In the Midnight Hour

In a miraculous turn of events, I stayed up for last night's game. We really needed to come away with a W. I mean, things were getting ugly. We had dropped 2 of 3 to the Mariners, and were staring 3 straight losses to the Angels in the face. Enter Miguel Cabrera. One mighty swat tied the game at three in the ninth. MVP candidacy has been filed. What? It's only April? Ok, ok. Calm down. It's just a little dramatic-come-back-late-innings-victory hyperbole.

The remainder of the Tigers' half of the ninth was filled with a see-saw of emotions, with Carlos Guillen taking a base on balls, Brandon Inge striking out (the predictability of this at bat is painful), Gerald Laird entering the game as a pinch hitter (with curses heard 'round the world), Guillen stealing second, Laird drawing a walk, Carlos getting picked off attempting to steal third, but staying in a rundown long enough to get Laird down to second (or he may have been drawn and quartered upon returning to the dugout), Ramon Santiago hitting the unlikeliest of bloop singles to left off his shoetops, and Gerald Laird hauling himself admirably around third, and executing a gorgeous slide, swiping the bag with his hand to avoid the tag.

Papa Grande garnered the save in merciful 1-2-3 fashion. I would've whooped and hollered in jubilation, except everyone else in my house had already entered their REM cycles, and it would've been a little rude to wake them all up. Oh well, I settled for silent glee.

Our RISP woes subsided a bit last night as we went 2-4, while the Angels managed only 1-7. Five runners were marooned on the basepaths, which compares rather favorably to 10 on Tuesday, 8 on Monday, and 12 on Sunday.

Is it asking too much to split with the Angels tonight? Come on Justin, let's bring that 6.88 ERA down a smidge.