Twin granddaughters excel at the double team

I stopped feeling my right arm 30 minutes ago. I’m buried in blankets too, sweating because baby Emma thinks life is best lived in a toaster oven while resting on G.P.’s dead arm, and now two days into life outside her mother’s belly, she hears her G.P. let out a big cheer for the Chargers.

She cries, because how would you feel if you learned your Grand Pa was a Chargers fan?

I don’t know what to tell her. I’m really a better G.P. than this, but Rivers is my quarterback, and it will be another month or so before we can discuss fantasy football, taking full odds in craps and superfecta strategy.

All Emma knows at this moment is that I am willing to lose my right arm to keep her warm and her G.P. is cheering for the Chargers, while telling her during every commercial break, “Listen, pretty girl, your G.P. really dislikes the Chargers, he really does.”

You should have seen the glazed look in her eyes -- it was as if she were looking right through me.

Across the room, Aunt Bibby -- a.k.a. Tracy, Trickster and Miss Radio Personality -- is holding Rylee, the other half of the Darling Duo and pointing out the players to Rylee whom she finds cute. Who knew the Bengals had a real hunk for an equipment manager, as Aunt Bibby put it, Rylee already trying to walk.

The Duo’s mother, meanwhile, is in bed, no longer pregnant, stapled back together, and yet just starts sobbing and sobbing.

I just figure she’s got Palmer on her fantasy team, he’s not doing a thing, and so I’m telling her I can feel her pain.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she says, and did I mention she’s still married to the Bagger?

The Bagger guesses the crying jag might be because of Harbaugh, and we all know he means hormones because as a family we know that’s just how he talks.

FOR THE record, Rylee is 6 pounds 6 ounces, and what a coincidence, the same size as Jamey Carroll, the Dodgers’ new second baseman.

Emma is 6 pounds 5 ounces, and immediately wants to go on Facebook and alert everyone she’s here.

They arrive Friday morning, Rylee first at 7:11 -- a nice tribute to her older sister, and 49 seconds later it’s Emma. They are not identical, but from a “fraternity,” as the Bagger explains.

Rylee is crying. She must know what kind of year it’s going to be for Carroll and the Dodgers. Too bad she didn’t get here sooner to see the Angels while they were still a good team.

Emma keeps trying to open her eyes, already hearing about Joe McKnight’s SUV and wanting to see it for herself.

They are moved to a nursery, one wall all windows -- each baby getting her very first meal, and G.P. isn’t picking up the tab. It’s a great day.

A nurse takes everything off the Duo, and both girls scream. In so many ways already, just like their grandmother. Later they will insist on eating every three hours just to prove it.

They each make a mess. They will do this every time they eat, if you know what I mean, each eating eight times a day, which makes for 16 considerable problems.

It’s exhausting, G.P. leaving the room each time to avoid the mess, getting a real feel what it must be like to be Pete Carroll these days.

The babies are footprinted, ankle bracelets attached so their whereabouts are monitored and mug shots are taken. I guess the nurse doesn’t have as high hopes for the Duo as the rest of us.

They are each 19 1/4 inches. Shaq’s shoes are four inches longer. Their heads are measured too, and wouldn’t you like to know how big Barry Bonds’ noggin was before it became the size of a bowling ball?

Under intense Page 2 questioning later, but before security arrives, the nursery room nurse will admit she doesn’t like Gary Matthews Jr. either and the Darling Duo is the cutest set of babies she has ever seen.

She wants to talk about Tiger Woods too, but I remind her the girls will not be working as cocktail waitresses in Las Vegas any time soon. In fact the plan is to have them live with their parents until they are housebroken and can begin basketball practice with G.P.

CAN’T THINK of a better Christmas gift, other than maybe a massage recliner. Anyone who has ever stood and rocked a baby understands.

I’m just standing here now watching the Duo sleep, and I know what you are thinking, it must’ve been like watching UCLA’s offense. Basketball and football.

They are so peaceful, but a year from now probably not enough Advil to allow G.P. to keep up with them.

Now I think it’s normal. I remember thinking I could never love a child more than our first, then the second came along.

The second is the one in bed sobbing, and all I can tell her is if the Bagger suggests female fertility drugs, remind him he’s supposed to take them -- just ask Manny Ramirez.

The second is as wonderful and awesome as the first, and the first is all that too, and keep in mind I can buy Lakers playoff tickets for anyone who wants to marry her.

I remember thinking I might never love a grandchild as much as the 7-Eleven Kid, but here I am, all smiles with the Duo.

And I’m thinking, what will they make of themselves? Which one will be the first to tweet Plaschke? Or make fun of him, so I know she really is my granddaughter.

Can G.P. set the record for most money spent on Barbies? Which one will be the shooting guard? Does one of them get married before Aunt Bibby? Which one will be president?

If only they could know only happiness while remaining carefree, but here it is the night they are born and already the Clippers have blown a 20-point lead to the Knicks.

So right away G.P. finds himself sitting down with the Duo to discuss the facts of life: The Knicks stink, the Clippers stink, and by the way, girls, so does one of you.

t.j.simers@latimes.com