Kansas City at Twins. Twins 2, Royals 1 (10 innings).
Excitement was in the air as the players gathered in the clubhouse before tonight's game. Several of them were wearing Brad Radke jerseys, and several others had #22 painted on their cheeks (though interpretation of "cheeks" varied widely). A few even walked in carrying handmade signs.
Beaming, LNP showed his to the group, holding it in fingers streaked with marker. "Mine says Brad, you're so Rad!"
"That's lame," said Michael Cuddyer.
"Oh yeah? What does yours say?"
Cuddyer straightened himself and unfurled his. "Bradke is the Manke!…I used stencils," he said pointedly to Punto.
Clearing his throat gently, Rondell White held up his own placard. "Mine says, 'Brad, I really appreciate all you've done for the team. Your determination is a real inspiration to me, and I have learned so much—' and then I ran out of room."
"I don't know," said Johan Santana. "I just put up a picture of my naked torso. I thought that would be the best way to show my appreciation."
As one, the Twins nodded in accord. And as Bradke took the mound in the first, everyone on the bench stood up and waved their signs and their pom poms and, in some cases, their cheeks and when the first strike was called the whole place erupted. Batter after batter, the players watched, mesmerized, and during the Twins' at bats they sat in the dugout and wondered at the veteran's tenacity.
"He's pitching like a bat out of hell," marveled Joe Mauer, trotting back to the bench after grounding into a double play.
"I know!" said Justin Morneau, calling back as he flew out. "I feel so inspired!"
"It's amazing," said Carlos Silva, "and against such a strong line-up!"
And when Bradke came out of the game in the fifth, after giving up one unearned run, the players could not stop shaking their heads in wonder. Every once in a while one of them would leave the dugout with a bat in his hands, but quickly return to rejoin the conversation.
"I've really learned something about myself today," said Torii Hunter after his ground-out.
"I know," agreed White after following suit. "I've learned something about life."
So it went for some time, until White suddenly let out a gasp. "Huh," he said, looking around. "You know what?"
The players all shook their heads. They did not know.
"There's a game on!"
Everyone's eyes grew wide. "Really?"
"Yeah!"
"What inning is it?" said Justin Morneau.
"Um…" said White, checking the scoreboard. "The ninth. There's one out. No, wait, two outs…"
"Oh, crap," said Joe Mauer, grabbing his bat. "One sec." He trotted up to the plate and smacked the ball just over the left field wall. "Sorry about that, Brad!" he said as he came back into the clubhouse with the Metrodome crowd screaming behind him.
"Yeah, we're sorry Brad," chorused the team. "We just got so distracted by how awesome you are, and—"
"You know what?" said Radke, stretching his right arm up in the air and smiling to himself, "It's all good. "
BatNotes: What are you doing this weekend? The Twins aren't playing all the time! Check out Aurora Borealis at the Edina Theater, written by a native Minnesotan and a F.O.B. It even features Joshua Jackson in a North Stars jersey! Here's a great review in the Strib.
Here's a nice tribute to Bradke.
This is totally against protocol. But you know what? There's no protocol anymore, there's just a pennant race and the postseason next week and an emotional game, and, ah hell. The point is, you, Brad Radke, and you, Joseph Patrick Mauer, are the co-Boyfriends of the Day.
Readers/The Field 27; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBabii/Torii 16; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 9; Jeb/Lewwww 5.
In scenic Hopkins, MN, just 15 minutes from the Metrodome. Totally wired for all your internet needs, and totally infused with sass. That's right, you can OWN BATGIRL'S HOUSE. If you or anyone you have ever met or even heard of is looking for a house, please email Batgirl (Scroll down the menus at the left until you see "Contact.")
KC at Twins. Royals 6, Twins 4.
Okay, Batgirl really doesn't want to talk about that game, because she's liable to say things she might regret. Just because Carlos picked absolutely and entirely the wrong time to suck does not necessarily mean we should find ourselves saying things we can't take back. And, really, maybe Carlos picked the right time to suck, because the last thing we would want—no, I know, I know it seems like his last two performances quite potentially costing us the division might seem the last thing we want, but I am here to tell you that that is not true—the last thing we want is Carlos to have continued his Jackal streak all through September, then get on the mound for Game 2 and suddenly be struck with the immense fragility of life. I mean, here, take this moment you have right now, drinking your coffee and eating your Trader Joe's Raisin Bran with a banana sliced on top, and try to grab it, try to hold it in your hands, try to tuck it away somewhere so you can always take it out and say, "This is the moment when I was eating Trader Joe's Raisin Bran and Batgirl told me to hold onto it, and I did, even though I'm not really sure why because it wasn't really that special, but the point is I have this moment forever and ever." Except you don't. Because you can't. Because life is like that, it slips through your fingers, and the next thing you know you're standing on the mound in Game 2 of the ALDS, because even though you'd pitched like complete and utter ass crap for the majority of the season, thanks to getting bitch slapped by a hot pool boy who looked like Taye Diggs you got your groove back, and your manager trusts you and your team trusts you and the fans trust you, and you think how beautiful that is, how amazing it is to have gotten this far, and now you're starting in Game 2 of the postseason and you just want to take this moment and hold onto it deep inside your heart and every once in awhile when all the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown) and the skies are grey (the skies are grey) take it out and live it again, but you realize you can't, you can never have it back, in fact it's already gone because in the midst of your angst you've just walked the bases loaded and hung a sinker to Eric Chavez, and that just never ends well.
Such is baseball and such is life. One moment you are world series champions, the next your manager is calling you all sorts of names, one moment you are popping champagne and the next you’re getting whiplash from the home run hitting prowess of the Kansas City Royals. And what Silva did not realize during his entirely imaginary Game 2 existential meltdown is that that very fleetness is part of the joy of baseball, because tomorrow you get to get up again and play again, and Brad Radke is starting and he understands all you have is today and that is worth pitching your arm off for. So do not weep for the Minnesota Twins, do not weep for Carlos Silva, do not weep for yourselves or your raisin bran, just get up and go to the "park" and enjoy the day for what it is, and know that our Game 2 ALDS starter is named Boof and Boof wouldn't know angst if it bit him on the ass.
BatNotes: The Strib.com is looking for Twins fans in New York. Should you qualify, please e-mail Stribbb at gmail dot com. Also, if you need MORE piranha shirts, try here.
Team Batgirl sends their thoughts to assistant clubhouse manager Wayne Hattaway who goes in for cancer surgery on Thursday. Some of the media has been referring to it obliquely as chest cancer, and this seems oddly circumspect. He has breast cancer, and it's important to make known that men can get it too. (In this case, information can actually save lives.) Here's a terrific article from Reusse about Hattaway, and here's a terrific profile of him from Brad Zellar.To send messages to Hattway:
Wayne Hattaway
c/o The Minnesota Twins
34 Kirby Puckett Place
Minneapolis, MN 55415
Kansas City at Twins. Twins 3, Landed Gentry 2.
Poor Mike Sweeney.
I mean, there are so many reasons you could say that, but tonight because he hit a sure double off Johan Santana with two outs in the eighth, and when you're a Royal there's very little reason to get out bed in the morning, and that's the sort of thing that the next day you could say, "Well, hell, I got a double off Johan Santana, I guess today I can get up and face the world, at least for a few hours," and that, when you are a member of the Kansas City Landed Gentry, is something worth fighting for.
But no. Alas. For there are forces in this world we must reckon with, and some of them are small forces that don't even have their own orbit, but that doesn't mean they're not mighty in their own way, that doesn't mean that when Mike Sweeney hits a double down the third base line that force isn't going to tumble around for awhile, gobble up that ball (and in the good sense, not in the Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble sense) and, sounding its barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world, send it hurling through space to beat out Mike Sweeney by a step. And if you were Mike Sweeney you might then jump up and down a little bit, you might tense your muscles into a little ball, you might even drop an F-Bomb or two (and not in the good sense) because you've just had your whole reason for getting up the next day thwarted by something that's not even a full-fledged planet anymore, but a dwarf planet, which is just so patronizing, I mean they couldn't have come up with a new name, they had to simple add some kind of diminutive that means the thing is sub, lesser, unworthy, while still containing the word "planet" as a constant mocking reminder of the glory that once was? That's who took away your reason to live?
Okay, I mean, we shouldn’t pick on Mike Sweeney, the poor dear's suffered enough. It's just Batgirl isn't herself. The truth is, Batgirl hates playing the Royals. Two of the most painful games in the past two seasons have been against them, and we weren't even at .500 against them when this series started, and every time you lose to the Royals a little piece of you dies, and we only have so many pieces left, you know? We did live through last year, after all. See, you feel like it's supposed to be easy, and then it's not, and then by the third inning if you're not ahead you're like OH MY GOD WHAT IF WE LOSE TO THE ROYALS and then all your muscles get tensed up and you begin sweating and cramping and speaking in tongues and it's damned hard to play baseball that way (Just ask Jason Giambi.) and the next thing you know you can't get out of bed in the morning, because people will know, they'll see the shame on your face, they'll point and laugh and say you lost to the Royals! and you'll say I know! I know! SHUT UP! I HATE YOU! and then there will be this whole shame spiral thing and really, it's better to just stay in bed.
