fishing or the crossword or Little House on the Prairie reenactments, but a totally lame hobby without even any annual conventions at Walnut Grove. So there.

And you know what? You said you were in France last week delivering sass to homeless orphans, but I think you're full of…well, I don't really like to use that language, but you know what I mean. I called France and they never heard of you! Ha!

(Only problem is I used the bullpen phone and Pohlad's probably going to dock me. He's such a cheap bas—ah, well, you know. I don't know what long distance company he uses but man he should really look into Vonage.)

Oh, where was I? Oh, yeah—France. You know, I don't know French orphans from Little Orphan Annie—I'm just a simple guy from Okalahoma (home of YOUR American Idol Carrie Underwood! Woot!) but I can't imagine that what they need is sass. I mean—they're orphans BG. Do you think they might maybe have some other needs? Like, you know, say they're playing French orphan baseball and because they're orphans they can't afford any decent umpires and have to put a beret on a baguette and pretend it's an umpire and then who will call the balls and strikes? Who? I ask you, Batgirl, who will umpire the French orphan baseball?

Well, I have a plan, Batgirl, and that plan involves shipping our godda—I mean darned—umpires to France to help the orphans and then when little Marie-Claude pitches a little too close to Antoinette's head, that umpire can issue a warning to Marie-Claude and her team of orphans all he wants, because he's in France and we have to keep the French orphans in line, don't we? And then the French orphan manager—let's call him Monsieur Gardie—can storm out of the clubhouse and take one of those baguettes and use it to kick the living sh—

Okay, okay. I'm ranting. I'm just, you know, I'm just a little irritable right now. I shouldn't take it out on you, Batgirl. You're my guiding light. You know that. It's just---oooh! I get so mad! I mean, normally, I'm a peace-loving guy. You know me. I try to keep my temper in check. I don't yell at Big LeRoy when he fields like Mary Ingalls after her sight loss or at J.C. when he starts thinking he's playing Crazy Pepe's Chug&Toss. I don't get upset when my daughter starts talking about how hot Steve Liddle is or when Torii substitutes Lew's Star Wars figures for my fishing lures. (Turns out walleyes really like wookiees. Who knew?)

All I'm asking, Batgirl, is for a little consistency. All year the Cleveland pitchers have been taking target practice with our heads and they get to bean us six or seven times before the ump warns both benches, which means my pitchers don't get the inside corner anymore and what the hel-- heck did they do wrong, Batgirl? I ask you? What?

So every time I go out and very politely tell the ump that my guys didn't do anything wrong and perhaps he might like to reconsider his ruling and the umpire explains to me that he can't help it, it's just the rule, there's nothing to be done, his hands are tied, he's got to enforce the rule, it's for everyone's protection, and I—very politely—say that the rule makes no sense and it's an umpire's job to use some discretion and this might be a case when discretion is called for, discretion being the better part of valor and all, and that Camus says that integrity has no need of rules, and the ump says that I shouldn't get all Frenchie with him and he's just enforcing the rule and I—very politely— tell him that he can shove the rule right up his—well, you know. And then I spend the rest of the game in my office playing Batkitty Detective.

Okay. Fine. That's the way it's going to be, fine. If that's the rule then every time some punk-a—I mean big bully—pitcher treats Lew Ford like a backstop we're going to get warned and I'll run out of the dugout and dance around and wave my arms like everyone's monkey 'til I get thrown out. Because I have no choice, Batgirl. It is my moral imperative. I cannot sit back and do nothing in the face of injustice, can I Batgirl? Can I? What would Camus say?

Okay, so that's the way we're going to play it, fine. But you know what happened today? Do you know? Today, Batgirl, Silva loses control of an 0-2 pitch and the pitch sails right over Jody Gerut's head and Jody plays all, like, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! and what kind of a guy's name is Jody? I ask you? So, fine, then the ump, you know what he does?

He warns us.

Just us.

And what the goddamn motherfucking kind of ass-sense does that make?

And where's a baguette when you need one?

I ask you, Batgirl. I ask you.

Weekend Roundup (The RD Report -- Two out of three will do)

RD is feeling reasonably good about life and baseball right now, despite Roy Halliday's 2-infield-hit shutout this afternoon. The Bitch Sox game is on in the background and they're losing 11-4 to Texas in the 8th -- no, make that 12-4! -- and the Japanese guy on the mound is looking a little bit puzzled and AJ Pierzynski is behind the plate remembering when he used to watch the B-Sox do such things when he was in the Twins dugout. Balls are evading outfielders. Infielders are running into each other. Hurry back, Frank Thomas!

