Captain Cheeseburger, meet Carlos the Jackal.
While the Bitch Sox have the best record in the league, they lost five of seven last week and anyone who has spent time in the clubhouse knows why. While the Sox have played terrific baseball, they have not yet managed to cohere as a team—you can talk about "smart ball" 'til the cows come home, but individuals don't become a team through fancy slogans. What the Bitch Sox need is a leader, one who can help them through these difficult times, one who can provide a shining example of selflessness. And yesterday, that leader came to them.
It was a typical day in the Bitch Sox clubhouse. The players were sitting around chewing chaw and drinking Schlitz and talking about what a big bully Torii Hunter is when things got testy.
"You know," said Mark Buehrle. "I think I hate Torii Hunter more than anyone here."
"Bullcocky!" said Paul Konerko. "I hate him more than you've ever hated him!"
"Oh yeah? Your mom LOVES Torii Hunter!"
"Wanna make something of it?"
Yes, yes he did…
…and pretty soon the whole clubhouse had, yet again, broken out in a terrible brawl.
Then, suddenly, an old friend entered...
"Doo doo doot do dooo. Here I am, Darth Thomas off the DL, and ready to help my team!…
"What the—"
"Guys! Guys, what are you doing? Guys, what's happened to you? NOOOOOO!"
"Whatever shall I do?…
…I'm the team leader. I need to help my team, and FAST!"
"Guys! Stop beating each other up and listen to me!…
…I think we need to work on a little something called TEAMWORK! Come with me! I think what this team needs is a teambuilding retreat!"
"Keep riding. It's just ahead! Oh, man, you guys are going to love this place!"
"Okay, this is called a trust fall. Just lean back…"
"…and let your teammates catch you."
"Now, Timo, you just let yourself be guided, okay? Don't worry that you can't see—they'll tell you where to go."
"You have to coach each other through the ropes course."
"Everyone's a winner here!"
"Okay, this is a human knot. You guys have to untangle yourselves without letting go of each others' hands, okay?..."
"...for there is no winning without holding hands!"
"Good job! That's it! Boo-yah!"
"Now, we're going to throw the ball around. Whoever catches the ball has to say something nice about the person that threw it. Ready?"
"Um, AJ, I think you have really nice eyes."
"You guys, we've come a long way today. I'm really proud of you. Now, should we sing?"
The Bitch Sox, unified at last, are ecstatic...
"Yay, Darth Thomas! Yay! Hip Hip…"
"….Hooray!"
Unfortunately, during the post retreat celebration, Thomas injured his hip. He is day to day.
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.
There have been a handful of times in the past few years when Kyle Lohse could be counted upon to blow a lead in the time, say, that it took to stop at the Brooklyn Park Culver's after one of YoungRD's soccer games. I believe that very thing happened twice. And there were other times when it seemed like a stop at Home Depot or Whole Foods or Target coincided with Kyle managing to suck the life out a Twins lead. So I reached the point last season where I thought I could best help Kyle by keeping my eyes and ears glued to the game when he was pitching. Under those circumstances, he didn't seem to suck as badly -- or as dramatically. Alas, he still usually sucked.
Eventually, I realized that we needed to build more trust. I needed to get on with my life when Kyle was on the mound. And, apparently, Kyle has decided that it's better not to suck. This is a recent phenomenon on his part -- covering his last four starts, including Saturday's when he yielded only one run in seven innings and looked flat-out nasty from time to time to time to time in the 4-3 victory over Toronto.
For my part, I stopped at Cub on the way home from the gym with the score 2-1. And, lo and behold, when I returned Castro and Stewart had homered yet again and the Twins were up 4-1. The Big Yummy Muffins will taste even better tomorrow morning.
Now consider this: In those 4 starts, Kyle has given up 6 earned runs in 25 1/3 innings. In his 4 April starts, he gave up 16 in 21 2/3 innings. No wonder we spent April wondering whether Old Man Mulholland would make a better fifth starter. Or young Baker or Gassner at Triple-A. Or maybe Bert could come down from the TV booth every fifth day... or LaTroy Hawkins would emerge from his personal hell... or, or, or. We were getting that impatient, and understandibly so.
But now, whatever Kyle has done, it has made him quite the hot pitcher. And for this, after all the barbs we've thrown this way and all the lousy pitches he's thrown our way, we must commend his recovery by anointing Kyle Lohse as Boyfriend of the Day.
Field/Readers 9, Lewww/Jeb 6, Stewie/Sooz 6, Justin/Goober 5, Joe/Batgirl 2.
Gonna make this quick because we have places to go and people to see. You could make ShannalamaDinger the BOD for his third homer of the week. Or it could be LNP for getting three hits and NOT striking out. Or it could even be Johan for sittin' down eight bitches in seven innings.
But no! Our BOD made sure we got off on the good foot when we weer (were) looking another same old-same old situation in the eye. ShannalamaDinger, LNP and LewwwwFord reached to -- gasp! -- load the damn bases with nobody out, a position that few Twins want to confront in the year 2005. Then, JustIncredulous and Torii Huntre (Hunter) did their best Corky (Corky) Millre (Miller) imitations, bringing Jacque Jounes (Jones) to the plate with two outs.
Last week, in his post-bobblehead flush, J-Jo would have been Out No. 3. This week, in a foreign land wheer (where) the r's and the e's sometimes get confused at the ends of words, the letter U sometimes makes a cameo between the O's and the R's, and the first lettre (letter) of the alphabet is EH, J-Jo lashed a 2-run single that got us going in the right direction toward a methodical 7-2 victoury (victory).
For that, J-Jo, YOU aer (are) the Boyfriend of the Day. Good play, eh!
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.
Ooh my little pretty one, pretty one. When you gonna give me some time, Shannona? Ooh you make my motor run, my motor run. Gun it comin' off the line Shannona. My my my i yi woo. M M M My Shannona...
Field/Readers 8, Jeb/Lewwww 6, Sooz/ Stewie 6, Goober/Dr. Morneau 5, Batgirl/Joe 2.
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.
(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.
“Who can turn the world on with his smile?
Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?”
And, for that matter, who can win the coveted B.O.D. with one swing of the bat?
Joe Mays only gave up two runs, Lew Ford was 2-3 with a RBI, but in the top of the 11th with the bases loaded the good doctor strode to the plate, muttered, “nothing is anywhere simply present or absent,” and smacked a base-clearing double.
“Love is all around, no need to waste it!
You can have the town, why don't you take it!
You're gonna make it after all!
You're gonna make it after all!”
...And you’re the Boyfriend of the Day.
Field/Readers 8, Jeb/Lewwww 6, Sooz/ Stewie 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 5, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Joe Mays, you are the shining Father of our fortunes.
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...?
Ron Gardenhire: Oh well, game of inches. Only a brood of evil gods could have invented a game in which the difference between success and failure is routinely a matter of a few inches, but that's what makes its particpants and fans a noble breed.
Kyle Lohse, J.C. Romero, Jacque Jones, Lew Ford, Shannon Stewart, Scott Ulger, Juan Castro, Rick Stelmaszek, Ron Gardenhire: Great job, Torii, I'm proud of you.
Terry Ryan shakes on another sweetheart deal for the Twins.
Batgirl tells the good folks of Goatriders.org why our GM can beat up all comers.
Mon cher Batlings,
Batgirl is here in France wearing her Twins beret and she was all aglow with the good feeling of giving sass to orphans, not to mention a monumental Twins victory (turns out French orphans are Lew Ford fans) and she went to read yesterday's game thread and she must admit to feeling a little bleu afterwards. Batgirl begs you not to use the game threads to bash various players and Batgirl's beloved team, for Bat-girl.com is not about bashing but about love and sass and butts and bonhomie and dressing up Twins players like chicks, and whatever will the orphans think? Won't someone think of the orphans?
With great love,
BG
Weekend Round-Up. Milwaukee at Twins.