So Batgirl would like to humbly suggest we spend the next two games getting about 10 run leads by the third inning, and everyone can pad their offensive stats and Batgirl will be happy, and then of course everyone's happy, except Mike Sweeney who will be sad, but, you know, that's pretty much going to happen anyway.
BatNotes: It's killing Batgirl that she can't go to the game on Thursday and cheer on Bradke. Please, go for her. Bring your signs and stand and cheer your heads off when he takes the mound, and when they take him out, whether in triumph or with one less arm, stand and cheer for him again.
Quick BatLinks:: From the Times: In Wacky Season, Twins Rely on Pitcher with Screwball Name. Third Base Line's got some pictures of the celebration. Jesse doesn't seem to like Esteban German, Mr. Baseball sings the praises of Bart, and Aaron documents el Presidente's achievements. Check out Viva Rivas's Rivas of the Day, and Thank You Brian Sabean's celebration of another Sabean Special. And if you're not following games with Pulling a Blyleven, your life is empty.
Also, new in the BatStore:
That's "You Can't Handle the Boof," which Batgirl and Jeb are going to learn a lot about next year, tagline courtesy of Adidasman. Click on the BatKitty to the left to visit the BatStore.
Dear Gwynn, I don't know. I need oxygen. Does anyone have any oxygen? This should probably go to the President, or the VP or Li'l Rod, but you know Batgirl's apoplectic right now and the sight of Lew Ford chugging around the bases just made Batgirl so very, very happy, and frankly Batgirl doesn’t know how many more times she's going to get to do this, so for the dinger putting the Twins on the board and ensuring we won't get shut out by the Royals, not to mention some mad hustle later in the game, and for bringing so much joy into Batgirl's life with all that crazy voodoo you do…
…you, Lew Fordwalker, are the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBabii/Torii 16; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 8; Jeb/Lewwww 5.
Kansas City at Twins. Twins 8, Royals 1.
Okay, Batgirl's pretty much dying because there's some kind of celebration going on right now with her boys, probably with lots of drum beating and bonfires and Robert Bly poetry, all led by a very naked Naked Batting Practice who might be wrapped in some sort of fur, although it's surely faux because NBP knows that Fur is Not Fashionable, or maybe it's tea cups and Emily Dickinson, the point is Batgirl doesn't know because she can't see it, MLB Extra Innings is there for the action but doesn't like to stick around to snuggle afterwards, if you know what Batgirl means. And during the eighth Dick N' Bert were sitting there talking about how awesome it's going to be to watch them celebrate, in whatever form (Iron John or Because I Could Not Stop For Death) and we're not going to get to see it. So somebody, put it on YouTube for Batgirl, will you? Then she can show it to Baby Boof and say, you see, my little Boof, all things in this world are possible.
Batgirl, frankly, has been weeping ever since Sweetcheeks hit number 30 on the year. She calmed down a little bit, and then the Doctor went yard for the first time in, like, forever, and she cried again, and as the Doctor went around the bases you could see him pursing his lips like he was trying so hard not to smile, and you could see he was almost as happy as Batgirl.
I'm not sure I ever really believed this was going to happen. Batgirl remembers when the Twins went on their tear and were getting close to .500, and after everything we had been through, even that seemed glorious. .500! Can you believe it? And then they kept winning, and kept winning, and Justin Morneau went boom boom boom and Joe Mauer went chip chip chip and there was the Kid and the President and all the bitches being sat down and it seemed like we were going to be the best third place team ever, and it didn't matter because we were winning, and we all thought, Wow, wait until next year. And then--
All these strange ill-fitting pieces—the midget erstwhile utility infielder cum third baseman, the prodigal shortstop back from exile, the bedimpled position-hopping right fielder with one last chance to show he belongs, the accursed first baseman who threatened to drown in his own potential, the once high-flying center fielder whose wings had been clipped, the pitching staff held together with prayers, fish glue, and a guy named Boof—they should never have fit together, but somehow they did and the result was so much more beautiful than these bright shiny baubles that sparkle so prettily on the great big-market brooches. And magically, in those ill-fitting pieces, we found superstars—not just the Cy Young pitcher and President of the United States of Batgirl, but the sweet swinging hometown boy, the golden-locked Canadian with lumberjack arms and potential to hit the ball many many mooseantlers, the Automatic closer, the Nathanest of Joes, who lost not a game this season, and, yes, that clipped-winged center fielder who hit his 30th home run tonight. But it wasn't just them, it was Punto, Bartlett, the resurgent Rondell, John Paul Bonser, Jason Renyt Tyner, Sideshow Pat and the Bullpen of Doom, Punxsutawney Phil, Naked Batting Practice's one man Pep Squad, and of course the One Armed Man who stared deep into the abyss and told it to go $%&! itself.
I didn't think it could happen, but it did. After being the assiest baseball team in the history of the world, the Minnesota Twins are going to the playoffs. And we can only sit back and marvel at the beauty of it all. Whatever happens from now on, I want you to remember this, not just this season, but every season, not just in baseball, but in life. I want you to show that YouTube clip you're going to upload for Batgirl to all your progeny and say, "See, my little Boofs, all things are possible, as long as you have heart."
Now, come on, guys. Time to go home, tuck yourselves into bed with your night shirts and hats and your stuffed TC Bears. We've got baseball to play.
BatUpdate: The Twins highlight reel courtesy of moeszyslak on the Twins mlb.com message board...with a tip of the hat to Nora.
You just knew it was going to happen tonight. You knew it from his first at bat, when Sweetcheeks stepped in and within about three seconds had fouled two balls into the left field foul seats. You thought maybe it would be after he made that great catch in the second then stepped up to the plate right afterwards, but no, we had to wait a little longer. It was worth it. When the ball hit the bat you knew it was gone, and Batgirl, for one, wept. After breaking at the All-Star-Break and looking broken down afterwards, Torii hit his 30th home run in the game where the Twins clinched a playoff appearance, in this most improbable of improbable years. Do I hear 100 RBIs? I know I hear a Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBabii/Torii 16; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 8; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Friday. O's 7, Twins 3.
Saturday. Twins 8. O's 5.
Sunday. Twins 6, O's 3.
This entry posted by twayn, who is a big fan of breakfast.
The pre-game spread was laid out on folding tables at Camden Yards on Friday, a cornucopia of deli sandwiches, hamburgers, hotdogs, pizzas, barbequed ribs, deviled eggs, tuna noodle hot dish, chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and cream gravy, walleye fillets almandine, shrimp cocktail, lime Jell-O salad, and other sundry comestibles fit for a playoff contending team.
Little Nicky Punto, his tummy growling, flip-flopped down the buffet line wearing shower shoes, compression shorts, and batting practice jersey, filling his plate with an enthusiasm unrivaled since Matthew LeCroy was abducted by Nationals and forced to impersonate a catcher. At the end of the table, in odd contrast to the epicurean fare on the board, sat a lone box of cereal in generic packaging. On a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse that seemed to say, “Try it, Nicky, it’s good for you,” Punto put aside his plate, filled a bowl from the mysterious cereal box, grabbed a bottle of Grip ‘N Go milk and poured it on. But when he sat down, spoon in hand and ready to dig in, another impulse that felt much more natural stopped him. He sat staring blankly into the bowl.
“What’s this stuff?” asked Jason Bartlett, sliding into a chair beside Nicky.
“Some cereal,” said Punto. “It’s supposed to be good for you.”
“Did you try it?” asked Bartlett.
“I’m not going to try it,” said Punto, sliding the bowl to Bartlett. “You try it.”
“I’m not going to try it,” said Bartlett, sliding the bowl back.
“Let’s get Reusse!” said Punto.
“He won’t eat it,” Bartlett said. “He hates everything.”
At that moment Joe Nathan walked in, scanned the smorgasbord, glanced sidelong into Punto’s cereal bowl, then took three giant steps backward, his eyes wide with terror, his face reddening and his knees wobbling like a corseted Victorian matron suffering an attack of the vapors.
“Get away from it!” yelled Nathan. “For the love of Gwynn and all that is sacred, put down that spoon, Nicky, and step away from the table!”
“What’s the matter, Joe?” asked Punto.
“Do you know what that stuff is?” squealed Nathan.
“Some cereal,” said Punto. “It’s supposed to be….”
“That’s not cereal!” cried Nathan. “I mean, yes, it looks like part of a nutritious breakfast, but it’s not.”
“What is it, then?” asked Bartlett.
“It’s Hubris!” said Nathan, fanning himself with his cap.
