With our infielders going down like flies, and with the whole sucking time thing, Twins fans the world over cannot help but look forward to the return of Little Nicky Punto (Tiny Superhero!) In fact, Batgirl saw this sign on her drive yesterday:
BG has been able to snap a few pictures of various people looking forward to the return of LNP. Can you tell her what they're thinking?
From AP:
Texas Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers shoved two cameramen Wednesday, sending one to the hospital in a videotaped tirade that included throwing a camera to the ground and threatening to break others.Rogers, who missed his last start for the struggling Rangers with a broken pinky he suffered during an outburst earlier this month, erupted at the cameramen as they filmed him walking to the field for pregame stretching before Wednesday night's game against the Los Angeles Angels.
The 40-year-old left-hander first shoved Fox Sports Net Southwest photographer David Mammeli, telling him: ``I told you to get those cameras out of my face.''
Rogers then approached a second cameraman. He wrestled the camera from Larry Rodriguez of Dallas-Fort Worth television station KDFW, threw it to the ground and kicked it.
The 6 foot 1, 210-pound pitcher saw two other cameramen who were recording from the Rangers' dugout and walked toward them. He did not make contact with the men, who were backing away.
``I'll break every ... one of them,'' Rogers said before he was escorted to the clubhouse by catcher Rod Barajas.
Kansas City at Twins. Royals 3, Twins 1.
After Tuesday's game, Juan Castro could be found huddled in a corner of the Twins clubhouse. As is well known, Joe Mays cannot stand to see a teammate upset, so he promptly went over to try to cheer him up. It used to be that Mays would use physical humor to help break the ice in such situations, until late last July when he did his famous orangutan-mating-dance imitation for one rather blue looking Doug Mientkiewicz, who promptly kicked Mays in the nads and then started weeping uncontrollably.
Well, so, this time, Mays opted to approach Castro more gently; he sat down next to the veteran infielder and convivially slapped him on the back.
At which point Juan Castro let out a girlie scream to the high heavens and ran from the room.
"That was weird," said Mays. "Huh. Well, better go tell Gardy all about my new pregame routine."
Before the game Wednesday, Castro reported that he'd been experiencing dizzy spells and would be unable to play. Gardy took one look at him and said, "Yeah, man, you look like hell." Gardy clapped him on the shoulder avuncularly, at which point Castro turned green and passed out.
"That was weird," said Gardy. "Huh. Well, better go try to hide from Mays."
Well, no one had too much time to focus on Castro, as the Twins had a game to play. It takes a lot of concentration to drop the ball all the time and blow so many scoring opportunities.
No one heard anything from Juan Castro at all, in fact, 'til the seventh inning when Hector Carrasco beaned Michael Cuddyer in the wrist, and a strange keening noise came from the clubhouse. Gardy found Castro in a blithering heap on the floor.
"Juanie, I know you're not feeling well, but I need you to go in. Cuddy was hurt, and you have to run for him."
But Castro just shook his head violently. "No!" he said. "No! I'm not going out there!"
"What is it Juanie?" Gardy said. "What's wrong?"
"The curse has come upon me!" wailed Castro.
Well, Gardy's not a dumb man, and pretty soon he was able to put two and two together.
"Oh," he said. "You're scared because we're going through infielders like pancakes!"
"YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS!" screamed Castro.
Yes, Gardy had hit the nail on the head. Juan Castro was scared because they were going through infielders like pancakes. And not thick, buttermilky pancakes, either, but the kind of crepe-like pancake that is as light and thin as a butterfly's ass. For the events of the past months had caused Juan Castro to wonder: could the stories he had heard as a child been more than myths?
The evidence was mounting. First Brent Abernathy mysteriously disappeared from the active roster, then something ate Little Nicky Punto. Then Rivas went down, and then yesterday Glenn "Who?" Williams succumbed. Coinkidink? I think not. By the time Michael Cuddyer was making his way into the training room holding his wrist, Castro knew—it was all true, every horrible world.
"Gardy, you cannot put me out there," Castro yelled. "I am only one man, and El Monstruo, he cannot be stopped."
Gardy stopped. "What the $@*! is El Monstruo?"
"You do not know of El Monstruo?" He looked around the room quickly, then turned back to Gardy and whispered, "Back in my home village, we told stories of a horrible creature who preys on infielders. I used to think it was just a story, something to give young boys nightmares, but now, I am beginning to believe. I am afraid, Gardy. I am afraid of El Monstruo. We cannot stop his terrible mission. Once he begins eating a team's infielders, he will not stop until he has gone through the whole organization. He mostly comes at night. Mostly."
Representation by Natalie Dee.
"El Monstruo came into being when the Chupacabra mated with George Steinbrenner. He is merciless, and his appetite insatiable. You saw what he did to the Mets. Oh, Gardy, we’re all doomed. Doomed!"
Gardy scratched his head. "Um, Juan?"
"Well that's great, that's just $@$%!*' great man. Now what the *@$% are we supposed to do? We're in some real pretty $#!% now man..."
"Juan?"
"That's it man, game over man, game over!"
"Excuse me...Juan?"
"Yes, Gardy?"
"Get the hell out there and play ball."
Today is the 100th anniversary of Moonlight Graham's one game in the majors. As anyone who's seen Field of Dreams knows (and if you haven't, why the heck not?) Graham never got to bat, he retired from baseball, became a doctor in Chisholm, and turned into Burt Lancaster. According to this wonderful article, this one time Hollywood wasn't that far off.
Thanks to Jason T. for sending the article
Kansas City at Twins. Twins 11, Royals 8.
Batgirl tries so hard not to devote this site to her personal problems; she has a higher mission. Surely you do not care about her splinters, her blisters, her phalange. But sometimes her personal problems are so great that they interfere with her solemn blogging duties.
In other words, BG is still on Moldovan time, and finds herself overcome with an incredible desire to crawl into the BatBed at about 8pm. It's all quite strange, as--while Batgirl expressly disavows any relationship with nocturnal flying mammals of the order Chiroptera, as she is only a Batgirl in the sense that she is a girl who is employed by a baseball team to look after their equipment, (and by "looking after their equipment," one means, of course, sassing)—BG normally keeps rather nocturnal hours. Thus allowing her to look after her team's equipment well into the wee hours.
But now she is dazed, confused, exhausted, perpetually dehydrated, suffering from a rather unpleasant case of indigestion, and around 7 o'clock every night begins to slip slowly into unconsciousness. In other words, Batgirl has become quite sympathetic to the Kansas City Royals pitching staff.
It is a well-known fact that it supposed to take as many days to recover from your jet lag as time zones you have traveled across. It is a lesser known fact that it is supposed to take as many days to recover from your suck lag as runs you have let in by your pure incompetence.
I mean, first you've got starting pitcher J.R. Howell, who it seems like the Royals called up to give Zack Grienke someone to play Star Wars guys with. In three innings, Howell gives up six hits, four walks, and five earned runs. That's going to set him back at least 'til Sunday. Unfortunately for Howell, Sunday is his next scheduled start, so it's quite likely the cycle will start all over again.
After Howell came Mike "Knock on" Wood, who, while he gave up five hits over two innings, walked only one and allowed just two runs—thus looking like Cy Young in comparison. Less successful was Andrew "Please Make The Giant-Man Go Away" Sisco, who got to earned runs over one inning without giving up a hit. By the time Leo Nunez and Ryan Jensen got done doing the voodoo that they do, the Royals pitching staff had walked eight batters, which is exactly eight more than the Twins pitching staff.
The Twins pitchers managed to give up runs the old-fashioned way—by letting the Royals hit the crap out of the ball. Our first two pitchers had a suck lag of their own, before various people whose names start with "J" came in and stopped the bleeding. Poor Carlos was more Crapal than Jackal tonight and Terry Mulholland, well, apparently had too much carbonated green tea. Something is deeply wrong when the Royals pitching staff walks 84 batters, but we still can't put the game away 'til the 7th, when Jesse Crain stepped up and said, "I am Jesse Crain, and I've never suffered a day of jet lag in my life."
So, yes, we had some suck lag today. It happens. Unfortunately, it happens to the Royals pitchers every single day of their lives. It's not their fault—there's a lot of talent there, but most of them aren't even old enough to throw a curve ball yet. I don't know what's worse—being twenty-two-year-old J.R. Howell, who was just from the minor leagues untimely ripp'd, and forced to endure this agony because the club never bothered to get any real pitchers for the starting rotation, or to be Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble and to be deemed unworthy of said rotation.
So, boys, Batgirl feels your pain. She really does. And she's done some research into the issue. Drink plenty of water. Eat lots of protein. Don't take naps. Get some sunlight—melanin is good for you! Just try to adjust your body gradually. Be patient. It will take time, but we'll get there. We'll get there.
Dearest Mr.Shannon Stewart,
Batgirl has feelings that she would best like to express in song.
(Clearing throat)
'Cause you came and you took control
You touch my very soul
You always showed me that
Loving you is where it's at
You made me so very happy
I'm so glad you came into my life
Thank you baby!
You make me so very happy
I'm so glad you came into my life
You made me so very happy
You made me so very happy, baby
I'm so glad you came
Into my life
Love,
BG
Field/Readers 14, Sooz/Stewie 9, Jeb/Lewwww 8, Goober/Dr. Morneau 5, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Kansas City at Twins. Twins 3, Royals 1.
The BatQuarters is closed for renovations, so BG and Jeb have been watching the games a casa Batgirl. Tonight we sat down on the BatCouch with our carbonated green tea and soy puffs, gathered the BatKitties Three, and prepared to watch our boys fight for their honor against the Kansas City Landed Gentry (name shamelessly stolen from infield). We turned on our specially-crafted TwinsTron 3000, which uses space age technology to stream all our Twins-related content—from TV to radio to the Interweb—directly to us. But just as the game was about to begin, we heard a curious rumbling in the distance—no, not a giant sucking sound coming from the Metrodome, but something else. Quickly we turned on the weather, and what we saw chilled us to the bone:
Then--with a flash and a crash!--lightening hit the BatPhalange, then there was a crackling sound from the TwinsTron, a strange, almost human-sounding moan, and then it all went dark.