Now, RD likes stats about as much as most sass-o-holics, but he feels compelled to point out the following: If the Twins win 2 of every 3 games for the rest of the season -- as they did this weekend in Toronto -- they will finish the season with a 104-58 record. That should be good enough for our flawed-more-than-we-want-to-admit Minnesota 9 to overtake the hottest-topic-among-baseball-media Chicagoans and keep Ozzie Guillen from being named Manager of the Millenium with 995 years still remaining. For all the locals have struggled, Batgirl's team is only 3 1/2 games out of first place in the AL Central with 69.753 percent of the season still to play.

This weekend's games were more about performance than excitement. Cy Young 2004 (El Presidente) dispatched the Jays without difficulty on Friday night and Halladay (CY2003) had even less trouble with the Twins this afternoon. In the middle game, Kyle Lohse (Yes, Kyle Lohse) pitched comfortably with an uncomfortably small lead, an afternoon in which the Jays didn't threaten until Joe Nathan came in to pitch the 9th.

RD has a theory to share about the Nathenest of Joes troublesome 9th on Saturday and JC Romero's poopy 8th this afternoon, during which the Jays increased their lead from 2-0 to 4-0 and JC's glove was clocked at 93, albeit with horrible location, when he hurled it against the dugout wall. It was obvious to RD that both were simply trying to make like LaTroy Hawkins, on whom the Cubs gave up and traded to the Giants this weekend for a couple of minor leaguers. Remember when we were sad that he got away?

For his part, RD is confident that Joe will return to his effective self by Tuesday's resumption of play and hopeful that JC's ass-armed antics will cease before we send out a search party for CJ Nitkowski.

***The B-Sox just lost -- the losing pitcher: Jon (I Was Johan Santana For 6 Weeks) Garland.***

Without a game to distract us on Memorial Day, RD figured he'd offer up some places on the Internet where you might run into him and his fellow web travelers. A caution: Some don't have much, if anything, to do with baseball.

http://www.rakemag.com/today/warningtrack/archive/2005/05/objects_in_the.asp#comments -- The insightful Twin Cities baseball guy, Brad Zellar, tells the story of former pitching coach Dick Such and, without naming names, begs a question about batting coach Scott Ullger.

http://www.latroyhawkinssucks.com/ -- This is what happens to athletes in the third millenium when much is expected and little is delivered.

http://www.startribune.com/stories/462/5429036.html -- Terry Collins' wonderfully written story about graduation day at Red Lake has absolutely nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with putting things in context. RD will be rooting for the youngsters in this story as hard as he roots for the Twins.

http://dooce.com -- This blog is a favorite of RD's Lady -- Sweet-n-Sassy -- and chronicles the daily adventures of a recovering Mormon. Lots and lots and lots of sass.

Speaking of sass, Batgirl's mission to France is reportedly scheduled to end in time for her to resume filling this space on Tuesday. Thanks for listening. Have a peaceful holiday.

RD, out.

A Short History of Offensive Cartoons

Twins at Cleveland.
Twins 5, 'Toons 4.

In the beginning, there were cartoons. Some jaunty, some mild, and most all involving antelope. And from the earliest days, those cartoons inspired humankind to greater and greater heights of athletic achievement.

Over fifty-thousand years ago, the first game of BAK was played in the plains of what is now western France. The game began when a tribesman from a tribe of chunky, jiggly gents picked up a rock and chucked it at a hunter known as Tor-ee. Hurt emotionally, Tor-ee picked up the rock and threw it back at the tribesman. And so the game of BAK was born. And the tribes who played it were powered by the force of the vaguely amusing representations they wore stitched to their loincloths (or in the earliest days, their loins).

Although the rules of BAK eventually became more complicated, the goal of the game remained the same: hit the members of the other tribe with a projectile in a way that really smarts. In 675 B.C., Jutokos Mornopolis from the Athens Gemini was pelted in the wrist by a smooth, round stone hurled from the sling of a Captain of the Spartan Barbaros. The Captain, who wore his helmet tilted rakishly to the left, was named Cheeseburgeros Sabathios. And Captain Cheeseburgeros Sabathios of the Barbaros proved to be a nemesis of the Gemini for many years to come. And once again, each polis had its own powerful representational talisman.

