Slate's Robert Weintraub, like many of us, loves the old purple prose of early 1900s sportswriting, the Grantland Rices, the men who painted epic tales of warriors, grizzled combatants and lardywarks too manly to wear gloves. In an occasional series, Weintraub writes about the week's best baseball game in the style of the vaunted sportswriters of yesteryear. This week: He bids farewell. Yes, sadly, this will be Mr. Weintraub's last "Purple Prose" column for Deadspin. But he will write for this site again. For now, please say goodbye to Mr. Weintraub in the comments below and thank him for this column. He wrote this one, just for you.

Your faithful reporter tried. Honestly, he did. But the happenings at the Continental Divide Bandbox bore little resemblance to The Pastime as we know and love it. A toxic combination of altitude and ineptitude made for a ridiculous affair that rivaled Custer’s Charge for simple-minded wrong-headedness.

The Mountain Men wound up with the left-columner, outlasting a muscular school of Sunshine State Swordfish, the scoreboard frozen for posterity, and for those in the grandstand equipped with stereoscopes, reading 18-17. 18-17!! Imagine plating nearly a score of tallies, and shuffling out of the dressing room and into the Bar & Spittoon defeated! This wasn’t base ball, it was table tennis, or one of those games the Mongol hordes played with the skulls of vanquished opponents.

So your reporter departed the ground long before the Independence Day Combustibles exploded in earnest. Aimlessly wandering the Mint City downtown, I stumbled upon a Touring Fair that displayed the latest possibilities for the future utopian society promised by our finest writers of science fiction. Among the various models of rocket-propelled transport vehicles and stick-mounted edibles, I was introduced to something called the Comp-U-Ter. Intrigued, I began tapping the keys, awaiting the satisfying thwock of the typeset and ribbon tool I had left back at Adolph’s Abomination.

Disappointment on that note. Instead, to my horror, was encountered a far different “sound”—that of rabid barracking and insufferable insults aimed at (Egads!) this reporter!! The solid, ancient Anglo-Saxon name of Weintraub was being dragged through the tar, then enshrouded with feathers! The masses were repeatedly hiding yours truly with the dueling glove. The calls for this reporter’s head could be “heard” across the Plains.

“Too many words!” cybershouted the rabble.

“Pointless waste of time!” clattered the salivating pack of Hellhounds.

“No scantily-clad femmes!” hooted the Intelligent Designers.

Graphs, religious slurs, invitations to graphic, self-induced acts of violence—why, it’s enough to make a Knoble Knight of the Keyboard attempt to drown himself in his own inkwell. Had this reporter been more aware of the Villagers and their collective Torches marching to demand the WeinMonster be slain (instead of concentrating on his five-month old child), he would have not let his good name (and that of Weintrauben everywhere) be lumped together with those of Lenin or Bissinger.

Fortunately for you, this reporter is made of stern stuff. And he refuses to be sent out of town on a rail by some agoraphobic office drones with an axe to grind and mayhem on their mind (a distressing number of whom seem to be affiliated with the Steel City). But the new constable of this particular village, A.J. “The Whiskered Wizard” Daulerio, seeks to commingle the names Pipp and Leitch, and therefore has in mind other responsibilities for the much-vilified reporter who humbles himself before you today. I bow to all of you in recognition of your “victory” over my attempt to import some refinement and nostalgia into this unsightly, ominous world.

I must beg of you, however, to do me the honor of turning your bestiality upon others more worthy of abuse. This reporter’s goal, aside from a nod in the direction of a more flowery and interesting period in the annals of language, has been to provide a gentle satiric smack upside my typing colleagues’ brow for their laziness in covering our beloved base ball, particularly when it comes to bestowing alternate monikers upon those who grace our Great Nation’s playing fields. Not for this reporter the dullard A-Rod, I-Rod, K-Rod trope. It demeans the process and the players—can we not be bothered to dig at least a little into their backgrounds and performing styles to conjure a more sibilant and pleasing alter ego?

As this foray into a new form of mass communication has proven, the sporting fandom collective can be used for good as well as Weintraub-brutalizing. Surely, said hive intelligence can come up with something more interesting than “HanRam.” After all, you brave and righteous “commenters” hide behind a virtual speakeasy full of aliases, most of them creative and designed to amuse. Shouldn’t we demand the same of our punditry, those paid (often handsomely) to comment?

Alas, the marine layer has been lifted from my optical orbs. You the reader, corpuscle to my bloodstream, whale oil to my lantern, prefer the simpleton nickname, the tales of ribaldry instead of on-field glory, the 18-17 burlesque. It is this reporter who is out of place in this modernized, top-volume, I-want-it-now, opinions-are-like-elbows society.

Who woulda thunk it?

In a swampy soup more Bayou than Beantown, God’s Tears threatened to fall more than once. The Great Father finally wept for nearly an hour, holding up this shining example of the Pastime, and sending many faithful scurrying to the foul-smelling runways of His Park. The delay only added to the exceptional breadth of the gala, which challenged the stamina of most onlookers, and broke the tape in the gloaming, even on the longest day of the year.

When SuperYid Youkilis made the oil last all the way to the thirteenth innings, then uppercutted a Long Sock over the Monstrosity, the Once-Massacred had much more than simply a skip-away 5-3 V. After consecutive drubbings at the hands of the faceless but hardly punchless RedBirds from Arch City, the defending titlists needed a reversal to drown out the sudden cynics in the media, unsatisfied as they are with the astounding fortune Fate has bestowed on this Cradle of Revolution. Not even Mayday Malone, who once famously admonished boobirds to “root root root for the home team” could fathom such Ownership of October. Yet, for all the glad tidings, the infamous Clavinist gloom is ever-hovering, ready to pall the bright lights of this American Athens, and this most mouthy of fanbases, who rightly should shut hole for the foreseeable future, will pounce with harsh words once more.

So the Golem’s Mighty Swing was not merely a belated Shavout gift (or an early Tisha B’Av present) to the New Englanders, but a potent silencer to all the Summer Soldiers in pink Sawx caps, who were tacking onto an ill wind at the thought of the first brooming of the season at Yawkey Way (not counting a mini-sweep at the hands of the Ontarians in the Cruelest Month). Quite a feat for the Hellacious Hebe, who once upon a time could be had for Milk Money. Now, he’s worth his weight in shekels.

The Burgundy Birds looked cinch to untether the game several times, none more so than in the tourist half of the 13th, when Adam “El Matador” Kennedy smashed a sizzler to starboard with Chris “Sibling Rivalry” Duncan aboard. J.D. “Charmin” Drew, of all gents, continued his recent superb display of all-around skills. His grace in the batting rectangle is unquestioned, and now, in this crucible, he unbottled a honey of a Clemente to drop Duncan’s drawers at the Money Bag (full credit to The Ticker, Jason Veritek, for withstanding Duncan’s attempt at battery to make the putout. Considering his futility in the rectangle of late, it makes the “Hub’s Heart’s” defensive stalwartness that much more praiseworthy). Moments subsequent, another great roar drifted over the Fens as the Vermillion Victors avoided a brooming.

While Middle America’s Team will chalk up the D to triskaidekaphobia, truth told, this epic should have been in the can long before. Both nines fully burdened the bags in the eleventh innings, only to roll snake eyes. Jason “Generation K” Isringhausen missed the ash of Joey “Blade” Cora and Jacoby “Dirt Worshipper” Ellsbury to get himself deSmuckered, while Craig “Big Red” Hansen did the same to Ryan “Blackjack” Ludwick. And on went the day’s doings.

