Philadelphia Phillies: Streaking and Stretching in Section 145

We packed in the car to attend our first game of the season. After fighting the rowdy crowd, we took our seats just as the game started.

That’s when the calls from the crowd brought to mind a memory. My husband summed it up when he said, “Hey, I forgot. We’re supposed to yell stupid shit at the other team.” Then he shoved napkins in my crotch. He claimed he didn’t want them to blow away but his smirk indicated he’d simply took advantage of a good excuse.

This was going to be a great day.

Once we were cozy, anticipating a hot day and a sizzling team, I decided to take some notes:

The first inning was busy. Jayson Werth hit a three-run homer in retaliation for his 26 game on-base streak that was broken in game three.

Hold on…My husband says it’s not a streak—it’s a stretch. Well, honey, stretch doesn’t have the same connotation as streak. I’ll do anything to increase the imagery of seeing him naked. I’m the pervert who tried to peel away his clothing with Photoshop at least 26 times. But that’s not a stretch I plan to break soon. If anyone knows how to get that done, let me know. My, how I’d love to hack into him.

Where was I? 

Oh, yeah. After the Phils were finally retired, it became apparent that Ashburn Alley was Sunburn Alley and section 145 was an oven. But Planet Hoagie is still the hottest deal in the stadium. For about eight bucks you get a sandwich that feeds four and a short line that saves an inning of play. They don’t have anything they can claim is a “Philly Original” but they also don’t serve fries named after an STD.

Then the second inning started. I ate roast beef, but the Phillies were Sloppy Joes. Jayson Werth lost a ball in the sun for an error, then Wilson Valdez—the substitute for the substitute for Jimmy Rollins, earned one with a throw just short of Ryan Howard’s reach.

And that should be an error. With the way Ryan’s playing, he’s so much bigger than his 6’4″ frame. And after seeing throws in this series bounce off Albert Pujols’s glove like the ones that were effortlessly scooped up by the $125 million man, it’s hard to reason against his recent contract.

At the close of the second, one thing was evident: the Phillies remember Kyle Lohse. As a former teammate, he held no secrets and finished that inning with 63 pitches. It’s amazing what a handful of hits can do to a pitch count.

In the fourth, Placido Polanco hit a grounder that inadvertently slipped between the legs of David Freese. No big deal. I can’t keep mine together either. At least he only earned an error—I got a reputation.

By the end of the fourth, Lohse was at 100 pitches. My brother-in-law said it best: “Lohse is toast.” So was my nose.

Then the Phillies took a defensive reprieve: Jayson passed on a Tide moment, Carlos Ruiz missed a pitch that allowed two runners to advance, and the wind had blown my hair sideways for so long I looked like I had a Donald Trump sweep.

In the fifth, some drunk guys behind us were upset with the guy who was starting the wave. The funniest thing they could say was, “Go home and start the wave on your couch!” And as if that was not-funny enough, the monkey beside him said, “Yeah, go home and start the wave on your couch!”

They’re lucky this isn’t FunnyOrDie.

That was also the inning Raul Ibanez welcomed Blake Hawksworth to the mound with a homer off a 2-0 pitch and Carlos established himself as a dominate force against St. Louis with a single. But then Valdez hit into a double play.

My brother-in-law texted me: “Valdez should stick with coffee.” But Charlie Manuel—slim but far from competing on Dancing With The Stars —strolled out to banter with the umpire.

His stutter, funny drawl, dry sense of humor, inability to speak in complete sentences, and unrelenting faith in those who fail us, make him a poor candidate to manage in a city that takes its sports seriously. But when Charlie defended Valdez on a poorly hit ball that yielded a double play to end the fifth, it was evident—he fits in here quite nicely.

In the sixth the wind switched directions. Soon my eyes were as full of crap as I was.

By the bottom of the seventh, the Phils were up 6-2, the Cards were on their fourth pitcher, and Jayson Werth hit a double—just because he could.

And Carlos Ruiz singled. Did you know Carlos is batting over .300 now? And did you notice he’s seventh in the lineup? That’s what happens when you’re playing against a catcher whose name is Yadier—from the Molina trinity. You buck up.

Chad Durbin was called in to pitch the eighth.

When he shows up as his alter ego, Disturbin’ Durbin, a five-run lead is like the boobs that used to hold up my tube top—a distant memory. After he beaned two batters, two meetings were held on the mound to make sure he understood the intricate strategy: “They’re batters, not bull’s-eyes.”

I’m kidding. I don’t really know what was said, but the inning ended with a rare, 3-6-1 double play. Or was it 3-4-1? I’m not sure whose butt it was that sailed to second for the out. All that matters is, it was nice.

But there was one more inning to go. Since Brad Lidge still needs his beauty rest and Jose Contreras closed game three, I held my breath. Then I fainted when Danys Baez ran in from the pen. He’s the guy who almost pitched for the cycle in the loss against the Mets and has a cumulative ERA higher than my bowling average.

