W.V., on special assignment for Bat-Girl.com, adores exquisite metrical movement and digs the long ball.
Jason Kubel, batting .320 with 7 RBIs in his last 6 games, inspires poetic verse with his alliterative and prosodic approach to outfielding. Basically, English romantic poetry has got nothing on Rubick's Kubel.
Poem by:
Samuel Taylor Coleridge W.V.
In Minneapolis did Kubel Khan
a stately pleasure-Metrodome decree,
where Mississippi, the sacred river, ran
through caverns measureless to man
down to a sunless Lake Minnetonka,
so twice five miles of downtown ground
with right field baggies and bleachers girdled round.
and there was astroturf bright with sinuous rills,
where blossom'd many a piranha-inspired play.
And here was teflon as ancient as the hills,
enfolding sunny spots of fake greenery.
But O! That deep turf chasm which slanted,
down the green hill athwart a fly ball over.
A savage place! As holy and enchanted
as e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
as if this Earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
a mighty galloping momently was forced,
amid whose swift half-intermitted burst,
The baseball flew dangerously to a corner,
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion,
through wood and dale the sacred outfielder ran.
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
and sank in tumult to a blinding teflon bastion.
And 'mid this tumult Kubel heard from afar
ancestral voices prophesying Central Division war!
The poem is partially an expression of my teenage angst...but mostly, it's about a moo cow!
Joe Mauer: Hot Catcher or The Hottest Catcher?
Twins at Detroit. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Twins 5, Tigers 3.
Saturday. Twins 11, Tigers 3.
Sunday. Tigers 4, Twins 3.
On any given day, you can find Mike Redmond running errands for his household. "No Father-Knows-Best strict patriarchical separate-spheres angel-of-the-hearth share-the-load-spoil-the-wifey just-because-I-have-a-ding-dong-means-I-don't-pull-my-own-weight-'round-here for Mikey R," he said cheerfully as he went off this weekend, his ding dong flapping in the breeze. "I'm one of them modern day sensitive husbands, and, gol darnit, I'm going to do some grocery shopping."
"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Redmond, chewing on her lip.
"Of course I'm sure," sayed NBP.
"Because I thought maybe Joe could do it," she said carefully. "Or that nice Jason Kubel. Or even Tyner…"
"Don't be ridiculous. Tyner's a pansy. Well, toodle-oo!"
And before Mrs. NBP could protest, he'd hopped into his Jetta and was off into the bright expanse of the day.
He got out of the car in the parking lot thinking to himself that he was the happiest back-up catcher in all the land and he barely noticed the runaway shopping cart as it barreled toward him—until it slammed into his knees. He started but as passersby turned in concern he waved his hand and said, "I'm all right!"
He then pranced into Rainbow Foods, singing, "Low low prices on the good stuff," when he thought he heard someone call his name. Just as he stopped, the automatic door, which was sorely in need of a maintenance check, malfunctioned and closed into him. Someone in the lobby shrieked, but after wincing slightly, Redmond straightened and shouted, "Everything's fine!" then got himself a shopping cart and headed to the produce aisle.
The driver of the hand truck filled with cantalopes had had a lot to drink the night before, and, frankly, his depth perception was not that good, so even though he tried to avoid the naked man in front of him, the wheel of the truck rolled just over his right foot. "Ouch!" grunted Redmond, then he quickly gathered himself and smiled to the crowd and proceeded to pick out some nice tomatoes. So focused was he on the age-old vegetable-or-fruit question that he did not notice the four-hundred-pound man—who, just off of practice from Fatty McFatty's Baseball League and Pig Eating Club and Macrame Guild, did not have time to change out of his spikes—until one of those spikes landed on his left foot.
"Mother FLIPPER!" said Redmond, then muttered to himself, "Shake it off." And with that, he limped toward the leeks.
Just then, Joe Mauer appeared behind him. "Hey, Red Dog, you hurt?"
"No, I—"
"Are you sure? I was supposed to have the day off, but if you're hurt, I can shop for you…"
"No, man, I can do this."
And with that, Redmond smiled and headed for the cereal aisle.
Now, clerks at Rainbow Foods are given strict instructions on how to stack soup cans, and employees must undergo rigorous training before they are even allowed near a Campbell's endcap. But one thing lead to another and someone was out sick and an overeager intern got a great idea for a cross-promotional event with TexaTonka Bowling Lanes, and, not trained in the laws of physics, stacked bowling balls on top of soup cans for a "Bowling is Soup-er!" display. Well, naturally, he put the crowning bowling ball on just as Redmond turned the corner, and the next thing you know the whole thing fell down on top of him.
"Jesus Christ in a Christmas Tree!" screamed Redmond. "That FLIPPING hurt."
No one knows how the stray elephant got into Rainbow Foods that day, nor why its trainer gave it such a fondness for kicking people in the testicles, but let's just say next thing you know Redmond was writhing on the floor screeching and cursing the elephant in a way he'd never forget, even if he weren't an elephant.
Just then, Gardy shook his head and came out of the dugout. "Red Dog, I'm gonna take you out," he said, grabbing the shopping list.
"Naw, Skip," he squeaked, "I'm fine!"
"Hey, heads-up!" shouted Michael Cuddyer from across the store. And before Redmond could react Cuddy threw a perfect strike to him. Redmond caught the ball and then turned to see Magglio Ordonez barreling down the aisle toward him. And, as Redmond braced himself for impact, he was heard to murmur. "Why does this always happen to me?"
Goober/ Justin 5, Sooz/Cuddy 2, Readers/Field 2, Batgirl/Chairman 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 1.
Goober/ Justin 4, Sooz/Cuddy 2, Readers/Field 2, Batgirl/Chairman 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 1.
Kansas City at Twins. Twins 1, Royals 0.11 innings
We live each day believing it to be something new, a fresh path unfolding before us, a novel waiting to be written, a road untravelled and we the intrepid explorer. But it is all a lie. There is only one story, one path, and we travel it again and again, blithely, blindly, noticing nothing, learning nothing, just running on the great big hamster wheel of life until the family cat eats us.
What I am saying is we have been here before my friends. You remember. I know you do. I know it's blocked out, buried deeply behind your prom hairdo and that weird thing your seventh grade science teacher used to do with his hands when he thought you weren't looking. You put it there on purpose, scurrying into the attic of your mind under cover of darkness, where you thought it would never torment you again.
You were wrong.
It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times, when men were men and ass bats were ass bats. We know it as the season of hell, others call it 2005. As the Twins sunk further and further into ignominy, as we thought it could not possibly get any worse and then we would discover new and fresh ways to suck, and every once in a while those ways would be so new and so sucky that we would say, This, this is the worst game of the season. And then something else would happen, and we would think of that previous sucky game and remember how young and innocent we were, before our souls had been chewed up and regurgitated, and realize, no, no, this is the worst game of the season.
It was the worst game of the season, the sucking to end all suckings. The 800-1 losses to the Indians in September didn't even matter after this final insult, so excruciatingly emblematic of all of our terrible, terrible woes. It was a Thursday afternoon game, Royals v. Twins, Kyle Lohse v. some pathetic cog in the rusty ol' shit heap Royal pitching machine. Lohse was masterful, the Royal pitcher was not—the Twins had a runner in scoring position in every inning but one—yet somehow the whole damned thing was knotted up at 0 'til the ninth. The Twins had threat after threat and pissed them all away like Batgirl pissed away her youth. And, then, of course, in the bottom of the inning some damned Royal got on base and somehow you knew, you just knew that that was going to be it. And it was. All told, the Twins left 13 men on base, which sounds like a book by the bastard child of Agatha Christie and W.P. Kinsella—but it wasn't, it was all so horribly real—and ended up scoring absolutely no runs and lost the @#$#@$#@ ballgame 1-0.
And now we are going through a mini sucking time of our own, and we've run into giant ass-bat in the road, and here we are again on a Thursday afternoon knotted up at zero with the Kansas City Royals, with scoring opportunities aplenty, and suddenly it seemed the fate of the entire season rested on whether we could manage but one run against the gruesome twosome of Zack Greinke and Jimmy "Gobble" Gobble. And for quite awhile it seemed we would not—every time the Royals mounted a threat our doom hovered just ahead of us.
