Final Score: Dodgers 3, Nationals 2
Dame of the Game:
Adam LaRoche: 2-4, HR, 2 RBI, R, K. Adam LaRoche is the only one on the Nationals who remembers what to do with his large wooden club, which makes the rest of the Nats offense dumber than cavemen.
Shame of the Game:
Mark DeRosa: 0-4. Mark DeRosa is slugging .081. There should probably be a less positive-sounding word for that total bases/at bats average for people under .100. Like “whimpering.” Mark DeRosa is whimpering .081.
Ashes swirl over the battlefield. What was once a pristine field of grass and clay is now blackened and barren. The place reeks of charred flesh and death. Mike Rizzo, astride his trusty warhorse, surveys the carnage and grimaces.
The Nationals forces had made great advances in the early stages of the battle, fighting back the forces of Evil. Rizzo’s right flank, the Starting Pitchers, had been particularly successful, carving huge swaths in the enemy’s ranks and gaining valuable strategic territory. But after these quick victories, the enemy adapted. They sensed a weakness in the Washington army. The left flank–the Offense–was wavering. And this enemy was hungry for weakness.
The demonic horde pounced, and the flank’s collapse was precipitous. Adam LaRoche did his best to stave them off, waving his gleaming lumber like a man possessed, felling any enemy who came near. But he was not enough. Ian Desmond was actually possessed–after fighting reasonably well for a while, his eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he turned around and punched a more-confused-than-normal Tom Gorzelanny in the neck. All around them, the lines were crumbling. First Michael Morse fell, an arrow protruding from his lat. Then Ryan Zimmerman, an axeblade jutting from his shoulder, crumpled to the ground. “You must…go on…without me…” he whispered, before his eyes glazed over. In the Bullpen center, Brad Lidge was randomly struck by a lightning bolt despite the fact that it was sunny. Weird.
As Rizzo watches, a new assault is directed at the left flank. Fallen angel Clayton Kershaw, eyes glowing red with brimstone, rides headlong into the fray, leaving a trail of National dead in his wake. The hulking trolls Matt Kemp and Andre Ethier follow him, crushing anything still twitching. LaRoche deals a massive blow to Kershaw’s armor, but it is barely dented, and Kershaw swats him away without breaking stride. Meanwhile, an embattled Ross Detwiler is fending off foes on all sides. He still stands, but it is not long before he succumbs to the onslaught. The worst damage of all is being done on the far left side of the left flank…let’s call it “left field.” The Nationals forces there have been completely decimated; the only resistance is being provided by enemies occasionally tripping over the useless bodies of Mark DeRosa and Xavier Nady. If left field falls, Washington will be surrounded, and all will be lost.
Rizzo sighs. He did not want to do this now. The time is not right. And yet…he has no choice. He lifts the Horn of Navy Yard to his lips and blows, emitting a powerful low rumble that sends tremors across the field. Rizzo blows again, and again, and again, till his lungs are nearly spent. On the 34th blast of the horn, he finally comes. A blaze of white light on the horizon. The sky darkens, bringing this new force into stark relief. Warriors on both sides stop slaughtering each other and turn to look. The light speeds closer, and the forces of Evil cower in terror. At last, his form appears. Bryce Harper, crowned with brilliant luminescence, charges towards the battle on his shimmering white stallion and…wait.
God damnit. Even his horse is wearing obnoxious eye black. What a douchebag. Just kill everything, Bryce Harper.