You may have noticed the Twins are mostly reviled around these parts, what with their timely hitting and adequate defense and perpetual lording over the Central and whatnot. To watch those fundamentally sound scrappers run circles around the Sox the past few years has proven mostly embarrassing and often times painful, and that’s not even counting the endless catalog of balls lost in the Dome’s Glad right field and Hefty ceiling.

And for years, you could count on a certain Sox manager and certain blatant homer of an announcer to take every opportunity to praise those hateful little 10,000-Lakers as some kind of model franchise, as though turning perpetual wins over a garbage disposal of a division into near-instantaneous playoff humiliation were something to aim for; to hear them say it, the Twins were the kind of loser the Sox could only dream of becoming. Truth told, they still are in most ways, which makes weekends like this one that much sweeter.

When the Twins come to town, you generally know what to expect:

• A clinic in defensive execution
• A gem thrown by a no-name pitcher
• Two White Sox losses
• Helplessness
• Shame and degradation

So when the Home Run Derby starts and (more importantly) doesn’t stop, when the Twins are paralyzed in awe of moonshot after moonshot, when the batter’s box transforms into Carlos Quentin’s personal missile test launch pad, that alone is reason to celebrate. The White Sox, so derided here and elsewhere for their laundry list of shortcomings, turned their limitations into a weapon – an implement of victory, if you will. Home run or nothing? Perfect. Can’t steal a base? Take all four of them. Can’t beat the Twins? Forget beatings and go straight to the massacre.

All of which is cool because, for a moment, the Sox’ existence and lame construction are totally validated. They really only have to be better than four other teams, and until next May we can cross at least one of those four off the list. All the well-stocked farm systems and infield singles in the world mean nothing when the pure thunder of the 2009 Chicago White Sox extra-base-hits you into submission. It might not last, but it’s a nice moment all the same.