Phillies-Nats: Brad Lidge Goes Clean While Jayson Werth Soils His Drawers

Praise Pete, the Phils won.  I couldn’t take anymore of my day.

 

First, I had to drive my husband 80 miles north so he could catch a bus to ride 80 miles back to Philly to see the game with 30 people who drink so infrequently they would forget their native tongue by the ninth inning. 

 

Why do they do this?

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question.

 

Then I discovered what was causing the atrocious smell in my son’s room. 

 

Don’t ask.

 

Okay, now that you brought it up, let’s just say my son now understands why he can’t shut the cat in his room at night and ignore its meows. Hint: There was more than two No. 2s. And after cleaning them up, the odor embedded in my memory like my selective recall.

 

Then I got back in a car and drove to center city to eat a delicious dinner while sitting next to my nephew who believes that hygiene is an option. Whew!

 

Then I got to sit in section 137 with him and my son. As soon as we sat, a woman in front of us hoisted an umbrella the size of the sails of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. It was obvious she had never read the manual of stadium etiquette that blatantly states the discovery of America had already taken place. 

 

My first inclination was to ask her a facetious question. My motto is, if you don’t have anything nice to say, please let me say it. But the canopy was so big it fully encompassed her and the spectator to her right, so I got to thinking…maybe I don’t want to know what’s going on under there.

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question.

 

Then I thought about how roomy my own rain poncho was and how quickly my concealed hands could…I’m kidding. Besides, I was with two little boys who could embarrass a nudist colony while fully dressed. I didn’t want to encourage them. 

 

Then I almost forgot what it was like to have Pat Burrell in the outfield until I watched Adam Dunn. Praise Pete we have Raul Ibanez.

 

Then sometime in the third inning I saw wisps of peanut shells floating by like dust in the wind. When I looked over, my nephew was disintegrating the casings and caressing them all over his wet-clothed body. Even knowing better, I asked what he was doing. 

 

He said, “Now, I’m properly seasoned.” 

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question. 

 

Then the boys had to have Italian ice. Of course they came back with two cups the color of blood. If you’ve ever been around little boys, I don’t have to explain how blood-red ice can creatively be used. Let’s just say, I’m glad I was draped in plastic. 

 

Before their cups were empty, my son had his hand deep between his legs chasing a stray blob. I was hoping JA Happ would go deep but I had to stop my son. He was starting to giggle as he fondled his crotch for the fragment. 

 

I said, “Hey, put a poncho on before you do that.”

 

Then before I knew it, Happ had a couple guys on and was being pulled from the game. 

 

What?  In the fifth? 

 

Do I smell shit?

 

My husband said, “Not yet, Durbin hasn’t pitched.”

 

I hate it when he’s right.  The aroma whisked past a few times that inning. Chad couldn’t hold the runners on and Jayson Werth soiled his drawers on a bobbled ball that earned him his first error in 145 games. That’s the longest streak by an outfielder in the national league. 

 

It’s also about the length of time I’ve gone without finding a tick embedded in my flesh. Jayson bobbled on a sensitive play; I found a dangler in a sensitive area. I won’t tell you where, but my husband said, “Please, can I get it?”

 

He eliminated my leaching friend without a glitch, but Jayson’s error was costly. Before I knew it, the six Washington hits had yielded a juicy four runs, while the Nationals managed to hold our sixteen hit affront to five.

 

But someone failed to hold it in the car on the way home. By the time we stopped, a child had pooped his pants. As he sat in the bathroom begging for my help, a zillion reasons to say “no” crossed my mind, but the repercussions of leaving a stray turd in the hands of a gaggy child endeared me to aid.

 

Now, I don’t know why, but a No. 2 drowned in a toilet is much more tolerable than one that’s alive and kicking in the crotch of some boxers. As I garnered the courage to scrape up a misguided missile, I said, “What the hell happened?”

 

He said, “There was a brown snake playing peek-a-boo with my butt hole.”

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question.

 

So today was a throwback to my diaper changing days. I donned my “I smell shit face” more times in 24 hours than I did in the last eight years. 

 

Praise Pete our other relievers, Scott Eyre and Ryan Madson, stayed clean. 

 

As did Brad Lidge.  He cut the game short with a 1-2-3 inning. Considering how my day went, I’m surprised he didn’t stop at the number two. It would have only been fitting. 

 

But the Phillies won. In my native tongue that spells victory. And that’s a whole lot sweeter than some of the things I smelled today.

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

Without the brown snakes.