The TwinsTron 3000 was dead.
A terrible silence filled the house, then Jeb hightailed it to the engineering room while Batgirl started rocking steadily.
"Fire up the backup generators!" screamed Batgirl.
"I don't have enough power!" called Jeb. "The whole house will fly apart!"
"Fly her apart, then!" screamed Batgirl.
But it was no use. Casa Batgirl was without the Twins game. Batgirl sat in a corner shaking and whimpering, while Jeb paced nervously. BatKitty #1 began gnaw slowly on BatKitty #3.
"You know what we can do?" said Jeb, finally. "We can use Legovision."
"Wh-wh-what do you mean?" asked Batgirl. "We can't do Legovision unless we've seen the game."
Jeb grabbed Batgirl's hands and looked into her eyes. "The Legos will show us the way."
And so they did.
Batgirl and Jeb field the Legos.
A couple minutes passed.
"By this time," said Jeb, arranging the middle infielders, "Castro and Rodriguez surely have recorded four outs."
The Twins' shortstop and second baseman getting four outs in one half-inning.
"My BatSense tells me that Torii's at the plate," said Batgirl some time later as the rain turned briefly to hail outside.
Hunter takes his first at bat.
Torii has a great at bat, seeing many pitches. Finally he says to pitcher Zack Grienke, "there's something I must tell you..."
"......I'm not left handed."
A hit up the middle!
Jacque comes to the plate.
"Wait," interupted Jeb, "I may not have BatSense, but a crick in my trick knee tells me Captain Cheeseburger is near!"
C.C. Sabathia appears in the Metrodome stands.
"Someone warn Little Nicky Punto!"
"We can't," Jeb replied, "our phone is dead!"
"Wait, LNP's in Rochester."
"Thank God..."
"But what's this?! The Captain's beaned Torii Hunter from the stands! Now that's dastardly!" cried Jeb.
"You bet your sweet ass, it is."
Jacque scores Torii, who had advanced to second on a C.C. Sabathia beanball from the stands.
Thunder boomed outside Casa Batgirl.
"Right about now Zack Greinke should be getting a phone call," said Batgirl.
"My thoughts exactly."
"Um, spacephone's for you, Zack."
"Jeez, ma, I asked you to not call me when I'm playing with the big guys. ...Ya, I know there's lightning, but... I know, but... ...But I'm inside a dome, ma... ....Oh, come on... ....I know... ...Okay..."
Greinke has to leave the game after the 6th.
"Hmm, I'm going to try to adjust the receiver on the TwinsTron using an algorithm derived from the Greis-integer," said Jeb, "I'll need to go work on the generator for a few minutes."
By this time, they'll be playing Dodgeball for a chance to win a totally awesome lease on a pickup, thought Batgirl...
Gardy: Hey, that Dodge is horribly dusty. Just filthy!
Mauer, Morneau...get out there and dust off that truck with your shirts! I want it spotless!
Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau work together to clean every inch of the truck, shirtless and glistening...
"I'm back," said Jeb, "what'd I miss?"
"Nothing! I was just setting up for the Twins' at bat!"
Aussie Glenn Williams comes to the plate with the bases loaded. Up 2-1, the Twins could sure use an insurance run.
"What's this?" said Jeb, "Williams has squared up to bat cricket style!"
Williams readies for the bowler's delivery.
I say, a fine straight bat loft! Justin Morneau scores! Twins lead, 3-1.
No one seems to have told Lew Ford the rules of cricket.
"Too bad, Batgirl, Lew's been caught off the popping crease for an out."
"Lew, caught off guard? Now you're just getting unrealistic, Jeb."
Field/Readers 14, Jeb/Lewwww 8, Sooz/ Stewie 8, Goober/Dr. Morneau 5, Batgirl/Joe 2.
Batling PJStP comes out of lurkerville to remind us of this poem by Rudyard Kipling, another noted Twins fan.
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs
and can only complain and whine;
If you can answer firmly to nay sayers
Yet acknowledge that these are the sucking times.If you can stop yourself from extending current numbers
That would make the Bitch Sox greatest team by far;
While double plays keep coming with bases loaded
And Dan and Gordo cannot name a star.If the Umpire Man is found to be blind and stupid
And bloop singles fall only for the other team;
And you watch the game surrounded by the cheese heads
Yet somehow manage not to make a scene.If your old Boyfriend keeps slugging for the Bad Guys
And Pierzinski is now your personal Big Hurt;
Yet you can smile and say, “look, it’s cousin Charlie!”;
When the postgame highlights feature “Circle Me Bert”If Batgirl leaves for foreign parts unfettered
And the boys take an unprecedented crash;
And the victories keep slipping through your fingers
But you never lose your hope, nor lose your sass;
Then revenge could be yours, but really what’s more
You’ll be a Twins Fan – bet your sweet ass.
And I don't even know what year it is anymore. Doug Mientkiewicz tore his hamstring in the on deck circle yesterday (Who does he think he is, Corey Koskie?) and is going on the DL. The Mets have called up one Jose Offerman to take his place on the roster. Story here.
Says manager Willie Randolph, "Pull a muscle in the on-deck circle, how do you do that?"
(Thanks to Torhu and The Commish for the heads-up.)
Weekend Round-Up. Twins at Milwaukee.
Friday. Brewers 3, Twins 1.
Saturday. Brewers 7, Twins 6.
Sunday. Twins 5, Brewers 2.
It may surprise you, but in addition to her duties as Twins batgirl—which are all quite consuming, I tell you what—Batgirl also is a patron of the arts. She's particularly interested in the area's burgeoning Romantic poetry scene, and has a fondness for the work of the local poet known as John "Spanky" Keats, not only for his great appreciation of material beauty, but for his love of Batgirl's own Minnesota Twins. Naturally, Mr. Keats was quite happy when the Twins changed from Astroturf to grass, and certainly you know him from his many fine pro-outdoor ballpark editorials in Endymion Weekly.
Why, just Saturday night, after the Brewers came back on the Twins to guarantee a series loss and an incredibly ass-crap recent record, Batgirl went to her local ale house, a popular hang out for young poets, and found Mr. Keats in a dark corner scrawling away by candlelight. After buying herself a nice stiff whisky, downing it, and ordering another, Batgirl approached him.
"Hey, Spank."
"Hail, Batgirl," he said, nodding at the glass in BG's hand. "Bound for Lethe, I see."
"Damn skippy," Batgirl said, taking a gulp. "It's all the sucking. It wears on a girl."
"I know," he said. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though hemlock I had drunk."
"Exactly," said BG.
"I'm actually working on something right now about this series," he said. "Would you like to hear it?"
"Sure!"
"It's a little rough," he said. "But I think you'll get the idea." He stood up, and cleared his throat. "Imagine, if you will, a deserted Wisconsin hill in a barren land. A sensitive poet is taking a walk in nature, as is his wont, and he comes across a man lying listlessly amongst the tall blades of grass. The man looks quite familiar to the poet, though his face is pale and his eyes unfocused, and upon closer inspection, the poet sees it is the manager of the Twins. So the poet says...ahem:"
O, WHAT can ail thee, Skip o' Twins?
Alone and palely loitering?
The sucking has come upon us all,
And no birds sing.
O, what can ail thee, Skip o' Twins!
So haggard and so woebegone?
The vat of Gatorade is full,
And the line-up's done.
I see a stress rash on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
"That's nice," said BG. "I like the fading rose part."
"Thanks," said Keats. "I like it too. So, anyway, then, the manager looks at the poet and coughs weakly and slowly, he begins to tell his story."
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a foam cheese for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my mascot bear,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
The Twins fight song.
She found me roots of lager sweet,
And honeyweiss, and Munchen dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“Come play my crew of Brew.”
She took me to her new ballpark,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her beer gog'ling eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw sad Twins, and Prince Fielder too,
And my boys, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sucking has come upon us all,
And no birds sing.
"It's pretty good," BG said. "Dark."
"Yeah," said Keats. "Well, what can you do?"
"I don't know," BG said, taking another drink. "I just don't know."
Keats sighed and took BG's hands and looked deeply into her eyes. "Remember, BG," he says, "a thing of sucking does not suck forever." He titled his head and thought for a moment. "Or, conversely, sucking is ass-crap, and ass-crap sucking. That is all ye know and all ye need to know."
Batgirl nodded. "You bet your sweet ass, Spanky."
He smiled. "You sure have a way with words, BG."
I don't know. It's been so long since BG has done one of these she's forgotten how it works. This is a tight one, and BG gives a healthy nod to Lil Luis, who had his first major league homer. But he's already had a share in a BOD, and BG feels our regulars need a little propping up right now. And you know, going 3 for 5 with a run and an RBI, not to mention starting the game on the right note with a hit, at least deserves an "Atta Boy, Shannon." And maybe even the Boyfriend of the Day.. Though let's not misplay any more balls in the ninth, shall we? BG can't take it.
Field/Readers 13, Jeb/Lewwww 8, Sooz/ Stewie 8, Goober/Dr. Morneau 5, Batgirl/Joe 2.
My Dear Batlings,
When she came back from her journeys in Eastern Europe, BG was perhaps a little hasty, and would like to make some clarifications:
Why did BG delete the game threads? They were stressing her out. Moderating them was a chore, making adjustments to the program cost her money, and they stopped being fun. They led to a chat room atmosphere on BG.com that was driving people away. Some generous Batlings have hosted The Batcave for both chatting and game threads. And, yes, they tended to be 400 posts of misery--even before we started actually to suck--and it harshed BG's buzz.
Is there a no negativity policy on BG? No. Before we started the sucking time, BG was growing a little weary of the game threads which tended to be all about how awful we were when we were .627. Of course, right now we just blow, so that's another story altogether. There is a difference, though, between teeth gnashing and irreverence, and the game threads were leading to a lot of teeth gnashing. BG prefers irreverence. BG will probably frown on any further comments about murdering players, though.
