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.

Posted by twayn at April 11, 2007 11:09 PM