Jon “Livestrong” Lester and “Average” Joel Pineiro were the starting slabtoers, but their exemplary efforts were lost in the mists of time. Let the record state that this was indeed a hill duel worthy of Burr V. Hamilton. A mere brace of tallies besmirched either hurler’s slate, and both toiled for seven innings. The Survivor managed an out in the eighth innings, but Joe-L did not, as Coco drove him Loco (and to the baths) with a leadoff trifecta. Rubber reinforcer Chris “Cable Modem” Perez entered the fray. The Harvard Yarders were unimpressed with the Freshman Fireballer, swiftly touching him for a Kamikaze Out from the ash of Julio “The 4-9-0” Lugo that plateaud the contest. A safety and three free passes later, Perez had wandered into a speedtrap, his pitching eye now resembling that of Steve Blass. The newbie singlearmedly put his Magenta Maulers in arrears by a tally. SuperYid strolled up, in a position to Prudential the match, but couldn’t catch up to high heat. He would have to wander the desert for (seemingly) forty days until the atonement.

For Augie’s Men came off the canvas to add yet more curry to an already spicy brew. The Zeus of Concluders, Jonathan “Terio” Papelbon, was well and proper Olympian at first blush, causing tornados of failure swings from Hobbs Ankiel and Yadier “The Charm” Molina. But Substitute Swinger Duncan, whose gluteus is as Red as his flannels, went after the opportunity like it was his brother, and finagled a free pass. The Bullfighter then gobsmacked the Faithful, clotheslining an offering that, unlike its server, refused to Trip The Light Fantastic. The pill skied to the farthest reaches of the Picasso-esque Playing Pitch, and by the time it was returned to Firestarter, Duncan had touched the Domicile Dish. It was 3-3, a scoreline that remained intact through enough tribulations and derring-do to satisfy any base ball aficionado.

This peculiar and beguiling tug-of-war was combated in the context of a greater loss for all of us in the sporting green, as well as the political arena and this puzzling conglomeration of opinionators known collectively as the “blogosphere.” Yes, “Mr. Right” himself, Curt Schilling, announced that he will not crimson his stirrups for Ye Olde Towne Team anymore this campaign, and indeed, he may have chucked his last spear. Most who have grown weary of Mr. Right’s megalomania will shout “good riddance” at news of his departure, while retaining a sneaking admiration for his Leitchian body of work on the bump. Love him or Nixon him, he will be missed. Godspeed in your new endeavors.

One of the Pastime’s great lures is the likelihood that all attendees, even a jaded regular like this reporter, will witness an occurrence he or she has never before seen. This temptation was on full display during the final game of a Deviant Series (stop bastardizing the game, people!) matchup between the Beery Nine from Milwaukee and the Siamese from the West, Minnesota.

Both sides were on the receiving end of Serling Style happenings involving strikeouts. But one was mere Chadwickian oddity, while the other was as a result of deliberate action by Blue, and as such, was met with outrage and brickbats rather than applause. Excepting the forty thousand or so Good Friends in the grandstand, of course, who were delighted by the incident, as it came in assistance of a 4-2 triumph for the Mixmasters.

Before describing the Prestige, however, a word or three about the Turn. Ahead by a tally courtesy of a Russ “3TO” Branyan safety in the opening innings, Milwaukee’s Finest came up for their third at bat against Twin City twirler Scott “Captain Shreve” Baker. Down they went, 1-2-3-4. And all via the 11th Letter. Unpossible, you declare? Not so, dear Reader. With The Hebrew Hammer, Ryan Braun, already retired after errant swings, the Porky Prince of Pop took his turn in the rectangle. Appropriately, given the holiday, Fielder failed to Honor Thy Father, and he too missed badly on a troika of swings. However, Mike “Smell Those RBI’s” Redmond, backstopping the Chang and Engs, failed to corral a wide one from his batterymate, and the pill bounded so far into the distance that even the Portly Prince was able to reach the Right Sack.

Officially, according to Sir Chadwick himself, that chain of events is recorded as a Whiff, giving the good Captain a brace in the innings. In short order, he regripped the wheel and caught 3TO and Mike “Black Cat” Cameron browsing. That gave Baker a quartet of K’s in the innings, despite the seeming numerically impossibility of the act. While not an event as rare as the Javan Spotted Rhino, it was sufficiently unusual to earn Baker his own bust in the North Star record book. No other Minnesotan in the long history of the franchise has accomplished a Fantastic Four (Flame On!)

Inspired by the Mound Mark, the Fraternals stuck their collective nostrils in front. Jason “The Beautiful Fork” Kubel stroked a Long Sock in the Middle Frame, and a Kamikaze Out by Alexi “Stomp The Yard” Casilla unWindsored the contest. But those feats of raptor-eyed batsmanship were immediately offset in the home half of the sixth innings, when The Black Cat reversed his curse, at least with a small ‘r’, and powered a drive into the left-center cheapies with 3TO watching from the Gilded Path. 3-2, Brew Crew.

The Big Fly turned an historic afternoon for Captain Shreve into a Day of Disappointment. "It came down to one pitch," Baker said. "It went from a great outing to an average one." Alas (and alack), Sir Shreve, that’s the very nature of base ball, and, as with your trip into history earlier in the day, a Shining Example of why we cannot live without the Game, despite repeated entreaties by the Better Half to kick the habit…

Meanwhile, FonzieTown hurler Seth “Joystick” McClung justified his skipper’s faith on this Sabbath Day. Field General Yost was tempted to remove the game gamer from his rotation, but stuck with him for another go against the Junior Circuiters, and was rewarded with six quality frames. Enter the Welfarers, who slammed the door on the Frigid State Nine. But not without a little aid from the Chief Adjudicator.

Guillermo “Sister Christian” Mota toed the slab in the eighth innings, and set down all three Twins who dared wave their ash in his direction by strikeout. It was the middle whiff that had tongues wagging afterward. Brandon “The Marquis” Harris was scoffing at Pentagon Solomon Brian Runge’s warnings to hurry up and hit, rather than dawdle with his foot outside the rectangle. When Harris didn’t respond with alacrity, Blue waved to the Night Ranger to stand and deliver, which he did for Strike Three.

The Hit and Run Hun, Skip Gardenhire, promptly aired his grievance of the ruling at great volume, and in extreme proximity to Runge’s grille. He was ordered from the premises, forthwith. Don’t blame Blue on this one. Indeed, the Blue Collective has been directed to take such steps in order to install an internal combustion engine to an often horse and buggy sport. The Marquis was gumming up the works, and didn’t like the taste of the Drano that came down the pipe.

Bernie’s Boys tacked on a Prudential Tally in their turn at bat, and salvaged a V from an otherwise emptyhanded set. But Rushing Runge was the day’s Takeaway Platter. “If he gets hit in the head, what are we going to do then? That's embarrassing. I don't get it at all. That's wrong," opined the Hun. "'Call the league,' that's what I was told." Far be it from me to question the Commish of Gilles Hot Dogs (duly noted—his Pride and Joy were beneficiaries of the Dubious Decision), but why bother trying to bring a hasty and unnatural end to these Glorious Afternoons at the Park? This reporter’s Typing Brethren are responsible for much of the barracking about length of play. Ticketholders are free to leave at any point. Those who stay are presumably sanguine with the proceedings. So why hurry them from the fresh air and glad tidings? Given the seldom seen action earlier in the day, the Drive ‘Em Out Directive was truly Irony Unbound.

