In the days following the ballclub’s victory at the league championship tournament, your loyal mouthpiece waited in vain for a summons from the Historian. Days went by in silence. Psychics and seers and other woo-woo types were recruited, but after probing the ether like a squadron of demented proctologists, they were unable to elicit so much as a Historical squeak. The staff at Speaking of Faith even volunteered the services of their demigod-sniffing dog, to no avail. Then, very late one evening, after watching a Twins game in which Nick Punto actually got a hit, the mouthpiece awoke from a drooly couch-nap to find that the Historian had at last drawn nigh. (It’s a combination of a clammy chill in the room and a distinctive aroma; you kind of have to be there.)

“What gives, o great one?” I asked. “I thought you’d be crowing from the rooftops about our wondrous victory.”

“I thought it was all a stupendous dream,” he said quietly. “I mean, put yourself in my ethereal shoes. Twenty-six years and no championship? You want to talk about ‘speaking of faith’? It has taken faith of the mountain-moving variety for me just to keep paying attention after so long. But then, when my heart’s desire came true, I didn’t quite trust it.”

“It’s okay, H-Dawg,” I said. “Everyone has their moments of doubt.”

“I’m past it now,” he replied. “You guys were awesome—in the regular season, too. I especially like how you finally dealt with the crucial infield weakness that’s hindered you for so long—by breeding your own shortstop. And by the way, if you ever call me H-Dawg again, I’ll smite your sorry keister like it’s never been smote before.”

I held my tongue.

“One other thing,” he said. “You changed the name of the Wick award to the Air-Wick?” He sounded peeved. I nodded warily.

“Love it!” he said. “Like the winner needs air freshener of the soul.”

The Air-Wick: Erick from Capitol Offenders, a.k.a. "The guy who swore at Fred."