But no. Dammit. No. Not this time. For it's April, not August, and as sucky as this week has been it gets nowhere near the astronomical suckitude of 2005. And when it got to be the 11th inning, Justin Morneau said, "Enough already, eh?" and did one of those pretty base hits he's been doing, and then Jason Tyner yelled, "Eh!" in camaraderie and got another one and a then a battered Mike Redmond, who would surely show the whole team his bruises later, shouted, "Fucking-Eh!" and hit Morneau in. Game over.
Now, let's get our heads out of our ass-bats and play some good ball.
Oh, and Greinke, you pansy-ass prepubescent weasel, don't hit people in the face.
*Ahem*
*Is this thing on?*
Hello, um, I'm the BODSHC. I'm not really clear how this thing works, but, well, we won today, and I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to do something about it. I'm so dazed by the actual, you know, winning that it's hard to focus on anything else, but with all due shoutouts to the pitching staff and NBP, I'm giving this one to the good doctor for getting the one out single that made you think that maybe it was all going to be okay again. That's what we needed--some reason to hope again--not to mention scoring the winning run, and that gives you, Doctor Morneau, the Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 4, Sooz/Cuddy 2, Readers/Field 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 1.
This entry written by Donnalove, who notes Helen Fielding's son is named Dashiell
Royals 4, Twins 3
Sidney Ponson’s Diary
Wednesday, 25 April. Weight: 245 (lost 5 lb in sweat) ERA: 8.44 (going down, v.g.) Alcohol Units: 1 (hair of dog)
LIFE. IS. NOT. FAIR. Is just not fair! First off, am pitching on Wednesday night, missing Dollar Dogs (am allowed to get more than 2 at concession stand! Perk of being maj. league pitcher!) and America’s Next Top Model! Will not know if the one that looks like drag queen gets kicked off until get home from bar! And the game! Am pitching against K.C. Royals, and give up v. respectable 4 runs (right up there with other Twins pitchers of late.) Not own fault that David DeJesus so sexy that can not pitch well. But rest of team also playing against Royals and do not get hits! Feel very alone just now, though suppose if Twins can not get runs off Cy Young winner/Dreamboat J. Santana, don’t feel quite so bad. Could use hug. However, feel quite certain that if was pitching for Royals, would have had 2 wins against Twins, but instead have 2 losses. Ass is expanding at rate so alarming, wondering if should inform government. Ass is so large that is like 10th fielder, knocking down balls. Fortunately, ass assisted in getting out. Would have been awful if ass had led to, say, grand slam. But! Why do teammates (with exception of wanton sex god T. Hunter) insist on making K.C. pitchers look like... like... major league baseball players? Should not be that way. So depressed. Do not want to end up washed-up pitcher who will die alone, eaten by C.C. Sabathia. Was surprised when asked to come out and pitch 6th inning. Was about to take belt of scotch from emergency dugout flask when was told to go out on field. Still took belt. Got through inning quickly so could get back to scotch. Tasted good, like victory (victory of inning without runs, incl. v.g. strikeout.) Maybe have bought self another start? Won’t cross fingers, as might mess up split finger grip. Will cross toes instead.
(with deep and sincere apologies to John Keats)
Thou still undent'd length of maple wood,
Thou foster-child of Sucking and slow Curves,
Pine-tar'd historian, who canst thus express
A hitless tale more surely than our rhyme:
What soul-sucking legend haunts about thy shape
Of left-handers or righties, or of both,
In KC or the paths of Jacobs Field?
What men or gods are these? What bunters loth?
What mad putouts? What struggle to reach base?
What fouls and ground-outs? What wild swinging strikes?
All baseball games are sweet, but those we win
Are sweeter; therefore, ye young Twins, play on;
Not with the assbattery, but, more endear'd,
Swing at the pitch that falls within the zone:
Fair youth, beneath the lights, thou canst not leave
Home plate, unless thou can those fastballs smack;
Bold batter, never, never canst thou hit,
Swinging now this assbat--yet, do not grieve;
But proclaim, fie!, upon that curs'd wood,
After this wilt thou swing, and it fall fair!
This entry posted by Twayn, on assignment for Bat-girl.com
Cleveland at Minnesota. Indians 7, Twins 3.
Gardy’s office was a bit cramped after the grueling 12-inning tilt, with Wayne Hattaway, Justin Morneau, Joe Mauer, Michael Cuddyer, Jason Bartlett, Torii Hunter, and Nick Punto seated on folding chairs around the desk. Nobody spoke, each thinking back on the game and the many chances that slipped away like sands through an hourglass, and how that is so like the days of our lives, and why you should seize every opportunity to do good and battle evil because if you don’t that day is gone and you don’t get another until the cosmos flips the hourglass over again. The door closed with an ominous thud as Gardy came in and took a seat behind his desk. He paused a moment, as if he had second thoughts about the meeting, then shrugged his shoulders and spoke.
“Look, guys,” he began, “I don’t know why I have to keep explaining this to you. We expect more out of you; you’re the leaders. You’re the Team Batgirl Boyfriends, and a lot of people look forward to reading about which one of you is the Boyfriend of the Day every day and what incredibly good thing you did to help win the game. You know that, right?”
He looked around and met the eyes of each player momentarily. They all nodded their heads and furrowed their brows and pursed their lips in serious thought as they pondered the infinite privilege and responsibility the title Team Batgirl Boyfriend bestows.
Gardy paused for dramatic effect, to let the severity of the situation resonate, just like Howie Mandel on Deal or No Deal, only without all of the models with perfect teeth and short dresses, since his office is so small and Carl Pohlad isn’t likely to pay for models with perfect teeth and short dresses to decorate Gardy’s office. So after a dramatically sufficient moment, Gardy continued.
“You guys are the Team Batgirl Boyfriends, but look at you,” he said. “You lollygag a weak swing for strike three with runners in scoring position. You lollygag into rally killing double plays. You know what that makes you? Big Fella?”
“Lollygaggers!” exclaimed Hattaway, his half-smile obscured by wild moustache.
“Lollygaggers,” said Gardy, barely stifling his own urge to laugh. “What’s our record, Big Fella?
“Eleven and eight,” said Hattaway.
“Eleven and eight!” said Gardy, shaking his head in mock disgust. “How did we get there?”
“It’s a miracle,” said Big Fella, his eyes sparkling with subdued mirth.
“It’s a miracle,” repeated Gardy. “Now get your showers and go home. But I want you to think long and hard about all the chances we had tonight, all the ways any one of you could have stepped up to be the Boyfriend of the Day. Think about Team Batgirl and how they have to go to bed tonight without a B.O.D., and how Baby Dash may still have to learn at such a tender young age about the bitterness of early disappointment that can only be assuaged by the sweetness of eventual triumph against seemingly insurmountable odds, but which then gets crushed again by a disappointing postseason performance. And remember that the idea is for each of you to inspire the others to greatness in clutch situations so that we don’t get beat by a nondescript lefty named Jeremy and a bullpen coached by Wet-Ones Willis.”
The players filed out of the office, their heads only slightly down, their shoulders square and their gazes determined, already inspired to not let another single grain of sand slip through the narrow channel of glass that regulates the days of our lives without doing something inspiring to inspire the others to Boyfriend greatness. Big Fella stood, crossed the room, and closed the door behind them before turning to Gardy and pausing for dramatic effect.
“You know, Skip,” said the wizened gent slowly, his smile widening. “Sometimes they don’t know when you’re being serious and when you’re not.”
Gardy returned his conspiratorial grin as he swung his feet up onto the desk.
“It’s not important for them to know, Big Fella,” he said. “It’s only important for me to know. Now go tell Andy to bring in the bullpen.”
Twins at Kansas City. Weekend Round-Up.
Friday. Royals 11, Twins 7.
Saturday. Twins 7, Royals 5.
Sunday. Royals 3, Twins 1.
Ron Gardenhire knew there was something funny going on when he woke up in the morning and smelled something odd.
"I think…" he said, sniffing the air, "I think that's toad."
He climbed out of bed and looked around the room. No toads. He went into the bathroom and looked inside the bathtub and the toilet and found nothing. He checked under the bed, where sometimes one might find a stray toad, but there was none.
"I could've sworn…" he muttered to himself, opening the window shade.
And then he stopped and stared outside.
"Crap," he said. "Rain of toads."
"Ow!" he said, as something bit him on the ass. He smacked it and gasped as he beheld the squashed creature in his hand.
