Twins at Tigers. Twins 8, Tigers 5.

Was it just two short months ago that Detroit pitcher Nate Robertson--who Batgirl will call Nate Robinson for the rest of his career, because she just can't help it—swallowed Little Nicky Punto whole?. The Twins, anemic and battered, could do nothing for their shortest of stops at the time, except try to get Robinson Robertson out of the game before Punto had been fully digested in order to extricate him from that giant gullet. In that, they were successful—but the Tigers took three of four from the Twins that series, sending the players into the All-Star Break wishing that they themselves might get swallowed whole. We did not know that we were just at the end of our suffering, that the sucking-time was about over, to be replaced by a time of glory and boomie boomie and Cy-rificness and Bitch Sox going gentle into that good night.

So now, we meet again, Nate Robinson, and we are not afraid of your overly-sized digestive system anymore. Little Nicky Punto is safe convalescing in a bile-proof chamber in Rochester, and the Twins are in the midst of a lovely six-game winning streak, timed to welcome Batgirl back from her adventures. Hello, Batgirl. Welcome back! Did you have fun? Here's another win for you!

Yes, Nicky Punto was safe, the Twins were happy, Batgirl was happy. Gardy gave a little speech before the game, "Now, boys, I know last time we faced Nate Robinson, someone got eaten. But I don't want that to distract you. That's all in the past now, and our job is to go out there and play the best baseball we can. Alright boys?"

"Alright, Gardy!" they all shouted eagerly.

"Great," he said. "Let's play ball!"

All that good will lasted until Robinson was taking his warm-up pitches, and Torii Hunter noticed him repeatedly glancing into the Twins dugout.

"Hey, Jacque," he whispered to his compatriot, one Jacque Jones, "What's Robinson looking at?"

"Isn't his name Robertson?"

"Hell, I don't know. But what's he looking at?"

"I dunno," said Jones. "But I think he's drooling a little."

"Hmmm…" said Hunter. "There he goes again…" Hunter and Jones both followed his gaze down the bench. They gasped.

"Damn him!" said Hunter.

"He wants to eat Little Augie Ojeda!" said Jones.

"We gotta go get this punk."

Yes, all that bygones-are-in-the-past spirit was gone, destroyed by a lusty look toward poor comestible Augie. It was one thing to start eating diminutive utility infielders when the Twins were in second place, but it's September now, the magic number is falling—oh, yes my friends, it falls every day—and attention must be paid. Respect must be given. Players must not be eaten.

Word spread down the Twins' bench, players grabbed their bats and readied themselves. There was only one way to solve this; at least one way that wouldn't involve assault charges. They would have to take this out on the field.

And take it out they did. In the first inning, Lew Ford drew a lead-off walk, in what would be his first of fourteen walks on the day, and then Matt LeCroy sent him home with a double. LeCroy stood at second, waving his fist at Robinson, shouting, "You wanna eat something, you big-necked freak? I'll give you something to eat!"

It was in the 4th inning that the Twins really made their statement. With one out, LeCroy singled again, then Terry Tuffee Tiffee took the ball long. "I just don't want to get eaten," the recent call-up said later in a quiet moment. "They told me pitchers were tough in the bigs, no one said anything about getting eaten." A Guzie single, a Cuddy double, and a Borders single later and the Twins were up 5-0, and suddenly Robinson wasn't thinking about his dinner anymore.

He could have eaten early tonight; he only lasted four innings today, and his collection of various marinades and spices went unused. His mound opponent, meanwhile, who gave up eating utility infielders years ago, promised himself a nice dinner of organic grains if he pitched well, and let us just say that Terence John's nighttime meal was bulgar-ific. The lean mean TJ pitched solidly through most of seven innings capping a near-historic run of acceptable starts from Misters Three, Four, and Five. Really, it's like a miracle.

But the best moment of the game, clearly, was when Augie Ojeda himself stepped up to bat in the ninth. Augie was kept mercifully in the dark about the Robinson threat, possibly because he would have had to stand on his tippy toes to hear what the other players were saying. But nonetheless, he strode up to bat with Terry Tiffee on second—oh he was confident, he was alive, he had not been eaten—and he hit a strong single to right. His teammates jumped up from their seats and cheered, they cheered loudly and proudly for Augie Ojeda, and he found a smile creep across his mouth. He could not know what had passed, he could not know the danger he was in, what he had escaped—but he was suddenly struck with the sweet glory of just being alive, the preciousness of each moment. He breathed in the smell of grass and leather and Corey Koskie sweat and said, "I am Augie Ojeda, I am alive, and that in itself is beautiful."

Damn straight, Augie, damn straight.

Posted by Batgirl at September 12, 2004 06:53 PM