Don’t get me wrong—a man with a pitch that packs a 95 mph punch is a girl’s dream but if he doesn’t know where to put it…well, insert the innuendo of your choice here.

Last year we had Two-Run Lidge; this year it’s Four-Run Baez. Praise Pete we were up by five and I had an established farmer’s tan.

Well, either the ghost of Hall of Famer Robin Roberts was in the house or the Phillies are just playing great ball.

The batters are seeing the ball so well that the two guys hitting over .300 hold lineup Nos. 5 and 7, the hurlers are so hot it looks like even Kyle Kendrick could stay in the majors, and the Phils had 14 hits for a 7-2 win to cap a 3-1 series against the best defensive team in the league. Roy Halladay earned his sixth win and again they’re first in their division.

It’s as if Ruben Amaro, Jr. planned it that way.

Wait, of course he did. That was a really stupid thing to say. Hey, let’s try a few more.

Shane Victorino is so good at snagging high-flying objects I heard they’re naming a dog breed after him—the great Shane.

Ibanez had a Raul series. There were so many opportunities to howl I thought the next Twilight movie opened.

The police commissioner decided the next spectator to run onto the field would be fought with light sabers.

And in honor of the morons in my section, I went home and started the wave on my couch.

Sorry, it wasn’t funny that time either.

See you at the ballpark.

 

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Philadelphia Phillies Continue Division Skid: Who Ya Gonna Call?

The Phils were desperate for one of two things before they left San Francisco: a win or a day off. They got both—just in time to settle down for a nine inning nap.

After last night’s 9-1 slaughter by the Mets, Charlie took the podium. Usually he recites the team stats, but last night he shifted his hat with a nervous smile and said, “Hey, does anyone have the phone number for Pedro Martinez?”

Actually he didn’t say that, but I dreamed of him mumbling it and ending with a slight stutter on P-P-P-Pedro as if he was selling a Chia Pet.

Hey that’s an idea—a Jayson Werth Chia Pet giveaway. It would grow like mad because Jayson gets his energy from his hair. If that’s really the case, I wish he would’ve shared some locks with his teammates.

What’s the problem? Last week Shane Victorino broke the air speed velocity of the English Swallow by going from first to home on a single. But last night he couldn’t beat a badly jostled ball by Rod Barajas from home to first.

Can you say, “Benchwarmer?”

Even that high-priced pony Ryan Howard is struggling—again.

My dad sent me some calculations. Now, I don’t put a lot of faith into the old man’s figures because the guy can hardly see his calculator through his scratchy lenses, but this is what he said: Howard is paid $41,000 for each at-bat. And based on the average umpire’s salary, the guy behind the plate gets only $9 to call Ryan out on strikes.

But the guy who bought the $5 beer would have called it a ball and the man eating the dollar dog said he could’ve hit that pitch.

My husband said Ryan’s contract isn’t worth the gas that passes from his ass.

But the bats weren’t the only things that smelled. Kyle Kendrick gave up four earned runs on three homers in five innings.

Here’s a hint: those numbers didn’t work for Kyle, so don’t play them in the lottery.

And no one’s said anything about seventh inning wonder, Danys Baez. After a one-two-three sixth, he took the mound in the seventh and almost pitched for the cycle.

He hit the first batter, then allowed an RBI double, a walk, a stolen base, and a two-RBI triple before Charlie Manuel threw little Davey Herndon to the lions.

Herndon couldn’t hold Angel Pagen on third to keep the earned runs for Baez to three, but he was able to minimize the damage so Brad Lidge could make his first major league appearance in 2010.

Before the game, nobody would obligate to saying if or when Lidge would return. But they didn’t have a choice when Ryan Madson broke his toe while Dancing with the Chairs after his blown save on Wednesday.

How do you explain that one? I miscued my Polka kick?

Brad was busy. He gave up a dinger on his third pitch to the anti-Phil, Rod Barajas. Then three batters, two hits, and .1 innings are all it took to give Lidge a nasty ERA.

My husband now calls him Bad Lidge. And my child summed up the game’s intensity: “Mom, our dog has fleas.” So my Yorkie got a bath while the Phils tried to recover from one.

What happened to those exciting games? The ones where Carlos Ruiz assisted the team with a strike-out/throw-out double play. Or when Shane reached over the wall and brought down a snow cone. Or when Juan Castro glove-tossed a ball from the ground to Chase Utley who bare-handed the catch and fired to first for a double play? When’s the last time we saw a double steal, a simple stolen base, or a streaker?

What happened to the team that was so exciting they inspired the old man ball-girl to field a live ball in another team’s stadium?

What’s happened to the real Philadelphia Phillies?

Help, it’s Freaky Friday! The Mets are looking like the Phillies are supposed to and the Phils are performing the way everyone said the Mets should. And for the first time since the new millennium, the Phils are behind the Nationals in the NL East.

Someone, somewhere is finding a way to pin this on the liberals.