"Crap," he said. "Locusts."
He logged into his Little House on the Prairie message board and saw 10,456 new postings, and blaring at him was the headline, Manly and Albert: Our Hidden Love
"Crap."
He got dressed and went out the door ready to catch the car to the ballpark. As he got outside, a toad hit him in the head, and as he looked up, the sun turned black.
"Crap."
All sorts of things went wrong then, including a wee earthquake and the sky rolling back and a pregnant Demi Moore traipsing around and Sanjaya Malakar releasing an album, and Gardy felt pretty dejected by the time he got to the clubhouse. There, he found the training room littered with middle infielders and Sidney Ponson complaining loudly, "I'm so hungry."
"Crap," muttered Gardy. "Disease. Famines."
"No, it's just the munchies…" protested Ponson. Just then, Lew Ford let out a shriek. A column of light had grown around him, and before anyone could move, he began to slowly ascend to heaven.
"Crap," said Gardy.
"Hey, Gardy," said Steve Liddle, pointing his thumb out the clubhouse door. "There's four guys on horses out here. They say they want to talk to you."
"Crap," said Gardy. He looked at his line-up card for the game, on which was written the names Joe Mauer and Mike Redmond, with no third catcher in sight.
He swore under his breath, as around him the world was swallowed by flames.
"I knew it."
Triples are hott.
Goober/ Justin 3, Sooz/Cuddy 2, Readers/Field 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 1.
This entry written by Helen Fielding Donnalove
Royals 11, Chug ‘n’ Toss All-Stars 7
Sidney Ponson’s Diary
Friday, 20 April. Weight: Don’t even want to discuss (n.g.) ERA: 9.39 (n.g.) Alcohol Units: 0 (had herbal refreshment instead.)
Arrived at ballpark early to celebrate national “holiday” with M. Guerrier. J. Bartlett walked in and said “It smells funny in here. Are you guys burning incense?” Could not stop laughing. Stopped laughing when realized M. Sweeney had hit home run off self. Then caught sight of Guerrier in bullpen and started laughing again. Not sure what was funny. Laughed anyway, couldn’t help self. Called bullpen to ask Stelmaszek if refrigerator was running. Thought disguised voice, but was found out and yelled at. In fifth inning, was thinking about eating pizza. And chocolate cake. And Doritos. And pickled eggs. Pickled eggs v.g. Could not stop thinking about pickled eggs. Baseball began to look like pickled egg. Could not get pickled egg out of head. Pickled eggs kept going past. Then realized pickled eggs were hits, home runs, etc. Was no longer laughing. Then saw Gardy coming from dugout. Looked like Santa Claus, but mad. Had to turn away to stifle laughter. Once in dugout, thought about previous start, when received standing ovation when was taken out of game. Part of self v. excited, cheering for self. Other part of self could not let enjoy it, felt applause was sarcastic or pitying. Should have enjoyed moment, may never experience again. Must re-read Pitchers Are From Venus, Catchers Are From Mars. When Gardy took out of game, patted on butt, which is size of Antarctica. Must attend expensive Pilates class signed up for. Got pat on butt tonight, but could be accidental due to colossal size of ever-expanding rear, as did not think Gardy was pleased with performance. Called Guerrier in bullpen, told him about Gardy’s face. Got him laughing, as well. Could see him laughing on mound as he walked out. Felt bad as he was distracted and also gave up home run. Should not have told him that, was glad did not tell about pickled eggs as well. In dugout with Guerrier, thought about Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny’s. Could not figure out why until realized Dennys Reyes had loaded bases. Tried to be serious after that. Was slightly paranoid (possibly due to herbal substance, possibly due to pitching performance) about losing job, but felt comfortable after 8th inning antics by other pitchers. Do not even have highest ERA on team. V. v. good. Maybe will get to stay another start.
As you can see, we are in the early process of teaching Baby Dash to throw a change-up lefthanded. So far, it is going extremely well and we expect him to master the pitch sometime in 2027.
Dash is doing wonderfully. He is putting on more weight than Dennys Sampler Reyes, and is right where he should be for a baby of his gestational age (if he had been born when he was supposed to be). He has a few lingering prematurity issues, but nothing that isn't expected to go away. And he is a superstar--very patient with us as we bumble around trying to figure out this parenthood thing. And he lets his mom listen to the Twins on the XM most nights.
A big BatThankYou to everyone who gave to Batgirl's WalkAmerica drive. Batgirl was sitting in a pharmacy one day and saw a commercial that began talking about the number of babies born prematurely every year and the risks involved, and she began to weep harder than during last year's postseason. The commercial was for March of Dimes and their efforts to help premature babies, and she vowed then to participate in WalkAmerica. Thanks in large part to Batlings, she has raised almost $4000 for Saturday's walk. An extra-huge thank you to JimCrikket for his extremely generous matching grant challenge.
It looked rocky there for a bit. The easy victory disappeared over the fence with one long Raul Ibanez homer, and suddenly we were within one run of a very disheartening defeat. The Twins don't lrob Johan Santana of wins, not this year. But when Richie Sexson hit a ball that Cuddy lost in the sun (and who knew Seattle had sun, anyway?) and suddenly the tying run was in scoring position with Nathan off a string of rocky outings (Batgirl blames the newborn baby, but she might be projecting), it looked as if we might. And then Jose Guillen strode to the plate, and we needed Joe to remember who he is--not some regular Joe, some other closer, fallible, almost perfect but human--all too human. No, he is Automatic, the VP, the Nathanest of Joes, and he is here to strike you out and end this game and send us all home happy, for he is Joe Nathan and that is what he does.
And finally, he remembered. And with one pathetic flail of Jose Guillen's bat, Joe became the Nathanest again.And that's why you, Mr. Vice President, are the Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 3, Sooz/Cuddy 2, Readers/Field 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 0.
(This entry posted by Twins Geek.)
Following the National Anthem, Carlos Silva was checking the condition of the pitchers’ mound, because Carlos likes things just the way he likes them, OK? Being rather focused on the slope of the mound, he didn’t notice that behind him, a tall brooding figure had arrived. Beside him stood a shorter Japanese man, carrying a pair of coconuts, strangely enough.
“Old woman!” the figure bellowed.
“Man!” Silva replied, turning.
“Man, yes, sorry. Old Man, should we begin this fair contest?”
“I’m 28.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m 28. I’m not old,” scolded Silva.
“Well, that’s old for me”, said the baby-faced figure. “And it’s not like I could just say ‘Hey man!’”
“Well, you could have called me ‘Carlos.’”
“I didn’t know you were called Carlos.”
“What I object to is that you automatically treat me as an inferior,” complained Silva.
“Well, I AM King Felix,” replied the cocky youngster.
“Oh, very nice. King, eh? I expect you have an enormous signing bonus and a long-term contract,” spat Silva. “And how d’you get that? By emasculating a bunch of minor leaguers! By participating in this monopolistic serf system which exploits the rank-and-file, rewarding you for your fascist strikeouts.”
A group of other Twins approach the mound, wondering why Carlos hasn’t made his way to the dugout yet.
“What’s going on out here?” asked Luis Castillo.
“The tall guy says he’s king,” explained Silva.
“I didn’t know we had a king. I thought we were a unionized collective…” puzzled Jason Tyner.
“You’re fooling yourself,” snorted Carlos. “We’re living in an oligopoly. A government supported monopoly where the fat-cat owners misrepresent their financial statements….”
“Please, my fair opponents. Can you all get off my pitching mound?”
“Oooohhh. Now it’s HIS pitching mound,” said Silva.
“So much for making the visitors feel at home,” grumbled Joe Mauer.
“It’s not that, it’s just that the fans are getting antsy, so if you could just quit talking.…” stammered King Felix.
“With the money they spent on this stadium you would think they could’ve afforded a mound we could share,” mumbled Carlos.
“I don’t think that even makes sense,” admonished Felix, “and I’d appreciate it if you would be quiet!”
“Especially for the prices you pay here for a decent tuna roll…”
“I said BE QUIET. I order you to shut up!”
Luis snorted as he made his way to the batter’s box. “Order, eh -- who does he think he is?”
“I’m King Felix!”
“Well, I didn’t vote for you,” retorted Luis.
“You don’t vote for King!”
“Well, how did you become king, then?”