In its storied and celebrated history as a landmark sporting green, the Big Ball Orchard In The South Bronx has seldom hosted an event on such a day of beastial, Equator-like temperature.

The Congo-esque climate may merely have been a preview of future days on our simmering marble, but for the moment, it was surely unusually torrid for this time of weddings and blooms. Bother the Bombers it did not, however, as the Enemy of Reason and Balance, as it has so often has down through the years, conjured a left-columner against all odds, winning 12-11 over a group of straightmen from Flyover Country (aka Kansas City), brought to Broadway to provide pathos to this particular drama.

It was gripping, ripping stuff once again at George Herman’s Crib. Two days before, a shocking, Ruthian skip away blow from Jason “All Apologies” Giambi gave the Stripes a famous victory, their best of the season to date (and another that stretched on to lengths that proved unendurable by many of the faithful, their collective patience and gluteus maximi worn out by the timeless nature of the sport). A mere two score and eight hours later, another Tolstoyan epic that will talked about far in the future, albeit a future that won’t involve actually attending games for most of Bomber fandom, as they will be unable to afford passage into the new Versailles of the Northern Borough.

Johnny “The Apeman” Damon vaulted into the Joycian franchise record book by smacking a clean half-dozen safeties, the first player ever to accomplish the feat in this hallowed construct astride the El. His ultimate knock off Kansan anchorman Joakim “The Red Devil” Soria plated the winner in the last of the last, and it was Sweaty Celebration time again for home Nine. The most shocking facet of the display wasn’t the sweet stroke or the uncanny placement of batted ball, but the fact that The Hirsute One managed to play at all after lopping off his Soup Strainer after a disreputable evening in the batting rectangle the night before. Demon Damon’s ‘Stache never made anyone forget Anson or Fasano, but the very idea that a base ball player could improve after shaving is anathema indeed.

Earlier in the eventful frame, Bronx Backstop Jorge “En Cuerpo Y Alma” Posada launched a Big Fly off the usually untouchable Senor Soria to deadbolt matters at the bankruptcy chapter. Georgie’s shot was perhaps the most stunning blow of the ardent afternoon, given his recent ails and month-long acceptance of disability benefits.

The evocation of Hector by these aging sluggers was necessitated by another jolt on a day full of such Cardiac jumpstarts—a Long Sock from the ash of David “Ivanhoe” DeJesus in the upper part of the final innings off the Sainted Concluder, the Man With The Golden Arm, The Cutty Sark himself, Mariano Rivera. A gasp could be heard over the roar of rushing sweat in the grandstand when the hide left the playing field with room to spare, so unlikely was the feat. Yet, Mo’ Better avoided a D, thanks to the gumption and interior fortitude of his batsmen mates.

The Monarchs from the Midwest are no strangers to swampy conditions, and they fashioned a sizable lead against Fun City twirler Andy “BFF” Pettitte. The Mishearing Moundsman was bashed for a month’s worth of tallies (it is this reporter’s duty to pass along to the reader the incredible total, ten—a number that caused several radio station recreationists to go silent in disbelief, rather than accept the figure passed down along the wire to them) in an unlucky seven innings, mainly due to a kicking mule wearing Royal Blue named Jose Guillen. “Mr. Clubhouse Incident” showed all witnesses why he is worth the colic he inspires, blasting an Exacta of round-trippers, including the Quadrophonic that sent Pettitte to a much-needed shower. Joey also treated Yankee baserunners like Mike Scioscia, gunning down a brace at the pentagon with guided-by-wire accuracy. On any other day, in any other place, he would have been the day’s David. But Aura and Mystique had accepted box seats despite the soaring temperature, and there simply was no pinning Team Blue-Chip to the mat.

A note on a brave man in blue—the game’s Chief Judge, Jerry “Sonar” Layne, was forced from the premises and into an ambulance after a wayward deflection off an ash collided with his skull. Fortunately, the adjudicators recently have taken to wearing Gladitorial faceplates to ward off terrible injury on such happenstances, and Mr. Layne escaped the sort of lobe damage that apparently has afflicted so many of his fellow moderators. Nevertheless, the accident bruised his brain, and, almost as bad, held up the contest for a quarter of an hour, chasing sane onlookers to the concession stands for copious amounts of sarsaparillas and lime rickeys.

The number of visits to this Pantheon of Base Balling Fame dwindles ever closer to the circle number, while the new, gilded yet ersatz monster slowly but surely arises next door. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of passing through The Yankee Stadium gates into it’s Edenic interior, rest assured that it is an experience worthy of Hedone herself, a magical journey into timeless youth and wonder. The new edifice will carry the same name, and bring over the fabled façade and Monuments to the Greats (Gehrig, DiMaggio, Leitch, etc), but the unique, tangible history and memories of the Ball Park cannot be loaded onto a semi and hauled across the way.

The fear is that the construct set to debut next season will be a Monument only to Avarice, and the People’s Game will no longer be in evidence or affordable along the Harlem River. If the Prodigal Son, Biff Steinbrenner, does nothing else as the Big Cheese (and it is even money that he won’t), preservation of the blue-collared, broad-shouldered, full-throated ethic that made The Stadium the most famous in the land will be enough to earn The Garish Gent a place in Yankee Lore.

Several top sporting alienists agree on the positive benefits of the Barrymore Win, those laced through with drama. Sure, they count no more than the 10-1 kneeslapper to the bookkeepers of the game, but when a squad emerges victorious whilst squeezed by pressure, the release can have a knock-on effect. These Magellans of the psychosis must be giddy about the exploits of your Spartans in Scarlet, who cannot seem to agree upon a proper geographical surname, but inarguably represent the outlying areas of the City of Angels.

The I-5ers tucked another skip-away into their burgeoning pelts by defeating a game, and possibly gamey, group of Canucks from Toronto, 4-3. Appropriately on this Sabbath Day, the Lord’s Reps here on Earth were not left disappointed.

This particular left-columner was the fourth in a row for SoCal that included the scorebook addendum “X outs when winning run scored.” The consistent cliffhangers would be too much for the local imagineers who ply their trades in celluloid, and should, one hopes, be enough to get the Haloed Nine some much-needed buzz in the Southland, perhaps even breaking through the noise created by the pituitaryily-enhanced cagers currently wrapping up another season of lobbing balls into peach baskets across town.

Our beloved base ball is a cruel affair of zero-sum equations; for every smile in the home dressing room, there was an equivalent scowl in the visitors’. None was so anguished as that of Bluebird anchorman B.J. “Inverted L” Ryan, who took a fine performance worthy of a V by opening twirler A.J. “T.J.” Burnett and effectively flushed it down the commode. John Crapper himself would be astounded at such a thorough use of his invention.

Leading 3-2 entering the ultimate innings, B. followed A. with alphabetical precision. Yet the result was hardly as satisfying. The Brown Russian and Two-I Hunter immediately welcomed the new spinner with lashed safeties. “I wouldn't say we were happy that he came in, but Burnett was pretty much dealing and we wanted to see something different," offered Torii afterward, affirming the human need for variety (and, in tandem, the Spice Trade with Batavia).