But could it really be the Jimmy Rollins curse? When Jimmy’s hitting the Phils are winning. Well, we won’t know tonight. With ol’ Roy Halladay taking the mound, it’ll take a shutout to keep the Phils from getting the win. But stranger things have happened.

Like Jamie Moyer up against Johan Santana on Sunday. Now, if Jamie throws an 80 mph pitch, can it rightly be called a “fast” ball?

We’ll find out tomorrow.

See you at the ballpark.

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Philadelphia Phillies: Band-Aids®, Boo-Boos, and Uh-Ohs

 

This morning I chased a rogue eyebrow hair for 46 tries. Then I opened the patio door and threw my cheap tweezers as far into the woods as I could. Now I know why people pay $10 for a pair of tweezers. Nothing is more frustrating than something getting the best of you.

Ask little Davey Herndon.

Herndon was stellar from the bullpen this season until that fateful April 16th against the Marlins. His 96 mph sinker was hit on the ground—just like it was supposed to be—except that day they hit ‘em where nobody was: five times in less than an inning. The misfortune earned him his first ERA of the season: 7.71.

Then he got it together for a few outings until the strike zone mysteriously shrunk in the eighth inning of the 8-6 loss to the Diamondbacks in the final game of the series. That tragic evening gave him his first loss of the season.

But his problems aren’t Rich Dubee’s only plight. Cole Hamels continues to “mature,” JC Romero is taking his time defining his post-supplement self, JA Happ lent his inconsistency to Kyle Kendrick when he replaced him in the rotation, and Brad Lidge and Joe Blanton are still playing house in the minors.

It’s a sad state of affairs when we’re praying Jamie Moyer doesn’t get hurt.

At this pace, the obscure names in the bullpen will become household names. An already overtaxed bullpen is the result of early season hiccups in the rotation.

Well, except for one piece of it—that $10 pair of tweezers, Roy Halladay. I can sum up his usefulness in three words: I’d do him.

Ruben Amaro Jr. has to be wondering if he should’ve splurged on a guaranteed way to pluck out more batters with, let’s say, Cliff Lee.

Okay, that’s the last I’ll whine about it. But it’s no comfort knowing those hairs will continue to grow where I don’t want them long after I’m dead.

Now that’s a pretty picture.

I think the problem lies with three guys: Kyle Kendrick, Ryan Madson, and Cole Hamels. I call them the Three Trees. They’re a forest of talent but they’ve yet to discover their 2010 wood. If I have to, I’ll summon my x-ray vision and find it for them because I know somewhere in there are the balls to do the job. I just wish they’d use ‘em. God knows, I wood.

Don’t look at me that way. I’m not the first to use wood in a double entendre—I’m not the first to even dream about a double entendre. And I don’t even know how that would go. I guess it depends on who’s on top. Is that what that tea bagging thing is all about?

Hey, they don’t call the biggest club in the bag a wood for nothing.

Kendrick showed cahonas in Spring Training, and Hamels had girls wearing his name to bed in 2008. But Ryan Madson is trying to walk in the shadow of Brad Lidge. The problem is, we never know if Lidge will appear as an oak or a pussy willow.

The pitching staff isn’t the only ailment. The stamina of the roster is questionable. Placido Polanco has a boo-boo on his elbow, Greg Dobbs wears a Band-Aid^® on his calf, and now Juan Castro, who replaced the disabled Jimmy Rollins, has been swapped because of a hammie for Wilson Valdez—the guy we thought was brought up to start at shortstop in the first place.

Charlie wanted to get his bench players game time but I’m sure he hadn’t planned to spend this much time in the dugout with his starters.

Now he knows how Jerry Manuel felt last year.

Then there’s Raul Ibanez. His slow season start could be attributed to the time it took to recoup his shape after his surgery. But I think he’s suffering from what I call “The Placido Effect.” It’s when the new guy comes to town and steals your thunder. Either Raul needs to find the perfect prescription or he’ll have to down a sugar packet or two.

Or maybe they just need something to rub off on them. And not my neighbor’s dog. Perhaps the team should summon some luck from that toothless lotto winner.

Actually the whole toothless thing isn’t indicative of the Philly crowd. You have to go into western PA to find petrified tubes of Crest at the CVS. Philly fans have more class than that. They’re known for displaying signs with the number of hot dogs they’ve eaten on Dollar Dog Night and then puking up on their neighbors.

Good times.

All joking aside, the Phillies deserve better fans than that. They’re vying for their third straight trip to the Series and there’s a bunch of games left to get there.

Let’s show some real class.

See you at the ballpark.

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A Philadelphia Phillies Fan Bucket List, Complete With Jayson Werth

As I sit here gazing at my complimentary Phillie of the Month calendar, a problem occurs to me: they’re all fully dressed.

What happened to equal opportunity, women’s liberation, and all the hints I sent last year? My husband buys a subscription to a crappy car magazine and gets a calendar with Marisa Miller scantily clad in a dozen seasonal plunge bras. I spend hundreds on a season ticket package and get a calendar with pictures I can find in my kid’s baseball card collection.

