When You're Hot...

A little yarn from white-hot Twinsville...

I went to the game this afternoon, tried to get an interview with Joe Mauer, and ended up watching the game in the home plate press box off to the side, alone.

Tony Oliva was standing next to me in the aisle during the first inning.

Torii Hunter comes up with the bases loaded, and, noting Hunter's recent slump, a row of drunk twentysomething dudes turn their lonely eyes to Tony O.

"Hey, Tony! You should go hit for him."

Oliva stands there. Says nothing. Stares straight ahead. Then, in that lilting Cuba-groovy accent:

"He going to heet the next peetch for a grand slam."

Next pitch.

Grand slam.

The drunk dudes bow down to Tony O. I pump his hand, pat him on the back, and thank him. As he crows to anyone within earshot, "I called eet," I walk over and tell the Strib's beat writer what happened.

Twins 6, Dodgers 3.

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