Felix stood tall, gazing upwards. “Fox Sports, amidst their steroidally developed robot graphics and swooshy sound effects, profiled my career as a 20-year-old phenom, signifying by divine providence that I, Felix, should be king.”
“Bah,” chortled Luis as he singled to center field. “An entertainment empire, masquerading as a neutral journalistic observer, has no authority to establish that kind of hierarchy. A system of economics is designated by a carefully constructed collective bargaining agreement, not by some dead-air-filling fluff piece.”
“Be QUIET!”
“You can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just because Joe Buck looked at you all doughy-eyed” added Jason Tyner, singling to right field.
“Shut UP!” screamed Felix as he sailed a ball to the backstop. “Would you please just shut up!?!”
Cuddyer chimed in as he drove in the first run. “Well, c’mon. If I went around saying I was an Emperor just because a co-worker of Bill O’Reilly got a little excited about me, people would put me away!”
“I’m outta here,” fumed Felix, leaving the mound for the relative silence of the dugout.
“What’s eating him?” queried Justin Morneau.
“You know those royal types,” replied Joe.
Twins Geek is the editor of GameDay baseball program (sold by the guys in the red vests around the Metrodome) and blogs pretty much daily at TwinsGeek.com. His best wishes go out to Felix Hernandez and to the Mariners fan base on news of King Felix’s elbow tightness. He hopes to see the young phenom mowing down other batches of unruly peasants soon.
Trouble. It starts with a T and that rhymes with B and that stands for bases loaded in the seventh—or at least it does in this tortured allusion that has nothing to do with anything except Batgirl's feeling a little Music Man-ish today. But the point is, there was trouble, right here in River City, or at least in Seattle--with the bases loaded and one out, and Carlos losing his Jackalness, but never fear because the Twins bullpen is on the case. A quick call to the pen, Shaggy Guerrier waltzes in, and—Goodnight ladies—threat over, inning over, Seventy-six trombones, yadda yadda—the whole point is—you may not have a win, but you, Shaggy Guerrier, have your very first Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 3, Sooz/Cuddy 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, Readers/Field 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 0.
Hey, gang. Here's a tip. From Batgirl, to you:
Don't walk Justin Morneau to get to Torii Hunter. You'll just make Torii angry. (And, also, the Boyfriend of the Day....)
Goober/ Justin 3, Sooz/Cuddy 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 1, Jeb/LNP 0, Readers/Field 0.
Light blogging this week on account of the 10pm start time and how incredibly sleepy Batgirl is...
Thursday night's game featured a double play so bizarre mere words cannot describe it. In case you missed it, here is a reenactment, using Legos.
It's the ninth inning. In the eighth, the Rays put a two-spot on the board to tie the game. Ben Zobrist led off the inning with a single off Joe Nathan.
With Zobrist on first, Joe Nathan pitches to Rays speedster Carl Crawford.
It's over Cuddy's head! The ball bounces off the baggie and Cuddy fields it. How many bases can Crawford get?
The base coach sensibly holds Zobrist up at third, so there will be runners on second and third with no outs.
But Crawford doesn't see. He's thinking triple, and runs through second.
Crap!
Zobrist has no choice but to break for home, but he's caught in a rundown.
Mauer tags him out.
Crawford, who would have been safe at third, bails back for second…
…where he is tagged out. Double play.
Rays Manager Joe Madden cannot believe his eyes.
Carl Crawford commits ritual suicide.
Weekend Round-Up. Tampa Bay at Twins.
Friday. Devil Rays 4, Twins 2.
Saturday. Twins 12, Devil Rays 5.
Sunday. Devil Rays 6, Twins 4.
1) Jason Tyner has always had the oddest hobbies. While some kids had hamsters or ant farm, he preferred to harvest bacteria. One day, he was sitting in his room eating an orange, and he accidentally threw the peel into his bacteria vat. Days later he went to visit his pets and found the peel covered in a strange mold. And there was something else. "Huh," he said. "I wonder where my staphylococci went. Huh." With that, he shrugged and ate the orange peel. When Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin a few months later, Tyner smacked himself on the forehead and exclaimed, "I knew I shouldn't have eaten that!"
2) One thing Jason Tyner likes is a nice vacation, somewhere really remote, and he often takes his trusty globe, spins it, and travels wherever his finger lands. When his travels took him to a small group of islands off the coast of Argentina, he became very interested in the local wildlife. And, as he went from island to island, he could not help but notice that the finches were slightly different on each. On the last, he picked up a flat rock that had strange markings. "It almost looks like finch bones have been trapped inside this rock," he murmured to himself. Then he threw the rock into the ocean to see if it would skip. When Charles Darwin published his On the Origin of Species just a scant few weeks afterwards, he exclaimed, "I thought there was something funny going on!"
3) Another thing Jason Tyner really likes to do is drop things from tall buildings. One day, bored, he decided to mix things up by dropping two things off a tall building at the same time, a bowling ball and a Faberge egg. As the objects fell from his hands, he thought to wonder, "Huh. I wonder which will hit the ground first." But just then a very beefy-looking passing sailor wandered under the trajectory of the bowling ball and Tyner hightailed off the roof. When, just days later, Galileo Galilei announced that falling bodies regardless of their mass accelerate at the same rate, Tyner only sighed and muttered, "Damn sailor."
4) Jason Tyner is quite fond of a stroll through an apple orchard. One day on such a stroll, he noticed a gentleman in tights sitting under an apple tree. As he passed, he noticed a granny smith swaying precariously off one of the branches just over the gentlemen's head, and just as the stem broke and the apple came plummeting, Tyner made a fabulous diving catch. The gentleman thanked Tyner profusely, and Tyner said, "Huh. I wonder what made that fall." Then he shrugged his shoulders and went home to see if he'd made Web Gems. When, just hours later, Isaac Newton explained the theory of gravity to the world, Tyner fell to the ground and shouted, "Crap! Crap! Crap!"
5) Jason Tyner hit a ball on Saturday that seemed headed for the football seats. Everyone watching thought Tyner had hit his first home run in 8 jillion at bats, but at the last minute the ball dropped and bounced off the fence for a double. In the postgame interview, Marney Gellner flipped her sexy new hair and asked, "Did you think it was gone? Did you think you had finally hit one out?"
With a great sigh, he shook his head. "I had a pretty good feeling I didn't."
Inches and one bowl of Wheaties away from being Jason Tyner's tonight, but, alas, we shall have to look elsewhere. The Twins found their offense, and it's about time—and I know what you're saying, it's the Devil Rays, and the 5th starter, and it's basically like playing Jimmy Bob's t-ball team, except we all know there have been times the Twins couldn't hit off a t, much less the Devil Rays. But not tonight—tonight the offense came busting out all over. Hitters 4-5-6 combined for seven hits and seven RBIs, with a 3 for 4 performance by DJ Cuddles. But it wasn't just Cuddles's offense that stood out. In the 4th inning, BJ Upton hit what he thought was a triple to Mr. Cuddyer—who was once a shortstop, once a third baseman, who once had no home on the team—and Mr. Cuddyer hurled a laser shot to third so powerful that two innings later Akinori Iwamura was too damn scared to try to score on his arm. The fly was hit, Cuddles glared at Iwamura at third, the ball sailed toward home and he murmured, I'm a right fielder, bitch. And the Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 3, Sooz/Cuddy 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Readers/Field 0.
Goober/ Justin 3, BabyDash/Bart 1, Sooz/Cuddy 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Readers/Field 0.
This entry posted by Twayn, who digs Louis Sachar.
New York at Twins. Yankees 1, Twins 5.
Giles Selig walked tentatively behind Ron Gardenhire into the Twins clubhouse, his head turning slowly like an owl from side to side to scan the faces of the players. They walked to the center of the room and Gardy called for attention.
“Everybody listen up. This is Giles Selig. He’s a consultant Mr. Pohlad brought in to help us with our little problem.”
“Selig?” asked Nick Punto. “Like Bud Selig?”
“Yeah, we’re related,” said Giles. “He’s my no-good-dirty-rotten-team-stealing-grandfather. Now about your problem…,”
“What problem is that exactly?” asked Sidney Ponson, running the fingers of one hand through the ringlets of his exquisitely coiffured mane and taking another pull from the cough syrup bottle in his other. “We don’t have no problem.”
“Yeah, we don’t have any problems,” said Boof, checking to see if the swelling from his new tattoo had gone down. “It’s all good.”
