Recently, with Livan the Hutt's struggles on the mound, Scottie Baker began to have some concerns. Were the Twin's going to make him the number 1 starter in the rotation if Livan left? Wasn't he just too young to lead this staff? He was just one year removed from Little League for God's sake.
Scottie gets ready for bed every night in the same way. He has a glass of milk and a cookie (only if he's completed all of his chores), brushes his teeth, puts on his pj's, and says a prayer. When I went to tuck Scottie in on Saturday night, I accidentally overheard this:
"Saint Francisco, it's me Scottie. I've got a favor to ask. Can you come back to the Twins? I just don't think that I can be the number 1 starter on the team. What happens if we go to the playoffs? If I have to go up against Lackey or Joba or (oh god) Beckett I might pee myself. We need you. I need you. Come back to us and give us some gassy fastballs and nasty sliders. Hee hee hee. Gassy is a funny word. Also, please bless my parents and my stupid sister Sarah."
I was interested to see what would happen. Would Saint Francisco heed the prayers of young Scottie Baker? Would we see the Saint of 2006 who threw fire and converted heathens into believers? Or would we see the impostor of earlier this season who caused me to question my faith.
Sure enough, Sunday afternoon in Minneapolis, the clouds parted. The roof of the Dome was torn apart revealing Saint Francisco in all of his glory. Trumpets blared. The Indians shook in fear. Far away in Kansas City, Ozzie Guillen started speaking in tongues. Six innings of solid Saintly work later, the Twins were back in first place.
In his secret bat cave, Bill Smith smiled. No trades were needed, because the Saint was back and ready to lead his followers into the postseason promised land.
-Sota
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