Nine innings.  110 pitches.  One walk.  One hit batter.  No f#$%ing hits.

You’ve got to hand it to the Cubs, when things go bad, they go bad.

But when they go good?  Holy crap, do they roll in it these days.

After a couple of tense wins in St. Louis the Cubs sat around for two days while a hurricane cancelled two games in Houston.

With the city in ruins, their billionaire idiot owner was finally convinced to move the games somewhere else.  But with that same hurricane dumping rain over the entire midwest, the only suitable place was a crappy little dome 90 miles north of Chicago.

Filled with Cubs’ fans, it wasn’t even close to a home field for the Astros.

The Cubs had gained plenty of ground on the Brewers by not playing, and more ground was there to be had, if only the Cubs’ ace shoulder would cooperate.

Oh, it cooperated.

No Astro hit the ball hard.  Only two hit the ball to the outfield.  Hell, Carlos didn’t even let them hit the ball near Alfonso Soriano all night.

A 98 MPH fastball in the first inning calmed some of the fears about his arm.

Eight more innings of complete dominance removed any doubt from anyone, anywhere.

This picture deserves to be seen full-size.

But it still didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned about his hitting.

And when it was over, Carlos shouted to the rafters.

And a couple of manly men, shared a hug.

Carlos, you’re the balls.