In the Middle Ages, BAK evolved into a game played largely by the nobility. Designed to channel the competitive features of courtly love, the knights of BAK would try to smite scented leather sachets filled with pomegranate husks. In 852 A.D., Sir Davis of the "Woods Dwellers " smacked Sir Shannon of the "Dual Virtues" with a scented sachet in a way that challenged Sir Shannon's honor. Sir Shannon responded by speaking harshly into the grill of Sir Davis's helmet. Had monks not intervened, the smiting would have been terrible that day! And, of course, emblazoned on the shield of each knight was a powerful image designed to dazzle and intimidate.

So it has continued through the ages. Perhaps the most momentous BAK contest occurred during America's period of great western expansion. While games between the Native Americans and the Union Army were closely fought, neither side could seize a decisive advantage. Friars were brought in to ensure that violence would not erupt. Indeed, the games were so long and so evenly matched, that noted Cowboy poet Daniel "Moonshine" Gladdazzle was believed to have set up a still inside his viewing tent to ensure a steady supply of his favorite beverage.

After several days of tied play, Lt. Shenandoah Stewart of the Union Army strode to the platter over which the stuffed chipmunk serving as the BAK was to be thrown. He glanced down at the homespun patch designating that he was a member of the First Minnesota Regiment. On that patch, two burly gents -- perhaps strangers to each other -- shook hands across a mighty river. Lt. Stewart thought to himself, "if ye two gentlemen from different settlements can befriend another, then I at the very least can smack the crap out of this chipmunk." All the while, the Native Americans' designated BAK deliverer, Dances with Riske, was fingering his tribe's medallion -- a comic rendering of a powerful chief. "We'll see whose talisman is more powerful," Lt. Stewart muttered under his breath.

Riske pitched, Stewart swung, and the rest is BAK history.

Pitching Idol Shocker!

Twins at the Jake.
Twins 2, Toons 3.

Well, it was a nail-biter out there, tonight....with a winner nobody expected. I’m talking, of course, about "Pitching Idol." Let’s relive the magic of this season...

With the beginning of the fresh contest, there were a lot of fresh-faced hopefuls. Many names--Betancourt, Howry, Miller, Millwood, Nathan, Silva, Rhodes, Rincon, and Romero--only one Pitching Idol!

There are no second chances on Pitching Idol, and the contestants started getting voted off the show from early on. First up was a hopeful named Kevin Millwood. He faced only 17 batters before Simon Cowell cut him off.

“That was like I was in a bar in the mountains of Bulgaria and some drunk guy got up, grabbed the mic, and started pitching! ...And really, that solo homerun you gave up to Torii Hunter reminded me of Tony Bennett singing 'My Heart Will Go On.'”

Randy said, “Yo, yo, that was pretty tight, pretty tight . . . but so is your groin, dude, and that might cost you.”

So, Millwood left the contest and Pitching Idol moved on at a merciless pace.

The next Idol wannabe to drop out was Rafael Bettencourt.

After facing his fourth batter, and having walked three, Cowell said, “If I'm being honest with you, really honest, I think that was like a totally adequate pitching karaoke performance. I just don’t even know how you’re still in this competition.”

Meanwhile, one rocker/broadway song-stylist Carlos Silva was proving up to all the hype that had many people picking him as the darkhorse favorite. He had pitched under 11 pitches per inning through the first six innings. The only Cleveland run on the board was not his own.

“Yo, dawg. Listen up! You are a permanent member of the Dawgpound!”

The next to leave was Matt Miller. Giving up a walk to Shannon Stewart, he could not recover from his shaky start (though Paula Abdul was dancing throughout his entire performance.)

"I think you better pack your bags.”

But then, a shocker! As proof that there are no guarantees in life or Pitching Idol, the superb Carlos Silva had to leave the show, even though he had spread only 6 hits across 8 innings and the one run that scored on his watch was not of his making.

“You have bright future ahead of you, and I can tell that your heart is pure gold,” slurred Paula as he left. Simon Cowell was seen to wipe away a tear.

With the favorite to win it all out of the competition, things became very interesting.