“You do have a problem,” said Giles smugly. “You’re cursed.”
“Cursed?” asked Jason Bartlett. “Is that why I keep fielding ground balls with my feet?”
“Cursed?” asked Nicky Punto. “Is that why I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound or lay down a simple bunt?”
“Cursed?” asked Dennys Reyes. “Is that why my ERA is catching up to my hat size?”
“Cursed?” asked Rondell White. “Is that how I got hurt skipping onto the field?”
“Cursed,” said Giles Selig. “And I know a little something about curses. Our whole family has been cursed ever since my no-good-dirty-rotten-team-stealing-grandfather stole a baseball team, and then had Morganna the Kissing Bandit arrested back in 1975.”
“What do you mean your whole family’s cursed? Last time I checked your family is worth more than A-Rod, Jeter, and Barry Zito put together,” offered Torii Hunter, looking up from his Fortune magazine. “And do you realize that your name is an anagram?”
“Actually, it’s a palindrome,” corrected Giles. “And sure, we have money. But nobody likes us. I mean nobody. And they haven’t ever since my no-good-dirty-rotten-team-stealing-grandfather pilfered the Seattle Pilots and smuggled them to Milwaukee. Haven’t you noticed that no matter what Grandpa Bud does, it’s always the wrong thing? Remember contraction? Remember the 2002 All-Star Game? But I’m here to help you break the curse.”
“So what makes you think we’re cursed?” asked Jason Tyner. “I mean, sure, we got knocked around a little bit but it’s the most dangerous and expensive lineup in baseball and….”
“Because of the holes,” said Giles quickly. “Look at all the holes you have around here. I’ve never seen so many holes. You have holes in your roster from injuries. The piranhas have holes the size of sharkbites in their swings. And the starting pitchers are digging holes so deep nobody could climb out of them. About the only thing worse than all the holes around here is getting bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard. That’s the worst thing that can happen to you. That and leaving fat pitches over the plate for the Yankees. If you get bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard or leave fat pitches over the plate for the Yankees, you will die a fast and painful death.”
The players paused to consider the implications, looking around the room solemnly, each trying to figure out who or what could have been the cause of the curse, and how such a shockingly awesome metaphysical force could have been unleashed upon them.
“Hey, guys, it’s not like you’re the only team with a curse,” said Giles. “When I’m done here, I’m supposed to go to Cleveland to make it stop snowing.”
With that the players grabbed their equipment, then, assured that it was protected, let go of their equipment so they could pick up their mitts and bats. They filed out of the clubhouse to take the field against the vaunted Yankees with visions of holes, curses, yellow-spotted lizards, and buxom publicity-seeking baseball groupies from decades past dancing in their heads.
Standing on the mound staring down the Yankee lineup, Ramon Ortiz pondered the situation. “Cursed, he says? What does that guy know about curses? We know a little bit about curses where I come from.” And with that he went to work, doing that voodoo that he do so well (so far), eviscerating like sacrificial chickens Yankee hitter after Yankee hitter through eight innings, surrendering just one run. “Cursed, he says,” muttered Ramon each inning as he walked from the mound. “What does that guy know about curses?”
And as the team trotted back to the dugout in the eighth inning, they noticed something they apparently hadn’t noticed before. They noticed all the holes on the scoreboard, with just one measly run apiece, just three Yankees hits, and the teammates of Ramon Ortiz said screw this ass-bat sucking curse crap, and unleashed an offensive ground and air assault upon the Bombers from the Bronx. Luis Castillo promptly drew a walk and taunted Fate to steal a base. Then the Chairman did his batting champion thing and Cuddy did his cleanup hitter thing and Justin did his MVP thing and Torii did his I’m not going to be showed up by these kids thing and they looked up to see a crooked number on the board. And Joe Nathan, feeling the power of new fatherhood said, “Time for one more hole on the scoreboard,” and put one there.
After the game, Giles Selig walked tentatively behind Ron Gardenhire into the Twins clubhouse, his head turning slowly like an owl from side to side to scan the faces of the players. They walked to the center of the room and Gardy called for attention.
“Everybody listen up,” he said. “This is Giles Selig. We’ve decided his services won’t be needed anymore. So Giles, you can take your curse and, well, you know which hole it goes in.”
Twayn Note: JimCrikket has extremely generously offered to give a
matching grant if Batlings donate $300 this week to Batgirl's
WalkAmerica fund. For Mr. Crikket to give $300, we only need 18
readers to give $10. You may donate here.
Really this thing should go to LNP for blowing the bunt in the eighth and inspiring the Twins' offense to rally on his behalf. It's so typical of this team--for days they didn't bother to score any runs for themselves because that would be greedy, but when they need to pick up a teammate, well, hello boom boom room! This is a tough call tonight, and Ramon Ortiz deserves at least--in the words of Batling Scott--the comeback player of the second week of April award, not to mention a big smooch from TR. But rules is rules, and there were four Team Batgirl Boyfriends who rallied to Punto's aid, and this one goes to the Chairman, for hitting in the first post-Easter go ahead run. That's the way you do it, guys--see, it wasn't so hard--and it gives Chairman Mauer the Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Sooz/Cuddy 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 1, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Readers/Field 0.
New York at Twins. Yankees 10, Twins 1.
It was a dejected clubhouse before Tuesday's game and not just because of the utter destruction of Sidney Ponson's cosmology. Saturday's loss hadn't really counted to most of the players given it's hard to play baseball when your testicles have frozen off, but after their second loss of the season they were left to wonder when their bats, and perhaps their dingleberries, might emerge.
With two players headed for the DL and no dingleberries, the Twins were feeling o'ermatched against the mighty Yankees, led by the androgynous but wily Captain Jeter and his horde of bloodthirsty man-beasts. As game time grew closer, they could not help but feel that they were doomed.
So, when Lew Ford manifested himself in the Twins clubhouse from his rehab stint in Florida using a +5 Amulet of Astral Projection, he found himself greeted by a funereal group. "Why so glum, chums?" exclaimed Ford. "Turn those frowns upside down!"
"We're o'ermatched!" cried Jason Bartlett.
"It's hopeless," sighed Little Nicky Punto.
"It's suicide!" squealed Jason Bartlett.
"Come on you guys," said Ford. "Didn't you guys see 300? The Spartans were like, totally o'ermatched. There were a jillion Persians and just 300 Spartans and using pluck and gumption and sticktoittiveness and lots of spears the Spartans held their own. It was the greatest movie ever."
"Yeah," said Pat Neshek. "I saw it, too. Those Persians had, like, such a high payroll. They were jerks."
"You know," said Rondell White, "The real story is even more interesting. There weren't just 300 Spartans, but 700 Thespians as well, and—"
"Heh," said Matt Guerrier, elbowing Juan Rincon. "Thespians."
"So, what I'm saying you guys," said Ford, "is there's no obstacle that can't be overcome. You guys are totally the Spartans! You can do this!"
"Yeah!" exclaimed Pat Neshek.
"Si!" exclaimed Dennys Sampler Reyes.
"Do we have to wear Speedos and capes?" asked Juan Rincon.
"Yes," said Ford. "You got to."
An hour later, the Twins were clad appropriately and making their way to the field full of vim and vigor. The night's starting pitcher, Boof Bonser, watched his teammates appreciatively.
"That's so inspiring," said Bonser to Neshek. "I mean, those 300 Spartans winning in a battle against a million Persians!"
"Oh," said Neshek. "No, they didn't win."
"They didn't?"
"No. They died. Every last one of them."
"Oh," said Bonser. "Shit."
"Play ball!" shouted the ump.
Well, the game played out a lot like the movie, except bloodier, and afterwards the Twins shuffled back into the clubhouse, even more dejected than before.
"Well that sucked," mumbled Michael Cuddyer.
"And no thespians," sighed Guerrier.
"Still," said Punto, "I'd sure like my dingleberries back."
****************************************
BatNote: Thank you so much to all who contributed to Batgirl's March of Dimes WalkAmerica efforts. If you'd still like to help, please visit here. It's totally tax-deductible. A vote for preemies is a vote for America!
New York at Twins. Yankees 8, Twins 2.
Before tonight's game, Sir Sidney Ponson sat in the Twins' clubhouse grooving to some John Mayer tunes on his iPod when Mike Redmond sat down next to him.