Then, seemingly, the Decisive Moment—a puny bounder off the ash of Casey “Bird Dog’s Boy” Kotchman to his mirror at the Primary Sack, Lyle Overpaid, resulted in a tagout of Vladimir Ilyitch between bases three and four. The Stalin of Sock alertly prolonged the agony, allowing his fellow Winged Ones to advance along the Gilded Path. Mike “Backstabber” Napoli was Purposefully Passed to fully laden the bags. Alternate Ashman “Don” Juan Rivera went shopping at K-Mart, transporting our Canadian Cousins to within a single out of Eden.

But B.J. put a prophylactic on his club’s hopes for ecstasy (not to mention winning the three-game set). With Howie “Gigli” Kendrick at bat, the Confused Concluder missed his target by a wide margin, unless his aiming point was Howie’s triceps. The latterly plunking gave a trio of tallies for each side, and kept the bags brimming with Angelenos. El Cabron Pequeno, Maicer Izturis, strolled to the pentagon with a chance to be the Afternoon’s Achilles, and he didn’t disappoint, yanking the first doomed delivery by Ryan to the Far Grass. Kotchman’s toetag of the Glory Dish set off an all-too familiar celebration by the Quartz City Crew, while the Irritated Irishman trudged the walk of shame off the bump.

Kudos to Angels In America Darren “Scythe” Oliver and Jose “Beginner’s Luck” Arredondo, who caulked over a mediocre outing from Jon “Trade Bait” Garland. Arredondo in particular deserves plaudits, not merely for earning the V by holding the enemy to a duo of bingles in 2.1 innings, but for bouncing back so hardily in the face of adversity, having offered up a meatball that was sent over the planking on his very first offering in the Bigs. It’s that sort of fortitude in the face of Horsehide Haplessness that has delivered this plucky band of Seraphs to their current prominent placement in the divisional listings.

Meanwhile, there was no immediate word from the Loonies locker room on the mental capacity of Burnett, who once upon a time famously delivered a verbal whipping to his Sunshine State Spearfish mates after a tough defeat, after which, he was asked to vacate the premises with the alacrity of Mercury. After Ryan’s Harding-like performance in the Beer Frame, the Combustible Tosser, whose inner workings may well be stained by all the ink that has leached into his pores, has grounds for verbal battery. Given the rife potential that Burnett may be dangled at the midseason Swap Meet, repercussions wouldn’t likely be lasting.

The horsehide arced toward the heavens, and seemed surely to portend the finality of the afternoon’s proceedings. As it reached its apogee, and began a lazy descent, paying customers gathered up their purchased gonfalons and made ready for the trip homeward. Surely, the stalwart tasked with patrolling the liberal side of the Second City outfield, Alfonso “40-40 Sori” Soriano, would welcome the pill in a leathery embrace, and the 27th out would be recorded—and thus, another notch in the accursed Chicagoans ledger.

But wait! Notice the tentative step, the anguished look, and the glove hand outstretched, not with confidence but in feeble defense. The halting Alphonse had lost visual contact. Helios had seized control of the affair! The same sol that had scorched the grandstand with its warming rays, resulting in the pulpy whiteness of the assembled Pirate Faithful turning an angry shade of pink, now blinded the unfortunate Bear Cub to the pill’s parabola.

The seemingly doe-eyed fly lifted from the ash of Nate “The Peroxide Pirate” McLouth suddenly grew fangs, and thoroughbreding his way around the infield was Brian Bixler, recently called up from Indianapolis and now making like the diamond was the famed Brickyard. When ball met grass, the BB gun had already shot past the hot corner. He easily tallied the tying touch of home dish, hitching matters at 5-apiece, and for the second contest running, bonus base ball loomed.

(Somehow, the Scoring Solomon adjudged this egregious display of gloved maladroitness to be a two-sacker for the Bleached One, rather than an E-7, rendering immediately illegitimate the Halfway-Home lashes from the likes of LaRoche and Lee.)

“It's very tough when you don't see the ball," the Abashed Alfonso explained in a withering understatement. The Gods had made their presence felt, and for once, it was to the benefit of the Iron City Crew. Gazing down upon The Confluence from their bleacher seats upon Mt. Olympus, Zeus and Apollo, decked out in Bucs finery and washing down their Cracker Jack with ambrosia, hooted, “Get thee back to the keystone sack, sir!”

The BC Lion, Jason Bay, was the previous day’s hoagie, bringing a contest spanning fourteen innings to an abrupt halt with the winning whippet. Cue Punxsutawny Phil to emerge from his hole, for in a rerun of Saturday’s splendor, the Sabbath featured another skip away safety by the bountiful Bay. The Gentleman Masher plated Chris “Dirtbag” Gomez with a bingle in the eleventh innings, and the Burghers once again treated Chicago like Miss O’Leary’s cow, this time 6-5.

Prior to the sun-field shenanigans, appearances were that Luis “Muy Decepcionante” Rivas, of all flannelled figures, was to be the center of scribed attention. The puny utilityman had muscled balls over the planking only 31 times in his flaccid history, a “rate” of only once for every 63 strolls to the batting rectangle. In a development that would give Ripley pause, the suddenly hulking Rivas struck Long Socks in his first two trips to the plate, staking the Privateers to an early advantage with the first, and offsetting a Boulevard Blast from “What, Me Worry?” Al Soriano with the second.

But the day’s decisive blow seemed to have been landed upside the Pittsburgh brow, turning it crimson, by Aramis “Teen Sensation” Ramirez. The latter-day Santo completed the task begun by Derrek “Project 3000” Lee, bouncing one back through the box to bring the Lanky Lefty homeward, and punch Pirate pill-tosser Paul “Crystal Method” Maholm’s time clock for the day. The twirler who made the Borscht Belter look as foolish as he did during “City Slickers 2” performed admirably, hauling the mail for an octet of innings, but he was in position for a D when “40-40”’s mysterious outfield stylings removed the hook from his mouth.

Base ball, of course, is not only our Pastime, but our Passion. However, these two nines, when coupled here in the City of Bridges, take their love for the game to Don Juan-levels of ardor. In the half-dozen catered affairs thus held at PNC Park, a quartet have required surplus innings, and the assembled action has toted seventy innings in all. Now, every hour spent at the Elysian Field is one not spent toiling at life’s daily mill, so far be it for this reporter to knock overtime, but perhaps Messrs. Piniella and Russell would be so kind as to inform their charges that Mr. Doubleday ordained nine innings to be sufficient, and that sitting passively for nearly four hours is a recipe for tired blood. Otherwise, some fan or ink-stained wretch will surely succumb to heat stroke, or deep vein thrombosis, and that will be a dark day in the annals of the Clockless Sport indeed.

The great Lajoie didn’t have fans charting his every move before he turned professional. The marvelous Wheat was allowed to develop at his own pace. Even the greatest of them all, King Kelly, wasn’t burdened with Gibraltar-sized expectations when he commenced his career. So it is little surprise that The Cape Cod God, Evan Longoria, whose unfortunate nomenclatory resemblance to the Latina Mary Pickford (and honorary First Lady of the Cagers) has caused much jocularity in the dressing room, has struggled since joining the big club.