“Hubris?” asked Little Nicky Punto.
“Hubris?” asked Jason Bartlett.
“Hubris!” exclaimed Joe Nathan.
By now several other players, roused by the commotion in the dining area, had gravitated toward the trio to investigate the cause of the ruckus.
“What’s going on?” asked Justin Morneau.
“Nicky was about to eat Hubris, and the VP freaked out,” said Bartlett.
“Hummus?” said Torii Hunter. “Man, I love that stuff on pita bread, you know, or sometimes with a little Melba Toast…”
“Not hummus, that’s a delicious paste made from mashed chickpeas, olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and tahini” said Nathan, “This is Hubris.”
“Hubris?” said Joe Mauer. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”
“No,” said Nathan, looking Mauer up and down, “I don’t suppose you have. But it’s terrible, terrible stuff. It’s like drugs, only worse. If you eat it, it will make you feel invincible.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Morneau, who sometimes feels invincible with a Louisville Slugger in his hands, even though his unassuming Canadian demeanor and an occasional slider off the outside corner keep him centered and humble and remind him quietly that he’s not really invincible, but quite good nevertheless.
“Yeah,” said Punto. “What’s wrong with being invincible?”
“Well, you’ll feel invincible,” said Nathan, “But you won’t be. You’ll be just like you always were, subject to the wild vagaries and unpredictable disappointing outcomes that are the core nature of the great game of baseball. Only you won’t realize it anymore, and then you’ll stop playing for the team first and cheering up your teammates, and you’ll become enamored of individual achievements and awards and you’ll turn selfish and arrogant, and you’ll come to believe you deserve to win just because of who you are and what uniform you wear and how much money you make and how storied is the history of your franchise and not how you play the game, and you won’t see how dangerous the Orioles and the Royals really are, and you’ll start thinking that all you have to do is show up and take the field and you’ll automatically win. And besides, it makes the baseball gods really, really mad.”
“How do you know so much about Hubris, Joe?” asked Morneau.
“Because Barry Bonds ate it all the time when I was with the Giants. He said it’s the perfect complement to a meal of HGH and Winstrol. Calls it the Breakfast of Home Run Champions. I’ve heard the Yankees keep cases of it in the clubhouse because Jeter and Giambi and Sheffield and most of the others eat it like candy.”
“What about the Bitch Sox?” asked Mauer. “Do they eat it, too?”
“They used to,” piped up Johan Santana, nodding his head knowingly. “Ozzie banned it last year, but I think a lot of them eat it now when he’s not looking. I’ve heard rumors that A.J. even sneaks some into Ozzie’s cachapas and tequenos as a prank.”
“Wow, this is bad,” said Mauer. “What do we do?”
“We have to get rid of it,” said Nathan. “We have to encase it in a block of cement, seal it in a lead-lined titanium safe, wrap it with industrial-strength chains and padlocks, and drop it into the deepest part of Chesapeake Bay.”
“That won’t work,” said Morneau. “Cuddy did that to himself this morning and he got out in, like, two minutes.”
“Couldn’t we just, you know, flush it down the toilet or something?” asked Bartlett.
“Sure, I guess that would work, too,” said Nathan. “But what I want to know is – how did it get here in the first place?”
Just then a wizened figure in the back of the room stepped out from a shadowy corner, his face lined with wrinkles, his hair a wild grey paean to eccentricity.
“I know where it came from,” said Rick Stelmaszek. “I was cleaning out a storage closet back at the Dome to make room for Sideshow’s autograph collection and found it in there. It was in a FedEx package addressed to Kyle Lohse, so it must have been delivered after he got traded. Someone probably loaded it up with the equipment when we left home.”
“Do you remember who sent it?” asked Nathan.
“Sure,” said Stelly. “The package said it came from some guy named Scott. Yeah, that’s it. Scott Boras, I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, get rid of it for us, Big Guy,” said Nathan, patting the grizzled gent on the back and handing him the cereal box. “The last thing we need around here right now is Hubris. Especially if it’s fortified with essential vitamins and minerals.”
Ahhh, it's been some time since Batgirl's gotten to do this. Propers to Phil Nevin for his first Twins homer, Pat Neshek for some very timely out-getting, and Macho Matt Garza for another solid start, but:
3 for 5 with a dinger and that awesome throwout to end the seventh? The Chairman serves the people, and how!
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBabii/Torii 15; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 8; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Dear Batgirl,
I first heard Phil Nevin was a member of the Twins during a radio broadcast, and my immediate reaction was one of horrified disbelief. I grimly forecast a quiet, unassuming end to the Twins' playoff ambitions right there. My reaction came from three seasons spent watching Mr. Nevin perform poorly for an otherwise-mediocre Padres team. Phil's skillsets were manifold: like a less-gifted A-Rod, Mr. Nevin had a talent for solo moonshots when the run differential was nine-plus; an affinity for rally-killing double-plays; an omnipresent fondness for strikeouts; a penchant for the half-second-gasper, one of those bases-loaded-two-out marvels where for a split second you hear the crack of the bat and see the speed of the ball and your brain clenches in hope before the ball hangs and as it falls (not even near the warning track), you reprove yourself for your reaction, because this is, after all, Phil Nevin, and there is no hope there. I was by no means a Padre fan, but after attending 15 or 20 games over three years, I was a big non-fan of Phil Nevin.
How, then, to explain my sadness at his (doubtless season-ending) injury today? Glassy McFragilekins seems like no loss for a team packed with talented, scrappy infielders; for God's sake, today Mr. Nevin was replaced by Terry Tiffee, who has much higher returns on the cuteness-of-name front alone. But Phil managed to create a story for himself that spoke positively about the Twins. It helped that he had some very nice things to say about the club, but there was this sense that moving to a place with seasons and character and far fewer thongs and magic ass-unicorns and no recollection whatsoever of 1999-2001 gave Phil access to a very dilute fountain of youth, that he was able to lay down his own personal ass-bat and, if not be particularly good, at least be not so startlingly bad. The change to his surroundings, some quintessence of Twin, was what allowed him to raise his game, which in turn made the team better. It was a happier version of the tales of T-Fat and Booney, a story we all knew the Twins had in them because of the rampant coolness of their clubhouse. That the story ended (at least for the moment) in such an inauspicious way is very Nevin: his ways are not the ways of tragedy but rather of melancholy, of pointless, unremarkable sadness. But his very brief, very small arc was, from my perspective, worthy of note.
Searching, however, for the marks that his presence made upon the Batcave, I was sorry to see nothing but his cursory welcome and delighted descriptions of his gaffes and failures when playing for other teams. There's no doubt in my mind that issues larger than the Story of the Saddest Padre have consumed the Batbrain for the not-quite-month of Phil's tenure, but I would humbly request that some note of recognition be penned, if only because the appeal of Batgirl is that you not only worship at the godhead of Johan K, but take time to lovingly note the tiniest, the nerdiest, and the nakedest of Twins. Please make time to note the passing of this, the Nevinest one, as well.
With deep respect,
Boolio
Dear Mr. Boolio,
Batgirl can think of no better a tribute than your letter. She encourages readers to follow the link, too, to read about Nevin's joy at being a Twin. Baseball giveth and baseball taketh away. But fret not, Mr. Nevin's injury is nothing serious, he shall live to hump another day.
Sincerely,
Batgirl
Oh, my goodness. There was nothing pretty about this, my friends, but nonetheless we cannot escape two very important facts: 1) we won and 2) we scored runs. This is rather important for the remaining week of the season because, for god's sakes... Now, Batgirl's tired of obsessing over whether we play the Yankees in a 5 game series or a 7 game series, because we are giving them too much power, because there's nothing to fear but fear itself, so let's forget about the Yankees and get this thing done. Batgirl's playing for the division, dammit, and also for momentum—there are times we pitch and hit and field and it's all gorgeous, and times when we play like a bunch of ass-monkeys. And assuming we do make it, she does not want to go into the postseason playing like ass-monkeys.
Well, actually, there were a few pretty things about tonight's game. I mean, Johan Santana was sitting on the bench! And Rondell White went 4-4, which as you may have noticed, is four more hits than he got before the All-Star Break this year. And Shaggy's FIRST MAJOR LEAGUE WIN--whoever thought that would happen? And Joe Nathan getting it done the way he always does. And then there was Torii Hunter's laying out catch off a sure RBI-double for Miggy, saving the game and Sideshow Pat's psyche. And earlier there was Torii's dinger, breaking the tie, showing the Twins they could score on something besides a poorly fielded strikeout, and the other robbing-Miggy-of-a-double-in-the-ninth, making him 3 for 5 on the day with 2 runs, two RBIs, and two potentially game-saving plays, making him the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBabii/Torii 15; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Click on the BatKitty to the left to visit the BatStore!
Also, Twins Fan Troy is selling his own Piranha shirts.