Friday: Twins 7, Brewers 1.
Saturday: Brewers 6, Twins 0.
Sunday: Twins 6, Brewers 5.
Don't blame the Twins if they had a hard time getting up for this weekend's inter-league series with Milwaukee. After all, they were just plumb tuckered out after spending the week before preparing for Corey Wan Kenoski's Jedi mind tricks. Everyone was a-twitter. What would Corey Wan do this time? Would he go up to bench coach Steve Liddle while Steve was changing and say: "This is not the underwear you're looking for. Move along, move along." Or would he psychicly project peanut butter into everyone's pants. Hard to say. He's a crafty one, that Corey Wan, and since he's left the Twins he's become more powerful than you can possibly imagine (for someone batting .248).
So in the aftermath of all that, it was hard for the Twins to stay focused on the odd specimens heading into the Dome this weekend. Kitted out in blue, with giant wedges of Colby, Cheddar, and Pepper Jack strapped to their heads, they were apparently at one time involved in the distillery business. But the Brewers have since fallen on hard times and have had to take up baseball to make ends meet. It's not going very well, obviously, and there are many that hope that the good people of Wisconsin will go back to drinking beer so their team can return to its actual profession.
Until recently, the Brewers were controlled by Darth Seligous -- an evil Sith Lord with a ballpark financing plan so powerful that it could destroy an entire city. Darth Seligous believes in "rivalries," and where no rivalries exist, he will create them, dammit. So under Darth Seligous's dark reign, love is replaced by hate, admiration by envy, and -- in the case of the Brewers and Twins -- apathy by, well, more apathy. But for Darth Seligous, there's always hope that someday we will learn to hate each other.
This weekend's trilogy played out just like on the big screen. On Friday night, Silva dished just 74 pitches in a complete game win, making the Brewers feel very bad about themselves, not only professionally but also personally. Unfortunately, on Saturday, Bradke once again mistook carbonite for his pre-game hair gel, and by the time he unfroze, the game was already over. In Sunday's game, JoHan Solo took a no-hitter into the sixth. But our bats were occupied with a simmering trade dispute involving the franchise rights for the outer ring systems (including Naboo). The dispute was quite involving -- indeed, the meat of the order had out its financial calculators and was arguing about the time value of money when JoHan pointed out that the dispute was likely a ruse by Darth Seligous to distract us from the task at hand. How dastardly! With that, our boys got out their lumber. Shannon whacked the game-tying homerun in the ninth. And in the eleventh, L-Rod tapped a little dribbler that Junior "Senior" Spivey booted, scoring Fordwalker. It was an odd moment, watching Spivey as all his defensive skills deserted him at once. Of course, we've seen that this year ourselves.
May the Fundamentals be with you. Always.
This is a tough one. Protocol Droid Shannon Stewart, who is fluent in over six million forms of communication, had two hits, two runs, and two RBIs, while Luke Fordwalker had three hits, three runs, and one RBI. A nice performance by both, but I'm going to give it to Shannon, who smacked his ninth inning home run like he was bullseyeing womprats in his T-16 back home.
Field/Readers 8, Jeb/Lewwww 6, Sooz/ Stewie 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Batgirl/Joe 2.
From this weekend's famous Joe and Justin appearance. Somebody has said that they look like they're in an episode of "The Office." Which is Tim and which Gareth, and will one of them build a wall of binders between the two?
Catching a Jacque Jones foul ball and giving it to this adorable 3-year-old seated nearby, Batling CapitalBabs brings glory to herself and, by extension, to the entire Batgirl Community.
Great performances by starters five, four, and three--let's see what number 1 can do!
My darlings,
Batgirl will be away for the week delivering sass to orphans in France, but the rest of Team Batgirl will take over the blogging duties. Be good to them, and to each other. Batgirl will see you again on Memorial Day.
Endless Love,
Batgirl
Everyone's going to have to protect Batgirl, because she was this close to giving the B.O.D. to Sooz's boyfriend, but…man. Man! The B.O.D. by-laws clearly allow for an extraordinary performance by a non TBB (Team Batgirl Boyfriend) and if pitching a complete game in seventy-four pitches isn't extraordinary, Batgirl doesn't know what is. Nine innings, five hits, one run, no walks—and one three-pitch inning makes you, Carlos Silva, the Boyfriend of the Day.
Field/Readers 8, Jeb/Lewwww 6, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Sooz/ Stewie 4, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Thanks to the webgeniuses at Batgirl's friendly web host FictCo, we may have solved the game-thread-server-melting problem. We'll be giving the Game Threads a try back on Bat-girl.com, but it may be that we have to switch over to Quick Topic in the middle of the game if things start melting again. If that's the case, someone will close the comments and post the Quick Topic link up here.
Also, thanks to everyone who has bought items from the BatStore; it helps BG pay her hosts for their extremely hard work.
IMPORTANT: A message from the friendly webhost: if you want to keep the load on the server down, if you click to "Post" a comment, and it seems like the server is being a bit pokey, just wait and it should eventually go through. Clicking "Post" again will just slow things down more. Thanks!
Toronto at Twins. Twins 4, Blue Jays 0.
In the past couple of weeks, really ever since the glory that was Cupcake Day, the Twins have been looking very much like a team that can actually convert with the bases loaded. This has been quite an adjustment for Twins fans everywhere, given that in previous weeks, well…let's just say it didn't go so well. Still, we fans can't help but feel a tremendous anxiety every time the bases are juiced—perhaps it's even worse now knowing that, when someone comes up with three on, there's a chance we might score; as opposed to before when we knew they were going to fail spectacularly and yet couldn't seem to turn our eyes away from the horror (the horror). We'd expelled the demons, yes, but demons have a way of coming back and biting you on the ass.
So, in the third inning today, when the score was tied at zero and Juan Castro, Luis Rivas, and Luke Fordwalker graced the bases, one could not help but be a little nervous. It was kind of cute, because you could feel the Blue Jays getting worried, I mean the bases were loaded and our 4 and 5 hitters were coming up; they had no idea we were all far more terrified than they.
Well, as goes the way of these things, those 4 and 5 hitters completely forgot everything Batgirl had taught them and began to swing wildly at the ball, and oh, the demons came back then. They came back and opened their jaws as widely as they could and, with a mighty chomp, sunk their teeth deep into the buttocks of Justin Morneau and Torii Hunter, respectively. End of threat.
In fact, those pesky demons had gotten their fangs so deeply into the lush, muscular butt cheeks of hitters 4 and 5, respectively, that they suffered serious jaw cramps and could not release themselves from said butt cheeks after the striking out was over, and so for the rest of the game Justin and Torii had to walk around with demons attached to their asses. Whenever they weren't in the field, they were being worked on by a frantic training staff (Though really, Batgirl thinks this is a problem Twins' trainers should know a thing or two about by now.) who poked, pulled, and prodded at the demons, to no avail. Whenever Morneau and Hunter took the field, the demons would sort of sway back and forth behind them, their little ass-demon legs dangling in the air.
You'd think the whole affair would be a lesson to demonkind—I mean, think of the TMJ! But demons are persistent little buggers, and when the Twins once again had the bases loaded in the sixth inning, a few more began to swarm around the batter's box. The game was still tied at zed—Joe Mays and Gusatvo Chachin making like staff aces, and this time, the Twins had nobody out. (Again, scary if you're the opposing team, much, much scarier if you're us because it's that much worse when you don't convert with bases loaded and no outs. Trust us. We know.)
Well, Michael Cuddyer came to the plate, and he scanned the scene in front of him. The runners on second and third had demons attached to their asses and the runner on first was Matthew LeCroy, and it all looked quite dire.
"It's up to me," he said. "Oh, and nothing is anywhere either present or absent."
