The hero closed his eyes as he concentrated on his hands. The rope had gone beyond chafing, he was now gripping it so tightly that he imagined the particles in the rough fibers and in his skin mixing and merging until they were indistinguishable from each other. He could hold on forever. For the rest of his life.
He could hear his enemy coming closer, heavy boots clattering across the flagstone court. He would cut the rope, he would let the hero fall into the void below to land amongst the rest of the twisted and broken bodies. The enemy would turn around, victorious, heavy boots would clatter again across the flagstone court, and he would watch the sun set and rise again. But the enemy would not break the hero's grip.
The hero listened as the boots came to a stop a few inches from his aching hands. His eyes still shut, his grip still steady. An armored knee dropped to the ground with a thud as the enemy knelt, and a gloved hand drooped down to caress the rope, then the hero’s hands.
“You can cut the rope, but I will not let go,” said the hero. The muscles in his hands tensed. He could feel his tendons stretching with the effort, nearing their breaking point.
“My name is Peter Bourjos,” the enemy said, "and I am your angel."
A quiet metallic scrape, the sound of a dagger drawn from its sheath. The hero would not let go. He would keep the rope in his hands all the way to the ground. It would not be said that he had given up, that he had ever weakened.
But when the dagger was drawn across the rope, the hero’s fingers loosened. The iron grip melted away in a wash of confusion as the muscles refused to obey the hero. Hold, damn you. Hold the rope!
The hero’s eyes snapped open as his left hand lifted itself from the rope. Something else was in control now, something greater than the hero. Something that wanted his hand to clasp the wrist of his enemy, to close his iron fingers, to form that molecular bond with the thick leather of his enemy’s gloves.
“My name,” the hero whispered, as that greater something twisted the dagger from the enemy’s grip.
"My name!" the hero shouted as the something pulled hard enough to send the enemy whistling down into the void below.
“My name is Justin Morneau!”
Final Score: Twins 10 - Angels 9
New Guy's Special Friends of the Day: Justin Morneau, Joe Mauer
New Guy's Not-So-Special Friends of the Day: Francisco Liriano, Matt Capps
Wow, New Guy. Sounds like I missed a dramatic game...
tip o the hat to Alex Burnett. He pitched 2 scoreless innings (3 k's!) after Liriano slogged through 5.
The Twins went on a 10-1 run to end the game.
Matt Capps excepted.
He just allowed a layup at the end when the Angels needed a 3-pointer to tie it. That doesn't count.
Credit where due:
I think we, as a website community, should try to contact Mauer and find a date when the lot of us can all meet him at a good bar somewhere, buy him a beer and try to show him that not all Twins fans are dumb.
I'll fly to minnesota for that event.
Mebbe you can print up some "I'm with Stupid" T-shirts for everyone to wear.
PMac wrote about the booing
Reusse remains the best sportswriter in this town.
The Runner family had a wonderful get-together with my parents at an undisclosed location*, and coming home to today's boxscore and game log was a nice icing on the cake. Well done, WGOM
*Mt. Pleasant, IA
Mt. Pleasant = crappy prison town
Mt. Pleasant = Old Threshers Reunion, one of the world's largest
I've never been, but there's a pretty good sized one about five minutes from my house.
I'm partial to the one closer to my stomping grounds.
*edit* lets put that post in the proper place
Me too, Cappsy, me too. Not that I'll be happy with you, but I'll be happy just the same.
We made a Thing out of "obligatories" with Twitchy. Capps hasn't earned that right yet. But maybe he will. Stranger things have happened.
Nathan's obligatories usually didn't score though.
They probably would if he had to get six outs in an inning instead of three. The ump took away one out and a bad-luck bounce took away two more. He wasn't exactly getting lit up.
back home, watching the highlights from MLB. the video of the final out is called "LAA@MIN: Capps slams door on a late Angels rally".
from what i observed on gameday at work, i'm not sure if that's the phrasing i would have used.
I guess they didn't specify the cause of the rally.
When Capps slams a door, evidently it bounces back open and gives him a black eye before he can get it under control and carefully push it closed with both hands.
Proven. Closer.
I laughed out loud at this. Perfect description.
and two flies still make it in the house.