Is there no such thing as equal perversion?

Anyway, that brings me to the part of this blog where I have no segue whatsoever. Actually I could say that brings me to the topic of my article: what I want to see before I die, but that would be faking it—and that’s something my husband says I do well.

Unlike most bucket lists, mine isn’t composed of death-defying acts of irrationality like skydiving. I don’t need to do something daring—I gave birth naturally. I don’t need another adventure to end with, “What the hell was I thinking?”

I need a list of things that when I’m at the pearly gates, St. Peter will recognize me and say, “Oh, God, you’re that woman who…,” and I’ll proudly nod my head as he blushes and discovers that I’m still clutching the piece of Jayson Werth private attire I snatched in my last great act of defiance. But, he’ll have to roll the dice to try to pry them from my rigor mortised hands.

Then I’m gonna find Harry Kalas and we’re gonna watch the Phils from the best seats in the house without ever having to miss a pitch because we had to pee.

Now, when I thought about the organization of my list, I considered bullets or numbers or possibly an alphabetical arrangement. I even tried little Shane Victorino silhouettes, but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So I settled for the rant. Not only is the rant my favorite form of communication, it’s possibly the least effective one.

In this case, it’ll work quite well. I’ve been accused of many things, but no one’s ever suggested I make any sense at all.

Without further ado, here’s my list:

First, I want a nickname like one of the baseball greats. Wait a second…my husband says I have one. It’s a five-letter word that describes who I am when I whine and rhymes with the thing a player does when he takes the mound.

That’s touching, honey.

But I want a name like, Babe, Shoeless, Lefty, Whitey, or Beauty. Hold on…my husband has a suggestion. He says try Wrinkly, Saggy, or Whacky. Thanks. I’ll not only look like one of the dwarfs, I’ll be named after one.

Where were we?

Oh yeah…I want a private autographed session with the Phillies roster and I want each of them to sign a part of my body with a tattoo pen. Then I want a mural of the stadium after the Phil’s clinched their 2008 World Series win painted around my middle so at my viewing everyone can turn my naked body on a rotisserie to find where they were sitting.

I want to catch a Carlos Ruiz walk-off home run.

I want to see Mary Poppins jam Metallica at Karaoke. I’d also like to know why the hell we call it karaoke. And just once, I’d like to be able to spell it without looking it up.

I want to find a Jayson Werth thong in a box of Cracker Jacks.

I want to use a bidet.

If there are Seven Wonders of the World, I want the Philadelphia Phillies to be the eighth and I want sex so good it’s the ninth.

I want my dog to learn to poop in the cat box and I want my cat to puke in that box too.

I want Cliff Lee back. He compLEEtes me.

I want my husband to accept that “shit happens” is a viable excuse for everything.

I want someone to use Born to Run as their at-bat song.

I want Davey Lopes to pat me on the ass on first base. Wait, I think that qualifies as third base.

I want to make so much cash I can sing a song about kicking the snot outta my ex while I’m named after a harmless pastel.

I want to write a blog so controversial I get chastised publicly on ESPN.

I want to understand why people put “Travel the world over” on their bucket list when actually they should write, “Ask poor unsuspecting locals to take a picture of me in front of everything.” 

I want Herbie the Dentist to extract all of Glenn Beck’s teeth to make him stop spreading malice so peace can become America’s second favorite pastime.

I want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days.

I want a bench player to have another unassisted triple play, Jayson Werth to steal his way around the bases, and Joe Blanton to hit a closed-eye home run—all in the same game.

I want Tom Verducci to write my eulogy and I want Charlie Manuel to cater my wake.

Most of all, I simply want Mitch Williams.

And expect to get it all because I have, as someone once sang, high hopes.

That brings me to the most important item on my list. I want to die like Harry Kalas. I want to be doing what I love to do when I have the big one. Wait. My husband says he has my big one right here. Well, if it’s like any other day, it’ll be just a few minutes before I can pass away.

Just kidding.

When I die, I may not go to heaven, but Citizens Bank Park is as close as I’ve been.

In the meantime, see you at the ballpark.

 

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Philadelphia Phillies: Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

When the Phils lose, don’t get down. I’ve found that a really fun way to pass the time is to go to the pet shop, find a big cage of mice, and watch them fight for position on their wheel. Seriously. It’s hysterical. It doesn’t even take mind-altering drugs to enjoy a curious mouse getting damn near decapitated by an ambitious team on a wheel.

But don’t watch if an employee messed up and put one girl in with the guys. Watching a cage full of males with balls bigger than their brains chase an innocent lass about a brothel isn’t for the meek. That’s for Republicans.

Whoa! That comment was way past al dente!

The good news is Kyle Kendrick’s poor start has definitely taken the heat off Cole Hamels. It was disappointing seeing Hamels last only five innings until Kendrick tossed only four.

