I hate late games.
But I love Scotty Baker.
I want some gen-u-wine ass-kicking tonight.
Um...with the Twins being the kickers, and the Angels being the asses. (Sometimes it's necessary to be VERY specific with your wishes or the universe will look for loopholes with which to screw you over. The universe can be a real wisenheimer like that.)
EDIT--It's the FIFTH INNING, and I've officially given up hope for the previously-requested ass-kicking. I will now settle for a miraculous, seat-of-their-pants, "how'd-they-do-that?!" pieced together Twins win. Remember when we could manufacture some runs? That was nice.
TOP OF THE SIXTH INNING--One run! Yes! See? Our goal-setting exercise is working! I'd urge the team to try for two (or, god save us, even THREE), but I don't want to put too much pressure on anyone.
BOTTOM OF THE SIXTH--OH FOR GOOD CHRIST, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. OK. It's OK. Now we just need SIX more runs to win. Six more. We can do that. [with a time machine, maybe.] And in goes Rincon. Awesome.
THE MORNING AFTER--Um, yeah. I went to bed in the 7th. I'm kind of glad I did. Ugh. It's like there is a physical pain. Please stop hurting me. Let's win today. I'm cheering for the Yankees and Oakland [Swisssshhher!], here. Don't make me hate myself in vain, OK?