Consider the hitlessness and the doubting as forgotten as the Rosewood Riots, for the Man With The N delivered a two-run Trump Card for the Mantas as they continued their recent dominion over the Oaklands, 7-6 in a baker’s dozen of innings. Longoria’s Long Sock was a Stop’N’Stare job that, had the game been played not in a stadium but in an open field (as it is meant to be), would have traveled the proverbial country mile. This Bakerian Blast gave the Saint Pete Saints their fourth straight left-columner over this left coast nine—a stunning development considering the no longer Satanic Rays were once as feeble as the U.S. dollar in the East Bay, losing thirty of the first thirty-six times they took the ill-maintained McAfee Coliseum terrain.

The Decidedly Not Saucy Longoria’s savage slug gave the Sunshine Staters a cushion they would need, for the Athletically Inclined Ones declined to go quietly into the darkness. Dynamite Daric Barton smashed an offering from Tampa anchorman Troy “Gold Watch” Percival that went 374 feet, though it needed to go 375. The initial sacker with the Slavic-spelling legged out a three-bagger that plated Emil “You’ll Put Your Eye Out” Brown, and poised to sheepshank the contest. But the retiree on the rubber induced a foul pop off the ash of the Wailuku Wonder, Kurt Suzuki, and the Oaklands bid aloha to another V.

The dramatics capped a dizzying doozy, one with more twists and turns than a Sidewinder (the reptile, not the missile). It appeared for much of the day’s doings that the lead in the drama would be awarded to The Big Ouch himself, Frank Thomas. The Whacking War Eagle bullied a brace of balls over the planking, both off James “One Is Enough” Shields. The Injurious One hadn’t cranked a Long Sock in over a century’s worth of abdominals, coming up 102 times before getting hold of one. The new homerless streak ended at the loneliest number, as Thomas completed the brace with another cannonade toward the Bay Bridge, equating matters at four apiece. Thought to be a candidate for the woodpile after his unceremonious departure from the Northern Territories, No Doubting Thomas has been a veritable Dudley Do-Right since returning to Tupac Town.

With an octet of scores evenly divided between the two clubs, both made a dash for the tape. Akinori “Faster Than The Rising Sun” Iwamura stroked a screamer in the seventh innings to get the Gator Staters’s noses in front, but an innings later, it was a draw once more, as Ryan “The Goblin” Sweeney sliced a safety to starboard, plating the tying tally. Five-all, and nary a soul enjoying their refreshments in the grandstand dared depart their seat, leading to a multitude of crossed legs throughout the ground.

An unlikely Ulysses emerged during the ensuing stretch of scoreless base ball—Jason “Tender Tucchus” Hammel, who is more accustomed to spectating from the best seat in the house than actually crossing the White Lines. Indeed, the High Pocketed Observer hadn’t hurled in anger in nearly a fortnight, but there was no rust buildup despite the long stretch on sentry duty. Hammel handcuffed the hitters who dared wave an ash his way, allowing a single safety in a three innings tour of duty. A pleasant surprise for skip “20-200” Maddon, and a third V (against two Ds) for the twirler, who complained of exhaustion afterward. The troika of innings encompassed the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth, and set the stage for the denouement in the hard luck innings.

After a duo of spine-snapping heartbreakers to Middle America’s Team while the nation took a break from toil, the tweeners from Tampa celebrated being on the side that didn’t surrender its colors after an epic struggle. It is a leap of Knievalesque proportions to proffer that these base balling elasmobranches are a threat for Octoberfest, much less make it to the Last Banquet of Fall. Given their persistent ineptitude since inception, however, it is gladdening to witness a potent heartbeat from the downtrodden Sunshine Boys. The Renaissance comes after shedding any Beelzebub overtones from the franchise. Coincidence? More like an exorcism. Getting first choice from the larder has stocked the spread with an epicurean’s delight of prime beef talents—and even more, like David “The Vandy Vapor Trail” Price, await promotion to the First Battalion from the reserve corps on the farm. Optimism Unbound in Tampa—if this keeps up, one will have to acknowledge the presence of another Crack Committee of Base Ball People in the region, one that has no Steinbrennerian affiliation.

It's easy to dismiss the Miami entrant in the Senior Circuit. Some have even called for the franchise to meet a Pompeii-like fate. Yet these latter-day Diogenes' conveniently succumb to amnesia when the subject turns to the twin banners captured in the Big Series by the Spearfish. And while the gaseous trashman and angry art dealer in the corner office have taken it upon themselves to swing the demolition ball at championship rosters, attention must be paid to the fact that this current crop of caviar is playing winning hardball ahead of schedule. The Swinging Swimmers are back in form, and their gonfalon flies atop their divisional grouping for a good reason.

The Briny Ballers achieved their latest left-columner thanks to Dan "The Owl" Uggla. The Wise One's second of a brace of Long Socks capped a triptych of tallies in the eighth innings. This Swedish Surprise propelled Santiago's Sluggers to a Seventh Straight W, 5-4 over their Washington Generals (where's Red Klotz lately?), who have fallen a lucky seven times in the eight (count 'em) times they have played against Vice City in the campaign's opening weeks.

The Ugg-Boot was the first participant to tickle the dish, giving the tourists a short-lived lead against Capital protagonist Shawn "Maple Leaf" Hill. Dan went deep in the sixth innings to edge his nine closer to the leaders, also off the twirler from the North Counties. Then came the decisive rally.

Prior to that decisive moment, there was bi-partisan approval for the One-Hit Wonder, Aaron Boone. The Knuckle-Cracker socked one that actually left the green space in the second innings, not his first Deep Drama since the one that sent the 'Stripes to the Fall Classic many moons ago, but seemingly so (for you Chadwickians out there, he has hit 31 trippers since that fabled Fly). Bob's Boy surprised further in the following innings. A twin-tally blast off the ash of Ronnie "Proud Papa" Belliard was itself a stunner, and gave the Taxed-Without-Reps a 3-1 lead. "Shiner" Scott Olsen was seen muttering to himself in a Ruthian rage out on the anthill, and was clearly still upset when the Tidewater Terror, Ryan Zimmerman, scratched out a bat-handle blooper. One-Hit strolled to the dish, and put paid to his moniker by lashing a clothesline that Alfredo "Double-A" Amezaga couldn't corral with his cesta. By the time the pill was returned to the K-Zoo Krazy, Boone had legged out a rare triplet, and the Natty ones led 4-1. Lastings "High-Five" Milledge failed to extend the lead, rolling out to the coffin corner. It would prove a pricey failure by the budding Biggie Smalls.

Shiner Scott reduced the swelling after that tricky third, putting round ones on the big board for the following three innings. But he didn't get the V. That went to Logan "French Kiss" Kensing, who gave up a ducksnort, as is his wont, but held the punchless politicos without a tally in the seventh innings. That set the stage for the decisive chapter.

Luis Ayala was the unfortunate insurance hurler for the N's, and he walked under a ladder when Amezaga legged out a bounder that Wes "Daily Show" Helms couldn't turn into a putout. The May-retta Masterstroker, Jeremy Hermida, then sheepshanked the day's entertainment by jerking an all-too-candid Ayala offering into the starboard stands. For the hapless hurler, not as unfortunate a happenstance as his injury in the in the final furlong of the World Baseball Classic, but disheartening nonetheless.

Two outs later, the Owl licked the lollipop, and the Pelagics took the lead. The District Dandies had a couple of cracks at Sunshine State Pen Men, but neither Renyel "Lemon" Pinto nor Kevin "Mild-Mannered Reporter" Gregg allowed their drinks to be Mickeyed, and the brooming was confirmed when Jesus "Soft J, Easy to K" Flores tapped a bulge back to the astigmatic Gregg. A septenary sweeping. And it is no Deadly Sin to take Pride in the feat, Ye Fans of the Fishes.