At least Kendrick didn’t walk the first batter on four pitches like the 2008 World Series MVP. But when Nyjer Morgan stretched the first pitch into a triple, it ignited a Nationals offensive that ended with a 3-0 lead going only five batters deep in the lineup in the first inning. And the long ball didn’t even come into play. That’s a rate of manufacturing I thought only took place in China.

The bad news is, there’s no word on Joe Blanton’s return from a muscle strain. They said he felt nothing, even when he ran, but I swear that’s the tremor that woke me from my nap.

The good news is, we got a good look at our bullpen. The bad news is, we had to get a good look at the bullpen. The biggest surprise to me was that Chad Durbin made an appearance Wednesday as the Durbinator instead of Disturbin’ Durbin. That’s probably because ex-Philly Tyler Walker came out as Kick-Ass and sent six straight Phils back to the dugout to question why we’re batting against him.

Antonio Bastardo is still appearing as a peep show, Ryan Madson has yet to close without prompting my husband to throw the f-bomb, and I don’t think anyone really knows who else is sitting in the pen.

I don’t. I’ll have to sit down with my binoculars at the first game and really check out the physiques. I know it’s creepy but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

More good news: Jayson Werth gets his energy from his hair. He fired up his ugly chop swing to get his first three extra base hits of the season. He’s lucky he’s a sprawling cool drink of water with locks to manhandle ‘cause his swing ain’t got a thing. But his do does. Trust me, the pomp around Rod Blagojevich’s locks is nothing compared to the fantasies Jayson’s rug creates in the minds of middle-aged women.

Okay, maybe I’m speaking for myself. But I’ll bet if the Citizens Bank Park promotional giveaway on Mother’s Day was a Jayson Werth wig, it’d have to come with a dose of Cialis.

More good news… Placido Polanco is exactly as advertised. The Big Machine, Ryan Howard, calls him The Igniter. Polanco was recruited to replace Pedro Feliz, even though when Pedro joined the Phils in 2008, he was slated as one of the best third basemen in the MLB.

I know what it’s like when your best isn’t enough. Even with Victoria’s Secret keenest invention, I barely manage a 32A—and that’s only on a heavy water-retention day. They could make a bra that comes out of the box looking like a sculptured marble bust and I couldn’t hold up a tube top.

But Polanco doesn’t sag. He’s a lifetime .304 hitter. He stayed alive at the plate in the eighth so long I thought I heard the Bee Gees singing.

But it wasn’t enough. When the Nats intentionally walked Ryan Howard to put the winning run on base in the ninth, I was as nervous as a virgin in a Roman Polanski movie. But you can’t win them all. Like an A cup dreaming of supporting a strapless sundress, it wasn’t meant to be. The Phillies lost 5-6 and were 1 for 14 with RISP. Having that many guys in scoring position who fail to make it all the way around the bases is like an eternal state of high school. And equally as frustrating.

So we’ve seen the bullpen. We’ve also seen Jimmy Rollins looking like Jimmy Rollins should; Ryan Howard enjoying the unseasonably warm weather by finding the sweet spot in his bat like the girl he knew the night before, and Tom McCarthy summed up Chase Utley the best— “Man, is he a great baseball player!”

The Phils top five guys did what the top five guys were supposed to do, but ironically pushing Shane Victorino to the seven spot didn’t improve on what Pedro Feliz failed to do late in the lineup either. And no one’s talking about the cold bat of Raul Ibanez.

The good news is, it’s early. Way early. And if the Phillies win two of every three, they’ll end the season with 108 wins.

The bad news is the pet shop’s plumb out of mice.

Go Phils!

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Philadelphia Phillies: A Topsy-Turvy Series Ends Upside Down

There’s an old song that sums it up:

 

After you go, I can catch up on my reading.

And after you’re gone I’ll have a lot more time for sleeping.

And when you’re gone, it looks like things are gonna be a lot easier…

 

You might know the rest, but if you don’t, the punch line is:

 

I’m bluer than blue.

 

And blue doesn’t have the same zest as pinstriped red.

 

Sooner or later, I knew I’d have to quit my nail-biting manicures, start addressing the cellulite that now conforms to my seat in section 145, and stop postponing an appointment to get my roots colored a shade that’s cooler than gray (and I’m still thinking pinstriped red).

 

But for the Phillies, I would have annoyed the eyes of others until after Game Seven. Fortunately my face never flushes red, even when I’m blue.

 

And when I’m down, I like to sing. It’s not pretty but it gives me a warm feeling that doesn’t offend people like peeing in my pants.

 

The last note of the season was just like any other: one team won and one team lost. That doesn’t make the Phils losers—it just makes them the team that didn’t come out on top, even though that’s where I prefer it.

 

I’m sorry. Was I thinking out loud?

 

But when you lose in the Big Apple, Yankee fans start roostering.

 

Roostering? You know what that is. It’s acting like a big cock with a little brain.

