"Let us go forth a while, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our closed rooms...
The game of ball is glorious."

--Walt Whitman

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

A Loaf of Bread, a Jug of Coffee, and Thou, Santana

Dear Johan,

Are you, by any chance, a morning person? I know I was slowing down by the time you threw your first pitch, around 9:30 PM Central. Or perhaps you doesn't care for cold weather, being from sunny Venezuela? I could see Joe Mauer's breath when he came up to bat in the top of the first, so it must have been chilly up there on that mound, without an umpire and a catcher to block the wind.

Did Rick Anderson slip you a Vivarin when he came to the mound after you let in that fourth run? Did they smuggle a space heater into the dugout for you? Whatever it was, it worked! Great job on those last four innings. And tell JC he should pitch like he did last night all season!

Third Base Line

Dear TBL,

You are not going to believe this, but it's true. That wasn't me out there at all in the first inning. It was an evil lookalike sent by the White Sox to make us lose the game! I was tied up and stuffed in a locker that whole half-inning, swear to God. Lucky for me, Lew forgot his GameBoy in the clubhouse and found me in the bottom of the first when he went to get it.

It was pretty hard pitching the second, because I hadn't gotten all the circulation back in my fingers yet, but it turned out okay. JC says hi, and he'll think about what you said. Juan wants to know if he's your favorite now that Koskie's gone?


Dear Johan,

Oh my! Are you okay? Curse those devious White Sox! What happened to the impostor?

Tell Juan not to be silly--of course he is! But would it kill him to write? Sheesh.

Best wishes,
Third Base Line

Dear TBL,

I'm fine. That seven-run inning perked me right up.

The fake me tried to run, but Radke subdued him. I think Brad had some frustrations to work out, he kept muttering something about "run support" and "ungrateful wretches" while he was pounding the guy. Anyway, we got him plastic surgery to make him look like CC Sabathia. We're force-feeding him McDonald's now, but he should be ready in a few weeks. Just in case the Indians become a problem, you know--we don't think we'll really need him.

Juan says he's sorry. He'll write you on the next road trip, promise.

And the White Sox are cursed. Torii knows this voodoo guy in Louisiana, and...well, I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, you don't need to worry about them.

Anyway, I have to go. Silva wants to play some ping-pong, and he's so cranky before his starts it's best to humor him.

Until later,

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