Twins at Boston. Red Sox 6, Twins Goose Egg.
The explosive article about A-Rod made baseball headlines and left the fragile third baseperson a quivering mass of feelings such that when Jason Giambi lumbered into the Yankees clubhouse the day after the article came out, A-Rod--despite all the comebacks he had practiced in the mirror that day--took one look at him and ran into the bathroom crying. Inspired, Minneapolis St. Paul Magazine stationed a reporter in the Twins clubhouse, trying to capture a scoop of their own.
And boy, did they pick the right day. Up until today, the Twins couldn't stop patting each other on the back, but after today's soul-crushing loss versus Boston that cost them exactly no ground in the division race and left them a disgraceful 10-3 in their last thirteen games, the veneer began to crack.
Batgirl was able to obtain an exclusive advance copy of the article, but she warns you, it's not pretty:
"Gardy wants to see you."
Little Nicky Punto was still weak from the hangnail he had suffered that had confined him to his room that afternoon and made him miss the team fieldtrip along the Freedom Walk—not to mention forced him to cancel a recording session for his ringtone endorsement deal—when he walked into Fenway and was told to go to the manager's office.
The shortest and most plucky baseball player was in trouble. He had gone only 1-4 on the night and had provided absolutely no power. His teammates said he seemed insecure, unfocused, and he couldn't step to the plate at Fenway without someone shouting, "You're a wee little #@$!#%, Little Nicky Punto!"
Punto has long been the major league equivalent of the prettiest girl in high school who also gets straight A's. The Punto of September 21, though, was different—unhinged. With his one hit in the game, his numbers look fine, but even Punto admits the statistics can't mask the unbearable pain of the three-at-bat slip into a dark abyss, when he lost his confidence and, some teammates believed, worked a little too hard at keeping up appearances. "A false confidence," said Minnesota first baseman Justin Morneau.
"I can’t help that I'm so plucky," said Punto. "I know that's a bad quote to give, but I can't pretend to be anything but a little ray of sunshine."
Gardy had been patient with his third basemen. He hit .187 for the Mets one year and then .045 the next, giving him a deep understanding of the ebb and flow of performance. Punto will hit, he thought, and he kept telling the third baseman that.
Gardy's trademark placidity ended, though, when Joe Mauer asked to talk to him in Boston. "Skip," he said, "it's time to stop coddling him."
Before Mauer went to Gardy, he had scolded Punto for not getting the big hit.
"What do you mean?" said Punto. "I've had four hits this series!"
"You f------ call those hits?" shrieked Mauer. "You just keep dinking the ball and running around the basepaths like your a— is on fire! What do you think you are, a piranha or something?"
Said one teammate, "I think he ought to get his eyes checked. He's swinging like a blind crap weasel out there."
Said another, "He thinks he's all that, but his theme song is superficial, and frankly derivative."
Said another, "He's such a little #@$!, always running around pulling unicorns out of his a--."
Ask Punto what the source of the scrutiny is, and he'll tell you without blinking, "It's the contract." In the spring, Punto made Minnesota headlines when he signed a one year, .325 million dollar contract. "No one around here had ever seen that kind of money, especially on a dollar to inch ratio. It created a lot of hard feelings."
"Justin Morneau only went 1 for 4 today, and no one's talking about him. He's making the same money as I am. Jason Tyner was 0 for 3 and you don’t hear anyone bitching about him. I don't know what it is—is it because I'm so good-looking, I date supermodels, I'm so good at Pilates, I play on the most popular team…?"
That is the rub. On a team like the Twins, your value is what you've done for the team that day. Under the immense national media scrutiny, everything becomes amplified. The question remains, though, is Punto too emotionally fragile to succeed on a hard nosed, big city team like the Minnesota Twins? If he doesn't manage to go at least 2 for 4 tomorrow, the questions will begin to surface—can he not succeed under the bright lights and storied history of the HHH Metrodome? One thing's for sure, his teammates will be ready and willing to give quotes criticizing him to national media, because that's just the way it is in Minnesota.
Batgirl has received any number of wonderful links in the past few days. Here's some stories to tide you over until Johan starts.
This article from SI details Mauer and Morneau's pad. It's all pretty much wonderful.
Vikings don't seem to know how to share. Surprise, surprise.
City Pages has a huge cover package on the Twins.
Patrick Reusse wrote a column last night telling us it's not over yet (which, really, it isn't. Weve got to keep humping, boys and girls.) It's cute because he was clearly writing it during the game,describing how crappy this loss was going to be, and then the last three words were like--oh, and then we won! Well, all traces of that column are gone, replaced by this almost jubiliant description of Torii's Big Boom.
Lots of praise for the Twins system from the Globe.
Jayson Stark says Santana isn't the MVP, but Morneau might be.
Oh, and remember, while Derek Jeter might not have the stats of an MVP, it's the intangibles.
Twins at Boston. Twins 8, Red Sox 2
That is how the NESN announcers* described the Craig Hansen pitch that Rondell White laced into right field for a double, and also how Batgirl described the place she was in at that moment. There've been a lot of dramatic battles this season—Mauer vs. Jeter, the battle for the central, the Toronto manager vs. his team, AJ vs. society, the BoSox vs. environment, A-Rod vs. himself, readers/field vs. Goober, but perhaps none so compelling, nay, momentous, as Torii vs. Fenway.** After Torii was felled by the Bermuda Triangle last season, his return to the site of his defeat was full of pomp and circumstance. Yesterday's Round One might have been a draw, with Torii launching a pitch into those Green Monster seats, and then a few innings later bouncing another one off the self-same ankle he shredded last year. And the Green Monster said, Ha! As Gardy carried Torii into the dugout, Torii steeled his eyes and stared over the field and announced, "I shall return. Bitch."
Tonight, the Monster seemed to be toying with him at first—in the 4th all three fly balls went to him, including one that smashed him and his elbow—which is a new place for him to get hurt—against the wall. And every time Batgirl for one watched with her hands over her eyes, but each time he emerged unscathed, shouting, "I shall live to fight another day!"
And boy, did he. When he came up in the eighth, it seemed this game was not to be for us, and Batgirl was readying to soothe the troops—after all, all we need to do is win the series, we're not going to win every game, it's too bad about Boof,*** he sure pitched the hell out of the game, and isn't that nice because he's had, what, five great starts now and he'll be our #2 guy in the playoffs, and that's more important than the stats anyway, too bad about that HR to Big Papi*** but, you know, shit happens, and anyway Santana's going to come out tomorrow, and, hey, we've got two runners on, it would sure be nice to at least—
Boom. With one sweet swing, Torii turned a one-run deficit into a two run lead, sending the ball over the Green Monster, and if as he rounded the bases he smirked slightly at said Monster, you shall have to forgive him.
Two other performances to note: no matter how much manpower they send after it, no one can put out the fire of the Boofster**** who continues to rage across the American League, leaving nothing but the charred wreckage of dreams behind. And then there's Bartlett, who continues to kill opponents softly with his glove, killing them softly-y with his glove, telling their whole li-i-ife with his glove, killing them softly...with his gloooooooove. Boof is on fire, there's fire in Bart's belly, there's fire, fire, fire everywhere, Old Lady Leary's lit a lantern in the shed and, my friends, it will be a hot time in the old town tonight.
And now, my dears, I want to show you something truly wonderful. It was transitory, of course—and isn't that the nature of joy? Isn't its very fleetingness was makes it so alluring?–but for one glorious hour the Central standings***** read thusly:
*(One of the things about being a Minnesota ex-pat is you get to watch a lot of opponent's feeds, and unless these opponents are the Bitch Sox who do have the worst broadcasting team Batgirl has ever seen, it is usually quite pleasant. The Cleveland announcers, for instance, are terrific, as were the O's announcers. The NESN announcers are batshit crazy, and of course Batgirl is very pro being batshit crazy. But there was this whole thing about Fabio, and Flabio, and how it was important to respect male plus-size models, and you just know these guys pull Blylevens all the time, and you just know that instead of everyone going all Puritan on them, they're, like, publicly celebrated for every Blyleven they drop—which is fairly ironic, because, you know, Massachusetts knows a thing or two about Puritans.)
**For more on Hunter v. Fenway, please see another excellent new Twins blog Viva Rivas!
***Also fun is hearing the mispronunciations of the other announcers. The NESN guys call LNP Punt-o, which has the wonderful advantage of rhyming with runt and just sounding like something quite wee. But the Cleveland announcers kept referring to Boof as Boeuf, which makes him sound like he should be served with a lovely Bourguignon sauce, and sort of changes the whole thing, doesn't it? Though Batgirl's not sure if Boeuf should be wearing fewer gold chains…or more.