To the everyday viewer, it seemed that Michael Cuddyer proceeded to have an incredible at bat, one where he fouled off pitch after pitch after pitch after pitch until he found one he could drive, but the truth is he was just wiggling around a lot trying to keep the damn demons from biting his ass. Nonetheless, it proved effective—Cuddyer proceeded to have a thirteen pitch AB, fouling off pitches 3-6 and 8-12 until he finally laced a double to left scoring hitters 4 and 5. One Naked Batting Practice single later and the Twins were ahead 4-0, and the demons lost interest in our boys.
Meanwhile, Joe Mays, who in recent games had managed to pitch fairly well in the early innings and then have some kind of apocalyptic nuclear meltdown on the mound as the games wore on, somehow kept getting guys out. It looked like there might be some trouble in the 7th when two Blue Jays singled with one out, but a quick DP later, and all was well. Then, since he'd only had about 34 pitches in the game, Mays came out in the 8th, gave up two singles and got out of the inning again, and in the 9th he strode out and pitched himself into a complete game shutout.
When asked what had changed this time around, he said, "Well, you know, I usually get so stressed out out there as the game goes on. I feel myself getting tired and I start pressing. And when guys get on I worry too much and it gets in my head and I start making mistakes. But today every time I went out on the mound, I'd look around me and there'd be demons dangling from guys' asses. It's pretty hard to take yourself too seriously when two of the guys behind you have demons hanging from their ass."
He laughed and shook his head. "Now I know what the secret is. Got to put a demon on a guy's ass every time!"
At which point tomorrow's starter, Carlos Silva, looked up, thought for a moment and then called, "Hey, Lew, come over here, will ya? I want to show you something."
Poor DJ Cuddles. Yesterday he went 3-3 with the game winning home run and managed to survive defensively during the Return of Corey Koskie, but he still finished second in the B.O.D. race to My. Kyle Lohse who gave the Twins exactly the pitching performance they needed. Today, Batgirl had already addressed the B.O.D. telegram to him, what with his genius 13 pitch at bat with the bases loaded, and she was just calling the messenger service to arrange delivery when Joe Mays pitched out of trouble in the seventh. Then Mays came back in the eighth and Batgirl hung up the phone. Then the ninth, and Batgirl ripped up the telegram and started to type a new one. Diamond Joe pitched a nine inning shutout in ninety-three pitches (and no walks), which, really, is mad hot. And that hotness makes you, Joe Mays, the Boyfriend of the Day.
Field/Readers 7, Jeb/Lewwww 6, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Sooz/ Stewie 4, Batgirl/Joe 2.
(We tend to get a lot of traffic on games during the work day. Please be patient if pages take some time to load!)
Toronto at Twins. Twins 3, Blue Jays 2.
Did you know how the term "bullpen" came to be?
It all began in the early days of baseball, only a decade or so after Abner Doubleday—with a dream in his heart and a Whizzinator in his pocket—single-handedly and incontrovertibly invented the game we love so today. A young team located in the Northern Heartland, playing for the glory of a new state renowned for both the bounty of its lakewater and the unparalleled handsomeness of its women, was playing for its fourth consecutive division championship. But the team had suffered several key off-season losses—most particularly a taciturn lamplighter by the name of Corbert Koskossen, and the nefarious and perfidious Flax Wenches of Chicago had been playing far beyond expectations.
The problem for the Pig's Eye Chimney Sweeps was a matter of budget, for their owner, a local railroad baron, was a renowned tightass. He wouldn't even give the Chimney Sweeps a retractable roof on their new stadium, and Aprils were cold in Pig's Eye. Indeed, that year a strange cold snap had hit the area and as the baseball season began a healthy young man couldn't walk more than a few paces without freezing his arse off. The weather was not helping the team in their pursuit of the Flax Wenches one bit, and left to their own devices, the players got together and decided to form a plan.
"We've got to raise some money for a roof," said Shannon Stewmperdink.
"I'm going to die if we have to play in this weather anymore," said Mattias Leijonhufvud, even though he had a lot of extra padding.
"Really, it's not so bad," said Justus Mornorgbergsson. "I find it quite balmy." (Mornorgbergsson hailed from the mythical land of Canadia and was said to live in an igloo in the off-season.)
"So how are we going to get the money?" asked Stewmperdink, ignoring Mornorgbergsson.
"Well," interjected closer Josef Nathannlund. "I have an idea."
"Really?" said ace Johan Santanagrenstrom.
"Well, the boys and I aren’t doing a lot back there in the designated relief pitchers' waiting area," said Nathannlund. "Maybe we could milk some cows? Then we could sell the milk to the fans and eventually we'd have enough money for a retractable roof!"
"Wow, that's brilliant!" said a rookie named Terry Mulholland.
"Wheeeee!" exclaimed Jan Rincongius. "Milking cows rules!"
"I agree," enthused Isse "the Train" Cranheim.
And so the boys put all their savings together and sent second baseman Little Nikolaus von Punto to retrieve the best herd of cows he possibly could.
Unfortunately, Little Nikolaus was a dreamer, and as everyone knows, the worst person to send on an important errand is a dreamer. For, on his way to the market, the dreamer might meet an old friend—Corbert Koskossen—and that old friend might decide to play a trick on the diminutive lad, for Corbert Koskossen was as renowned for his mischievousness as he was for his devastating good looks.
And, indeed, that is what happened.
"Why, hello, Little Nikolaus! What are you doing?"
"Well, I am going to market to buy a herd of cows. The boys in the designated relief pitchers' waiting area are going to milk the cows during the games and we're going to sell the milk and raise money for a retractable roof so we stop freezing to death and can make up ground on the nefarious and perfidious Flax Wenches."
"Really?" said Koskossen. "I find it quite balmy. ...Well, anyway, Little Nikolaus, a herd of cows isn't what you want. What you want are magic beans!"
"I do?"
"Yes!" Just plant these magic beans and a beanstalk will grow and you can climb it to a place where all your dreams comes true."
"Really?" said Little Nikolaus. "That sounds pretty sweet!"
"Oh, it is. So just give me all the money and I’ll give you the beans, 'kay?"
"Sure, Corbert! Boy, you're really nice!"
So, with that, the exchange was made. Koskossen pulled a handful of beans out of his bag, careful not to disturb the vial of Mojo he had lifted the day before, and put them in Little Nikolaus's hands. Happy, Little Nikolaus skipped all the way back to Henry Sibley Park.
"Look!" he squealed when he got there.
"Where's the damn cows?" asked Nathanlund.
"I didn't get cows. I got something better. Magic BEANS!"
The players exchanged looks. "You exchanged all our savings for magic beans?" exclaimed Nathanlund.
"Yes!" said Little Nikolaus. "I ran into Corbert Koskossen, and he—"
"Oh, no!" all the players said at once. "You can't trust him. What were you thinking?"
"He said it would make all my dreams come true!" protested Little Nikolaus.
"That's what you get," muttered Isse Cranheim, "when you send a midget to do a man's job."
"I'll show you," said Little Nikolaus. "I'm going to plant those beans in the designated relief pitchers' waiting area, and a magic beanstalk is going to grow, and I'm going to climb it and steal a golden harp and a goose that lays golden eggs and give the money for the retractable roof and all my dreams are going to come true!"
"You know what you'll be planting in the designated relief pitchers' waiting area?" said Nathanlun. "Bull----. That's what you'll be planting."
"That's right," said Jan Rincongius. "It won't even be a designated relief pitchers' waiting area anymore. It'll be an area of bull----. A whole bull---- area."
"Yeah," sneered the rest of the team.
Well, to make a long story short, Little Nikolaus von Punto planted the beans anyway, and soon a mighty beanstalk grew, and Little Nikolaus climbed it up up up to the heavens and found a castle of a mighty giant, and that giant had a golden harp and a goose that laid golden eggs, but most importantly, he had a really well-defined sense of smell and it wasn't long before he found Little Nikolaus, picked him up in his fingers, plopped him in his mouth, and swallowed without even chewing.