Aside: The Reconstituted Rajah, Hanley Ramirez, had a rare library game, chipping a mere bingle in a quartet of plate showings. But Double-R took no small comfort earlier in the day by Hancocking an extension to his contract. The new Monty Hall will swell Hanley's pay envelope to $70 million over the next six years, up from a Skid Row salary below half a million. More to the point, it establishes this Valiant of VORP as the biggest fish in the school, the face on the side of the Marlins' dorsal fin. When a third trophy comes south to reside in the case on Dan Marino Boulevard, it will be Hanley carrying the team's colors over the hill.

One would think the legions of scribblers who emptied out of the press section after a mere half dozen tallies in the top of the initial innings would know better. Surely, they had learned the lesson of Henri Cochet, and would never assume a result, regardless of score. Granted, it was the Sabbath, and Lord knows home and hearth are more important on the Day of Rest than mere sport. But those that departed should consider themselves accursed — they missed a famous rally by the Minnesotans, who pulled themselves from a six-run hole to stun gun the Motor City Tigers, 7-6.

The Lads from the 3-1-3 were like a sailor just returned from a months-long whaling voyage — eager to get started and quick to finish. The Wordy Whirlwind, Curtis Granderson, emerged from his mother's basement to rock a Leadoff Long Sock to the deepest reaches of Humphrey's Hothouse. 1-0, Stripes, while the concessionaires were still stuffing X-Ray Specs into boxes of Cracker Jack. Legally Boof Bonser was the starting moundsman for the Fraternals, and he absorbed a beating like those the Pinkertons regularly dole out to those who dare brandish the Union Label.

Knocks by Mucho Macho Magglio, Squeeze Guillen and Edgar Rent-A-Wreck ballooned the lead to four. And a day that was starting sour for the Boofy One started positively acerbic for battery mate Just-So Joe Mauer. Not since he stopped squiring beauty queens around the Twin Cities has Joe been so un-Mauer like in his flailings. First, he failed to stop a Boofball before it reached the backstop, despite the fact that The Pudgy Pinko had swung and missed. Cagily, Ivan had found a way to reach first, despite showing Napoleon-invades Russia-like judgment in the batting box. Squeeze scored the game's fifth tally on the play as well. Then Mr. Perfect compounded his error by trying to nail the Commie Catcher as he tried to pilfer the Middle Sack. The throw sailed high, wide, and Gable-handsome, and another tally ticked on the big board.

Just when it seemed this Land of Ten Thousand Lakes didn't have enough water to extinguish the flaming Cats, Legally Boof managed to jujitsu the overconfident Granderson, who swung like Atlas but missed like the weakling with sand kicked in his face. Still, the Rivetheads were on a pace to score 54 runs in the game. And with Kenny "Fold 'Em, Already" Rogers assuming twirling duties for the Olde English, the half-dozen should have been safe as houses.

But the Sons of the North Star don't believe in phrases like "should have" when it comes to base ball. They prefer phrases like "it's not over until we're naked." Indeed, appearances to the contrary, only the cartoons had unspun from the projector — the feature presentation was still to come (also, the newsreels, but we all know those can't be trusted).

Justin "Loonie" Morneau's shrieker plated a tally in the fourth innings, a seemingly innocuous development at the time, but one that would have a spiraling effect similar to the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand. Nick "Runto" Punto smeared a slopball for two sacks in the following innings, bringing a pair of Siamese all the way around. Pope Bonser apparently had brainwashed his way to forgetting the debacle out of the starting gate, and was firmly in command. Somehow, that Half-Dozen from Hades hadn't etched the result in adamantine — halfway through the voyage, neither squad's landfall was guaranteed.

Things were calm until the Stretch Innings, when a display of infield fallibility poached the Stripes. The Coward of Camera County acquired a pair of speedy outs, but grooved a "fastball" to Matt "Rebel Yell" Tolbert, who whistled one for two bags. Then came the contest's hinge action. Runto dribbled one down to the Left Base, where "Squeeze" Guillen has relocated. 'Los is still finding his way around the neighborhood, and on this play, he wandered down a dead end street. His throw would have been competent enough had he been wielding a pipe bomb, but for horsehide, it was woefully inaccurate. Whereas E6 was seldom applied to his name during Squeeze's shortstopping days, this wild one was already E#6 on this nascent campaign.

These opportunistic Twinks rushed into the opening like Sooners. Zombie Zach Miner replaced The Roaster, who retired to a chicken dinner in the clubhouse. A brace of safeties later, the scoreboard read 6-5, and Miner left his team with Major difficulty. Bobby "Sydney" Seay replaced the Z, to be greeted by the Gibraltor-like physique of the All-American Swing himself, Just-So Joe Mauer. As usual, the grandstands were packed with local idolators of the St. Paul Saint. They had sat sullen as their Hero suffered in the game's early stages, but now they cheered with a full-throated roar that reached Krakatoan decibels. And, as any good protagonist does, JSJ delivered when spotlit. A stroke of genius right up the box was good for the tying and go-ahead tallies, and, with Tunney-like improbability, the Twin City Paladins had erased the elephantine deficit and emerged on top.

There was still work to do, and the firm of Guerrier and Nathan was up to it. "A Touch Of Sleep" Nathan ran into a spot of ill in the ultimate innings, once again thanks to the derring-do of Mr. Blogspot. He legged out a 75-footer, and applied some larceny to the Middle Bag. A safety from the Acquisition would have tied the contest, but unlike Mauer, El Grande Posterior failed to deliver decisively. Joe winged a trio of Whamm-O's past the helplessly befuddled Cabrera, and the Twins had managed an unlikely Brooming of Panthera Tigris.

Afterward, wearing nothing but his soup-strainer, Hard Pack Leyland bristled, in language unsuitable for the softer sex. "There will be changes tomorrow," he promised with Kaiser-like intensity. If those words don't send a shiver down the collective backbone of the Motown Nine, they are as devoid of humanity and emotion as they have seemed on the pitch of late.

Of all the Gateway City batsmen, Jared Michal Schumacher once was the unlikeliest to be sung about around the campfire. Yet it was "Skip" (formerly known as "I-55") whose ears are red from all the chatter about him from Appalachia to the Ozarks and all the way to the Great Divide. The Gaucho delivered the final sermon that allowed Middle America's Team to defeat the Houstons in the final innings of regular time. And it is the third time in this Cruelest Month that the spindly Skip has brought a V with a timely knock.

The safety off Wesley "Peter Principle" Wright was of the skip-away variety, and when Cesar "First Syllable" Izturis touched the bottom point of the diamond, the cheers resounded across the Western Frontier. Saint Louis had emerged with a 4-3 victory, and the Wasted Week of a full hand of losses was over. Welcome To Baseball Heaven, indeed.

As usual when the Milky Way Nine are in the opposing dressing room, the Beermen found themselves in a contentious contest. A purpose pitch from the Kosciusko K-Man, Roy Oswalt, nicked a single fiber of Jason LaRue's knits. Earlier, the Lone Star had dared to dislodge El Hombre from his preferred comfort zone bestride home plate. Together, that was more than enough to pepper The Boozy Barrister's eggs, and the Shady One ordered vengeance in the following frame. Adam "12 To 6" Wainwright uttered "from Hell's heart, I stab at Thee," and disdained his usual repertoire of local trains to hurl an express on the wrong side of the batsman, Brad "Fatboy Slim" Ausmus.