****(Batgirl: Okay, Jeb, you get Junior Ortiz's 50th home run ball. What do you want for it?
Jeb: It depends. Is it Junior or Bonds? Because if it's Bonds, I'm keeping the ball. Then I'm going to poop on it, and then burn it, and then video tape it and stick the whole thing on YouTube. If it's Junior, I want the both of us videotaped singing, "I've Got You Under My Skin," and then I want season tickets for life.
Batgirl: What about BabyBoof's college fund?
Jeb: What about singing "I've Got You Under My Skin" with Junior Ortiz?
*****Oh, and our magic number is 6.
A huge BatThankYou to Twayn for doing such an awesome job guest blogging yesterday.
With all due apologies to Batgirl's beloved husband, who is strongly pressing for Lewwwww based on his, um, critical RBI that upped the lead from 5 to 6, well:
That's some sweet cheeks on that Sweetcheeks. Wasn't he just writhing all over the ground and hobbling on the field yesterday? Hmm, must have dreamt that. Do I hear 30 homers? I know I hear a Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBaby/Torii 14; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
This entry posted by Twayn, who is a big fan of Tim O'Brien.
The squad had been humping for four straight days, moving steadily away from base camp the whole time. They had run low on clutch hits with runners in scoring position, and needed a resupply. So they got on the radio, hunkered down for a day of R&R by the Charlie River, and waited for the choppers. The next day, they geared up and humped to Fenway, and the next skirmish.
Matt Garza carried the nightmare memory of his first major league start, a pitching line of 2.2 innings, 8 hits, 7 runs, 2 home runs, and a staggering 23.62 earned run average. He carried the weight of great expectations, of Liriano’s popped elbow, and of Boof and Baker’s recent examples. Torii Hunter carried the hellish vision of chasing a fly ball up that peculiar angle in the centerfield wall and falling to the ground, his ankle shattered, his season over, his frustration and pain on full display. Joe Mauer carried the burden of being the best hitter in baseball for more than half a season, excelling quietly, only to have the game’s media darling challenge him in the waning weeks. Justin Morneau carried his MVP bid into enemy territory, the house of the former favorite, and went toe to toe with a New England giant. Jason Bartlett carried the ignominy of playing the first fifty games of the season in the minors to learn leadership and urgency. Rondell White carried the stigma of being a designated hitter with a first-half batting average below the Mendozza line.
They carried sunflower seeds and Bazooka bubble gum to the bullpen. They carried baseballs and gloves and bats, pine tar rags, rosin bags, water bottles and Gatorade coolers to the dugout. They carried the hopes of a squad that had been beaten down early, but found a way to get back up and keep humping.
Matt Garza carried his team through almost six innings, posting zeros through four full, facing down Big Papi Ortiz himself three times and sitting him down three times on a groundout and two strikeouts. In the top of the second, Rondell White carried his team to an early lead, banging a double to the base of the left field wall to drive in a run. That same inning, Jason Bartlett carried his bat to the plate with two on and with two strikes fouled off three straight knuckleballs. Then he drove a fastball over the Green Monster for a four run lead. An inning later, Torii Hunter hit a home run over that same imposing wall, a shot that almost left the park, and carried himself around the bases like a man hungry for a championship. Later in the night, Hunter fouled a ball off his foot, the kind of wicked tip that makes everybody cringe when they see it, and went down in obvious pain. Then got up and walked it off. Because that’s what you do in a pennant race, you keep humping. Justin Morneau carried his Canadian cool into the batters box five times and stroked five hits, scored twice, and drove in one. He carried himself like an MVP.
With the monsoons coming early at Fenway, the Twins carried the threat of a shortened game and the need to keep their lead intact. The defense and bullpen carried them through the final frames, with only a minor threat from the Sox to put down. From the top of the lineup to the bottom, from the first inning to the last, they carried each other, like they have all year. If one stumbled, the others picked him up. They carried themselves like professionals, like a team with a purpose. And they kept humping, because this is a pennant race, and that’s what you do.
Okay, it turns out it takes about 2.5 hours to get to Fenway from here, including waiting for ten minutes at the little toll plaza, and about an hour and 45 minutes to get home, and about three extremely wet hours to watch the Twins move within a half of a game of first place. During those three hours, one might see many things, like Jason Bartlett's second very timely three run home run of the season, Torii Hunter getting his revenge on Fenway by sending one over the Green Monster, and, best of all, Justin "Doctor" Morneau going 5 for 5 with two runs, two doubles, and a RBI, and as the BODSHC once proclaimed, you go 5 for 5, you pretty much get to be the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 25; BatBaby/Torii 13; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Batgirl and Jeb are very pleased to announce the upcoming arrival of a new member of their farm system.
This BatBaby shall come into the world just as pitchers and catchers report next year. Prospective name thus far is Francisca Johanna Justine Josephine Michelle Luisa Nikola Juanita Dennys Sampler, or the masculine version thereof. Suggestions are always welcome. And, as the time draws nigh, Batgirl and Jeb would like your opinions--what position should we train him/her to play?
p.s. this entry was posted by Batgirl, accidentally logged in as Twayn, for whom she just created an account.
From Eric Neel of Page 2: The Mojo Index. Everything about this is wonderful.
Twins at Cleveland. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Indians 5, Twins 4 (10 innings).
Saturday. Twins 4, Indians 1.
Sunday. Twins 6, Indians 1.
It was a jubilant Twins clubhouse after today's 6-1 victory. Luis Castillo was doing his jumping high five all the way into the showers, until Lew Ford started crying and ran out of the room whimpering something about his personal space.
"I can't believe we pulled it out!" squealed Little Nicky Punto.
"Three of four games!" enthused Josh Rabe.
"After leaving 847 people in scoring position!" exclaimed Jason Bartlett.
If, at this comment, some people on the pitching staff side of the showers looked darkly at the hitters, you would have to forgive them. They've been through a lot. But any moment of tension quickly dissipated, for how tense can you be when you find yourself one game out of the division lead?
But someone was curiously absent from all of the general bonhomie. As the rest of the team celebrated in the showers, one man sat in a dark corner of the clubhouse staring at the ground with roughly the same facial expression as Juan "The Smiling Assassin" Rincon after Game 4 of the 2004 ALDS. It was Little Nicky Punto, just emerging from the showers (after all he doesn't have as much surface area to wash) who noticed him.
"What's wrong Johan??" said Punto, running over to his colleague.
"Oh, nothing."
"Don't be sad, Johan! Be happy!" And with that, he started to sing:
Cheeeeer up! Things'll get better
Cheeeeeer up! How bad can it be?
It's a world full of magic, of unicorns and rainbows
It's a world filled with love for you and me!
In his exuberance, Punto lost hold of his towel and was soon prancing around the clubhouse in lavish dance accompaniment to the song. Unfortunately, Lew Ford chose this moment to emerge from some alone time in the trainer's room, and as soon as he saw the naked, pee-pee-flapping third baseman, he screamed and ran back out the door.
"Do you feel better, El Presidente??"
"I sure do," said Johan. But his words were a lie. As soon as Punto skipped out of the clubhouse, Johan stared at the ground dejectedly again.
At this point, something began to stir in a pile of clothes a few lockers down from Santana. From Scootie Baker's crumpled uniform came a few notes of an eerily familiar song. And then something burst through the pants and hung in the air next to Santana.
The pitcher looked up, raised his eyebrows, and sighed, "Oh, hi Nutty".
"Hello, Johan Santana! Why the long face?"
"Oh, well, I didn't do very well yesterday."
"Oh, really?"
"No, I'm afraid not. The Twins aren't supposed to lose when I start. I have been en fuego, and suddenly….thhhhhpt."
"Le Pauvre!" exclaimed Nutty. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Johan Santana! Not everyone can be Scott Baker."
Santana drew himself up and raised his eyebrows dubiously at the protective cup. But Nutty did not notice. He zipped around the clubhouse, holding his hands to his heart—or he would have if he had hands, or a heart.
"Scott Baker is brave, strong, and true," he continued rhapsodically. "Did you see him today? He was en feu! It was a little sketchy there at first, I admit, and I was one nervous protective cup, and when I get nervous I really tense up, I just squeeze myself up tight! But after that, Scott Baker really started to focus. And every time someone got on base, I just whispered into his ear—well, not his ear, really—'Come on, Scott Baker! Do it for Nutty!' And he did! He got them to hit into a double play! Now that's mastery, Johan Santana. You could really learn something from Scott Baker!"
At this point, Baker himself appeared from the showers. When he heard Nutty's words, the silly grin he'd been wearing faded, and his face turned white.
"Nutty," he whispered, his voice cracking
"Someday, Johan Santana, you'll be as good as Scott Baker," Nutty continued, "and when you are, I just want you to remember your friend Nutty, the Athletic Cup, who first put the dream in your eyes!"
Santana gazed at the cup, then at Baker, who was shaking his head back and forth in horror.