"So, are you nervous?" asked the catcher, collegially putting his arm around Ponson.
"Nervous?" The Sanjaya Malakar of the Twins pitching staff took his ear buds out and blinked questioningly at the catcher. "Why would I be nervous?"
"Oh, well, you know," Redmond shrugged offhandedly. "Your first start with a new team…Trying to prove yourself to a fan base eyeing your signing at best warily… Facing the team who unceremoniously released you after only a month…Launching a season that could be your last in the majors unless you can get it together…Pitching on national television when most of the country only remembers you for your myriad arrests…Trying to keep your pants up…Sitting next to a completely naked man…Any of that..."
"Oh," said Ponson. "Nope. Not nervous at all."
"Really," said Redmond, reaching down to scratch a testicle. "I have to say I'm surprised. I would probably be nervous."
"Oh!" exclaimed Ponson, eyes widening. "Well, you don't know THE SECRET."
"The huh?"
"Oh, yeah," said Jason "Knees"Tyner, "I saw that on Oprah."
"Yeah!" agreed Little Nicky Punto. "Also on Ellen. Man, I love the way she dances." With that, he got up, bit his bottom lip, and began to shuffle around the clubhouse."
"What the heck's THE SECRET?" asked Redmond.
"Oh, THE SECRET is ancient wisdom. It's from the Hindus, and also Aristotle and Donald Trump. People in power all know THE SECRET, but they've been keeping it from the masses because they want to it all for themselves, but now THE SECRET is out. It's all about The Law of Attraction which uses the principles of electromagnetism and quantum mechanics to help you manifest shit you want, like cool cars and lots of money and stuff. You think of what you want, you concentrate really hard on it, and you get it. It's science."
"Not just science," said Knees, in aan awed voice. "Pseudo-science."
"That's just regurgitated self-help language with a mystical spin," muttered Rondell White
"Huh?" Chris Heintz, looking up from his tattered copy of The Power of Positive Thinking.
"No, it works," said Jeff Cirillo. "I envisioned myself on the DL, and, well—"
"Right," said Ponson. "Ask, believe, receive. I ask to have a luscious flowing mane, I believe I can have a luscious flowing mane, I achieve a luscious flowing mane. I ask to pitch awesomely tonight, I believe I will pitch awesomely tonight, and I don't even have to train or show up to spring training on time or stop eating deep-friend bacon-wrapped Twinkies. It will all just come to me."
And with that, Ponson squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated as hard as he could. He visualized himself taking the mound to the frantic cheers of the amassed throngs, visualized striking out Johnny Damon, that cutie-pie Jeter, and Bobby Abreu in the first, visualized the soft pop-up to Jason Bartlett in the ninth that would end the no hitter, visualized his teammates hoisting him up on their shoulders, only a few of them meeting their untimely deaths as a result. And then, he got up and went out to the field.
After the game, as he sat in the clubhouse staring dejectedly as his hands, Mike Redmond came up to him, put his arm around his shoulders, and settled his buttcheeks on the bench. "Well, my friend," said Redmond, "Your secret sucks."
Twins at Chicago
4/7: Twins 0, Whine Sox 3
4/8: Twins 3, Whine Sox 1
Infield has been brought in to pinch-blog for Batgirl, as BG is entirely occupied trying to prevent Baby Dash from running up a monumental long distance bill while romancing Riley Grace Nathan.
It was a long, cold weekend in Chicago. The game was canceled Friday, on account of the glacier encroaching on right field, but intrepid ground crews imported from Canada attacked with blowtorches and boiling water and managed to drive it back into the stands in time for Saturday's afternoon start.
Some comments on the abbreviated series...
Our boys are on their way home to face the Bankees and the Rays for three and four games, respectively. Rumor has it that on Sunday, the 60th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's major league debut, Torii Hunter will not only be wearing the number 42 (by special permission of the commissioner), but he will be also be wearing his socks the right way. Bring your cameras!
First off, Batgirl has spent at least 75% of the content of this blog bitching about the Bitch Sox TV announcers, and it is certainly true that her hell will feature them running on a continuous loop, and they are largely the cause of her enmity toward the fair team on the south side, so therefore she must take this opportunity to say she's listened to their radio announcers the last two days and they are quite good—knowledgeable, respectful, and, despite a lengthy conversation about closet organization, interesting. They also spent a good deal of time on sartorial issues, and it sounds as if most players survived these two games by dressing roughly like the little kid in The Christmas Story, which might explain the Twins offensive production, as well as Cuddy's giant brain freeze on the basepaths on Sat.
LNP suits up.
Not Justin Morneau, though. The stalwart Canadian wore nothing but a moose-hide thong for the weekend's tilt, and, when confronted with a fat rookie pitch with two on on Sunday, he shouted, "I've never felt so alive," except he shouted in French, because that's just how Canadian he was feeling, and the next thing you know, well, the rookie said merde, the Twins were up 3-0, and pretty soon Morneau was throwing his thong into the stands. And that makes you, Dr. Morneau, the
Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 2, BabyDash/Bart 1, Sooz/Cuddy 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 0, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Readers/Field 0.
From: Dashiell J. Batbaby
To: Riley Grace Nathan
Re: Our love
(Please have your dad put on some Barry White for background music. He can get it from Juan Rincon.)
Baby,
I heard about you being born and all and I knew the time was right to tell you how I feel. You and I've got something very special and I know it's meant to be.
We got a lot in common, girl. Your daddy's pretty twitchy and my mom's a nervous wreck. Your dad likes to sit down the bitches and my mom just wants to sit down. So why don't you flash that toothless smile my way, yeah baby.
I know you, girl. You got stars in your eyes and meconium in your diapers. I know you weren't born yesterday. You were born the day before yesterday. You've been around the block. You know the score. You know it's meant to be. You and me, we were born be together. Don't fight it, baby.
I got something for you, girl. Papa was going to buy me a mocking bird but the damn thing didn’t sing so he got me something else I think you'll like. So why don't you come on over to my crib, and I'll fix us a bottle of something nice. I got some nice cool Desitin and plastic keys to jingle and I'll teach you how to land your fist in your mouth. Try it, girl, I think you'll like it.
Awww, don’t cry, baby. I got a box full of pacifiers, a bouncie chair that vibrates, and nowhere to be. That's all I got to say, girl. You know where you can find me. I'll be waiting here by the fire. I might fall asleep a little bit but I should be up in three hours precisely. I'll be here for you, girl.
Yours Hungrily,
DJB
Baltimore at Twins. Twins 7, O's 2.
This entry posted by tgd, which is merely one more bit of evidence that sleep deprivation has badly impaired BG’s judgment.
Well, that was certainly refreshing: Chase those lingering memories of last April’s suckitude with a little pitching, a lot of hitting, and piranhas regularly swimming around third base. All was lovely - except for the gnashing of teeth from downstairs, where the mother of my children usually watches Her Mets.
“You told me we’d have Extra Innings again this year!” she shouts, while our 12-year-old stat freak attempts to paint verbal pictures off of Gameday. I’m luckier. Our little corner of the Old Dominion gets the Orioles’ regional cable network – so I’ve been able to stall an extra three days before deciding whether to junk cable for the dish.
All you batlings in Minnesota can just skip the rest of the rant (we know you just want to peek at the BOD results, anyway – Cuddles? Ramon, for whistling past the graveyard inning after inning? Shaggy, for giving Vice Prez the night off so he can deal with his own new bundle of sleep deprivation?).
But us out-of-towners, we’re facing A Decision.
Do we get rid of cable, find someone new to give us our Internets, and nail a warped pizza pan to our homes? Or do we resign ourselves to squinting at computer screens and scanning the ESPN listings hopefully?
This is one of those fights where you want everyone to lose, hopefully in as much pain as possible. On the one hand, there was my first experience with DirecTV, not long after we moved here. A thunderstorm blows in during the late innings of a tight game. The picture cuts out. Frantic call to customer service.
Is it raining? they ask. Umm, yeah; in the pestilential swamps of coastal Virginia, it rains in the summer. Well, huffed the ‘service representative,’ we can’t be held responsible if the service degrades in the rain. And they want me to let them on my roof with power tools?
Of course, cable companies are about as cuddly as a rabid raccoon pawing through your trash. [Shout out Louise!--BG] Our local monopolistic blight is even trying to bribe me to stay by offering to pay for MLB.tv while they “continue to negotiate for rights to carry the MLB Extra Innings” package.