But all Little Nikolaus had ever wanted was to make a lasting contribution on the game of baseball, and in his memory, the Pig's Eye Chimney Sweeps renamed the designated relief pitchers' waiting area the "area of bull—" and in that, Little Nikolaus von Punto's dreams did come true. And one day, when Corbert Koskossen came back to town with his team of Eskimos, the pitchers in that "area of bull—", Cranheim, Rincongius, and Nathannlund came out of the "area of bull—" and pitched a fierce game, retiring the Eskimos in order in innings sju, atta, and nio. And, as Nathannlund got the last batter to fly out, he looked over to the beanstalk, followed it up to the clouds with his eyes, and said, "This one's for you, Little Nikolaus von Punto. Dream well, my friend, dream well."
Okay, it's been a hard week. The Twins are standing on the precipice of a sucking-time, the Bitch Sox stubbornly refuse to have a nice fifteen-game losing streak, and someone stole Johan Santana's mojo. What we needed today, more than anything, was a good pitching performance. Well, we got four of them; Messers Chocula, Berry, and The-Crain-Train just shone out of the bullpen, reitring nine straight, but more importantly, our starter, Mr. Kyle Lohse took the ball and said, "Hello, Ball. Tonight I will throw you with confidence, grace, and a dash of kickass." Aided by a few well-timed double plays (and clearly channeling the Jackal) Lohse pitched six innings, allowing just two runs. Yes, he got into trouble sometimes, and yes he walked two batters and both came around to score, but Lohse never lost his composure, and he let the Twins win the game. A quality start—just what the doctor (not to mention the Doctor) ordered—and that makes you, Kyle Lohse, the Boyfriend of the Day.
Jeb/Lewwww 6, Field/ Readers 6, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Sooz/ Stewie 4, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Toronto at Twins. Blue Jays 10, Twins 3.
Really, the Twins have nobody to blame but themselves. All homestand they've been preparing for the return of Cordel Koskos and his prankster ways—from the Cuddiary to the Strib players and media have been wondering—what will Cordel Koskos pull this time?
Had Koskos not been coming to town, the Twins players certainly would have spent yesterday's off day far away from the Dome, recovering from the big party at Hotel Joe, fishing, golfing, getting their hair done, going to the regular off-day embroidery circle at Juan Castro's. But no, there could be no leisure for our boys on this particular day, for there was danger approaching. At 6 am Monday morning Torii Hunter, Jacque Jones, and Terry Mulholland went straight from Hotel Joe to the Dome, still wearing their togas and covered in sticky carbonated green tea, to begin Operation Steel Cage—securing the clubhouse.
Mulholland, who works as a security guard at a bank during the off-season, was really the man responsible for the layout and design of the security systems, while Hunter and Jones were more in charge of engineering and, of course, finance. After a great deal of discussion and planning, they agreed on a design, made a quick run to Home Depot to get their materials, and then called the rest of the boys in to begin building. By 8 am Tuesday morning the Twins had installed a space-age security system complete with a thermal detector, vibration sensors, pressure sensitive floor plating and, of course, lasers. You have to have lasers.
But they weren't done yet, for Koskos is renowned to be a wily creature trained in ninja techniques (Canada Style), plus he watches Alias a lot, so no security system could be considered foolproof. The next step, then, was to remove all items of even the most moderate value from their lockers, from Brad Radke's Aveda products to Big LeCroy's American Idol record collection to Littly Nicky Punto's best pair of lifts. Leaving Ron Coomer and Roy Smalley to stand watch at the front door, everybody went home and changed out of their togas into their worst clothes—old sweatshirts and sweatpants and underwear specially designed to hold up to being filled with peanut butter.
Were they perhaps overcautious? For when The Great Koskos arrived—using a series of pullies and cords to dive in through the clubhouse ceiling and wearing a special suit that masked his body temperature, not to mention a laser deflector—he found very little left in the clubhouse to abuse. Everyone's locker was empty. Even Matt LeCroy's old tin crawdad bucket was gone.
But what—what's that there? In Johan Santana's locker, protected by some sort of laser grid? A drink of some sort, a potion maybe, perhaps one of those weird Terry Mulholland health drinks?
With no other mischief left to make, Koskos quickly disabled the security protocols in Santana's locker and reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a can of V-8 juice. He opened the can and poured out just enough fluid to make sure the weight was exact, and quickly switched the can for the mysterious bottle.
Satisfied that some mischief had been managed, Koskos signaled to Vernon Wells, who had been operating the pulleys from above, and was lifted out of the clubhouse.
A few minutes before he was to warm-up, Johan Santana could be seen running into the bullpen where he grabbed Rick Anderson's elbow.
"What is it, Jo? What's wrong?"
Johan Santana looked right and left and then whispered, "Somebody took my mojo."
"What?"
"My mojo. It's gone. There's a can of V-8 in its place!"
Anderson gasped. "That's awful," he exclaimed. "Who would do such a thing?"
"No one on the team," said Santana. "No matter how much they need mojo, they would never take mine."
"But they could sure use some mojo," Andy said.
"True 'dat," sighed Santana.
"Well, we have to find it. Where did you leave it?"
"My locker."
"Your locker?" said Anderson. "But what about Koskos!"
"Joe Nathan installed a security system," protested Johan. "Old Man Mulholland said it was state of the art!"
"No!" cried Anderson. "No security system, no matter how good, can keep out the mighty Koskos! He watches Alias! Weren't you here earlier? Everybody cleaned out their lockers!"
"No!" said Johan, "I was at the nursing home, reading my original poetry to the residents!"
"Oh no!" said Andy. "What are we going to do?"
Johan shook his head frantically. "I don't know. We have to get it back!"
"We can't," said Andy. "There's no time—the game's about to start! We'll never find it in time! Oh, woe is me!"
Johan Santana took a deep breath, straightened, and clapped his hand on his pitching coach's shoulder. "Well," he said determinedly, "I'll just have to pitch without my mojo."
Brave words from a man about to meet his doom, but what else could he do? He said a quick prayer, went in with jaw set and eyes burning with determination, and prepared to meet his fate.
Meanwhile, Rick Anderson quietly spread the word through the Twins dugout, so pretty soon everyone knew what had happened and they were just waiting for the game to end so they could search through Koskos' every orifice for what had been taken. Such focus did not lead to a great game for our boys, but what do you expect, for a great crime had been committed. No one makes Johan Santana give up seven runs in a game—no one.
But do not blame Cordel Koskos. Yes, he had been on the team last year and had known all about Johan Santana's special powers; yes, he had seen the strange bottle many a time, but he did not understand, for of course they have no mojo in Canada. He knew not what he did.
Batling Kurtis gives us Torii the White Sox Killer!
In a recent article in USA Today, Joe Mauer said he would be hosting a party for his friend Justin Morneau's 24th birthday this Sunday at his home—a.k.a. "Hotel Joe." Team Batgirl was able to secure an invitation and took these top secret pictures to share with you. We are very pleased to present:
The guests begin to arrive. "Be careful," Mike Redmond warns. "Joe gets pretty Martha about these parties. Did you bring your toga?"
The happy host! To-GA! To-GA!
Things get pretty crazy as Terry Mulholland pours some carbonated green tea on Matt Guerrier.
The guest of honor arrives and looks skeptically at the toga Mauer throws him.
"You'll wear that toga and LIKE IT!"
"Hey, what the HELL'S that?"
"GODDAMN IT CUDDY! I SAID NO CRAPPY LOVE SONGS!"
Matt LeCroy rolls in! But where's his toga?
"Shout! (Come on now!)"
There's that toga, Matty! A little bit softer now!
"Hey, Joe, this toga party's all right."
"Hey that's great, Justin! Now, let's have a PANTY RAID!"
"AWESOME!"
How did YOU celebrate Justin Morneau's birthday yesterday? Batlings Suzy and Theresa send this lovely photo of their own party. And look, Bobblehead Dougie came!
Weekend Round-Up. Texas at Twins.