"That's right, you'll feel the first glow of victory, and say, 'I want to thank Nutty, who first told me I could aspire to be all I could be. Of course, I can never be as truly great as Scott Baker, but--'"
"Nutty, shut up! I'm sorry, Mr. Santana...sir," squeaked Scootie. "He doesn't mean it. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's just—"
"That is alright, Scootie," sighed Johan.
"Might I...uh, might I sterilize your flip flops again?"
"That would be nice."
"And I could wax your Hummer, too?"
Santana gazed at the young pitcher, eyebrows raised.
"Um," said Scootie. "I'll just stick to the flip flops."
BatLinks: Batgirl adores this uber sassy new Twins blog Pulling a Blyleven. Also, as the Bitch Sox play the Ligers, Mr. B discusses whom to cheer for. EDIT Aaron provides a contrasting viewpoint.
See, this is what I'm talking about. Hitting. With runners on base. Capitalizing on opportunities. Not making Batgirl scream at the tee vee. Batgirl has to watch that sort of thing, she's in a townhouse now and there are youths next door, very young youths, whose parents may not appreciate Batgirl screaming things like, "#@$@#@$# %$#^%$^#% $^&^&%&^*$ you $%^$%^#%$^&." It's very trying.
The point is, opportunities. Conversions. Actual real live hits with RISP. With two outs! With the bases loaded! Scoring two runs, putting the Twins in the lead from which they never looked back. And that's why you, Torii Hunter, are the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 24; BatBaby/Torii 13; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Welcome back, Jackal. Nice to see you again.
Readers/The Field 26; Goober/Doctor 24; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batbaby/Torii 12; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Twins at Cleveland. Twins 9, Indians 4.
Those of you who were here last year may remember Batgirl went through a certain Tony Gwynn phase. It all began with a late extra inning game in Seattle and some bad Big League Chew. Batgirl started seeing things, then, strange things, like Kent Hrbek on a magic potato, which is similar to, and yet nothing at all like a magic fucking unicorn, because unicorns can't fly and magic potatoes totally can, and to make a long story short it was getting later and later and finally Batgirl uttered a quick prayer to Tony Gwynn and believe it or not the Twins won.
Tony Gwynn appeared in our lives briefly last year, a burst of sunshine in the interminable gray fog of the season. We did our best to honor him, Batling Twins Foghorn even wrote Tony Gwynn's Prayer. And every once in a while he would show up to bless us.
And then, mysteriously, he disappeared…
The Twins were out of it just as quickly as they had gotten back in it, and Batgirl can never know what she did to displease him. Batgirl has thought of Tony often over the last year, and when the Twins made their dramatic turnaround in June ("dramatic" like Hamlet is "mixed-up") she could not help but wonder if he was smiling on us again. And then, upon her return from her voyages, Batgirl got this in the mail, courtesy of Batling Twink:
A giveaway! From the Portland Beavers! A graven image! Here to bless and inspire us!
And then, this morning, something very strange happened:
Now, when the figure arrived on Batgirl's doorstep, it was perfectly intact. It was not until this morning, when Batgirl merely picked him up, ever-so-gently, to move him, that the arm fell off. Clearly, it was a sign. Tony knows about the Twins' troubles, and is with us.
Look. That dude has no arm! But what do you see in his eyes? Do you see concern? Do you see pain? Do you see any quit? No, you do not. You see grit, my friends. And if his arm falls off…
Well, he'll just bat from the mother flipping ground.
You see, we're on a mission now, boys and girls. People have counted us out so many times that we've lost count, and somehow we stay in it. This injury to Liriano's supposed to end our hopes—even though we gained 8 games without him. We're going to keep fighting this damned fight, no matter how many limbs fall off, and no matter what happens at the end of the season, no matter if we make it or we don't, every single one of us will have learned something from this season, the year the Minnesota Twins sucked beyond all recognition, the year they lost their outfield and their top two and three starters, the year they featured Johan Santana and the Triple A All-stars, the year Little Nicky Punto started at third, the year they climbed and crawled back, the year they fought this thing all the way to the damned end.
Now, does anyone have some fish glue?
A huge BatCongratulations to Mr. Michael Brent Cuddyer for getting his 100th RBI tonight. Who the heck saw that coming?
BatCharity Alert: On Sunday, 6 inch subs at Subway are 2 for 1, with proceeds going to the Harmon Killebrew Miracle Fields. Eat up!
A pennant race? One back of the Tigers? 4 RBIs, a dinger, and a double on the night, and a
Boyfriend of the Day. Damn straight, Sweetcheeks lives for this.
Readers/The Field 25; Goober/Doctor 24; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batbaby/Torii 12; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
So far good news on the Kid. Let's wait for that second opinion....
Oakland at Twins. A's 1, Twins 0.
It would have been too easy. Getting Liriano back now in full form—why that would set the Twins on about a twenty game win streak, right through the playoffs, with Santana and Liriano making every other start, until Game Seven of the World Series, when Liriano sprains his phalange on the follow through striking out that pretty boy from the Mets and suddenly the Twins are left without a starting pitcher. What are they to do? Santana can only go every other day—he's only human after all. And that's when Brad Radke stands up in the Twins clubhouse and shouts, Get me some fish glue! And Gardenhire says, No, Brad, you can't! It's too risky! And Radke steels his jaw and says I've never thought about the risks and solemnly Pat Neshek brings him the tub of fish glue from the freezer and Josh Rabe brings him his right arm and Bradke yells Someone put my arm back on! and Gardy says I can't allow this to happen, Brad. Nothing's worth this. and Brad's eyes grow steely and he says Then I'll put it on myself. And before anyone can protest, Radke dips his left hand in the fish glue and smears it on, then wrenches his right arm away from Rabe and attaches it all by himself. Then he stands, looks around the clubhouse daring anyone to stop him and says, Excuse me, I have a game to pitch. And then he goes out and he pitches, he pitches like he's never pitched before, he pitches like it's the Cupcake Day to end all Cupcake Days, and even though the arm is slowly falling off, the Mets can do nothing, nothing at all, and finally it's the ninth inning and the Twins have just scored their first run of the game when Joe Mauer got a hit with Little Nicky Punto on first and he rode his magic fucking unicorn all the way home, and then in the top of the ninth the slowly slipping off arm causes Bradke to walk Jose Reyes because he's a control pitcher and it's hard to control your pitches when your arm is falling off and then it's two outs and Reyes has made his way to third and that pretty boy steps up and there's two quick strikes to him and then three balls and then Bradke rears back and throws with all his might, it's the last pitch of his life, because the arm flies off with the ball, but it's also the best pitch of his life, and that pretty boy swings and misses, he misses the ball and the arm, and the next thing Bradke knows he's at the bottom of a huge Twins pile, and Joe Mauer is beating him over the head with his right arm in his ecstasy, and nothing in the whole world has ever been better than that.
But it's not to be, alas. It is going to have to be some other pitcher who dislocates his phalange in Game Seven, because Francisco Liriano is out for the season. And it is too bad, because we sure like that kid, because he would have won every game he pitched, because he scares the pants off people and opposing batters look funny without their pants, plus it throws off their timing, and now we will have to look to the Boofster and Silva and maybe even Macho Matt Garza who showed us a thing or two about being the Twins number one draft pick this afternoon. And we have done it before, we have lost our whole outfield, we have lost Liriano, we have lost Radke, and each time we have said, well, it's too bad, we really could have done something this year, and yet somehow we are magically still here, still working toward the moment when Brad Radke strides to the mound in Game Seven and gives his right arm to victory, and so now we are going to have to solider on, again, but we're used to it. Feel better soon, Kid. Thanks for all you did for us, and we'll see you next year.
Now, let's go get them Sabathias.
Batgirl just got off an airplane, so here are some links to tide you over until the F-Bomb is dropped on the Dome tomorrow.
Nobody wants to play the Twins with a fresh Liriano and a virtually unbeatable Johan Santana lined up for a postseason series. You could bring back Les Straker to be a No. 3 starter and still like Minnesota's chances.
The Chicago Tribune's Phil Rogers handicaps the MVP race for ESPN. Rogers gives Morneau some props, though one should notice the assumptions inherent in the caveat, "At least two of the top six AL candidates are with teams that won't play in October, maybe three (if the Twins fall short)."
Also, Radke plays catch without pain. We assume this is only because he's moved to a level of being beyond pain.
Morning additions:
The Doctor and Chairman on ESPN.
Will Young on The Last Roster Spot, the TK years.
Neither Third Base Line, Jesse, One of the Nicks, nor Mr. Baseball can believe their eyes.
At Most Valuable Network, Andy Wink looks at Boof's success.
This is going to be nationally embarrassing.
Batgirl was on a plane for much of tonight's game, so she will rely on you, her darlings, to fill her in on the salient details. All she knows is she called BatMom and Dad as soon as she got off and heard lots of whooping. Something about Justin Morneau and a two run double to give the Twins the lead for the first time that night. The Good Doctor was 3 for 4, raising his average to .324, and gave the Twins the victory, adding to his MVP case, and making him the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 25; Goober/Doctor 24; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batbaby/Torii 11; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Oakland at Twins. Twins 9, A's 4.