Well, they can dream. Negotiations usually take two parties, and baseball seems determined to keep their 10-year, $700 million DirecTV deal in place. (Why, split among 30 teams each year, that’s enough to buy an aging utility infielder.) Conspiracy theories abound: DirecTV cut ‘em a sweetheart deal to carry the future MLB Channel. The league is trying to push more people to MLB.tv. There’s even that dark rumor that Bud Selig is exacting revenge for that time his cable company made him wait all day to get an extra outlet installed at his summer cabin. [IN HELL--BG]
But I digress.
I can stall the decision for another couple of days – between Fox and WGN, I’ll get to see two of this weekend’s three blood feuds against the Byotches. But the Mets fan downstairs is getting restless. ESPN can’t carry the Muttsies every week (not when there are 19 Yankee-Red Sox games to show!). I can rant all I want, but pretty quick here I’sve got to decide: Dish? Or domestic discord?
ETA: The power of the BG community inspires awe. (Thanks, mmmarkiep.)
Tempting to give this to the Orioles pitching, or at least the strike zone tonight, but of course the BOD is Boyfriend of the Day not Theoretical Concept of the Day—which applies both to the strike zone and the pitching, apparently. No matter, the Twins are well on their way to the inevitable 162 win season, thanks to some patience at the plate (And I do mean some Sweetcheeks), especially by Little Nicky Punto who curled up into the tiniest ball possible to walk in the first and third inning. Punto set the plate for Mr. Michael Cuddles, clean-up hitter extraordinare, who hit the little midget in both times accounting for the first run and what would be the winning run, then seriously messed up his dimples by taking one on the chin—and that makes you, DJ Cuddles, the Boyfriend of the Day. Now, go put some ice on that.
Goober/ Justin 1, BabyDash/Bart 1, Sooz/Cuddy 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 0, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Readers/Field 0.
This entry posted by Twayn, who thinks he is a Compatibilist, therefore he is.
Baltimore at Twins. Twins 3, Orioles 2.
So the game is getting started and I turn on the TV and settle down on the couch, because I’m not the kind of guy who would own a divan, you know, because I don’t have a parlor or drawing room to put the thing in and even if I did have a divan I’d call it a couch anyway. I don’t have a foyer, either, but you don’t even want to hear that story. Then my wife brings me a grilled chicken sandwich with bacon and swiss cheese smothered with Sweet Baby Rays (The Sauce Is The Boss®), some Fritos on the side, and a cold Dr. Pepper. Life is good. And then the children pass through, debating philosophy on their way to the kitchen.
“You always get everything just because you were first! You're such a Primarian,” the Younger says to the Elder.
"Don't be so Ancillary. You get just as much as I do because you’re new and people think that’s cute,” responds the Elder to the Younger.
And then it strikes me. I’m following the headliner. After all the hype, after all the waiting, after five miserable, exquisite months of anticipation, Opening Day is over, and the magic lingers only in memory and the archives now and today is just another day in a grueling 162-game schedule.
But it’s a new day, with a new game, and that’s a cute little bit of magic in its own way, and there’s still that new season feel, it’s still our first turn through the rotation, and tonight we found out that, for the most part, the Orioles can not handle the Boof. Only a certain Aubrey L. Huff, late of the Astros and Rays, a native of the great city of Marion, Ohio could actually be said to handle the Boof. Oh, and Melvin Mora. But that’s all, just them. Just those two. And that damn Markakis. But nobody else. That’s it. Just Huff and Mora and Markakis. Except for a few walks, it was a Bradkelike 6IP, 3H, 2ER, 1HR, 6K, a quality start first heralded when Dick Bremer announced in the middle of the first that “the Boof is on fire.” I’d swear I’ve heard that somewhere before.
But on the other side of the hill, a certain Daniel Cabrera was pretty much on fire, too, even after a certain Luis Castillo played a little pinball with his countryman's leg to lead off the first inning. Cabrera can pitch, as he showed tonight, but I don’t see any gold gloves in his future. A few head bumps on low doorways, yes, but no gold gloves.
It was a good game, a close game, just another game in a long 162-game season, with 160 still to go. But it was a Twins game with a Twins quality and a Twins feel. It had good starting pitching, a timely seeing eye grounder by a diminutive infielder, two-for-four performances by Castillo and the Chairman, an urgent bloop single to take the leadership in late innings, a strong bullpen showing with a win and a save, and the ugliest stolen base in the history of piranhas by Jason Tyner, one of five for the team on the night.
So the season and the Twins are off and running, except for Rondell White, who suddenly has an uncharacteristic affinity for walking and who, according to Dick Bremer in the fifth inning, believes that life is scripted, that all of our actions are pre-ordained. Which is why he was able be make that amazing catch on Opening Day and be the first number-one web gem of the season, and why, ergo, Cuddyer will certainly not strike out this much all year long, and which also makes Rondell a Determinist, reminding me that my children are still in the kitchen talking philosophy and it’s way past their bedtime, and I’m still sitting here blogging on my divan. I mean my couch.
Note from RD: Twins bloggers are playing host to a meet-up Saturday afternoon at Buffalo Wild Wings in Crystal. We’ll gather starting at 2:45 p.m. for the Twins-White Sox game. This B-Dubs is at 5590 W. Broadway, the corner of Broadway and Bass Lake Road in the Crystal Shopping Center. Come join us. It’ll give us an excuse to do a few more during the season. And, really, we don’t have to meet in Crystal every time.
Sometimes all it takes is a little motivation. After an 0-fer on opening day, Jason Bartlett was feeling a little glum. It didn't help when he booted a ball early in tonight's game for the first error of the year for the Twins. In fact, it looked like it was going to be a downer of a year for Bartlett, until just before the seventh inning, Steve Liddle put his arm around him and congratulated him.
"For what?"
"You're Baby Dash's boyfriend!"
"I am?"
"Yeah! You must be so flattered. That is one adorable baby!"
Well, that was enough for J. Bart, and when he came up in the seventh with a tie game and Jason Tyner in scoring position, he knew what he had to do. "For BabyDash!" he cried as he doinked the ball to left. The ball dropped, BabyDash cheered, and Jason Bartlett got the Boyfriend of the Day.
Goober/ Justin 1, BabyDash/Bart 1, Batgirl/ Chairman 0, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Sooz/Cuddy 0, Readers/Field 0.
Baltimore at Twins. Twins 7, Orioles 4.
Imagine if you will a season, not so long ago, and when you picture this season you see one moment of perfect joy bookended by two pieces of total crap, the second piece 100 times crappier than the first, which seems to you like a very bad bookend, because the whole point of bookends is symmetry, unless you're going for some avant-garde sort of thing, which you're really not, you're just trying to watch baseball, which has nothing to do with the avant-garde except perhaps in certain people's pitching delivery and most of the content of Pulling a Blyleven, and everything to do with seeking that one rare moment of perfect happiness, like when your team ascends from the ashes of truly spectacular crapitude to win the division title on the very last day of the season with just a little help from the Kansas City Royals and you jump up and down and probably initiate the premature labor you experience just a few months later, and your chest opens up and a great pillar of light bursts out and travels up to the very heavens where Bob Casey is waiting to announce its arrival, and it seems that there has never been before, norever will be again, such happiness. Like that.
And then some things happen that you’d rather not discuss, and your whole bookshelf topples over from the weight of that craptacular bookend, and it burns, it burns, oh how it burns, and finally a few months later you climb out of the wreckage of your soul and all the crap seems not to matter so much anymore, because there was Johan Santana—Cy Young, and Joe Mauer—Batting Champ, and Justin Morneau—MVP, and Torii Hunter—30 home runs, and other things, like Joe Nathan's perfection and DJ Cuddles' RBI benjamin and Sideshow Pat and the F-Bomb, and Brad Radke the one-armed man, and there was the moment you wait for all season, many seasons, sometimes your whole baseball fan career, and for one beautiful, perfect day it is yours—all yours.