Is there a no chatting policy on BG? Let's call it a guideline. BG.com was turning into a chat room, and making all but the chatters uncomfortable. BG would prefer if you kept your comments to the post. Of course, if there's news we all need to know about or if you run into Juan Rincon at PetCo, that's another matter.
Does Batgirl delete comments? You bet your sweet ass. BG doesn't go on the websites of Cleveland or Chicago fans and trash them, so when people come on for the express purpose of trolling, BG deletes the hell out of them, always has, and always will. She will also, as always, delete anything she sees as disrespectful towards the commenters or that threatens to erupt in a flame war. She will also, now, delete chatter. This is BG's site, she does it for fun, and she can do whatever she wants.
But Batgirl, you call them the Bitch Sox! That's so mean! Deal with it. I don't care what a White Sox blog calls the Twins. It is, of course, sass, and this is a rivalry. I'm sure the players are all lovely people.
In other words, it's just baseball.
With great love,
BG
BG couldn't moderate the game threads anymore, but some generous Batlings have agreed to host them. Please go to the Bat Cave for your hot hot game thread action. And thanks to aurora, kafumbly, Laurie NY, NY Brian, and Herald Guy for making it happen.
The Bat Cave link will remain at the bottom of the Twins Links, to the left.
It's about time. Korea has outlawed cabbage in baseball caps. Also, Batling Pander has the edge on Gardy's motivational speech techniques in his June Twin Blues (This won't work on Explorer.) And the webzine McSweeney's tells us Baseball Knowlege Will Not Help You Pick Up Girls. Clearly, this guy has never read Batgirl.
(Link stolen from Brad Zellar)
EDIT: You must read this piece from USA Today (Thanks to MK for the heads up) Father's Drug Addiction is Driving Torii Hunter Away.
(This caption contest is rated PG-13.)
Twins 6, Tigers 2.
Batgirl is suffering from some serious Batjetlag, so you must forgive her if things seem a little disjointed. It's nighttime now in Moldova—normally Team Batgirl would be just ending an evening of drinking fine Moldovan wine, engaging in some clacile basket weaving, and watching the ceremonial sass dance.
In other words, it's time for Batgirl to go to bed, or at least so her body says, yet while the sun may have set in the former Soviet Republics, it is high in the sky in the wilds of Minneapolis and Batgirl wants a Diet Coke. Bad.
The point is, Batgirl barely knows her own name right now and is having strange hallucinations, including seeing something about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes being engaged, which is obviously wrong because a) ick and b) didn't Katie end up with Dawson? In Albania, they have a whole channel devoted to Dawson's Creek reruns and a theme park set up to look just like Capeside down to the Capeside Creamery, the Peach Pit, and the Hungry Diner with that hunky Luke pouring coffee. It was to here that Team Batgirl would often lead field trips for the sick children of that country, those who could get out of their hospital beds that is.
Needless to say, the days of our journey were long and the work hard, though rewarding. It must be said that in the beginning, we saw ourselves as givers, as healers—we embraced our roles, of course; it's why we had come. But we were so arrogant, so foolish. For we would soon learn that we were mere students and the children the teachers.
You see, every once in a while Goober would hook up a complicated inter-tron system using the phalange from his Blackberry, a wire hanger, and a goat, and he would check in on the Twins and report back. I must admit that at first we thought his phalange was broken for we could not believe what we were hearing. Seven runs in the what inning? Soy Cheese Romero did what? Glenn who? But gradually it all became clear to us and we realized something terrible: we had erred. Team Batgirl had erred. Team Batgirl had left the country in hopes of making the world a better place but, in their starry-eyed idealism, they had looked too far up to the heavens and forgotten the very earth under their feeties. They had failed the Batlings, failed the Twins, and everything was going straight to Hell.
(Which, incidentally, has its own theme park in the Croatian city of Korcula.)
Things were said. Feelings were hurt. Teeth were gnashed and hair pulled. And on that day, on that horrible day when we realized just what was happening during our absence, our hearts were not in our humanitarian work. Ah, yes, it is horrible to say—but surely, here, with you, Batgirl can be honest. She must be honest. Indeed, when we got to the children's ward of the Lake Snagov hospital in Romania—so close to the purported burial place of one Vlad the Impaler, also known as Count Dracula, who would sneak into bedrooms at night and suck the sass right out of a gal, and now we sleep safe in our beds but does Dracula ever really stay buried? I ask you?—our hearts were not in it. And when Batgirl was sitting on the bed of a young suspiciously sass-deficient lass with two puncture wounds in her neck, she found she had no sass left to give. And Batgirl began to weep.
"What is it? What is wrong?" asked the lass, her brown eyes wide as the Wallachian moon.
"I am so sorry," Batgirl said, in Romanian. "My heart is heavy today."
Well, pretty soon the whole story came out, and the poor sass-deficient girl, who has suffered so much, took Batgirl's hand in her own.
"In my village," she said, "we have a song for times like these."
And then, she began to sing.
To every season -turn turn turn
There is a sucking time -turn turn turn
And a time for all the ways there are to blow.
A time to pop up, a time to strike out
A time for a wild pitch, a time for a passed ball
A time to give up seven runs in the ninth
A time to serve a pitch up over the Berlin wall.
Well, a tear dripped down Batgirl's cheek. This dated Romanian folk song had taught her so much, as had the little girl who sang it.
"Thank you, little girl," Batgirl said. "I have learned so much from you. Truly, you are the teacher, and I am the student."
"It is my pleasure," said the girl. "Now, do you have Joe Mauer's e-mail address?"
Well, Batgirl did not, but when she met up with Team Batgirl at the end of the day outside of the Troilus and Cressida theme park she sang the girl's song and the tears began to flow then. It was not our fault—it was just the sucking time; a little late this year, perhaps, it caught us unawares. But we need not be afraid. We must simply look the sucking time in the eye and say, "I name you, Sucking Time, and by naming you, you lose your power!"
"How long do you think it will go on?" asked Jeb, in Romanian.
"It usually lasts 'til after the All-Star Break," said Sooz, in Uzbek.
"Yes," said Batgirl. "We have a long road ahead of us to hoe. But, as the Belarusians say, I think we shall come out of it better people, though our hoes may be dingy and worn. And by the end of the journey, the hoes, they will thank us, for a hoe is not made to sit on the shelf and look pretty, but rather it is there to, well, hoe. So, let's hoe, my friends! Let's hoe!"
So we came home, ready to face whatever the sucking time had in store for us. And, oh, we needed our garden implements today, for the Tigers, they had brought out their brooms, and the Twins were looking awfully dusty. But Carlos Silva as everyone knows has a very full gardening shed and he strode to the mound and announced, "Baseball players of Detroit, this may be the sucking time, but I am Carlos Silva and I am here to pitch with frightening accuracy. Yes, I am here to hoe you down."
Whether that was a terrible pun or merely a problem with English, we'll never know, but did it matter? For Silva pitched another complete game—though this time it took him ninety-one whole pitches to do so—and never got to a three ball count. Meanwhile, the Twins offense—well, it still blew but it blew productively. In the first inning, Jacque Jones came up the bases loaded and two outs and promptly struck out—yet the ball got away and pitcher Jason Johnson who, apparently still stunned by the news of Tom and Katie, forgot to cover home and two runs scored. And then Matthew LeCroy, he popped out, but the Tigers, still stunned by Jason Johnson, didn't catch the ball and two more runs scored. Yes, four runs were scored in the first innings, but this time they were all by the Twins, and that is cause, my friends, for Moldovan dancing.
My darlings,
Shhhhhh.
Shhhhhhh.
It's okay now. It is. It's all going to be okay.
Batgirl is sorry. Batgirl never should have left. Orphans and sass-deprived Eastern European children, they are important, yes, but not as important as You, my dearest darlings. Yes, You. The Twins fan. Noble, headstrong, poetic, and dare I say....sensitive. We have needs. We're fragile.
But we must try to remember ourselves. We must stick together. We must remember that it is great to love a baseball team, but even better to love our fellow men, women, and BatKitties. We must remember that the forces of sass are greater than the forces of sucking, no matter how bleak things seem. When the darkness threatens, we may either succumb to it, we may either become creatures of darkness ourselves, or we can stand straight and hold up our hands and say, "No, darkness! I defy you! For I embrace the light!"
Batgirl wants to thank her dear friends kw, Skorch, el diablo, and RD for so ably pinch hitting in her absence. They have struggled nobly against the forces of darkness, and for that, we should all tip our hats. Batgirl certainly does.
Love,
BG
Due to stress on the server, stress on Batgirl, a chat-room ethos and an infectious and malignant negativity created by same, Batgirl has decided to no longer run game threads on BG.com. She regrets any inconvenience this may cause, but she believes it will make for a better site and a happier BG. Should someone like to host them somewhere else, e-mail BG and she shall post a link.
Batgirl is also going to enforce a more vigorous comment policy, and delete/edit comments that are off-topic or generally do not embrace the spirit of Batgirlness (Read: the site is designed for Twins-related fun. Teeth-gnashing, recriminations, and anything which takes the game too seriously are better done on the many excellent Twins-related blogs and message boards that have a more serious mission. Batgirl would like very much to keep offering comments on this site.)
Thanks for your understanding.
You don't wanna know what RD thinks. Heck, RD doesn't wanna know what RD thinks. When he agreed to take the final two games of Batgirl's sabbatical, RD assumed he'd be leaving things in better condition than he found them. Ha! So much for setting up a triumphant return.
We're gonna keep this short.
This game was about the 5th inning. By then, Joe Mays had already pitched 4 innings of batting practice, the kind of miserable pitches that caused RD to wonder aloud and to himself, "If a man has nothing on (his pitches), is it best to leave him out there for all the world to see his nekkidness?"
But the 5th. Oh, the 5th. And it wasn't even a player who best exemplified the pain. It was the MoronFan -- stuffed with his Dollar Dogs and too dense to play Twingo -- who heaved a Tigers' FOUL BALL from the home run porch back onto the field. How dumb is THAT?