The next to go was Arthur Rhodes, who’d done well in previous events, but he was booted after a lovely Torii Hunter double and Jacque Jones RBI.

Paula, perhaps to deflect rumors that she'd had an affair with Rhodes, pretended to be absorbed in her Coke as Rhodes was unceremoniously removed.

Ah, then everything seemed clear. The winner could only be Joe Nathan. He had, after all, taken home the Bullpen Idol prize last year. He would give a knockout performance. ...Only he made a costly mistake, giving up a game-tying homerun to Ben Broussard.

“Yo, dude. I'm keepin' it real here. That was pretty pitchy at first, you know what I'm saying?”

Things were coming down to the wire, now. Bob Howry gave a shaky performance, giving up hits to Juan Castro and Shannon Stewart, but somehow survived it. Instead, Juan Rincon, who gave up a walk to Victor Martinez, was eliminated.

“It seems, Juan, that your boots are made for walkin’,” offered Cowell--a bit snidely, I might add.

So, the big finale featured Bob Howry and J.C. Romero. J.C. gave a fine performance--Paula was leading the crowd with unsteady dance moves once again. But with 2 out and a count of 2-2, Travis Haffner got an odd hit just barely into left field scoring the winning run.

So, Bob Howry, the Okie farm gal with a dream, wins Pitching Idol. This proves a couple things, sometimes offering up a hit does not make you the winner, while sometimes winning means just sticking around long enough.

The RD Report (Twins 6, Cleveland 3 -- Doesn't It Suck Edition)

(EDITOR'S NOTE: While on her mission to France, Batgirl entrusted this space to JEB and Goober, wise choices both. But after a few days of giving 110 percent, getting their uniforms dirty and doing whatever it took, that Dynamic Duo unfortunately ended up on the Disabled List with a condition diagnosed late Tuesday as Puntositis. It's a condition common in the world of bloggers and infielders, especially among those trying to live up to the work of those whom they're replacing. We're hoping that their Puntositis goes away as quickly as it came about and that they will return for Wednesday's game. For now, the editors have asked longtime Batgirl ally RonDavis to fill this space. The RD Report first appeared under similar circumstances in late August of last season. Please bear with him and his non-native peevishness.)

Scott Sauerbeck, doesn't it suck to be you?

Doesn't it suck to come in midway through the 11th inning and strike out Joe Mauer and think you're bullpen bling-bling and then totally chicken out against Lew Ford? You threw four balls that were no closer to the plate than the Timberwolves were to making the playoffs. You did that because you thought, in all of your smug leftiness, you could easily retire the slightly-slumping left-batting first basemen Justin MORE-no (a/k/a Justin MorNEAU and JustIncredible.)

Scott Sauerbeck, doesn't it suck to be wrong? As Simon Cowell said when he viewed your performance on his MLB-TV laptop in the American Idol green room after his show, "Scott, in a room full of steak, you were hamburger tonight."

Justin didn't exactly murder the ball, but the line drive he hit to left-center bounced past the diving Grady Sizemore, rolled to the wall and was the bases-clearing triple that broke a 3-3 tie. And it came with the bases loaded, no less, when our lack of hitting has been JustInsane this season.

You had the stats in your favor, Scott Sauerbeck. Stats don't mean much on these pages.

Know something else, Scott. Young Sizemore is a perfectly serviceable center fielder and a very nice player, but Torii Hunter would have caught that ball and maybe you would have been pitching into the wee hours of the Lake Erie morning.

RD and RD's lady -- Smart-n-Sassy (SnS) -- also noticed other things that sucked during Tuesday's game. We wanted to share:

*It sucks to be Travis Hafner. Not because he's from North Dakota, where RD lived quite happily for a spell, but because Hafner's the ugliest guy on an ugly Cleveland team. Casey Blake, David Riske and Big Ol' Bobby Wickman make Joe Torre look like an Abercrombie catalog boytoy, don't you think? But Hafner's even uglier than the offensive Chief Wahoo caricature on Cleveland's helmets. In fact, he's so ugly that the noted Ojibwe baseball powerhouse -- the White Earth White Guys -- is considering using Hafner's face as its logo.

*It sucked to be Jacque Jones last night, but we're certain he'll snap out of it. If you're wondering why blogs are necessary, you need only listen to the spin being delivered in the media after Jacque's strike-three ejection for excessive sass.

