Indians plummet to 49-32
(Just a quick note: I have nothing against J.A. Happ, but like I said his name looks and sounds like the name of a very, very bad fantasy author. After a game like today I have no choice but to bring this hypothetical guy to life.)
A dark flame burns in the hearts of the people of the 'land after this afternoon's game, after the afterthoughts of the winning streak, after the aspirations of a region drove them, incredibly, unceasingly, to a fourteen game winning streak. Was it a supernatural natural force moving their limbs in perfect graceful motions, the unseen hands of a puppet master tugging and pulling, smirking all the while at his creation like a genius author?
Whatever the cause, seen or unseen behind the streak, the Tribe's primary wizard Corey Kluber looked merely human today. When casting the ball toward the mound his spells appeared to shift the ball to-and-fro around the plate, but the location to which the spells were cast cast a pall of mediocrity over the stoic wizard's typically placid demeanor of dominance. Dark paladin Russell Martin did make contact on a pitch in the bottom of the first round of the skirmish, and tallied three points for his ragtag gang of nine. In the crowd the fans did shout with delight, slapping their hands together in the way that strange mortals do when indicating any amount of interpersonal pleasure or camaraderie.
Kluber struggled mightily again in the second and intentionally walked Josh Donaldson, Knight of Most Excellent Gamesmanship in 2015 for the American League, with but a single out recorded. Edwin Encarnacion, a brute of a man, biceps bulging like two GMO chicken breasts sewed under the skin, stepped to the plate. And how the crowd simmered with expectation, forty thousand strips of bacon sizzling with anticipation. Ah, but they were burnt by their own anticipation when they anticipated something big, for Encarnacion grounded out and so did the following batter, which is something they did not anticipate.
The struggles did not end for the normally unflappable wizard. The fates conspired against him, seemingly. In the bottom of the fourth frame, young Francisco Lindor was afflicted by a strange spirit. The orb rose far into the sky and he diligently tracked it against the lapis lazuli/cyan sky. It nestled itself into his glove, but when Lindor's feet shifted to cast a powerful throwing spell, his feet failed him. He collapsed. He crumpled to the turf, uncharacteristically, surprisingly. Another point was tallied to the squad from Toronto when the runner at the third base advanced before the spell reached home plate. When another from Toronto smashed a the ball hard enough to acquire two bases, Kluber departed the field of play. There should be no shame for the wizard; in our great land the greatest among us occasionally stumble, skin our knees, fracture a few bones, spend months convalescing, but get right back on the horse.
Would the other wizards provide assistance for poor broken Kluber? Nay. Tom Gorzelanny, believed to be descended from a line far-separated from the true-blooded wizards, allowed seven points and recorded only a single out. Many felt shame at this display, and turned their eyes away from the massacre. At this point, the Cleveland Team lowered their heads and asked to be decapitated, metaphorically, by sending the backup healer to pitch two frames. It became clear that he only dabbled in wizardry as child; his spells were easily blasted away to all parts of the park.
And how did the offensive maneuvers of the Cleveland Indians fare during today's skirmish? Quite poorly all things considered. The pitcher for the Toronto team — who has quite a stylish name, I must say — mowed down the Indians relentlessly inning after inning, the scythe of his hurling repertoire slicing clean through the neck supporting the head of the offensive ambition.
Happ conjured and cajoled the orb in ways heretofore unbeknownst to mortals. In seven frames of magicking he allowed five hits, allowed a single point, and sat down eleven of the opposing roster for failing to defend the plate. Perhaps the only player on the Cleveland team deserving some kind of commendation today is Spaceman Carlos Santana. He slapped a single, crushed a double, and casually strolled across the plate for a point on a hit by Yan Gomes.
There is still much to rejoice about in the 'land. They marched across the countryside for the previous two weeks razing every city that they encountered, enslaving the children. Much glory came to their homeland, and perhaps this golden glory shall shower upon them tomorrow when they return. While the end of their campaign resulted in heavy losses, it is irrefutable that this team is a bastion of what the human race calls grit; that ineffable, ineluctable, ideogenous quality displayed by the hardiest of the race. This chronicler thanks you for the eyes you hold in your skull taking their hands and scooping up the words I've created with my own hands.