Then, there was DJ Cuddy Doom making a mental error to go with his two fielding errors. Fielding a ground ball and, with plenty of time to throw home and make a play, tossing to first base instead. 6-1, 7-1, what did it matter, huh, Mikey?
And then, for good measure, the slick-gloved Juan Castro tried to make a bare-handed play on a bouncer where he had NO chance to throw out the runner. NONE! Not even a bit! And when the ball missed his bare hand, the Tigers ended up with a double that barely reached the outfield. In other words, even the infield's glue had a Silly Putty night.
To review, the hometown pitchers made the visitors look like the 1984 Tigers instead of the 2005 Tigers. (For those too young to remember, go look 'em up!) The hometown batters allowed another suspect pitcher to play El Presidente for a night. The hometown fielding simply ... well ... uhhhhhh ... Oh, yeah. RD promised to keep this short.
There's just no reason to go deep here. Batgirl will return to find her team 10 games behind the B-Sox and barely ahead of Cleveland and the Tigers.
RD's advice is simple: Do NOT abandon ship. DO expect better.
Batgirl, we tried.
I really wasn't planning to write on this, maybe make a comment in the recap and certainly not this long, but considering how the evening unfolded...
I left work early yesterday with the intent of getting in a workout and running some errands before leaving for the Dome. Well, the good intentions got blindsided by naptime, although I at least got to the post office and arrived at the picnic area reserved for Admission Possible around a quarter past five. There were already a lot of people there by the time I got there, and even moreso as the picnic wore on. I walked up to the check-in area, gave them my name and they announced "ok, you won the ticket to the owner's box suite".
...*blink*...
Elation. Panic. My God! What do I talk to Tony Oliva about, alone, for 3 hours? I didn't do any homework whatsoever! I wasn't even born when he was still playing (I think, see how little I know about him other than he's called "Tony O" and had his potentially hall-of-fame career cut short by injury?). I can only talk about the nice seats and the state of the team for so long before I just plain run out of material. When Skorch runs out of material, I either stop talking altogether, or conversation takes a wierd turn. Sometimes it works, sometimes I come off like a fruitcake. I saw TwinsGeek across the picnic area and made a beeline. I quickly re-introduced myself to him since meeting him at the Bulldog for an offseason Baseball blog get-together and helping him get the word out on the event-at-hand on this here site. I quickly showed him my ticket with a mix of excitement and concern and he informed me that he and his family were in the suite as well.
Relief. I can talk to the Geek. No problem, after reading him for the past 3 seasons or so I know him better than I know a lot of the people I work with. Sure, he doesn't know me but he'll doubtlessly have an arms-length list of probing, insightful questions off the top of his head for Tony O to keep conversation flowing. I said "Thank God there's someone else to talk to, I have no idea what I'm going to talk to Tony Oliva about!" To which he replied, "Yeah, me neither!"
Ok, fine. We'll be able improvise something though without much trouble I'm sure throughout the course of the game. Time to get some dinner. I gave my dinner ticket to the Admission Possible volunteer wearing shorts, a Twins t-shirt with Puckett's number, and lime green Chuck Taylors while pointing out to her that unlike my red Chuck Taylors, hers didn't match the ensemble. A look in my closet will confirm to anyone how little I know/care about fashion, but I've got a weakness for the canvas hightops. I sat down with my loaded hot dog, potato salad, chips, and drink when the Geek came by to inform me "Tony Oliva had to cancel, he's being replaced by Carl Pohlad."
Flashback Time: When I initially posted notice of the event, I included a line to the effect of "you won't be in the owner's box alone with Carl Pohlad, that would be uncomfortable, but instead with Tony Oliva." A little later that night I re-edited it since I didn't want it to seem like I was taking a shot at Pohlad, especially in light of his generosity towards Admission Possible.
Well, guess what? It looked like it was going to happen anyways, although at least it wasn't going to be a one-on-one squirmfest as I sat and wondered if he'd heard some of the unflattering things I'd said in the past about him.
Until the game started I walked around and tried to pick out the bloggers. I wound up sitting down with TwinsJunkie, his friend "Not Aaron Gleeman", and Stick and Ball Guy for a bit. They knew each other enough to talk to each other for awhile, pointed out Frightwig when he arrived, and later noted the real Aaron Gleeman arriving. They got up to talk to Aaron, I got up to look around a bit. I considered introducing myself to Frightwig, but he was in the middle of dinner and I really don't like the notion of interrupting celebrities while they're eating. In a few minutes I wound up finding someone in a Sonic Youth shirt and it turned out to be AMR with his nearly two-year-old daughter. We talked about music (I have to check out Animal Collective, I told him to take a listen to Sleepytime Gorilla Museum) and other things for awhile before his curious girl dragged him away.
Soon thereafter it was time to gather near the sign-in table to be led to the suite. There turned out being 11 of us that had tickets there. We were "led" there by another of the delightful Admission Possible volunteers who asked me "You look like you know where you're going, is it this way?" I assured her that Gate F was indeed to our left and we were off.
We got to the suite and a sort of overload took over. There were 8 purple theater-style seats and 4 bar-stool height chairs each with a program and red TC cap, two TVs, Framed front-page newspaper reprints from when the Twins won the '91 World Series, and a whole lot of food: huge-ass shrimp, chicken wings, ribs, a veggie/fruit/cheese tray, chips, popcorn, and what was later determined to be fish sticks. Oh! And there was free beer in the fridge! Ordinarily I'm not a Bud man, but I was last night given the choices.
Given the sheer novelty of what I was experiencing I found it hard to concentrate on the game. I cheered as Hunter robbed a homerun, booed some called third strikes, and lamented to myself the return of Lyle and the Ass-Bats (which I believe might be the name of a band that had a minor hit in the Detroit area called "Kicking Your Heart Down the Street and Laughing the Whole Time, Suckers"). Interspersed in this time was conversation with the Geek (who came up with probably the most perfect plan to win "The Jumbotron Challenge"), his wife The Voice of Reason, the others in the suite (including a guy named Mike who works on another site that I forgot the name of, sorry!), and both the aforementioned Admission Possible volunteers who stopped in to check on us and later exposed each other as Yankees fans. Towards the end of the game in the suite next to us we noticed Kent Hrbek watching through binoculars a woman being helped that was hit by a foul ball. Shrimp long gone by this time, I suggested we should ask him if he would get us some more.
Considering the good time I was having, I had even more reason to hope for a Twins rally, but it just didn't happen. It wasn't until we got closer to the end of the night that I realized Pohlad never showed up in the suite. He had been out in the picnic area for awhile when it was going on but I completely missed it. Otherwise we didn't see him. I would have liked to have at least thanked him personally for everything that was provided to us for the game.
As the game was going on I said to TwinsGeek "I feel like I should write something on this, but I have no idea what to say".
The day started out well, anyway. Ol' RD managed to score six tickets for next Tuesday's game against the Royals by answering a question on 'CCO. Dave Lee, whom RD likes very much, put your Manifestorian on the air and asked a few questions about whether it was tough being confused with the vintage reliever of the same name. RD didn't have the heart to tell him that we could very well be one and the same. Sitting in traffic on I-94, RD felt like he was doing his part to right the local baseball ship.
RD was confident enough that he spemt a chunk of the evening -- innings 1 through 6 -- watching Young RD's summer league varsity basketball team defeat St. Paul Humboldt. Returning to the RD-mobile, he turned on the radio, imagining a basketball/baseball doubleheader triumph.
Dream on. It was Tigers 5, Twins 2 and getting worse by the mile along Cedar Ave. It was 7-2 by the time we got to Killebrew Drive and time for action.
A-C-T-I-O-N.
From the despair of falling 9 games behind the Bitch Sox, the RD Manifesto took shape. It's advice for everyone. Batlings, ass-batters, managment, worker bees, everyone. It's in no particular order because it's been too difficult to sort out the mayhem of the past couple weeks. Just follow along and, yes, SAY AMEN everybody!
1. To Batlings and their sympathizers: Practice following the spaghetti heap of the Wild Card race. Maybe the Bitch Sox are going to be that good -- or stay that lucky. Start reading the standings thisaway:
Team W L GB
Boston 40 30 --
Twins 38 30 1
Texas 37 31 2
Cleveland37 32 2.5
Yanquis 37 33 3
Detroit 34 33 4.5
The Bitch Sox are fully capable of imploding, yes. But, alas, we're past the point of counting on it.
2. To Johan: You haven't won a home game since April 10. That's back when you had 1 child instead of the current 2. Yes, you're prol'ly as good a Daddy as you are a lefty. But for now, for the next 4 months, take my dear Sweet-N-Sassy's strong suggestion: Get an au pair. You can afford it!
3. To Justin: Quit whining. The shots of you jawing at umpires over called strikes, especially called third strikes, are getting tiresome. You can be great. You ain't great yet. Chill, focus, perform. And learn how to make the first baseman-to-pitcher toss without putting your pitcher in jeopardy on ground balls, OK?
4. To Terry Ryan: Find a hitter! Find this year's version of Shannon Stewart-for-Bobby Kielty. Find the hitter that will make everyone better, preferably someone who can anchor the middle of the batting order in the way that Shannon has taken over the leadoff role. Thanks, in advance.
4a. To Terry Ryan II: Find a hitting coach! Too many pedestrian pitchers are embarrassing your hitters. 14 hits in 3 games against three starting pitchers who wouldn't be good enough to unseat Kyle Lohse. Geezola. Send Scott Ullger to the Dick Such Retirement Manor and let Jerry White have a shot at the job.
5. To Gardy: Kyle Lohse to the bullpen, Terry Mulholland to the rotation. Now! Make a statement that things will change. Mulholland's ascension to the rotation in 2004 helped right a wrong-heading season. If Kyle has great stuff for 3 innings, as was the hardly-a-party line tonight, let him show that great stuff in middle relief and then get him out before the implosion.