An enraged group of Texans, spurred on by the Combustible Coop, Cecil Cooper, charged out for battle, as did the Birds. Sadly, there would be no reincarnation of the Battle of Bannockburn. Blue restored order with nary a single knuck thrown, and the rosters returned, grumbling but unbruised, to their respective houses.

The fisticuffs served to inspire the Arch City Brawlers. Trailing by a single to Kyoto Kaz Matsui's surprise display of potency in the opening innings, the Crimson rallied for a trio in the third. A mighty blast from Hombre's ash seemed destined to disappear behind the planking, but it caromed off instead, good for two bags rather than four. Nevertheless, Skip and Hobbs Ankiel tallied easily. Then the new Habitant of the Hot Corner, the Tarzana Tarzan, Troy Glaus, brought in Amazing Albert with a sac fly. It's a wonder the hulking hacker could see well enough to connect with the pill, given the inflamed state of his conjunctiva. But the He-Man of Troy squinted through the pink to drive in his 15th tally of the young campaign.

In this deplorable era of specialty and short-timers earning nine innings green, the 100-point banner headline was not the winning safety or the angried up teams, but Iron Adam Wainwright. The Dab Hand of the Redbirds' rotation rode the train to its terminus, the first Compleat Contest hurled by a Card this season, and only the 18th in all of base ball. Seems like only yesterday when the Big Train or Happy Jack would take mortal offense at the idea of replacement.

Ole' "12 To 6" offered 127 pills to the mostly bedazzled men from Space City, who often trudged back to the dugout looking as though they'd taken one too many orbits around the marble. Only five times did ash meet horsehide solidly enough to allow for a hit—albeit a trio of those were Rainbow Drops—and Wainwright's spinners and mudballs left him fit enough to dance a few more Charlestons should the need have arisen. In the ultimate innings, the bionic moundsman got Hunter "Glass Door" Pence to wave at a yellow hammer with a pair of Spacemen aboard, setting the stage for the winning act.

Were it not for Lance "The Big Puma" Berkman, the Bloodbirds would have won without panting. Sir Lance-A-Lot crunched a pair of yakkers that didn't make it to quitting time, lacing a brace of Four-Ply Wallops to even matters; one in the fourth, another in the seventh. It was the 22nd time in his base balling career that this Killer B went yard on multiple trips in the same contest.

This writer was not fortunate enough to have been at Marathon as Pheidippides ran his final 26, nor with the GIs at Bataan, nor in New Orleans for the infamous 77-round fight between Burke and Bowen (I was supposed to be, but got drunk on the Crescent City Limited and woke up in Nacogdoches, Texas wearing only my underwear — but that's a tale for a different time, dear reader). However, yours truly can safely claim to be an expert on endlessness, for I have witnessed 22 innings of base ball at its most benumbing. 22 innings of ineptitude, farce and lack of imagination one hoped could no longer be summoned by today's "professionals."

And it was all so you, the prized reader, could concentrate your limited energy and resources on matters of more import; goldfish swallowing, perhaps, or flagpole sitting. I suffered so you wouldn't have to.

The pertinent details are thus — the Mountain Men from Denver, last season's Senior Circuit Surprise Squad, triumphed over the Holy Nine from San Diego, 2-1. The winning tally advanced the required 360 feet in the tourist half of the 22nd frame, and the determinative pitched ball came six hours and sixteen minutes after festivities were commenced at Roscoe and Mittens Memorial Park. But any interest had been vacuumed from the affair eons before, in an affront to this beautiful Mission City and its proud German heritage. It was the type of contest that confirms the worst approbations from those who call for the banning of the sport on grounds that impressionable youth are being sidetracked from their classical educations by a game that dulls the senses and narcotizes the synapses.

To those cynics I say, Fie! Remember with me the Homeric duel contested only last autumn, in the shadow of the Continental Divide. The eliminator game decided by the width of a mountain goat's whisker that propelled the Coloradans to the Fall Classic. The mere fact that these exact same squadrons of base ballers could engage in two such disparate examples of Our Game is testament to the utter perfection and uniqueness of it. Would you prefer the paper doll sameness of baskets, or the grunting metronomy that is gridiron? Methinks not.

This contest's victorious rally came, fittingly, as the result of maladroitness. Batsman Willy The Weakling Tavares should have been retired on his tenth appearance of the evening, but a toss by Kahlil "BMOC" Greene was too tall for even Pterodactyl Tony Clark to reel in. Tavares is a Django of the Banjoes, and like most of his ilk he can run like a lynx. He pilfered second, and went to third on another throw that appeared the result of a miscalculated sextant, this one by Ignorance Tool-wearer Josh Bard. The anchor leg in Willy's 4 x 90 foot relay came at a trot, after a scorched shot to left by Troy "Cooperstown" Tulowitzski. The Left Coast Fathers were unable to match this outburst of scoring, having managed only a single tally over 21 prior innings, and when Robert "Kip" Wells blew an adjudged backwards K past fellow slabber Glendon "Lungs" Rusch, the few hardy souls left nibbling kibble in the grandstand were rendered disappointed as well as exhausted.

It was a struggle out of Shaw, whose "Arms and the Man" was penned after a similar battle in Piccadilly Circus some time ago. The Moccasin of the Mound, Mr. Peavy, was untouched for an octet of innings, and his replacements kept a clean sheet for five more. That Baker's Dozen proved a lucky number across the field, as Centennial State tossers spackled opposing batsmen for an equivalent number of run-free slates. In the fourteenth (early days in this Joycian game), the Rocks finally got rolling, scoring an actual run, courtesy of a free pass with no room at the Inn to Hawppy Brad Hawpe. Naturally, with a chance to rivet the game shut, the boys from Pikes Peak surrendered meekly — a foul pop from the ash of Clint "Venison" Barmes traveled thirty feet backwards, and was caught to give the side the gold watch.

The Celibate Crew, their Blessed Backs against the wall, fought back to prolong the agony. They too filled the sacks with clergy, and Stratford-Upon-Josh Bard lined a safety to balance the abacus at one. But alas, the game could not be concluded at an hour fit for Gentlemen. Tall Tony Clark was forced out at the pentagon, and Colt Morton harmlessly rolled one to third, meaning the fight would continue, like the Battle of the Marne, on and on and on.

The game's two squatters, The Bard and Yorman Victor Torrealba, deserve an exclamatory note, having caught all score plus two innings, a Shackletonian feat of endurance not seen since Double Duty Radcliffe pitched the first game of a doubleheader and caught the second every day for two weeks straight. Their knees and hip flexor muscles should be the centerpieces of a traveling Medicine Show in the off-season, hawking the benefits of the snake liniment oil the two used to make it through this memorable tug-of-war.

Save the unassisted triple play and the balk, is there a more exciting happenstance on the four-pointed meadow than the long sock with the bags bursting? The Grand Aria? The Cosmic Clout? How about a four-run four-bagger that propels your side to victory? Such a blazing instance of base balling prodigiousness is excitement enough to keep one awake until the wee hours.