CircleMeBert, after it happened: "Jacque's not one to cuss."
HittingCoachScott, after the game: "He said, 'That was NOT a strike."
LaVelleOfTheStrib, "Jacque Jones was ejected in the sixth inning after taking a called third strike. He argued with home plate umpire Hunter Wendelstedt, then bent down to take off his shin guard. The Twins think that Wendelstedt thought Jones was bending over to draw a line in the dirt, and that's why the umpire ejected him."
Jacque, on the replay, to young Wendelstedt: "WHAT THE F**K?!?"

*It sucked to be Marney Gellner after the game, through no fault of her own. She tried to interview JustIncredible, who is at least 9 feet taller than her, and was treated to seven "you knows" in a 58-second interview. Someone help the poor Canadian before he goes nationwide.

*More things could have sucked, but our baseball universe was placed back in order by our team's 11th-inning handiwork. So RD and SnS are willing for now to not worry about Boo's last 2 outings, Little Nicky Punto's rash of strikeouts and some really dreadful at-bats by an assortment of players not named Lew Ford.

And, after all, in the hours after this game, nothing sucked as much as being Scott Sauerbeck.

RD, out.

Fun with science.

Twins at Jacobs Field. Twins 1, Cleveland 2.

We at Team Batgirl are at a complete loss for what to do in Batgirl’s absence. We wait for letters from France where she is doing her USO (United Sass Organization) show, and we write her plenty of letters, too. We order pizza for most meals, but promised Batgirl not to eat too many Cheetos like we did the last time she left. It must be said that we fight a little over who gets to run the Tivo remote during games and who gets to wear the official Twins spring training t-shirt signed by Lew Ford (BatKitty #1 has won it a couple days in a row—she bites HARD).

But today we decided that the best way to make the time go faster while Batgirl is gone was to do something constructive. From the way Batkitty #2 was looking at us, we knew that he was thinking, “you could clean the Snickers wrappers off of the BatQuarters floor.” But he doesn’t appreciate that those wrappers are sort of a collection...or a kind of record of...the number of Snickers we ate while Batgirl was gone. Anyhoo, we decided to do something constructive to make the time pass, so we settled on inventing a mind-reading machine.

First, we got out Sooz’s collection of “Mr. Wizard” tapes. Great: Principles of physics mastered. Then we got out Goober’s complete set of "Slim Goodbody" tapes. Excellent: Principles of neurobiology grasped. I ran out to Radio Shack--with a quick stop off at Dairy Queen--and returned with all the components we needed.

Once assembled, we tested it by aiming the thing at BatKitty #2. All we got at first was static, but we adjusted the Flux Capacitor (sort of the secret to the whole thing) and started reading a lot of muttered disapproval so we knew it was all set!

We then climbed to the top of the BatQuarters and aimed our new BatNeuralReceptorTron toward Cleveland.

It was fascinating reading the thoughts of various players throughout the game, but we thought we’d offer you the transcript from one key moment that sort of summed up the whole game. It was the top of the ninth. The game had been well-played all around. The Twins trailed 1-2. With one out, Torii Hunter came to the plate to face the dastardly Bob Wickman.

BOOM! Torii cranks it.

The BatNeuralReceptorTron transcript follows:

Torii Hunter: Get out!

Kyle Lohse: If this goes out, my dreams won't be haunted by Peralta’s checked-swing “hit” that led to the go-ahead run!

C.C. Sabathia: If this goes into extra innings, the Culver’s will be closed. That means NO BUTTERBURGERS for me! No! God, no...

Torii Hunter: The wind's blowing in from right field...

Lew Ford: Wait a second... I think I've figured out how to get past level 9 of Castlevania IV! My god, it's all so simple if you simply attach the Jewel of the Shaman to the hilt of your Vorpal Blade...

Torii Hunter: Is it...?

Shannon Stewart: Jeez, that Slim Goodbody show used to freak the crap out of me. That suit. Was he supposed to be naked or just devoid of skin...I don't know what's worse. ...Oh...Get out, ball!

Kyle Lohse: Seven hits, only two runs... Batgirl's gonna be proud of me, but...

Steve Liddle: Wait a sec... I think we have some spare bionic parts for Koskie in a box some where...I should tell Toronto. ...Get out, ball!

Torii Hunter: Is it...?