6. To Torii: Keep leading by example and with your words. Maybe some of the younger players aren't tuned in yet. They will be. And keep laying off the lousy pitches. If you can do it, so can Cuddyer.
7. To Cuddy: Lay off the lousy pitches. Move your girlfriend to town. Your renaissance, according to what we read and heard, was timed with her earlier-season visit. No babies, though. We're not sure you can afford an au pair yet.
8. To Bradke. Figure it out, OK? Just figure it out.
9. To Cristian, DougieDefence and CanadianCorey: Don't get any ideas. You've all been replaced and it wouldn't be any better with you here. Corey, you're almost an exception, but you're injured AGAIN!
10. To All: Keep the love. Things look bleak right now. But there are 94 games to play and, providing everyone takes the RD Manifesto to heart and acts appropriately based on these suggestions, there's plenty of time to save the season. The longest journey begins with Joe Mays sticking it up Detroit's ass-bats Wednesday night.
Written by: Kafumbly
Photos by: Babs and Herald
And it came to pass that the Batlings gathered at the Metrodome to witness the battle of the Minnesota Twins and the San Diego Padres, many of them meeting for the first time. Several Batgirl lurkers did appear in their midst, and they were most welcome.
Left to right:
row 1: E, heraldguy, Kristie (lurker), Angela (Kurtis’ wife)
row 2: Mike (lurker), Wee Sister’s Boyfriend (lurker), Wee Sister (lurker), JustBeth, kafumbly, Tumbleweed
row 3: David (lurker), Nick
Kristie (WAKE UP), CapitalBabs, Angela, Kurtis
The Batlings did keep score, yea verily, and…
Oh, I don’t want to do that anymore, I’m bored.
So herald grabbed a beer or two, the Batlings grabbed their scorecards, and they settled in to watch the game.
They cheered when Sweetcheeks stole second.
This is what it looks like to the other team when Torii steals a base. Where is he?! He’s blurry! And they are afraid, because there’s this out-of-focus man racing by, stealing a base.
The Batlings cheered when Shaggy pitched a scoreless 6th.
The Batlings booed when the umps made horrific calls. That ball was SO FAIR!!! He was OUT! Stupid ump, I shake my fist at you!
The Batlings cheered on their healthy, nicely-shaped Twins to take their minds off the ass calls of the umpires.
Well, the female Batlings cheered the Twins’ posteriors. The male Batlings just cheered on the Twins.
And when the game was over, the score not entirely to their liking, the Batlings bid each other adieu… till they should meet again in the blog of Batgirl.
Fellow Batling heraldguy sez:
To All and Singular To Whom These Presents Shall Come, Greetings: Whereas we, the devotees of the great Lady Batgirl do desire to attend en masse a contest featuring our beloved Minnesota Twins, Be it known to all that we shall be attending said contest on Saturday, the 18th day of June, 2005. Be it further known that we do intend meeting in section 214, and that this event is open to all who would enjoy our company.
So if you're looking for Twins love and/or companionship, go all the way down the first base line tomorrow night and join the party! Who knows? The event might produce some matchups of future padres and madres. But please, not on the first date.
And I've been reminded to say: "sorry, ladies, Joe Mauer will not be attending due to previously-scheduled on-field commitments."
Giants 14, Twins 7
Rad Bradke walked into the clubhouse and looked around. The Nathanest of Joes was schlumped in a corner with an old man as they poured over Lew's computer trying to compute the ERA of their evening. Torii was pacing back and forth cursing about the idiocy of interleague play. "Why do we need to have our pitchers bat in LA and then let the Giants have a DH? How did the Giants ever find a DH? Aren't they, like, illegal in San Francisco or something?" Joe Mauer was practicing jumping over piles of jerseys as if they were bases. Lew had a half smile half frown on his face.
It was, in a word, discombobulated.
Rad said, "Gentlemen, gather 'round. I've got something I want to show you." The rest of the players groaned as it appeared that Rad had some more of his "art" to show.
DJ Cuddles, headphones still on his head, said loudly, "Dude, is it Third Thursday already?"
Yes, it was in fact, Third Thursday. Ever since Rad had begun to be artistic, he had been visiting more and more museums and insisting on showing all of his finds every third Thursday of every month. At first it was cool as Rad had explored different artistic nudes even painting one himself. While the Chairman and JustIncredible loved the picture of the naked lady and still had it up at Hotel Joe, some players were growing leery of Rad's new taste in art.
Rad, see, had been exploring contemporary art. As a result, attendence at Third Thursday had plummeted. Guys said it made them feel dumb to see a picture of a pile of peanut butter and rotting hotdogs. Tonight though, Rad was on a mission.
"So guys, I found this new artist. She's got some great stuff." said Rad.
"Aw, man, why you gonna show us more photographs of cat pee?" wondered LeCroy as he nibbled on a crawdad.
"Yeah, Rad, Lew here says on his darn machine of compute that I had an ERA of 40.50 tonight. How is that even possible? How's your new fangled art gonna help that?" grumbled Old Man Mulholland.
"Well, boys, I got a photograph. It's different from one's I've shown in the past. I'm just going to put it out there and you all take a look."
(Awkward Pause.)
(Awkward Pause.)
(Awkward Pause.)
El Presidente, ever the politician, said, "Rad, are you sure you're all right? I mean, I know you've had some tough times and all. Are you sure you don't want to sit down?"
"K, I got this one. It's all good. Let me tell you about this piece. It's by a photographer named Erika Blumenfeld. Rather than focus on actual objects, Blumenfeld exposes her film to light over a period of time. For example, she did a series of photos every minute for two second intervals for a whole day to show the way light breaks at dawn and then dissapears at dusk. She's not photographing any person or object, it's like she's photographing time itself."
Lew, ever mindful of all things related to time, perked up his ears.
"This picture that's right here, the one I'm showing you right now, is a special picture that I commissioned from her. I met her outside her gallery in Santa Fe and told her about how we're having a hard time with all this weird interleague game stuff--"
"I hate this interleague crap!" interruped Torii.
"I know Torii, I know. That's why I did this. I needed to show you. This picture is an exposure photograph of us as a team taken over the past couple weeks. The darkness is the sucking time--the times we lose one run games when we shouldn't; the times we give up way too many runs in the first inning, the times our closer has an ERA of 108.00 on the evening."
Little Nicky Punto's tiny voice cracked, "What's the light part?"
That, my friends, is the time when we kick some ass. Remember what it was like to kick some ass?
. . . . . .
"Yeah, I liked that," said Shannon Stewart, "That was pretty."
"Isn't it though?" said Rad.
"I think it looks like a lightsaber," exclaimed Lew.
"And what do lightsabers do, Lew?" asked Rad.
Without hesitation or thought, Lew said with the conviction of a Jedi, "They kick ass."
"So boys, let's go to the light. Leave these frickin' National League candyasses and head on out. You with me?"
In unison, the team yelled, "YEAH."
As the team--filled with hope and making the sound of lightsabers--filed out, the young Chairman and JustIncredible came over to Rad. Young Joe asked, "Rad, can we have that picture? I'd like to hang it next to our naked lady."
"Yes, boys. Yes, you can."
San Francisco at Twins. Giants 8, Twins 4.
Every Wednesday night home game this year is a Hormel Dollar-A-Dog Night, presented by Country Hearth. As any Twins fan knows, this is one of the great traditions of our town and our team.
And it was once a rite of passage. A slightly younger and slightly less wise kw, on a nonuple-dog-dare, once completed the Dollar Dog Challenge: one frank per inning, washed down with an ungodly amount of Leinenkugel's. I don't want to gross you out or anything, but I spent much of the next two days confined to a single room of the house. I'll give you a hint: it wasn't the bedroom.
But things are quite different lately. Television spots and promotional calendars make it quite clear that there is now a limit of TWO per person, and that the party is over after the 20,000th weiner is sold. There is no cheating whatsoever; the ballclub and the MSFC have teamed up to install a high-tech surveillance system to make sure that all fans adhere to the two-dog rule. They should just go ahead and rename it "Two Dollar-A-Dogs And Go Screw Yourself Night presented by Country Hearth," but they won't because it doesn't have the same ringy-ding.
Watching tonight's game, I couldn't help thinking that it's a certain kind of odd that the team from San Francisco would be our guests on a DADN. The Giants play in SBC (neé Pacific Bell) Park, a stadium with concession stands stocked with soy franks, garden burgers, and vegetarian sushi. We're #7 in the majors on the peculiarly-titled hot dog-eating stadium list, and SBC is nowhere to be found. No, they're #1 with PETA instead.
If you haven't noticed, people from San Francisco are all healthy and happy. Everyone who lives there smiles all the time, and looks 10 years younger than they actually are. That's because they all do extreme triathlons every weekend, and bungee-jump off the Golden Gate Bridge for fun during their lunch breaks.
Do San Franciscans know something we don't? Of course they do. They're smarter than us. The Bay Area is where they invented the iPod, the elected female representative, the rock band that people follow around everywhere, and the $2500/month studio apartment. They're clearly operating at a level far above and beyond ours, and they don't need synthetic collagen casings filled with ground-up pig snouts in order to have fun.
Well, bully for them. This game recap is dedicated to the City By The Bay and Giants fans everywhere... so let's get right to tonight's highlights from the MeatfreeDome, presented in stunning Legumevision.
Play ball!
In the first inning, Cauliflower Lohse allows lots of baserunners and gives up four runs.
Oh dear, I suck.
But C.L. battles back, striking out the side in the 2nd!!
Fear my heat, root!
Yes, sir!
There's a man on in the fourth... the Twins' hitting hero, Tofuu Hunter, steps to the plate!
It's deep, and it's outta here!
The Giants cling to a one-run lead going into the ninth, and the Twins go to the bullpen!
But several batters later...
Excuse me, did someone order a faux-Cobb salad?
The Giants celebrate the victory!
Yay! Yippee!
Hooray!
But nobody's a loser when they choose a healthy diet!
Yum!