 

My fellow Phils’ fans, don’t take it personally. Remember, there’s always next year. And I have no regrets over this one. I just heard a girl sing, “Life’s like an hourglass glued to the table…,” and I’m not wishing back a single grain of sand.

 

I loved every second of this season and every heart-wrenching moment of the 4-2 series loss even as great records were tied, dubious one’s broken, and a team that continues to dominate the MLB gouges its way through history like a greedy derivatives trader.

 

But that’s baseball. Of 105 World Series seasons, New York’s amassed wealth has only tacked 27 years to their championship wall. I feel like there’s hope for the middle class yet. At least I’m hoping someone in Congress is rooting for me the way people were cheering for the Phillies.

 

My poor Phillies…I imagine losing Game Six feels like you’re on stage and you forgot your next bit, which wouldn’t be important except the punch line is the segway to your next joke, which is what you’re feeling like now.

 

Not that I know how that goes.

 

For this series it was obvious; the Phils forgot something. For most of the last five games, the thrill of Phillie pitching was missing. GM Ruben Amaro, Jr. addressed that concern before the postseason but the deals he swung weren’t enough to make up for a staff that couldn’t find the melody it sang in 2008.

 

Game Six was a reminder that some days are diamonds, some days are dissonant. Pedro Martinez looked strong in the first inning, struggled in the second, and crumbled in the third before sucking it up for the fourth. Our bullpen relapsed to inconsistency in the fifth to help Yankee momentum pull ahead by more runs than the Phillies would even score.

 

And the bats lost their snap.

 

The lineup had pitches to hit but watched them smack Posada’s glove like a middle-aged woman thinking of the ass of a certain center fielder.

 

Not that I have any experience with that metaphor. But Game Six wasn’t a mixed metaphor of anything. It was literally a loss.

 

Chase Utley had hit into only five double plays all season but racked up his second in this series Wednesday night. The Phils had runners on base in every inning, but ran up the stat for runners stranded faster than runs scored.

 

I don’t know how Kate Hudson snagged Alex Rodriguez because we couldn’t get him to chase a breaking ball dressed in a short skirt. But our Big Sexy, Ryan Howard, finished his season in the eighth by striking out on three tries like an email asking Jayson Werth for a kiss.

 

Not that I’d know how that feels.

 

Hideki Matsui was like a Pokemon nemesis. When the series began, I didn’t know how to spell his name. Now it’s tattooed in my mind. In Game Two he hit a home run on a pitch just off the ground like he was Happy Gilmore. Then in Game Six he was buying RBI two-fers like a frat boy at a cheap happy hour. And he was overindulging.

 

For Matsui, impairing the Phillies started with the first hit. He lit up Brett Myers, absolutely had his way with Pedro Martinez, and eventually wore down Cliff Lee and Ryan Madson.

 

When Charlie Manuel decided to pitch to Matsui for the third time in Game Six and pushed J.A. Happ to the mound like a reluctant youngster on the first day of Kindergarten, I was thinking the skipper should have just positioned the outfielders in the stands.

 

Instead, Matsui spun a double to ring up two more RBI to make the stadium as high as a drunk in a martini bath. As he stood on second, wincing from his bad knees, I think I saw him slur the words, “Dōmo arigatō.”

 

That’s Japanese for, “Thank you very much.” Thank you for the opportunity to serve you. Come back soon.

 

And “soon” came back in the fourth. So who do you call when the Asian threat is threatening to hit for the cycle?

 

Scott Eyre?!

 

Earlier in the day Scott had chowed his first chocolate Twinkie, unencumbered by the calories, because the truth is he doesn’t have to look good to face a few batters a game. He’s only got a chip in his elbow and that’s a far cry from the one I have on my shoulder with Charlie’s decision to pitch to the veteran Matsui in the seventh. Why not intentionally walk him?

 

Because Charlie wanted to walk Jorge Posada, who bats .182 against Eyre and was o’fer in the game to pitch to Robinson Cano. Cano only hit .320 in the regular season and had never faced Eyre and would have loved to find his groove in the series against an ailing lefty.

 

Somehow Charlie knew that Cano would strike out to end the inning. It’s like he received a tip. I wish those would have started coming sooner.

 

But they say the series tipped toward the north because Joe Girardi did a great job managing his pitchers.

 

What? He only had four of them. That’s less complicated than a game of tic-tac-toe. His bullpen could have been filled with plastic GI Joes for all that mattered. Yankee hits just happened to land in the grass while the Phils seemed like they were playing a great game of pinball with theirs.

 

And $423.5 million worth of quarters buys a win. Game over. It’s an indication that domination isn’t estranged from denominations. It’s proof that you can buy the best baseball team but not everyone can buy into a football team.

 

But we’re really all just whining because every time they win, we wish they didn’t. But each year they get beat, this debate isn’t crucial.

 

So let’s debate something more important—my Phillies MVP pick of the series. Allow me to first preempt my choice. I know Chase Utley led the team in series RBI and tied a legend’s record for single-series dingers. I also know Cliff Lee looked as comfortable as an old hat on the mound in Game One and pitched the only two games they won. But the man behind the plate was there for all six: Carlos Ruiz.