So blame Two-I Torii Hunter for your inability to enter the land of Nod. His biggest of big flies turned defeat into glorious, unexpected joy in Disneyland, home of the fairy tale. The skip-away homer gave the O.C. boys a 6-4 win over the Cleveland nine and a half, and its hapless anchorman Jittery Joe Borowski.

Yes, 'tis true — the glue-handed patroller of the middle exterior known far and wide as "Butterfly Net" won this encounter with his ash, not his cowhide. Hunter socked as many balls over the distant fenceline as ego-letters contained in his forename. The first of his brace came in the penultimate innings, snapping a theretofore-tied 1-1 encounter.

Unfortunately for the Winged Ones, ordinarily terrifying concluder Francisco "Babalu" Rodriguez engendered little fright. Santeria let down the slightly built winger on this evening, as the Cuyahoga Chiefs popped a cap in Sancho in their final at bat. Right away, Frank gave a free pass to Pronk Hafner, and his substitute legs, Asdrubal "Mouthful" Cabrera, scored on a laced two-bagger into the farthest reaches of right field by El Jugador del Jugadores, Victor Martinez. He too was deemed unable to propel himself around the sacks with sufficient velocity, and David "Red Stick" Delluci brought his superior speed into the game in his stead. Jhonny "Spelled Wrong" Peralta than blooped a well-placed double into right. That plated another run, but avarice cost the 'H' man his place on the paths, getting cut down at the corner sack attempting to advance after the throw homeward.

Nevertheless, the Clevelanders now led, and after another base on balls, Rodriguez was off to the clubhouse, where he may have shattered a few of those false idols. His barrister would point out that a bum ankle from a tumble down the dugout steps half a fortnight ago is giving the slightly built hurler fits. Rubber replacement Sturdy Scotty Shields fared little better, though, giving up consecutive safeties, and the lead swelled to 4-2, Tribe. But with the bases at SRO (a situation we would see again moments later), Shields whiffed Casanova Sizemore, and got a harmless bounder from Jason Michaels to staunch the hemorrhage.

Down a pair, California could at least take comfort in the presence of the Human Heart Attack toeing the slab. Borowski the Palpitating Pole managed an initial out, but the cursed base on balls energized the Haloes. The Brown Russian golfed a lancet into left, and another series of wide ones to Local Legend Garrett Anderson put three men on. Enter the Hector of this particular epic. Torii speculated slider, and was proven Buffet-esque in this capacity. The breaker came as expected, and Two-I pounced, sending a towering thunderbolt to left, one that arced around the fair pole, nestling deep in the grandstands. Quite a way to ingratiate yourself with a new band of mates, and earn that munificent bi-weekly pay envelope.

The great Mitchum, a devoted base ball fan, was not in attendance, no doubt canoodling with good friend Mary Jane, but even so, it was truly the Night of the Hunter. At the final Station of the Diamond, the entire uniformed contingent of the franchise greeted the hero with ferocious backslaps and a pounding not seen since the Molineaux-Cribb bout — all with good intent, let me assure you.

"I told you when I got here, me and the rally monkey would be good friends," exulted Hunter in the dressing room. Someone has to pal around with that mangy, unlovable ape, one supposes, and cheers to Two-I for taking that particular travail for the team. As for his buried meaning, there was never any doubt in this scribe's brainpan about Hunter's ability at the urgent moment—despite previous failures I may have ascribed upon his inking with the club to his lack of inner fortitude.

The rest of the choir showed another unusual appreciation of Hunter's valor, vim, and vigor by pouring several bottles of unquaffable, domestically crafted and bottled admixtures of barley and hops over the diminutive outfielder. Time was, rest assured, the assembled wretches stained by ink who took as much joy in Two-I's feat as did his mates would have joined in the damp celebrations.

Alas, times have changed.

The Bearded Icon was dented by an ailing wing, rusty from a lack of spring practice time, and Hamlet-esque over his desire to make an initial foray to the raised stage sixty and six from home plate in 2008. Tom "Benedict" Glavine stepped in, and agreed to swap dates on the bump, allowing Old Baldy to avoid prolonged exposure to the Rocky Mountain Chill. The catch? The hurling enemy on the Sabbath day — the man who inspired Bowie to pen "Changes," The Two-Seam Savior — Johan Santana, and his new employers from New York.

John Smoltz scoffs in the face of such dangers. "I'm a big-game pitcher," TBI intoned, and indeed, the hairy face of the franchise completed a Napoleonic Sweep of the hated Metropolitans, as the Atlantans won 3-1 in the House That Buffalo Burgers Built.

The initial innings augered Armageddon for Atlanta's Ace, when the argus eye of home plate adjudicator Gerry Davis granted a pair of 'Politans free passage via bases on balls. Smoltz glared at the blueshirt like he had just offered a coupon for the Hair Club For Men, then rendered Carlos "The Hammering Hippie" Delgado in bronze, earning a called third strike. From there, The Icon rolled over opposing batsmen like a Tiananmen Square tank, posting round digits on the scoreboard for five innings, enough to secure his first V of the new season. That dodgy deltoid flared up with enough knottiness to convince The Pudgy Pepperpot, skipper Bobby Cox, to end Smoltz's day somewhat shy of his usual timecard—as the hurler put it afterward, "I'm a seven inning pitcher"—but the quintet will surely do in the City Too Busy To Hate (Except For The Mets).

Mark "Luckiest Man" Kotsay eliminated the only other threat to emanate from the Queensmen's side of the pitch, making a fine haul of a liner off the bat of Ryan "Haman" Church in the fourth innings. The Hippie wandered a touch too far from sanctuary, and was doubled after a whipped transmission to first, scooped sensationally by Mark "Vanna" Teixeira for the dual slaying. Kotsay, no doubt inspired by his significantly better half, is already making Peach Staters have trouble recalling the previous gatekeeper in the middle of the outfield, Andruw "Velvet" Jones.

As Reverse Samson was mowing down the 'Tans, his fellow Warriors from the Red Hills were mostly flailing in futility at Cy Youngazo's offerings. Santana was magnifico for seven mighty innings, with a lone hiccup — a screamer off the ash of Yunel "Seaworthy" Escobar that brought Luckiest Man homeward. The new everyday shortstop in Georgia once again proved Craftier than Castro, and his double was the only scar on Santana's record. But on this day, it was enough to brand The Acquisition with a scarlet 'L'. Johan now looks forward to an outing in the doomed environs of Shea Stadium, a New York debut as eagerly anticipated as any Latino arrival in Fun City since Valentino strode passionately down Broadway.

Rubber Reinforcements wearing red enjoyed the sight of batsmen representing Western Long Island for the second straight game, after early season struggles with the Steel City sluggers. A quartet of Braves relievers scalped the Metropolitan millionaires' lineup until the ultimate innings, when Haman knocked in Golden Boy Wright for the visitors' lone tally.

Hotlanta concluder Rafael "El Hostile" Soriano was grateful for a pair of confirmations of the talents of Atlanta's first sacker. The frame before, Vanna sent a Long Sock over the right field wall, plating Lawrence Jones in front of him to boost the home lead to a sturdier three. In the ninth, with the Metros at last showing some pluck, Teixeira showed off the finery with the leather that has earned him multiple Gold Gloves—diving to deflect a shot off the bat of Brian Schneider, and tossing to The Angry Closer in time for the winning putout.

Atlanta once again says thank you to Teixas, and Salaams in Smoltz's direction.