Batlings - In case you missed the announcement Friday night, TwinsGeek is organizing a Twins Blog charity get-together prior to Tuesday night's game. The details on how you can attend and perhaps share the owners box with Tony Oliva can be found here. As soon as I finish typing this I'm ordering my ticket, but don't let that discourage you from attending with everyone you can rustle up yourselves. If you have questions of the TwinsGeek about the event post them below and I'm sure he'll be happy to answer.
It has been brought to my attention that there was never an official declaration of the haiku contest winner (Thanks, Commish). In an effort to tidy up around the blog a bit before Team Batgirl returns from eastern Europe (reports have it they were last seen teaching waifs the international sign language for "talk to the hand"), I will declare that Brukowski, with a solid 25% of the vote, is the tentative winner until Batgirl herself comes back and can rule decisively. His unofficially-winning haiku reads:
I beg you, "Kiss Cam,"Don't put us on the jumbo,
This girl's my sister.
Unofficial congratulations to Brukowski and all the finalists!
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Last time on Minnesota Twins: Hottest Chick, Shannon Stewart was declared the Hottest Chick! For this round, since Team Batgirl is well out of the country, we wanted to use this chance to give the coaches a chance! So, here we go ladies!
Rochelle Anderson
Rhonna Gardenhire
Jerri White
Stephanie Liddle
Alaine Newman
Ricki Stelmaszek
Scarlett Ullger
Weekend Round-Up. Twins at Los Angeles Dodgers.
Friday: Dodgers 6, Twins 5.
Saturday: Twins 5, Dodgers 3.
Sunday: Dodgers 5, Twins 4.
FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 2005
Twilight slowly folded its translucent wings across a warm early summer Friday in the City of Angels. It was the kind of evening when the smog produced an iridescent Southern Lights show, all lavender and periwinkle and soft coral. Chavez Ravine's crown jewel, damp in the wake of the groundskeeper's hose, sparkled and twinkled a brilliant emerald-green. The five-layered wedding cake of mezzanines and loges wrapped tight around the field, its rows of seats slowly filling with happy families, phone-wielding chatterboxes, people wearing dark sunglasses.
Down on the baseball diamond, the evening's pregame ceremonies featured a parade of local heroes. One by one, many with graying hair and fresh dinner jackets, they slowly made their way into the chocolate-bordered quincunx. Each in turn was announced via public address, and each in turn raised their hand to acknowledge the crowd's warm welcome. These were the proud winners of yesterday, the World Champions of the year 1965, the Los Angeles Dodgers.
In the visitors' dugout, the grey-clad guests solemnly observed the happy procession. "Take a good look, boys," grumbled a grumpy Ron Gardenhire, the Minnesota Twins' aging cherub of a manager. "That there's the reason why we're wearing 40th Anniversary American League Champion patches, and not that other kind."
"I hate this patch," heaved Mickey Redmond, the backup catcher, his eyes burning with intensity as he grabbed repeatedly at the sleeve of his uniform. "It's itchy."
"Did you see how Maury Wills looked at me just then?" exclaimed star outfielder Torii Hunter. "Put me back in '65, I'll go 40 yards with that sucka. F'real."
"Hey," fresh-faced Lew Ford chimed in. "You ever wonder about things like that? I mean, like, going back to 1965? You know, maybe change things? Seriously, what would have happened if we'd won that World Series? If Sandy Koufax hadn't pitched that shutout in Game 5, then again in Game 7 with only two days' rest? If only there was a way to go back in time... you know what I mean? Guys?"
Each of the other Twins players and coaches had swung around to stare at their eccentric teammate. A pregnant pause, and then peals of laughter and uproarious bursts of disbelief. "Time travel?" "That's screwy!" "Man, you Internet geeks are weird!"
"There's no such thing," intoned Terry Mulholland, the team's resident 42-year-old salt-and-pepper lefty hurler. "I... er, I mean, um, my uncle, looked into it once. Yeah, my uncle. No such thing. It's all crazy talk."
"Geez, fellas," Lew pouted. "Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut. Never mind. If you need me, I'll be out back."
He left his seat and slunk back into the clubhouse tunnel. "You crazy, Lew!" Torii shouted after him. "You and your crazy-ass ideas! Time travel. Sheesh."
He walked, slump-shouldered, out beyond the locker room, and soon found himself standing all alone in the VIP parking lot. The warm evening air filled his lungs, powered his heavy heart. It was difficult being Lew Ford sometimes, he thought to himself... no matter how well he hit, how well he fielded his position, he usually felt like he was playing his way into the lineup - the lineup of people who were genuinely understood by others.
His internal soul-searching monologue was interrupted by a shiny silver sports car. It approached slowly, then came to a stop in front of him. The two side doors flipped upwards, revealing a frail, white-haired, liver-spotted man, who clung to the side of the car as he exited. He pulled himself to his feet with trembling hands.
"Oh dear," he mumbled softly, to nobody in particular. "This Los Angeles traffic is such a bother! It was so much easier with Eloise around, she was such a good navigator. Umm... hello? Excuse me, young man? Could you please park this in a nice safe place?"
"Mr. Pohlad," said the ballplayer. "Remember me? It's me, Lew. You sign all my paychecks. I play left field and DH, I don't park cars."
"Right, right, sonny," the old gent replied, offering a faltering yet friendly back-pat as he handed over the valet key. "I need to get to my box. No scratches if you want a tip!"
Lew felt the weight of the key in his hand, closed his fingers around it, let out a deep and sad exhale.
But then, sudden inspiration. He excitedly pulled his Sidekick II from the back pocket of his uniform, expertly flipped through its menus, to the address book labelled "My Connections."
"Hey, guys, it's me, SpaceMarine20," Lew hurriedly rambled into the mouthpiece. "I'm over at Dodger Stadium. I need a big favor, like quick. Big favor. Okay, here's the shopping list. I need a flux capacitor, a suitcase full of dollar bills printed before 1965, a packed iPod, a sports almanac, and a buttload of plutonium. That's right, one metric buttload. That's the one thing I can't afford to run out of. And bring the chopper... late-arriving crowd tonight."
Two hours later, the doddering octogenarian re-entered the parking lot. "Oh my, I've forgotten my meds again," he maundered. "Eloise was always so good at keeping track of that for me. Now where's that nice lot-boy? Hellooo... hell... WHA?"
Great Scott!
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1965
It was a balmy October morning in Los Angeles, and the city crackled with World Series Fever. So much so that few noticed the smooth silver car that crept along Grand Avenue, the one that looked somehow out of place among the Chevrolets and Fords.
Even fewer noticed that one of their baseball heroes, a tall and shy man who pitched for the Dodgers, one Sandy Koufax, was making his way along that very sidewalk. His hat was pulled down tight to minimize the chance of public recognizance. But the driver of the silver car knew exactly who the pedestrian was, and leaned out to address him.
"Hey Sandy," came the call. "Want a ride to the game?"
"No thank you, sir," the wily southpaw replied, without stopping or raising his head.
"It's a real nice, comfy ride," offered Lew. "Great sound system. You like music? Jazz? The Beatles? I've got Rubber Soul in here, even though it won't be released for another two months. Or are you more into Bob Dylan?"
"That's quite alright. Thank you."
But Lew Ford had not come all this way to fail at his monumental task.
Lew Ford was not about to return home empty-handed. He had not lived under the alias "John Carmack" in a West Hollywood bungalow for four months, become semi-anonymously assimilated into the beatnik subculture, nor had he stowed away that silver vehicle in the La Brea tar pits... just so he could come up short at this most crucial moment.
No, he had planned too carefully for this. He had done his homework about the star pitcher's psychological makeup.
"Mr. Koufax," Lew said. "I know how preoccupied you must be with Game Four, and with preparing for your start tomorrow... But there are a whole bunch of crazed autograph-seekers two blocks up, and all those journalists at the stadium will want to ask you all sorts of stupid questions. You don't want any of that, do you? Come with me, and I'll drive you right to the back entrance. I know a real fast shortcut."
The future Hall Of Fame hurler paused for a moment, weighed the stranger's words, cycled a deep breath. "Okay."
Once the passenger was safely buckled inside the space-age chariot, the driver opened the throttle. "I don't expect you to understand," Lew said. "But all I ask is that you please don't punch me... especially not with your left arm."
FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 2005
Lew emerged again from the car. It was good to be back in the future, he thought, back in good old two zero zero five.
But the first thing he did upon exiting from the vehicle was unleash a violent cough. The evening sky looked like scratched steel, thick with smoke and ash. Sirens screeched in the background, and the ear-shattering wail was sliced through by the periodic reverberation of automatic gunfire.
"This is a very confusing situation," said Sandy Koufax from the passenger seat.
An emaciated and disfigured elderly man, who wore only a torn plastic garbage bag on his body and a thick dirty grey beard on his face, advanced on the Delorean. "Give me your car," came the demand, an markedly unconvincing one.
"Ummm, no," Lew replied, surveying the scene in utter disbelief. "Where did Dodger Stadium go?"
"Base-ball?" the man said. "In L.A.? Look, mister clean-shaven guy with your futuristic space-car, they haven't played base-ball here since the team was contracted in '68. We like to call it the Chavez Ravine Luxury Towers now. That's a sarcastic name, in case you didn't pick that up."
He gestured at the former stadium - the once-proud structure was now blackened, rotted and bombed out, stripped to its most bare-wire structural elements. The bowl was populated by thousands of hunched and yammering lunatic hoboes with their bindles, some in tattered three-piece suits, some taking bites from the pieces of newspaper that swirled in the wind. There were makeshift shelters everywhere, fashioned from rows of stadium seats. Clotheslines zipped along between iron girders. The concrete field was dotted with trash-can fires, around which were massed close-huddled families, bone-thin dogs, and crying naked children.
"Whoa, this is heavy," Lew said breathlessly.
And indeed it was... the shoulder patch on his uniform had gained an enormous amount of heft, by virtue of a huge increase in thread count.
"I wouldn't hang around here too long," the transient whispered, pointing to the red inscription across the chest of Lew's shirt. "There's a lot of resentment around here for your kind. Has been ever since President Humphrey moved the nation's capital to Minneapolis in '75."