Friday, Rangers 9, Twins 6.
Saturday, Rangers 5, Twins 0.
Sunday, Twins 5, Rangers 2.
Batkitty #3 was born in late summer of 2004, perhaps a month before a clubhouse chair in Cleveland looked at Cordel Koskie funny and he beat the living $#!@ out of it. As a result, her perspective on Twins baseball is slightly skewed—she did not know a time when the Twins were not in first place. She remembers dimly a threat from Cleveland, but one that was dispatched quite quickly thanks to a Mulholland-Koskie one-two punch, and from then on all was kitty gravy.
Imagine it. What if you were only around during the second half of our seasons? What if you had never been privy to that horrible era known to Batgirl historians as The Sucking Time? What would you think then? Do you remember last May and June? Or have you blocked it all out? Bullpen meltdowns, ass-bats, Bitch Sox routs, Seth Greisinger, sweeps by the freakin' Devil Rays, series losses to the Royals, the Brewers! Oh, it was awful, and the Twins slipped further and further out of first, while the Bitch Sox climbed their bitchy little way into our proper place atop the AL Central. Oh, it was bad, really bad...in fact, in the overall degree of badness, it was only outshone by the year before when the Twins entered the All-Star break below .500.
You see, if you were a young Batkitten, if all you knew was Johan Santana winning streaks and Joe Nathan automatic-ness and Justin Morneau boom-boom sticks and ever-widening Twins leads in the AL Central, you would be extremely disturbed by events of the past week. I mean, the Twins, they played like ass. Serious ass. We thought it couldn't get much worse than Wednesday's game, when Johan Santana got beat by Big Fat Pee Pee Head Ponson, when the Twins let the Orioles commit three errors and still win the game, when Terry Tiffee and J.C. Romero had simultaneous nervous breakdowns, when Matt LeCroy struck out with two on to end the game. But then it got worse. On Friday, the Twins blew a four-run lead, threw the ball around the park like a bunch of monkeys on Ritalin, and generally looked like Batgirl's tenth grade volleyball team, without the girl-power spirit. Then on Saturday, Kenny Rogers decided to show the Twins what they'd been missing, the Rangers beat up on poor Carlos Silva who'd never done anything to them, and Batkitty #3 was truly despondent.
Oh, you should have seen her. She moped around the house, her ears drooping, her tail between her legs, her fur limp and dull. She looked like Brad Radke after he gave up a homer on an 0-2 pitch today. Really. That bad! And Batgirl and Jeb knew it was time to sit down and explain to her about the Sucking Time.
Well, Batkitty #3 was somewhat upset and confused all morning—up was down and day was night and Justin Morneau was in Triple A. Her confusion continued during the first few innings of today's game as it looked like Chris Young might torture Twins fans and Batkitties for eight or nine innings. And she looked up at us and in her sad eyes we could see the question: "Batgirl? Jeb? Are we in the Sucking Time?"
And Batgirl turned to Jeb and Jeb turned to Batgirl and we looked at each other, our hearts bleeding. We wanted desperately to take Batkitty #3 in our arms and reassure her that we were not, that we would never be in a sucking time again, that her future would be full of glorious Twins victories, that there would never be any extra-inning losses to the Kansas City Royals, but we could not, for life is full of uncertainty, and we cannot keep that from our kitties, no no no, all we can do is love them and try to prepare them the best we can and send them out into the world, hearts full.
I am not saying, by any means, that we are entering a Sucking Time. (I rather hope not, as Wednesday and Friday contained more sucking than Batgirl can really take.) The point is, though, that Batkitties have short memories, especially when they weren't even born when the freakin' Devil Rays took 3 out of 4 at home last year. The point is that sometimes baseball teams suck, for several games in a row. The point is that sometimes, as much as it pains me to admit it, even the Minnesota Twins suck. Sometimes they do it for nearly two months, and they still come back and win the division.
We were just finishing explaining this all to Batkitty #3, our voices hushed and full of import, when Shannon Stewart strode to the plate with two on and hit the snot out of the ball. Batkitty #3 leapt up in the air and started running in circles around the room while Batgirl and Jeb followed close behind.
There was much for a Batkitty to feel good about today—Radke's performance—two runs over seven innings; DJ Cuddles' return to the land of the living, still-yet-further awesomeness by Little Nicky Punto, a nice striking-out-of-the-side by Juan Rincon, a one-two-three inning from Joe Nathan. Why, suddenly, all cylinders were firing again (except perhaps the ones in Lew Ford's knoggin, as he had a rather unfortunate game in center field, but some things are best left unmentioned) and Batkitty #3 had her post-game nap in peace where she dreamt happily of Justin Morneau homeruns. Sleep well, Batkitty #3, and may all your dreams come true.
Goober and Sooz were driving home along 94 this afternoon and passed the Metrodome. At the time, the game was tied at 2 and Shannon Stewart was up with two men on. Sooz said, "Oh, the Twins are playing right now! Let's send them some good vibes." About three seconds later, Shannon Stewart took a Ron Mahay pitch over the left field wall giving the Twins a 5-2 lead and making those some serious good vibes from Sooz... and giving Stewart the Boyfriend of the Day.
Jeb/Lewwww 6, Field/ Readers 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Sooz/ Stewie 4, Batgirl/Joe 2.
There is a movement afoot to have a Boo rally at the Dome tonight. Make your plans below!
Last time on Minnesota Twins: Hottest Chick, Justina Morneau was far and wide declared the hottest chick, with bestest bud Josephine Mauer a distant second. Now, let's look at some of the gals in our second round. Ladies?
Caroline Silva.
Michelle Cuddyer.
Josephina Nathan.
Kylie Lohse.
Terri Mulholland.
Little Nicki Punto.
Shannon Stewart.
Batgirl got a letter from the director of the Minnesota Stroke Foundation. May is Stroke Awareness Month, and the foundation will be auctioning off a truly fabulous baseball quilt that has been signed by all the Twins. (View the quilt here.)
Tickets for the raffle are $2 and can be purchased by calling 763-553-0088 or visiting StrokeMN.Org. The drawing will be June 1.
In addition, the foundation is sponsoring a Strides for Stroke Walk on June 4th at the State Capitol. John Gordon and his wife Nancy will be the honorary walk leaders.
Twins at Baltimore. Orioles 7, Twins 4.
At about 4:30 this afternoon, Jeb, Batgirl, and the Batkitties Three walked (or were carried, depending) into the offices of their friendly neighborhood veterinarian for yet another round in the epic struggle of BG vs. the Batkitty Blackheads. As we checked in, we could not help but hear the loud and mournful howls coming from the back of the building.
Batgirl looked at the vet tech and muttered, "Wow, some kitty's not very happy."
The vet tech glanced around and shook her head. "There are no kitties back there," she said in a low voice, then she pointed us to our room and hurried quickly away.
"That was odd," Jeb said.
"Way odd," said Batgirl.
"Get me out of here," said the Batkitties.
So we all settled down to wait, Batgirl and Jeb comforting the Batkitties who would have none of it, but the howling continued, growing only more agonized. Batgirl could take it no more and she called the vet tech back.
"It seems like someone's really suffering," Batgirl said. "Are you sure no one's back there?"
"Just the doctor," the vet said ominously.
"Um, okay. " Batgirl and Jeb exchanged a look. "You know, it's been kind of a while. Will he be in soon?"
"We'll see," she said darkly, and left.
We waited, and waited, the kitty blackheads growing by the minute. At one point Jeb mused, "I wonder how the Twins game is going?" and Batgirl said cheerfully, "I'm sure it's fine. Guerrier had it all under control!"
Then, a howl to shatter the heavens reverberated through the building. Jeb looked at Batgirl and Batgirl looked at Jeb. It was time to act. We opened the office door and peeked down the hallway, but saw no sign of the vet tech. Jeb nodded at Batgirl—"you check it out," he said. "I'll take care of the Batkitties."