No one could put their finger on what was wrong with Carlos Silva. He just didn't seem to have the same spark anymore. It wasn't just the sink in his sinker, it was the spring in his step, the twinkle in his eye. One thing was for sure: Carlos just wasn't Carlos anymore.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," said Silva. "The pennant race is here, but I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel."
"You know what you need?" said Juan Rincon. "A vacation!"
"I don't know…." waffled Silva.
"Too late!" said Rincon, pulling two plane tickets out of his bum. "We're going to Jamaica!"
Silva's eyes widened. "What?"
"Damn skippy!" said Rincon. "We'll lay by the beach, drink some daiquiris, go to the spa." He paused, a slow, mischievous smile creeping across his face. "…Maybe pick up some cute waiters…"
"Oh, Juanie!" said Silva, grinning for the first time in what felt like forever. "You're so bad!"
Well, twenty-four hours later, the pair had arrived in Jamaica, and it wasn't long before they were sitting by the pool reading Jodi Picoult and drinking pina coladas while the tropical sun looked down on them lovingly and a warm breeze danced gently through the palm trees.
"This was a great idea," said Silva. "I think I'll get my hair done later."
"Hey, Carlos," Rincon said, nudging his friend. "Look over there."
It did not take Carlos long to see what Rincon was pointing at. In the pool was a young Jamaican Adonis with deep, soulful eyes and muscles as firm and shapely as Brad Radke's hairdo.
"Who's that?" breathed Silva.
"Oh, that's someone I wanted you to meet," said Rincon, eyes twinkling. "Winston!" he called. "Come up here!"
Slowly, the young man got out of the pool, beads of moisture clinging longingly to his chiseled chest. As he slowly approached, the world around Silva grew strangely silent, as if there was no longer anything in it but he and this young man. Carlos felt something then, something electric. It was the shock of destiny. In his mind's eye, he saw their future unfold—they would exchange a few pleasantries, then run into each other one morning and share breakfast on the hotel veranda. He would expect nothing to happen—their age difference would make it impossible—yet somehow, improbably, something would happen: They would fall in love. He would keep denying his feelings, but his feelings would not be denied. What can age do against a force like love?
"Hello," said the young man. "Are you Carlos Silva?"
"That's right," breathed Carlos.
The young man looked him up and down, then took a step closer. He reached his arm out and then slapped Silva hard on his right cheek, then his left. "GET IT THE HELL TOGETHER!"
And then he walked off into the sunset, never to be seen again.
BatLinks: More piranha love and Ortiz on the MVP race.
Start with a large mixing bowl and fill with a homer to left with Joe Mauer on base to put the Twins on the board, add a dash of RBI.
Add a heaping spoonful of double down the third base line in the eighth; while stirring, score Bartlett and Punto.
Finally, sprinkle with dimples and pour into a cake pan.
Cook at 375 for 15 minutes and you have the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 25; Goober/Doctor 23; Sooz/(Cuddy) 12; Batbaby/Torii 11; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Detroit at Twins. Weekend Round-Up.
Thursday. Ligers 7, Twins 2.
Friday. Twins 9, Ligers 5.
Saturday. Twins 2, Ligers 1.
Sunday. Twins 12, Ligers 1.
Oh, my dears. Batgirl is so happy right now she can barely speak. Two games out. A game and a half in the wild card lead. Wins! Bats, bats, bats, triples (which are, as you may know, hott), defense--and Johan Santana, triple crown winner? Cy Young? MVP? There was so much to love this weekend, Batgirl can do nothing but throw her arms around the world--and not in a dysfunctional, U2 kind of way, but in the-whole-world-is-Johan-Santana-and-maybe-I-can-get-a-squeeze-of-bicep-way. There was so much damned hustle and heart and all the things we love about Twins baseball, including Torii "Gimp" Hunter singlehandedly creating a run in the second inning today. You missed it? Oh, that's terrible! Well, as a service to her readers, Batgirl presents a reenactment, using Legos.
Please note: the Spiderman Lego who used to play Torii Hunter has gotten a little uppity in his demands, and he was replaced with a more humble Lego actor. There's no "I" in Legovision.
It's the bottom of the second. One out. Torii Hunter at the plate.
Jeremy Bonderman has one strike against Hunter.
Torii rears back and...
...hits it up the middle. Base hit!
With Torii on first, Jason Kubel comes to the plate. Bonderman pitches. Boy, that's a high leg kick!
Hunter's going for the steal!
SAFE!
Strike three! But the ball bounces past the catcher.
Kubel hustles down the line as Wilson prepares to throw to first. ...What's that look in Torii's eye?
It's the spark of hustle! Torii breaks for third!
Wilson's throw to first was slow, the relay across the diamond not in time!
Torii looks into the Twins' dugout and claps. I'm a piranha too!
Tyner comes to the plate. Surely he can lend Torii a hand...
Oh well, it's just a foul pop to shallow left...Monroe will catch it easily.
What?? Torii breaks for home!
Shocked at Hunter's gall, Monroe throws wildly.
Torii scores!! ...Two runs: more than enough for Johan K. Santana, president of the United States of Batgirl.
The dugout celebrates! Twins are going to WIN!
BatVideo: Twins Fantasy Football Draft.
I know what you're going to say, I hear you, and believe you me, Mr. Johan Santana is the player of the game, and, of course, es en fuego. But after two of these in a row going to El Presidente, she wants to encourage offense, especially Team Batgirl Boyfriend offense, because what we need is these four guys to get mega hot all the way through October. And sometimes it's easy, and sometimes you have to create runs all by your lonesome. Like Sweetcheeks. It seems, at the beginning of the game, like runs might be at a premium (this would be prove to be rather…wrong) and so Sweetcheeks decided to make something happen. Base hit in the second, followed by a stolen base, followed by taking third on the throw to first on a strikeout, followed by scoring on sheer gall on a Jason Tyner foul ball, giving the Twins the second run of the game--which is all El Presidente needs--all on a bum foot. That's the sort of hustle and drive and piranhaism we didn't see during this little period of ass-battery, that's what we're going to need to find ourselves again, that's the sort of thing that can inspire a team and make a difference in the game, and the sort of thing that earns you, Sweetcheeks, the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 25; Goober/Doctor 23; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 11; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
What is this I spy before me? I cannot quite tell, I don't want to be too presumptuous, but if if looks like a reliable starter, smells like a reliable starter, and quacks like a reliable starter, then it, ladies and gentlemen and yankee fans, is Boof "John" Bonser, who held the Ligers to one run today, pitched himself out of some seriously tight jams with the grace and aplomb of someone not named after a vomiting noise, and put the Minnesota Twins three games out of first place. And that gives you, Boof Bonser, your very first Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 25; Goober/Doctor 23; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 10; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Photo: UMCC Class of 2004 facebook
Hail, in-deed-y
Ag'inst crawdads claim vic-to-ry
Good ol' UMCC
Shucks, we're fond of thee
I got a crawdad in my sites
We'll boil 'em up tonight
A li'l paprika will be just right
Ag'inst crustaceans we will fight!
Batgirl: So, who should be BOD?
Jeb: It's going to take some studying. There was so much offense.
Batgirl: (long silence) .....huh? So much....what?
Is this it? Has the AJ Juju lifted? Did something happen with two outs in the fifth, something mystical and magical, some wave of a magic wand orsome running out of the Dome turning around three times and spitting or some sort of group exorcism? And if so, why in the @!#!@#! hell didn't they do it last week?
Well, it doesn't matter. Tonight featured all sorts of delicious things like two out hitting and actual run production from our DH and M&M boys hotness. The Chairman pumped up his batting average nicely (take that Jeter, you pansy ass) and the Doctor had three beautiful RBIs, including a two out double that tied the game and showed the Twins they could actually score runs--and that, I believe, is the sort of thing an MVP does. Not to mention the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 24; Goober/Doctor 23; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 10; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Fight Varsity
On your toes dig in and hit that line!
We're all pulling hard for you
So fight and give the best there is in you
Fight Varsity
On your toes and hit that line!
We'll fight on to victory
We're always true to Fresno State!
Light blogging ahead through early next week. Batgirl didn't get to see tonight's game and it looks like it was a good thing. One thing's for sure, she is going to go over to the Dome and slap the Twins hitters across the head. Hard. Also, what if the very thing that hurt Carlos Silva's tummy tonight was what made him so awesome? Like if he ordered some awesome pills off the intertron, and didn't read the fine print very carefully, which said 1) may cause stomach pain and 2) don't take any pills you order off the internet. They did that once on Medical Investigation, which was an awesome show and totally shouldn't have been cancelled. Anyway, on one of the shows all of these girls were getting sick and it turned out to be because there was something in their jeans but there was this one who had lost a bunch of weight and it turned out it wasn't the jeans, but she'd ordered some parasite off the internet. So, you know, goal accomplished, but....parasite.