But it was too late. "Hey look," one approaching vagabond shouted. "It's someone from Minnesota! Let's show him our appreciation for everything the federal government's done for us!"
"Hey, Twins Boy!" another yelled. "Why don't you go back to Minnesota in your magical automobile and have the Griffiths buy you another world championship?"
"I've got a better idea!" a third shrieked. "Let's tear him up and sell his body parts!"
A small army began to mass, to slowly make their way towards the car, their stained hands and fingers outstretched. "Get the freak!" they chanted in unison. "Get the freak!"
"Aiiiigh!" Lew screamed as he clamored to get back into the Delorean. He mashed the center-console buttons, stepped hard on the gas to unleash every decimal point of the car's one point twenty one-jigawatt capacity. "Maybe messing with the time-space continuum wasn't such a good idea!"
SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1865
"Oops, too far," Lew gulped. "Gotta double back again."
FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 2005
When the doors of the Delorean flipped open once more, the driver emerged with the most extreme of caution. But his trepidation was unfounded - as he had properly returned his captive to his correct time and place moments before, he had fully undone the metaphysical damage he had exacted.
Yes, everything was back to a relative normal - the Dodger Stadium parking lot was filled with luxury cars and SUV's, and from over the wall the static crackle of an excited baseball crowd could be heard. Our hero sighed deeply in relief, the scene was exactly as he remembered it had been.
Just then, manager Gardenhire emerged from behind the heavy metal door. "So there you are, Ford," he barked hoarsely. "Stewie just used the left-field wall as a revitalizing facial scrub. We need you in there, stat!"
"Sure thing, Gardy," Lew replied, smiling wistfully. "Sure thing."
"You alright?" Gardenhire said, fixing his young charge with a cockeyed look. "You look a little flushed. Is this about earlier? Look, I know the guys can be harsh sometimes, but..."
John Lewis Ford gently touched the patch on his right sleeve, the one that celebrated the 40th Anniversary of the American League Champion Minnesota Twins of 1965. "It's okay, man," he said. "It's more okay than you know."
Batlings - John Bonnes, better known to internet-savvy Twins fans as TwinsGeek, is organizing a charity get-together for the June 21st game vs Detroit. The details are below, and there's a chance you (yes, you!) could win tickets to watch the game from the owners box! You won't be by yourself trying to make polite conversation with Carl but rather with Twins legend Tony Oliva. Read on below:
For awhile now, we've talked generally about a Twins bloggers night. It's here.A friend of mine, Jim McCorkell, started a non-profit group called Admission
Possible five years ago. Its goal is to help promising low-income students
earn admission to college. The mission is to identify low-income young
people with the potential and the motivation for college and then provide
them with four critical services: (1) SAT and ACT test preparation; (2)
intensive assistance in preparing college applications (3) help in obtaining
financial aid and (4) guidance in transition to college.Now here comes the fun part: They've received a gift from the Pohlad family
for a Twins event on Tuesday, June 21st. The Twins host the Tigers, and
Admission Possible gets a picnic, the owner's suite, and just about as many
tickets as they want. They can do whatever they want with it and EVERY PENNY
goes to Admission Possible.Here's the deal:
For $25, each person gets a ticket to the game, admission to the pregame picnic tent (SW corner of the dome, 5-7PM, with hot dogs, chips, soda), and a raffle ticket to sit in the owner's box - with Tony Oliva. Kids are just $5, which is obviously less than the cost of the ticket (or the hot dogs, for that matter). Tony O will also be stopping by the picnic. It's perfect - a great event, with fellow Twins fan(atics), food, a jazz band, a chance to sit in Carl's suite, and not only does every penny go to a worthy cause, but the Pohlad family is doubling it. Admission Possible is coordinating everything, and you can sign up right now at: https://www.thedatabank.com/dpg/125/donate.asp?formid=TWINSI honestly can't think of how this could get any better. (OK, I can, and it involves those cinnamon roasted almonds, but I'll work that out myself).
Admission Possible has been wildly successful, as the Strib noted in this editorial (http://www.startribune.com/stories/561/5353906.html ) a couple of years ago and MPR more recently. (http://news.minnesota.publicradio.org/features/2005/06/06_pugmiret_graduates/)
97% of the students they assisted have been admitted to college. This year, 100% of their 246 senior students have been admitted to college. 95% of their seniors this year have been admitted to a four-year college. 91% of students who enrolled in college are still enrolled and working toward their college degree (the oldest students are now college juniors, so they don't yet have graduation data). Nationally, only about 50% of all students who enroll in college graduate within six years. Students in this program have shown an average ACT score improvement of 16%! Leading for-profit companies like Kaplan, by comparison, advertise average increases of 12-14%. This year the average score of Admission Possible's students moved from about 15.5 to about 18. A recently completed analysis shows that an investment of $3,000 for one Admission Possible student (programming costs for the 2 years of the program) will yield a 500% return to society over the course of the student's lifetime. I'll be there with bells on, along with The Voice of Reason, The Chatty Chatty Princess, The Boy, Aaron Gleeman and some other bloggers. Tragically, we found out a month ago that Bat Girl won't get back from her vacation until the day after the event, so we'll be counting on her dear readers to fill the void. I really hope you can make it. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to post them below, or contact me at TwinsGeek.com.
Thanks,
John
What do you say? If it's not me, I'd love nothing more than for the owners box seat to go to a fellow Batling. Click the link above and sign up, and make your plans or ask questions of TwinsGeek below.
(D-Backs 4, Twins 3)
Many years ago, in a time mostly forgotten two teams from differing leagues faced off to battle for desert supremacy in a game of complicated rules involving much throwing, swinging, and running. Their names have likewise been lost to time, but we now know them as House Ryan's Twins of Caladanesota which is a land beset with water, potluck dinners, and Lutherans; and House Garagiola Jr's Diamondbacks of Arrakiszona which is a dry, arid wasteland filled with sand and ancient Caladanesotans.
In the beginning they were friendly matches, but as they played each other more and more over the years it became less so, until it eventually erupted into a bitter feud. This feud consumed both houses, and as soon as their matches were over, preparations would immediately begin for the next year's.
Back in Caladanesota Duke Ryan was ruling the empire with a wise and benevolent hand. He sent his advisors and scouts to infiltrate the native people of Arrakiszona and return with news on how to finally defeat the hated Diamondbacks for good. Upon hearing their advise he called Warmaster Gardenhire in to go over strategy.
"To rule Arrakiszona, you must use desert power." He solemnly told Gardenhire. Gardenhire nodded, fully understanding what needed to be done. To prepare for his next series against the Diamondbacks he had to learn the ways of the desert people and learn to use their techniques. He quickly met up with the resistance fighters of Arrakiszona who were slow to trust but eventually warmed up to him.
"Tell us again of the waters in your homeland." they'd repeatedly ask. He'd reply "The waters are so plentiful they fall from the sky and we install gutter helmets on our houses to protect the siding and keep the gutters clean. Plants grow so thick you need a Kubota lawn tractor to tame them. Liquid calcium supplements are distributed in handy Grip-n-Go containers". These tales held them enthralled, as they had heard the legends of a man who'd come from far away to lead them to freedom. They gladly taught Gardenhire everything he would need to know about desert power.
Gardenhire returned to Caladanesota and spread the word to his warriors, finally convinced they'd be able to go back to Arrakiszona and unseat House Garagiola Jr and Baron Melvin. "Desert power", he'd remind the hurler in the first match. "Desert power" was the reply he'd get in return. Although it took awhile for the lesson to work in practice, it eventually all clicked as they took the first game in the series. On the second night he reminded the starting hurler of desert power, to which the reply was only "Phht! No problem Skip, these yahoos will flail wildly at my offerings. That Beast Clayton in particular is going to feel mighty bad." And so victory came, and so Beast Clayton did.
By the third night, Caladanesota was on the verge of finally overtaking House Garagiola Jr for good, and the Arrakiszona Diamondbacks decided to employ some desert power of their own. So enraged by the embarrassments suffered at the hands of the Twins over the previous two matches, Feyd-Rautha Vasquez loudly declared "Kanly!" and called out the Twins to a final duel for control of the desert and proceeded to throw a harmless first half-inning. One of the desert people the Twins had enlisted, Sietch-leader Lohse, answered the call. Stepping to the mound, he fixed a steely gaze upon the lead batsman and said simply:
"May thy bat chip and shatter."
Well, that didn't work out so hot, did it? Not one bit. Lead-off contortionist Counsell hit a triple to open the half-inning and things started to look eerily familiar. Counsell came in to score and the Diamondbacks took a lead. Feyd-Rautha Vasquez was mortally wounded in the 6th, and it was up to the shaky Diamondbacks bullpen to try and hold on for victory.
Finally, in the top of the 9th, the Twins came to life, as Diamondbacks hurler Bruney handed out 2 free passes despite getting the early advantage. Down by a run with 2 outs and 2 runners on base the warrior LeCroy stepped to the plate and said to himself "Yum. Dessert power."
Bruney struck out the daydreaming LeCroy to nail down the victory.
It seemed that the elements were set up to work against Skorch. I was all set, with custom graphics even!, to use Santana's start on June 8th in a certain thematic direction. What happens? Power gets knocked out at my Hopkins-based compound, and I'm left scrambling for alternatives since I can't be sure I'll be able to access my secret files and notes. What a lousy super-villain I am, I don't even have a backup generator. You can very well bet that will be rectified on my Christmas wish-list, and the head of my contractor will roll.
Mother Nature, prodded by the metaphorical shotgun in the back of secret technology developed by NASA and the AMS, threw together a hell of a storm. It was one that knocked out the power sufficiently leaving me in doubt as to whether or not I would be able to give you the game recap that the government doesn't want you to see! Well, I can work around that, you fiends, but for last night I had to make alternate plans to watch the game. It was in the form of an impromptu Batling get-together at the Bulldog with (in order of appearance) HooliganKat, Mmmarkiep, Donnalove and AJ, Billhedrick, and Heraldguy.