 

He once wished me Happy Birthday on Phanavision in Spanish and I pretended he said, “I’ll make you happy.”

 

I love it when he talks dirty. But that’s not why I picked him.

 

Chooch. Shoot. I wish the Phillies could have matched your patience at the plate. He upped his average from .246 in the regular season to .333 in the postseason for the highest average and on-base percentage of any Phillies position player in the 2009 postseason. He was also second only to Chase Utley in my personal favorite stat, slugging percentage, which is a measure of the number of bases you take with each at-bat.

 

I love a man who takes charge.

 

He had the team’s only run in Game One, hit the team’s only series triple in Game Six, was second only to Shane Victorino in fewest strikeouts (two), and tied Jimmy Rollins and Jayson Werth for series walks with five.

 

But most importantly, he was the only starting position player from either team who earned his way to base every single at-bat for an entire game. And he accomplished that in both Games Three and Six. That feat put him behind only Hideki Matsui for the player to earn his way on base the most times in the World Series.

 

But in the end, it was the fat lady from Broadway—not Broad Street—who sang the Halleluiah Chorus.

 

Well, with the season over, all that’s left are trade talks and contract negotiations. So I’m stuck with headlines that just aren’t as interesting—like, “Mariah Carey drops a bombshell.” If she dropped a load right there on the floor I could care less. And Glenn Beck had an emergency appendectomy. I hope they installed it on the end of his nose so he’d look just like his counterpart, Pinocchio.

 

Hey, that was kind of fun. Who knows, I might find the offseason amusing. But now I have time to work on that next story, reacquaint myself with my family, research this new great wrinkle-buster, and fine tune my fantasies of wearing Jayson Werth as a hat.

 

But not all was lost. The Philadelphia Phillies were the NL East division champs (again), whipped through the NLDS (again), dominated the NLCS (again), and made the Yankees sweat for six games in their second consecutive World Series appearance.

 

Not too shabby for a team the New York Post called the Frillies.

 

And when I started my postseason posts on the greatest Phillies team ever, I never imagined my thoughts would make me the number one humor writer on Bleacher Report—if only for a moment.

 

Not too shabby for someone who throws like a girl. Maybe next season I’ll turn that hourglass over and start again. Just like the Phillies.

 

Thanks for reading. I’m touched—I’m really humbled.

 

I’m even more humbled that a reader cared to send me his Shakespearean revision on the last game of the season. I’ll publish it here, with his permission:

 

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things.

Some shall be pardoned, and some punishèd.

For never a series gave more willies

Than that of the Yankees vs Phillies.”

 

 

Hey, there’s only 97 days until spring training. So in the meantime, sing loud—it’s a big world with bad cell service.

 

Peace.

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What Does Pedro Martinez Have Planned? Hey, Old Goats Can Get Lucky Too

Each day I wake, I attempt to do the same thing: be a decent mommy, be a loving wife, cook for my family, gather notes for a blog, and get my goats fed. Since I’m an old goat, I’ve made a lot of attempts at doing these things well, but sometimes I’ve fallen short.

 

Just ask my husband.

 

Two old goats fill the starting posts at position No. 1 for World Series Game Six. One’s called “Andy Pettitte” and the other goes by “Pedro Martinez.” The number that sums up their combined years of lifetime experience is 75.

 

I have two old goats, but from one game to the next, their names change. That’s because I reference them for the most recent Phillie killers. So this morning, one was Johnny Damon—“Demon” for short—and the other I called, “Old Leftie,” in honor of the southpaws who have haunted the Phillies’ big bat, Ryan Howard, through the Halloween season.

 

Howard’s five-game offensive numbers aren’t impressive: .158 average, two runs, one RBI, and 12 strikeouts. But the number that sums up his combined plate performance for the 2009 World Series is 86—cancelled.

 

His stance is off, he’s obviously not seeing the ball, and since the MVP award in his first full season in 2006, lefties have had their way with him. And the scouts have him pegged as a breaking ball bimbo because he falls for it every time.

 

And he’s not even a blond.

 

There’s Lucky Charms, lucky socks, and lucky hats, but Howard’s just hoping to get plain lucky tonight.

 

The Yankees are on and off in areas too. Mark Teixeira has lost his groove even though Hideki Matsui is stuck in his like a bobsled track. But Joe Girardi hopes the last guy in his three-man rotation doesn’t throw a hip out trying to keep up with the Joneses.

 

Joba Chamberlain’s mom is doing time for selling “mommy’s little helpers,” Jorge Posada got TMJ in his overbite from excessive jawing on the mound on Monday, and Nick Swisher shaved off his mohawk hoping to attract a hit.

 

But every day ballplayers wake up and attempt to do the same thing: throw the ball, catch the ball, hit the ball.