So, using her stealth powers, Batgirl crept down the hallway, peering into room after room, and at first everything seemed normal. She kept going, slowly, carefully. Then, there was an earsplitting wail, as if some creature was getting his very soul torn out, and Batgirl took off in the direction of the noise—the surgery wing.
She tore open the door, expecting to have to unleash a can of serious Batwhupass, but there was no one in the room. All was silent. But there, huddled in the corner was a man—the doctor, holding himself and shaking.
Batgirl ran over. "Dr. Batvet!" she said. "What is it? What's wrong?"
But he did not respond, he just kept rocking. That's when Batgirl noticed the headphones attached to his ears. Quickly, she disengaged them, and carefully placed them near her own ears.
What happened next is something of a blur. There was Dazzle, and Gordo was there, too. Batgirl heard the words "J.C. Romero," and "bases loaded" and "walk" and "Crazy-ass-Tiffee-throw," and soon, she understood what had happened to poor Dr. Batvet. She put the headphones down and crouched next to the vet.
"Dr. Batvet?" she said in a calm voice. "Dr. Batvet? I need you to listen to me." She put her hand on his arm. "It's going to be okay, Dr. Batvet, it is."
His eyes widened and he shook his head in some combination of disbelief and horror.
"Okay, maybe it's not going to be okay today. But that's okay. We lose games. Sometimes, you know, things happen…"
At this point, something seemed to shift inside the vet. His eyes narrowed and his face twisted up into something terrible. "Things happen?" he hissed. "Things HAPPEN!" He shook his head violently. "Johan Santana does not give up four runs. That does not just HAPPEN."
"I know, but—"
"And we do not get shut down by Sidney Fat Ass Ponson. That does not just HAPPEN."
"Well, we didn't really—"
"It doesn't just HAPPEN that Matt Guerrier puts two on to start the 8th in a tie game. And it doesn't just HAPPEN that J.C. Romero then gives up a single and a walk! I mean, the bases were loaded, and then there were two outs. And then…and then…Terry Tiffee…he…well…oh god, oh god…"
Something changed in Dr. Batvet then, his voice cracked and his anger dissolved in a fit of tears. Batgirl sighed and put her arm around the vet and he collapsed in sobs.
"There, there," Batgirl said soothingly.
"Oh god, it was so awful."
"I know, I know."
"I can't get the screaming out of my head. THEY WON'T STOP SCREAMING!"
"There, there."
"PLEASE BATGIRL MAKE IT STOP!"
Pretty soon, Jeb and the Batkitties Three came looking for Batgirl and found the pair still huddled in a corner. Batgirl mouthed to Jeb, "Orioles 7, Twins 4," and Jeb just nodded heavily. As for the Batkitties, well, they were not disturbed, for they had been down this road before and had seen many late-inning losses, many bullpen meltdowns, many spastic rookie throws, and they knew there would be many more in the future, for that is the way of baseball, but their job right now was to not to beat their kitty chests over what might have been, but rather to find the damn tranquilizers, dose the vet (and possibly Batgirl and Jeb if necessary), and get the hell out of there.
Looking to kill time before today's 2pm start? Play kw's Batkitty Detective
Twins at Baltimore. Twins 6, Orioles 4. (10 Innings.)
Early in the broadcast of today's game, Marney Gellner did a piece on Little Nicky Punto and his new ascension to the starting second baseman job. According to Gardy, Punto would keep his position as long as he did the little things right.
Well, naturally, the little things are what Little Nicky Punto does best. Why, just yesterday I found him in my backyard wrestling the garden gnomes to the ground, and you should have seen what he did to the pixies. (I hate pixies.) After his fight, he curled up in a little tulip and fell asleep. I was able to feed him water by folding together a rose petal and sliding the dew drops into his little mouth.
But it's not just the pixies that Little Nicky Punto has been hurting. Today, he continued his tiny rampage over Major League Baseball, using his small ball skills to drive the Orioles to distraction—much like a mosquito or a gnat, or even one of those damned pixies.
LNP's heroics began in the first inning tonight. The Twins were facing Erik Bedard, who had allowed exactly one earned run in his last three starts, and especially after the whole Daniel Cabrera/anal probe episode yesterday, it seemed runs might be hard to come by tonight. So when Shannon Stewart led off with a hard hit ball past third that was probably a double though it was scored an error, it seemed we needed to seize that opportunity, for they would be hard to come by tonight. And then, up came LNP who laid a bunt down the first base line to advance Stewie to 3rd with no outs. Really, it was a beautiful bunt, perhaps the most beautiful bunt in the history of the world not executed by Derek Jeter. In case you did not see it, here...a reenactment:
Stewie would eventually score the first run of the game after an RBI single straight up the middle by Justin Morneau, and you could feel the waves of relief over Twins Territory, for we had Brad Radke on the mound, he was still glowing from his awesome Cupcake Day performance, and for once he had a lead. A lead! Even better than that, he retired the side in the first inning (for—hold your breath, sports fans—the SECOND GAME IN A ROW), with help in thanks to a hustling foul ball catch by, of course, LNP.
Then, in the second inning, Miguel "He Hurts Us Lots" Tejada led off with a single, then Rafael Palmerio hit a long fly to deep center and Miggy decided to advance. Hunter's throw to second was a little late, but in fielding it, Little Nicky rolled backwards into a headstand and it was totally freaking cool. Like this:
In the game thread, someone mentioned she'd read a quote from Radke where he said he didn't like pitching with a lead because he felt so much pressure to hold it. Perhaps that is why, with Miggy on second, he served up such a perfect gopher ball to Javy Lopez—I mean BatMom could have hit that, and she's been strictly pitching in the AL.
In fact, the O's hit three homers off Radke today—and it began to seem like it would be another long game. The Twins rallied, though, with a run in the fifth that was created by—wait for it—Matthew LeCroy's hustle. Big LeRoy led off the inning with a walk, which is his favorite way to get to first. The only problem with walking is sometimes the next batter will hit a sharp grounder that looks like a double play, only Melvin Mora throws the ball into right field and for some reason, Newmie tells you to keep going past second, all the way to third base even though every Twins fan is speechless with horror and you are speechless too because you've never run that far in your life. But you try, you do, for you love this team and you will give it your all even if it kills you. And the crazy thing is, you make it, you do, and you're still alive, though barely—and you are desperately trying to catch your breath but then Michael Cuddyer hits a fly to short center, and you know he totally could have put a little more on the ball but he didn't, just to spite you, and you can barely breathe but you have to lug your way home because, really, it is a sac fly and any normal person would be able to score on that fly, and so you better try as well even though you are not a normal person, you are Matthew LeCroy. And the miracle of it all is you do score, you do, and you have just enough time to be happy about it before you pass out and have to be given oxygen.
But that is not the point. The point is that the Twins created another run in the 7th (Sweetcheeks walk, Big LeRoy single, Ford Focus sac fly) and suddenly it was 4-3 and there was a chance—just a chance—we could come back and win this thing. But only by doing the little things right…
The O's put in Jorge Julio, who had the kindness not to throw at anyone's head this time, and Julio got Shannon Stewart out on a fly ball. Little Nicky Punto then hit a grounder to second, and ran his little heart out all the way up the first base line and dove head first into the base.
Safe.
It was gutsy, crazy, and dare I say, super, but it was only a tiny hint of what was to come. The O's brought in their closer, and Chairman Mauer came to bat with the clear intention of bunting LNP over, but soon he had two strikes on him, so Little Nicky decided to take off for second all by his little self.
Then B.J Ryan threw a wild pitch and though Mauer threw up a frantic "stay" signal, Punto made a 90 foot dive to third.
A Chairman sac fly later, and the game was tied.
After the deficit had been made up, Little Nicky Punto was content to let others have the glory. Jesse Crain had two on in the 8th but then retired six in a row, and in the 10th it was time for Jacque Jones and Shannon Stewart to bring out their big guns. It was a great win, the kind of win you remember well into the season, and Little Nicky could just watch happily, secure in the knowledge that, in his small way, he had saved the day.