The things Batgirl watches when there's no baseball.
A few links to pass the day:
Awesome article about Radke.
Also, Twins Goddess does something fabulous for the Mother Bear Project.
Blyleven suspended for three more days. What, no public flogging?
EDIT Congrats to Aaron Gleeman on his phat new job!. Aaron's work--always fabulous--has been through the roof this year. Now, though, BG wants to see those top 40 Twins!
Twins at Tampa Bay. Twins 8, Devil Rays 0.
"That's one way to score," said Jeb after Michael Cuddyer crossed the plate in the 4th for the first run of the game. None of the other ways were working—the Twins found any number of ways to strand and erase runners in the first three innings of tonight's game. And it seemed in the 4th like they might have found another one—Cuddles led off with a double and then appeared to get caught in a rundown. Oh, poo bucket, it looks like another blown—
Ah, but this is Michael Brent Cuddyer, my friends, who said, "I am not going to frack this thing up one more time, I was not All-State at linebacker* in the great state commonwealth of Virginia for nothing, nor was I co-president of the Knut Rockne fan club** just for shits and giggles, and I am going to take my big cheeks and my man shoulders and my almost-100 RBIs and I am going to knock that ball out of BJ Upton's hands, and it is going to be totally awesome."
And it was. You could practically hear the pads crunch. That hit was better than anything we're going to see on the Dome's gridiron this year, and if only Cuddy had more DWIs in his past, I'd suggest the Vikes sign him. As soon as he landed the hit, BJ Upton let out one weak gasp of, "O, I am slain!" then crumpled to the ground like a Victorian lass with a too-tight corset, while Cuddy dove into third and proceeded to do the funky chicken.
Then Torii Hunter hit a weak fly to left—not enough to score Cuddles (alas, O cursed bucket of poo, another wasted—) but he feinted to home and that was enough to make Crawford's bowels seize up, like, majorly, and, you know, it's really hard to throw when your bowels have seized up, and so he threw a Hail Mary pass that landed roughly in the fifth row (Again, still a better pass than we'll see from the Vikes.) and it was funky chicken time for Cuddles all over again.
A moment of stunned silence in the Twins dugout. And then, as one, everyone exhaled as the truth dawned, and players turned to each other one by one with fire in their eyes—except Jason Bartlett who keeps his entirely in his belly lest he get sent down again—and said, "What the hell. You know what? We don't suck! These guys suck!"
Ah, yes, it's true. These guys suck. And tonight, the Twins did not. El Presidente caused four firehouses to empty out and when the engines arrived on Tropicana Field they all put down their hoses, as one, wiped the sweat off their brow, and said, "Damn, that guy's hot."
And suddenly the Twins could do things they haven't done in days, like—oh—convert on scoring opportunities. Cuddy went from football to baseball when he launched a ball just over the stands that unfortunately bounced out of a fan's glove and back in again. He was robbed of a homer by third base ump Tim Tschida's ophthalmologist, who was late in sending out his annual appointment reminder cards this year, and if Cuddy misses 100 RBIs by just one BG's going to call the AMA on him. Gardy said some things to the ump that would have gotten him suspended from Twins broadcasts (did he want showtime?) but by then the game was well in hand. Even the Chairman used the power of milk to remember how to hit again, and the Bitch Sox lost, and the Minnesota Twins are 1.5 games up in the wild card race—and all is well in the world.
BatLinks: Some tidbits from SI…What's in a Name? and Top 25 AL Breakout Players. Also, if you missed Bert's gaffe, here it is, thanks to You Tube. Warning: there will be actual profanity used. Hide the children!
*Not actually true, as far as Batgirl knows.
** Totally true.
We should be rewarding offensive excellence here, because Gwynn knows we need to encourage all of that we can get, but, um, hello. Johan es en fuego. 8 innings, 12 strikeouts, 2 hits, no runs, one big Cy Young case, and one more
Boyfriend of the Day. Thank you, Mr. President.
Readers/The Field 24; Goober/Doctor 22; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 10; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Batgirl is feeling a little under the weather, so no recap tonight. Instead, she would like to pose a question to you, her brilliant and talented readership. Nine days ago, the Minnesota Twins were a good offensive team. BG knows it's hard to remember so far back—but if you squeeze your eyes shut and think really hard you might remember something about boom boom sticks and piranhas and comebacks and, mostly, when people were on base, the batters would generally hit them in instead of hitting into double plays. I know it sounds nuts, but if you search back in the attic of your mind, you'll find it's true. Okay, so, my darlings—what the hell happened? Batgirl is bumfuzzled. I mean, baseball is a game of mystery and wonder, blah blah blah, but there's got to be some reason for this. So, what is it? What happened between Saturday night and Sunday morning? Mark Buerhle feeding on people's souls? T-Fat hanging out in the clubhouse again? More Lew Ford science experiments gone totally awry? AJ substituting the Twins real bats with ass bats? Staying up too late watching Project Runway marathons and listening to Tim Gunn podcasts?
We can't solve the problem until we name it.
p.s. The Bitch Sox, thankfully, seem to be having their own problems. The Twins are in the lead for the Wild Card--what say we try to hang onto it this time?
All Batgirl wants is some offense. Is that really too much to ask? And by offense, I don't mean--oh, this guy gets a hit and that guy walks and then this guy hits into a double play. I know there's some confusion on this matter, but that's an o-FENSE, not OFF-ense. Sort of like MOR-neau vs. Mor-NEAU, in that one involves a lot more homers. And, what with all the rampant-double-play-hitting-into, what we needed, it seemed was a homer. Preferably with someone on base because we can't do that scoring thing twice in one game, apparently. And so, while his Boofness deserves lots of huzzahs and hosannahs, this BOD is going to one Mr. Rondell White, for reminding the Twins that scoring wins games. Let's hope they remember tomorrow. And that's why you, Rondell White, are the Boyfriend of the Day.
Readers/The Field 23; Goober/Doctor 22; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 10; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
Bitch Sox at Kansas City. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Royals 7, Sox 5.
Saturday. Sox 5, Royals 3.
Sunday. Royals 7, Sox 3.
Just a few short days ago, Batgirl referred to the Kansas City Royals as beeyatches. There may have been some other things said, too, Batgirl doesn't really remember. The point is, Batgirl was not herself at the time—it was the jet lag talking, the booze, quitting coffee, quitting sniffing glue, bad prescription drug interaction, AJ made her do it, her words were taken out of context, they were distorted by the media, plus she totally didn't know we were live. But regardless of the unassailable and incontrovertible fact that Batgirl was not remotely responsible for her own actions, nonetheless she would like to officially extend her sincerest and most humble apologies to that most noble and esteemed organization, the Kansas City Royals, and to its fans—both of them. Because Batgirl is here to tell you the Kansas City Royals are the greatest team in baseball.
What is it that I love so much about them? Is it the cuddly yet insouciant charms of their mascot Sluggerrr? The unabashed abecedarian orgy inherent in every second-to-first play (Grudzielanek to Mientkiewicz, oh my)? The deceptive schoolgirl innocence of bullpen pitcher Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble, whose lips say no and his eyes say, yes, yes? Or is it—oh, I don't know—the fact that they took two of three from the Bitch Sox this weekend?
Hard to say. All Batgirl knows is when the Twins performed their two-day long dramatic leotards-and-stools re-interpretation of that cherished Keats poem "Ode on an Ass Bat" last Tuesday and Wednesday, it seemed for a moment like it might actually be something wrong with the Twins themselves. Silly Batgirl. The Royals juggernaut cannot be stopped, and soon the New York Yankees will find themselves just one more Landed Gentry pancake, with blueberries and maple syrup and whipped cream on top, and afterwards they can coming weeping into the arms of the Twins and the Sox, and we'll hold them oh-so-gently and say—we know, sweethearts, we know.
BatNote: Listen to MPR at 11am Monday for the annual State Fair Twins show with Howard Sinker—or else go watch them live at the Fair and ask questions for PRIZES—and eat something on a stick for Batgirl.
Ahhhhh.
With all love to Scootie, who pitched five very good innings and helped soothe the souls of anxiety-laden Twins fans everywhere, not to mention Sweetcheeks who took out his bum ankle frustrations on the baseball, this one goes to the good Doctor--who saw our offensive pain, wrote out a prescription, and hit that prescription all the way the hell out of the ballpark to give the Twins breathing room, not to mention got some serious payback, (which is, I'm told, a bitch) and that's why you, Mrneau, are the Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/Doctor 22; Readers/The Field 22; Sooz/(Cuddy) 11; Batbaby/Torii 10; Batgirl/Chairman 7; Jeb/Lewwww 4.