Yes, Mother Nature had made things difficult for me to attend to my appointment, but I'm sure the Diamondbacks wish that she'd tried a little harder to disrupt their game last night, retractable roof or no. Johan Santana pitched a 4-hit, complete game shutout while getting lop-sided run support, courtesy of Arizona's newest softball pitcher, Claudio "Contractually obligated to give up a run per inning" Vargas. Santana came a 9th-inning popout away from fitting Royce Clayton with his very own golden sombrero, who'd struck out in his previous three at bats.
Vargas, who most recently had been pitching batting practice to Nationals opponents, was making his first start as a D-Back, and I imagine that Bob Melvin was less than impressed with his newest pitcher. Vargas gave up 6 runs in 5 innings, 2 of them thanks to a Freedom Jones homerun, and even let Santana get a hit and later score a run. Santana now has a career .300 batting average and has to be wondering what's so damn hard about it. Things didn't get much better for their pitching as the next two Arizona pitchers, Matt Herges and Mike "No relation to Donnalove" Koplove gave up 4 more.
The gathering at the Bulldog for the most part lasted until the final out. Mother Nature provided a great evening meant to be enjoyed outside, but our dedication to the team came through well. One in our ranks had to leave early, but that's forgivable. HooliganKat meanwhile earned herself the night's gold star for having the correct answer to the AFLAC trivia question. It was also noted firsthand that Heraldguy does look a lot like Terry Mulholland, and it led to speculation that it's really Heraldguy pitching on the days when it looks like Mulholland couldn't get zombie Ty Cobb's re-animated corpse out (I'm working on it!).
When I returned to the compound electricity still hadn't been restored. After leaving myself a post-it note on the fridge to have my contractor tossed into the moat with the alligators, I went to bed figuring I'd have to make sure I woke myself up without an alarm in time to get to work an hour early (on my birthday no less) to do my best to provide some of the much-missed Batgirl-style sass. Thankfully, this was one time where Mother Nature couldn't thwart my plans, and it's mission accomplished.
Field/Readers 12, Jeb/Lewwww 8, Sooz/ Stewie 6, Goober/Dr. Morneau 5, Batgirl/Joe 2.
So what if it's a school night or if you have to work in the morning? There are a few of us getting together tonight at the Bulldog to shirk our adult responsibilities with the intent of cheering on our Twins until the bleary-eyed final-out.
The address is 2549 Lyndale Ave S and has been accomodating to Batling get-togethers in the past. Stop on by and help Skorch write his recap!
RD wishes he could explain all of what happened Tuesday night when the Twins began their 12-game journey into the weirdness of the National League West. But, alas, some things are escaping him at this hour -- it's 12:02 a.m. right now -- and he can only hope that the morning papers (remember those?) clarify some of the action. RD needed help and didn't get it, and it's getting a bit in the way of the props he should be extending to Torii Hunter.
Of course, those props were best expressed in a fit of nonsexual man-love by Bert when he fairly squealed, upon the occasion of the center fielder's second home run: "WOW, IS TORII HOT!"
That was HOT with a !, not with a ? No doubt. So what if Bert Yoda'd the sentence a little bit. We knew meant he what.
Alas, there were other times when we had no clue. RD was in the RDmobile during the first inning and here's what he learned: Arizona's starting pitcher stole a base in some recent game and they had a party at his house afterward. Gordo doesn't think every team should have a player on the All-Star team. Dazzle knows that Pudge Rodriguez is going to be the AL's all-star catcher. It was cool in Arizona during the day, in the mid-90s. The Twins should have a lot of pitchers on the AL All-Star team.
Meanwhile, the Twins were falling behind 4-0 and, I guess if you listened real close, you got some hints that things were once again amiss in Radkeville. He was getting knocked around the ballpark -- from pillar to post, so to speak -- and the radio boys were chattering idly as if there were waiting for Herb to get the steaks from the Matchlight Charcoal-fired grill to their Cambria countertop. Grrrrrrrrrr.
Does this bother anyone else? I mean, some games go on and on and on, and such chatter is needed to fill the gaps when the manager visits the mound or Kevin Brown is looking (and looking and looking) a runner back to first base. But in the first inning? Stop it!
The TV wasn't much better, although this wasn't the fault of your announcers. I guess someone was miffed at Dick and made him describe ShannaramaStewart's sac-fly without the benefit of the cameras following the throw home. Then, for good measure, when Torii stole second in the 9th and set up the winning run, we had no clue what was happening until his funny little (because he got away with it) stumblebum routine on the back side of the base. At least Dick and Bert -- or "Dick'n'Bert" as Marney and Clay insist on calling them -- were watching the game and giving us audio clues worthy of ... worthy of ... a couple of radio guys.
Here's what really bites. RD got so distracted by being distracted that he's currently failing to write about Torii, who is HOT. Instead of singing his praises, RD is pretending to be Gwen Stefani and shouting "IT'S BANANAS. B-A-N-A-N-A-S" at his monitor. Torii: 5 times up, 4 runs, 4 hits, 2 solo homers, 1 double, 1 single, 1 winning-run scored, 1 postgame radio interview when they asked him about THE SWIMMING POOL beyond the center field wall instead of making him describe his offensive night in loving detail.
An aside: Bless Torii during that interview for putting in a plug for Tony Clark, the mammoth Arizona reserve who hit the mammoth 3-run homer in the 8th that tied the score at a mammoth 8-8. It was his third pinch homer of the season and Clark is batting something like .999 as a pinch hitter. "He's a good guy to have," Torii told Gordo and Dazzle. "Maybe for us to have one day."
(Deep breath.)
RD's feeling a bit better for having turned on the vents. RD is also feeling some pity for those who had to listen to the radio for all 9 innings and 17 runs and 83 batters and 9 pitchers. Listening to the postgame highlights -- specifically the highlight of the DJ Cuddy Boom home run -- RD heard Gordo call him "LeCroy" right before the pitch, just as Gladden was saying, "It's easier for a parent..." Huh?
Crack, bang, homer! Whatever.
It's Santana tonight, boys. Watch the game, OK? Thanks in advance.
In the meantime, Batlings, pretend you're a radio announcer and use the comment space to tell us what YOU would have said about Torii. Or whatever.
RD, out.
In honor of Prince's birthday, these lyrics from Brink in the game thread.
"I knew a dude named Torii
Guess you could say he was a base thief
I saw him in the D'backs ballpark
Running bases like you won't believe
He said 'how'd you like a winning run?'
And I could not resist when I saw little torii sliiiide..."
BG was all set to give this to Stewie, despite Torii's two solo dingers, for Stewie's super-sexy at bat in the fifth that resulted in the Twins second run of the game--that was until Rincon gave up a three-run dinger and the Twins had to make a run in the ninth. Well, leave it to Sweetcheeks--he got on with a single, did the voodoo on the base paths that he do, and after a Little Sweetcheeks single, got home to score the winning run on a phat hook slide. And all that fabulousness makes you, Darlin' Torii, the Boyfriend of the Day. Thank you for a funky time.
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a Batgirl feature known as Goober's Goat of the Day. And in that feature -- know affectionately as the G-GOD -- Goober would provide gentle suggestions for the overall betterment of Twins baseball. The suggestions were generally kindly. For instance, hey, Jacque Jones, how about catching that fly ball instead of dropping it? Or, mister big-head-bouffant-guy, why don't you try not obstructing my view all the time? While the G-GOD ultimately made way for such popular features such as dressing the Twins up like women, it still serves as an important reminder of suckiness past. And every so often, the ghost of suckiness past rears its sucky little head. Like tonight. Brad was bad, not rad, and he once again gave up a crooked number in the first inning. While every pitcher should be allowed the occasional big inning, Brad, I don't know how to say this, but, well, you never get a second chance to make a first impression. And once the game begins, you never get a second chance not to totally blow in the first inning. Thirteen months ago, your incredibly ineffective pre-game routine was Goober's Goat of the Day. Thirteen months later, it still is.
My darlings,
Team Batgirl has been called away on an urgent mission to perform sass transfusions to children's hospitals throughout the eastern Europe. We will be gone until June 23rd, and RD, Skorch, kw, and el diablo will be pinch blogging in our stead. Batgirl regrets that her humanitarian work has taken her away from the Twins so much this season; she has one more mission for a few days in early August, but otherwise will be here where she belongs. Be good while she is gone. The pinch bloggers are in charge. Love them, love each other, and love the Twins. BG expects to see her boys in first when she returns.
Endless Love,
BG
p.s. Goober will be doing the B.O.D. through Thursday, but then the B.O.D. will be suspended until Team Batgirl returns. This should not stop you from picking your own B.O.D.'s, however.
Team Batgirl is pleased to announce the Second Annual Haiku Contest Finalists. Please vote for your favorite. Voting will close Wednesday after the game, and Goober will announce the winner Thursday morning. Thank you to all for your submissions. You may vote once per day.
Here are the finalists:
Oh Justin Morneau
How lovely it would be to
Reach first base with you
-Angela
A gray teflon roof
keeps out sunshine like a pall
Will Sox die beneath?
-Ask Kleiner
I beg you, "Kiss Cam,"
Don't put us on the jumbo,
This girl's my sister.
-Brukowski
The wind is blowing
The fly ball towards center field
Torii's glove appears
-Katharriet
Johan to Bitch Sox:
Sit down evil pretenders
Spring ends, leads fade
- Me
Captain Cheeseburger.
You are fat and butt ugly.
Put your hat on straight.
- NIH
The bases are juiced
Help me, sweet Lew Fordwalker
You're my only hope
-Roscoe
Twins have a problem
Can't find Lew Ford! Where is Lew?
Revenge of the Sith
-Ryan
Time erodes all things:
Lofty mountains, mighty oaks,
Sox division lead
-Salt-Man Z
Please note: Due to a technical problem--it wouldn't let anyone vote on one of the entries--BG had to redo the poll at midnight. Please revote. BG apologizes for any inconvenience.