My god. What is a B.O.D.S.H.C. to do? So many B.O.D.-worthy performances, just one B.O.D. I mean, what about Jesse Crain, pitching his Juan Rinconiest in the 8th and 9th holding the extremely potent (and not just potent like Palmerio) O's offense. Or Jacque Jones, pinch hitting in the tenth inning, working an 0-2 count to 3-2, then lofting the next pitch into the center field seats, giving the Twins a 5-4 lead? Or Little Nicky Punto, for running his little heart out in the 8th inning, singlehandedly creating the tying run and not injuring himself doing it? And then there's the Team Batgirl Boyfriends (TBB's) with an RBI apiece…the Doctor in the first with two outs giving the Twins a lead against a pitcher who doesn't give up a lot of runs, Lew a sac fly in the 7th making it a one run game, the Chairman for simply gorgeous situational hitting as LNP made his way around the bases, and Stewie for putting the nail in the coffin with his homer in the 10th. When the ball went off Stewie's bat, exactly one pitch after Jones's homer, the game suddenly seemed very over. You could just feel all the spirit going out of the O's little hearts and for that, with a generous nod to LNP, Batgirl is giving Shannon Stewart the Boyfriend of the Day.
Jeb/Lewwww 6, Field/ Readers 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Sooz/ Stewie 3, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Now, Batgirl's not quite ready to write the obituary of the New York Yankees just yet, but if she were she'd have plenty of background material. Two very long, and extremely interesting dissections of the origins of the Yankees' current woes have appeared in the last couple of days. Both present a desperate and out of touch owner, and a frustrated and worn out organization.
In an article titled Rotting From Inside Out, the New York Post dissects the structural and ideological flaws in the organization.
At ESPN.com, Buster Olney publishes an epilogue to his book, The Last Night of the Yankee Dynasty, which traces the continual downfall of the team since the World Series of 2001.
Fascinating reading.
Twins at Baltimore. Orioles 3, Twins 0.
Justin Morneau just wasn't looking his normal self when he arrived at the park today. While the slugger has never been exactly effervescent, this afternoon he seemed unusually wan and lifeless. Even his curls were limp. Gardy noticed it right away.
"Hey, Shirley Temple," asked Gardy. "You okay?"
"Um," said Morneau, "I guess. I just didn't sleep well last night."
"Is something wrong? You did such a good job with Canadian Mother's Day…"
"I know, I know," said Morneau. "I just, well, I had the strangest dreams…."
""Okay, well, try to get yourself together. We've got a game to win."
"Oh, I will…"
But when Joe Mauer arrived at the Camden Yards visitors clubhouse, it was the same thing. The Chairman had big bags under his eyes and his sideburns looked strangely uneven.
"You okay?" asked Gardy.
"Yeah," said Mauer laconically. "Not a lot of sleep."
"Huh," said Gardy.
One by one, the players began to filter in looking listless and pale. By the time Shannon Stewart arrived in the clubhouse, six hours after he usually begins his pre-game warm-up, Gardy knew something was certainly up. Every player he asked complained of feeling tired, of strange dreams—with the exception of Terry Mulholland who said he had been sleeping like a baby ever since he cut all white food from his diet.
Gardy called Steve Liddle into his office and the two had a quick consultation.
"Did Lew have them up all night playing Doom again?" asked Liddle.
"I dunno," said Gardy.
"Did LeCroy fix them all some bad crawdads?" asked Liddle.
"I dunno," said Gardy.
"Did Radke loan out some bum styling gel?"
"I dunno," said Gardy.
The mystery deepened during batting practice, when the players could barely make contact with the ball. Suspecting something was seriously wrong, Liddle got the Camden Yards organist—a 104-year-old woman named Dolly Longbottom—to pitch some BP, but the players had no more success against her.
"You know," said Gardy, "I think there's something really strange going on here. Something…supernatural."
Liddle sighed. "Oh, Gardy," he said. "Not again."
"Open your mind up to extreme possibilities, Stevie," said Gardy. "Just because something is improbable doesn't make it impossible."
So, Gardy quickly called a team meeting. "Now, boys," he said, "It seems most of you had some trouble sleeping last night."
"Not me!" chirped Mulholland.
"But the rest of you," said Gardy. "Now, I'd like you guys to talk a little bit about your experiences—"
Suddenly, a gasp came from the corner of the clubhouse. Little Nicky Punto stood up quickly and pointed at Juan Castro. "YOU WERE THERE!" he said.
"What?" Gardy stood at attention. "Little Nicky Punto, what is it?"
"I dreamt that I was in a strange place," said Little Nicky Punto. "A dark room. It was very cold. And Juanie, he was there, too, he was—"
"LYING ON A BED!" said Jacque Jones. "He was lying on a bed!"
"Not a bed," said Torii Hunter. "A table. A metallic table. And I was on one too, and—"
"Mi tambien!" said Carlos Silva. "Y El Doctoro, y El Presidente, y Junior Spiffee, y Pequeno Nicky Punto!"
"You see?" Gardy turned to Liddle. "The boys were clearly abducted by aliens."
"But Gardy," Liddle sighed, "they're clearly suffering under some mass hysteria. This is very common. One person hears another person's dream and it influences his memory and soon you have a group of people thinking they've shared some sort of otherworldly experience when they're simply creating a collective delusion. You're looking for a supernatural explanation when maybe there was just something strange in the hotel flan."
"No," said Gardy. "I've seen trouble with flan before, and this ain't it."
Well, pretty soon it was game time and the Minnesota Twins, such as they were, readied themselves to play baseball. And in the first inning, it seemed they might be their normal selves—Shannon Stewart got a base hit to start off the game, then after an LNP strike out, Joe Mauer moved Stewie over to 2nd, then Doctor Morneau walked. But then, Torii Hunter grounded out to end the inning and Gardy let out a long sigh and turned to Liddle.
"Probably got an anal probe," he said.
After that, whatever had happened to the Twins the night before began to catch up with them. O's pitcher Daniel Cabrera, who had far better stuff than Dolly Longbottom (though Dolly is a far better organist than Mr. Cabrera) pitched a symphony of a game, forcing the Twins to strike out, pop out, ground out, or foul out depending which outcome seemed most aesthetically pleasing to him at the time.
It was in the seventh inning, after Cabrera put two on and then struck out the side swinging, that Little Nicky Punto remembered something else about his dream. As soon as the game was over, he went to tell Gardy.
"Daniel Cabrera," Little Nicky Punto whispered. "He was there, too. Last night."
"On the tables?" asked Gardy.
"No. He was walking around the room. He was wearing a surgeon's mask and talking to these other guys, I don't know who they were, but they were really weird. Sort of green looking, and not like the Doctor after he got hit in the head."
Gardy gasped. "I can't believe it!"
"It's true," said LNP.
"God, that makes me so mad!" said Gardy. "It's one thing to totally dominate my boys and shut them out for the first time in a year. It's another thing altogether to get aliens to kidnap them and give them anal probes."
"Gardy," said Liddle, "look, sometimes we just get beat. Cabrera, man, he was on fire! Those pitches, no one could hit those. It was like he was from outer space—"
"Exactly," Gardy said. "Exactly."
Weekend Round-Up. Twins at Tampa Bay.
Friday. Twins 7, Devil Rays 1.
Saturday. Twins 8, Devil Rays 1.
Sunday. Twins 9, Devil Rays 6.
It may seem surprising to you, but in the great foreign land of Canada they observe many of the same holidays that we do in the good old U.S. of A. Christmas. Halloween. Quebec National Day. And of course, Mother's Day.
The holiday isn't really the same in the great Northland as it is here—instead of breakfast in bed, children generally bequeath their mother with raw moose and instead of giving flowers they make bouquets from whole maple trees they've ripped out of the ground and instead of fancy dinners families meet over streams and pluck salmon out of the waters with their bare hands. And then, of course, there is the ceremonial Mother's Day Bashing the Crap Out Of The Baseball.