And then you wait. And winter is cold and boring as crap, until you accidentally have a baby and then things get very interesting, and then suddenly its April, and Johan Santana is on the mound, and the Minnesota Twins take the field, and the ump shouts play ball, and the first thing Johan does is strike somebody out, and the first thing Joe Mauer does is get a hit, and the first thing Justin Morneau does, and the first thing Torii Hunter does, is crank the ball out of the park, and it seems, once again, like all things are possible, that that perfectly elusive moment is within our grasp—for the crappiness all fades off into the dark corners of memory and what keeps us going, year after year, is hope. We have the batting champ, the Cy Young, the MVP, and one of those people is Johan Santana, and it is the first day of baseball season and all things are possible.
Batgirl does not know what form this blog will take this year. She cannot possibly recap every game, or even the majority of games, with BabyDash who is as time consuming as he is magnificent. Batgirl is so very, very sleepy and hopes everyone understands, and is very forgiving of the various mistakes/typos/and brain freezes that will no doubt ensue. For the time being she will blog about once a week and give an occasional BOD and hope to feature excellent guest bloggers.
BD :Mother, says BabyDash. What is a Boyfriend?
BG: Well, says I. A Boyfriend is that special player that makes your heart go pitter pat. BabyDash, who is your Boyfriend?
BD: I do not know, says BabyDash. There are so many players to love. My heart fills at the thought of each and every one of them, from the biggest Canadian to the Littlest Punto, from the Chairmanist of Mauers to the Nathanest of Joes, my love spans the circumference of a Sidney Ponson and Dennys Sampler Reyes hug.
BG: That is a lot of love, says I. How about Johan Santana, says I. If Johan Santana were your boyfriend, surely you would kick Uncle Goober's ass.
BD: No, says BabyDash. Johan Santana is like the sun, the stars, the bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. Johan Santana belongs to all of us.
BG: Your wisdom astounds me, BabyDash, as well as your ability to quote Louis Armstrong songs.
BD: That's Lou-IS, mother.
BG: Yes, BabyDash, but, who is your Boyfriend?
BD: When I think of a Boyfriend, I think of someone like me, someone small and scrappy, someone who needs a little extra love, someone who was premature (ly sent down to Triple A), someone like Jason Bartlett. Yes, I think Jason Bartlett is a fine boyfriend. Further I have been speaking to Father, who chooses Little Nicky Punto this year, and with the BatBaby who is no longer a Baby and chooses to be known as the BatCub, and I have been speaking with Uncle Goober and he said his Boyfriend is the best Boyfriend in the whole world, and he said he is going to kick our asses again this year and he says if we're sad at night we can just snuggle our boyfriend's MVP awards, and then he said, Oh, right, your Boyfriend doesn't have an MVP award, and then he said, In your face!, and then further he said that his Boyfriend had two RBIs with a homer and also knocked the crap out of a guy, hockey style, and he said that should make Justin Morneau the Boyfriend of the Day. And Mother, I agree.
BG: Then so it shall be.
Goober/ Justin 1, BabyDash/Bart 0, Batgirl/ Chairman 0, BatCub/Torii 0, Jeb/LNP 0, Sooz/Cuddy 0, Readers/Field 0.
For Herb Carneal, please see the previous entry.
This entry written by Kurtis, who would like to take JD Salinger to a baseball game.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you probably want to know is my PECOTA and my VORP, and how I did in the minors, and what I contributed to the World Series I won with the Marlins, and all that Bill James kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores the hell out of me, and in the second place, you have to do math. Anyway, I’m not going to tell you my whole goddamned life story. I’m just going to tell you about this madman stuff that happened the last week of Spring Training.
We were hanging out in the clubhouse in Fort Myers, a few days before we broke camp. The game was supposed to be a very big deal because the Mayor’s Cup was on the line, which goes to whoever wins more games between us and the Red Sox, and we were supposed to commit suicide or something if the old Twins didn’t win.
Johan was our starting pitcher. He was walking around saying "Happy Birthday" to everybody. Sometimes you meet a guy who says "Happy Birthday," all the time, like he's really sincere and everything, and maybe he is, but he knows it's not your goddamned birthday, and he says it anyway. Also, Torii was sitting there, playing cards with Joe Mauer, because Torii got hit in the head by a pitch a few weeks ago and for some reason he blames the lights, even though it was Kyle Lohse who smacked him in the head. Baseball players are funny like that. Joe was playing cards because he had a bum leg and was trying to get better. The entire team was ready to walk off the pier at Fort Myers Beach and drown in the Gulf if Joe didn’t get better in time for the home opener, and let me tell you, I would have led the charge. So that’s why I had to start the game instead of old Joe.
"Hey Joe," I said. "You know back in Minneapolis, how those geese are all over Nicollet island? What happens to those geese in the winter?"
He shrugged and kept playing his card game, like he didn’t care a bit about those geese on Nicollet island. Lately I’d just been kind of wondering about the geese and what happens to them in the winter. I thought I’d ask someone when I get back to Minneapolis.
The pitcher for them was Schilling, who only has one more World Series ring than me, and doesn’t even have a Cy Young yet. He’s one of those guys who takes himself very seriously, even a little bit too seriously, if you know what I mean. He did just fine, though, and we couldn’t do anything against him, and Johan was off his game and the umpires were a bunch of lousy bastards and we lost the game 5-4. We also lost that Mayor's Cup. It was pretty depressing.
Some of those other guys were looking pretty glum in the clubhouse, and they were starting to make me feel glum, if you know what I mean. I sort of went off to be myself, and thought about sending old Pudge Rodriquez an email, but I really wasn't in the mood. You have to be in the mood for that kind of thing. Instead, I took a quick shower, and came out wearing nothing but a smile and a little water, and went out to talk to those guys.
"Did you ever see that movie The Natural," I asked them. They all said they had except for LeCroy, who said he didn’t want to see it because it was rated PG and had mild profanity and adult themes.
"Well, what do you think that title means?" I asked those kids. "What do you think it means to be a Natural?" They just shook their heads, like they didn't know what I was talking about, and you know what? They didn't. They don't teach you any of the important stuff at school, even if you go to a great school like Gonzaga. They just teach you how to convert decimals to fractions, which is why I can tell you my batting average is 341 one hundredths, and a bunch of other crap you never use like the capital of Togo, which is Lomé, and the theme of Macbeth,;which is that vaulting ambition o'erleaps itself and falls on th'other.
"This is natural,” I told them, even though they wouldn't look at me. "Get natural," I told them. Eventually they get it, and they get natural too --even LeCroy, which wasn’t half as bad as you might think. A couple of minutes later, we were out taking BP, the natural way. Venafro pitched and the rest of us were batting, and I swear to God, every time somebody jacked one over the fence, there were explosions and lights, just like in the movie.
"See what I mean?" I told them. “This is what The Natural is all about.”
That was when the field lights snapped back on, and I remembered there was always fireworks after night games in Fort Myers, and there were all kinds of people in the stands. So were standing out there like a bunch of lunatics while all these rubes kind of gaped at us, and you could tell they were totally scandalized. God, I wish you could have been there.
That's all I’m going to tell you. If I wanted to, I could tell you how Gardy just about had a brain hemorrhage when he found out, and sent everyone down to the minors but me, but I don't feel like it right now. For one thing, it's boring, and for another, if I started talking about it, I'd get to missing everybody. I sort of miss everybody I used to play with. Even old Venafro and LeCroy. I think I even miss that goddamn Lyle. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
The "Voice of the Twins" has fallen silent.
Twins broadcast legend Carneal dies
Club dedicates upcoming season to Hall of Fame radio voiceMINNEAPOLIS -- One of the signature voices in Twins baseball history is now gone.
Longtime Twins radio broadcaster Herb Carneal passed away on Sunday morning at his home in Minnetonka due to congestive heart failure. Carneal was 83.
Carneal joined the Twins' broadcast booth in 1962 after spending the first five years of his career as part of the play-by-play team for the Baltimore Orioles. He was behind the microphone for all but the first of the Twins' 46 seasons in Minnesota.
Upon receiving word of Carneal's death, the Twins announced that they will dedicate the 2007 season in memory of the Hall of Fame broadcaster.
Rest in peace, Mr. Carneal.
(Edit by BG): Lifted from the comments:
"Just give me two pillows and a bottle of beer. And the Twins game on radio next to my ear. Some hark to the sound of the loon or the teal. But I love the voice of Herb Carneal."
-Garrison Keillor
(Futher Edit by BG) Some nice blog posts:
Pulling a Blyleven
Section 220
Twins Geek
A link round-up
WinTwins.Net
