Oh, I am being kind. But I know this part.
This is the part where the Minnesota Twins, in all their sideburned glory, play baseball with that elusive mix of determination and joy that makes for all the syrupy lyrical prose the game so richly deserves. And then, eventually, they remember exactly who they are.
So what we huddled masses are left hoping for is that the cosmic timing is right, that we capture this division with a winning streak while we're playing inside it and before we go back to being nature's most vexing creature aside from women and birthers -- a .500 ball club.
Buddha preaches joyful participation in the miseries of the world. Bone it like you own it and drive it like you stole it, in other words. Give 'em hell, boys.