This tradition first came to be during Mother's Day of 1906, somewhere in the mountains of Saskatchewan. A recent band of Greek émigrés had settled near there and over the years had come to observe the holiday by some friendly mother-against-mother competition, reviving some of the ancient sports of their homeland. Sociologists have held up that tribe's Mother's Day festivities as a model of a group of immigrants absorbing the culture of their new homeland while still honoring the heritage of the old, but the truth is the mothers themselves desperately wanted to beat the maple-flavored baklava out of one another. Soon, the Mother's Day Games became the focus of the entire calendar year, and what was once a friendly competition slowly began to tear this band of Greek Canadians in two. The two teams, the Mule Deer and the Musk Ox (or the Mule Deers and the Musk Oxes depending on whom you asked. This tribe was not known for its consistency in rules of usage.) began to live apart from each other and if a Mule Deer should cross a Musk Ox on the path, she might be known to spit.
That fateful year, the clan elders had decreed that the weekend would be given over to a game of the once-thriving ancient Greek sport of bakbal. The mothers began their training in earnest, much trash was talked, and one player who failed at a bunt attempt during a scrimmage was fed to a group of nearby polar bears.
So, it was Mother's Day evening and the Mule Deer and the Musk Ox had been playing fiercely all day, so fiercely in fact that the game had been tied for six or seven hours. Dusk settled across the land and the Mule Deer mothers suggested the Musk Ox mothers might wish to surrender immediately lest they begin lactating from strain and the Mule Deer mothers suggested the Musk Ox mothers might try to put up or shut up and that they were really lacking in the breastage region.
The details of what happened next are somewhat unclear—there was some staring into dugouts, a hit batter or two, some words exchanged at home plate, and then before anyone knew what had happened, the mothers had rushed onto the field and began pounding the maple leafs out of each other.
Hair was pulled. Legs were bitten. Breasts were twisted. And the townsfolk, instead of trying to stop the fracas, stood on the sidelines and cheered. (Thus birthing another Canadian sport, though one that came to be played on ice.)
There was one boy, though, who was not cheering. This boy, a young lad with a sensitive heart and beautiful blond curly hair rather like that of a china doll, watched the mother-on-mother violence with horror. Tears streamed down his face as he watched his own mother knee another woman in the teeth. Then, something inside him snapped. Without a thought, he ran up to the press box, grabbed the PA mike, and shouted:
"STOP! STOP!"
His normally angelic voice was fraught with anguish, it carried over the whole field and one by one the mothers heard the tortured cries of this cherubic child and unclenched teeth, loosened hair, unhanded breasts and looked up at the boy.
"You must stop this!" he shouted. "Mother's Day isn't about fighting. It isn't about hate or trash talking or mother-against-mother. Mother's Day is about family, about tradition, about love, and about eating raw moose! Don't you see?"
And then the young lad took the bakbal ball and hit it all the way to Nunavut.
Well, needless to say, pretty soon the women were all hugging and crying and apologizing and after that, Mother's Day was a peaceful and loving time again in the mountains of Saskatchewan. But every year just as dusk settled over the region, a boy ran to the tallest peak and hit the crap out of the baseball—and soon the tradition spread all over the great land of Canada, as a reminder of both our basest instincts and of our higher selves.
So, this weekend, as young Justin Morneau hit the ball from Tampa Bay to Nunavit over and over again, he was doing it not just for the Minnesota Twins, not just for his mother, but for mothers everywhere, and for a little boy a century ago who had the courage to stand up and say, "I love you, Mom. Now, stop twisting Mrs. Koskos's boobie."
Jeb/Lewwww 6, Field/ Readers 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 4, Sooz/ Stewie 2, Batgirl/Joe 2.
A tough one today, but the B.O.D. by-laws specifically state that the award goes to that boyfriend who most contributes to the Twins win. Batgirl recalls feeling tense and displeased, what with the whole no-no thing and all, until the 5th inning when the Twins Offensive Onslaught began. But things got all tense again when, after the Twins scored two runs, they suddenly found themselves with two outs and the bases loaded, and things looked dire. But the Batlings in the game thread linked arms and Lew Ford came to bat and hit a bases loaded double, for the third and fourth runs of the game. And that little bit of offensive clutchitude gave the Twins a 3-run lead and makes Lew Ford the Boyfriend of the Day.
Special boyfriend props to JustinCredible for a very nice job as, um, defensive replacement and to Naked Batting Practice, even though he was clothed.
Jeb/Lewwww 6, Field/ Readers 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 3, Sooz/ Stewie 2, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Your Boyfriend of the Day.
Jeb/Lewwww 5, Field/ Readers 5, Goober/Dr. Morneau 3, Sooz/ Stewie 2, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Due to server problems, the game thread will be temporarily hosted off-site. This is a temporary fix. Let's see how it works.
Cleveland at Twins. Twins 9, Toons 0.
One day, long long ago, a young Goober was riding his red dirt bike from the park to the BatFamily Manse, perhaps with a Hoth Han Solo in his pocket, when he had a startling realization: Someday, he said to himself, it is going to be 8/8/88. And that is going to be super cool. (We cannot establish the exact time of this epiphany, but we feel for certain that it was somewhere between July 7, 1977 and August 8, 1988.) There and then, Goober decided that when that singular day came about, he would celebrate in the best way he knew how—by eating a cupcake. Thus was launched Cupcake Day.
Now, when 8/8/88 rolled around, Goober was off on some wilderness adventure and he forgot all about Cupcake Day. (Even if he had remembered, they don't have cupcakes in the wilderness, and if you do happen to find one, you totally do not want to eat it. ) It was not until somewhere around 10/21/92 (though that is only an approximation) that Goober remembered Cupcake Day and the lost dreams of his youth, and he vowed that on 9/9/99 he would honor the day as God intended.
Only he forgot again. He then proceeded to forget Cupcake Day on 1/1/01, 2/2/02, 3/3/03, and 4/4/04 and he probably would have gone on forgetting had he not shared his childhood vision with Sooz earlier this year. Sooz promptly marked her calendar—and thus Cupcake Day, once a glimmer in a young boy's imagination, became a glorious reality.
But Goober was not the only man to live a long-deferr'd dream today, for surely Mr. Brad Radke had once, as a starry-eyed child with big bouffant-y hair and an Endor Han Solo in his pocket , looked at the heavens and said, "Someday it will be 5/5/05, and on that day I will pitch as though I have been touched by the gods, and then I will have a cupcake."
I do not know if today Brad Radke remembers that young child with a dream of pitching domination and delicious chocolaty cupcakes, but I believe that child was inside him today, though perhaps not in the same way as the cupcake. As Radke strode out to the mound in the ninth with a two-hit shutout and a Santana-esque line for the game, fans at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome (including Goober and Batgirl, thanks to the awesome generosity of some BatFriends) were on their feet applauding as if Brad Radke had invented Cupcake Day, nay invented the cupcake itself.
But what he'd done was better than cupcakes—yes, I said it—a virtuoso performance that showed us all why Johan Santana is our number-two starter, on a day that the Twins desperately needed a reminder that they are the ones to beat in the division. A much-loved teammate had had a crisis this week, the weight of which was borne by the entire team as they struggled through the first two games of this series. Both games could have easily been won, both were rather depressingly lost by an ineffectual and seemingly disengaged offense that turned every at bat with runners in scoring position into a mini-lesson on the major tenets of nihilism. [BG—ixnay on the osophyphilay! It's Cupcake Day!—Goober.]
And today, well, it seemed it might go the same way, for as masterfully as Brad Radke was pitching, the Twins batters were flaming out—we had runners in scoring position in each of the first three innings, with no score to show for it.
Now, perhaps one day, long ago, there was a young boy with a terrible