 

It would seem simple, but then so is boiling potatoes. And I boiled mine dry last night. Trust me, with all my anxiety over the World Series, I wish the smoke in my home was from a different source. But when the alarm company called, I simply gave them the same old story—“It was my attempt to cook—again.”

 

They understood because they know when I fire up my stove, one of two things happens: we either eat or we order take-out.

 

One of two things will happen tonight: The Phils will either win or they’ll lose.

 

If Howard finds the cure to his left-handed pitching curse, he’ll go out a winner and his previous shortcomings will be forgotten like a bad hair day.

 

If Chase Utley bangs another dinger, he’ll set the record for home runs in a single World Series.

 

And if the Phils tie the series tonight, they’ll have a chance to add the first back-to-back World Series championship to the team’s accomplishments, and avenge the Whiz Kids’ series loss to the New York Yankees in 1950.

 

But if Andy Pettitte pitches like Cliff Lee, he’ll add a record 18th postseason win in his record 40th postseason start to add a record 27th World Series ring to the Yankee’s already record shattering stats.  

 

If that’s the case, my goats will forge through the winter with the names Andy Pettitte and Damn Yankee.

 

And that doesn’t have a nice ring to it.

 

Let’s take the goat by the horns.

 

Think Game Seven .

 

Go Phils!

 

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Shane Shocker in Game Five: I’ll Kiss It and Make It All Better

There was a heavy fog in the valley this morning as I drove to the coffee shop. But the stale mist that had settled in Citizens Bank Park for the last two games lifted long before that—at 7:57 Monday night to be exact. And just like this morning, the stars shone bright in an atmosphere of great clarity.

 

One thing was certain. The home team came to win.

 

Admit it. How many of you were humming High Hopes on your way to work this morning in spite of sleep deprivation and a Septa strike? I’ll be honest. I never understood that “rubber tree plant” thing. Until now.

 

It’s all about bouncing back.

 

And there’s not a better way to do it than with an Ut-Lee sequel. Cliff Lee faltered a bit from his Game One dominance, but Chase Utley said, “I gotcha, buddy.”

 

Awww, I think they’re soul mates.

 

In the first inning, Joe Buck happened to mention that Utley “went long last night” just as Stone Cold Chase stared Burnett down from the plate. That was only moments before Utley’s three-run homer broke the solo dinger curse that had plagued the Phils for the last four games.

 

I heard Chase Utley’s a write-in candidate for Governor of New Jersey.

 

And I heard lead-off walks always score. In the third, Chase proved he’s well acquainted with the “rules” of baseball, and did just that, walking on five pitches to start an inning that would be Andy Burnett’s last. Then he scored when Jayson Werth’s single slipped through the hole.

 

I love it when I talk dirty.

 

Fortunately, Andy saved those notorious “20 bad pitches a game” for the beginning of Game Five. I guess limited rest doesn’t work as well for him as it does for me. And for the first time in the series we got to the Yankee’s starter early, and forced their hand on the bullpen.

 

But wait. That didn’t work so well. Okay, Joe Girardi, let me explain something. The strategy was to get to your bullpen as early as possible, and then have our way with them.

 

I still love it when I talk dirty.

 

But that didn’t happen until the Phillie’s limited success with David Robertson and Alfredo Aceves served up a bubbly that would end in a seventh inning celebration with Phil Coke.

 

Insert your favorite Coke slogan here—just keep it legal.

 

Another Utley homer and five batters later, the underdogs had a Coke, a smile, and the two additional runs needed to break a three-game losing streak, and send Charlie’s Angels down that yellow brick road to New York.

 

Welcome to the hotbed of rival huff for Game Six…Six…Six.

 

While Utley tied the World Series record for five dingers with Reggie Jackson, Ryan Howard matched the one for most strikeouts by whiffing on yet another breaking ball to get to 12 by the seventh inning in just five games. If only he’d replace the image of that pitch with sugar plums.

 

So far I’ve replaced all my images with Shane Victorino.

 

Wait. Shane hurt his hand! Nooooo! Not Sugar Shane. Not my sweet centerfielder. Not my hyperactive, obsessive-compulsive, speed-talking, hustlin’ Hawaiian!!

 

And he was replaced with Ben Francisco in the eighth?! Has the manager lost his mind! Charlie, take a Viagra, but don’t deprive me of my sugar fix. Not at this point in the season. Not with only two possible games remaining. I’ll have to sell everything I have to catch a glimpse of him in Spring Training. I’ll be forced to prostitute myself for a premature peek at my island toy. Shane, I’ll kiss it and make it all better. Please just say you’ll come back for Game Six.

 

If I kiss it will you come?

 

Whoa. I did not just say that!

 

Okay, now I need a Viagra.

 

What can I say, the Phils are back—out of the black. I’m so psyched I feel some cheesy poetry coming on. Nope, that was just a hot flash.

 

Now, here’s that poem:

 

Nothing sets the mood like a bright fall day,

The Phillies having their way,

And a roll in the hay,

For yet one more game.  

 

I promise I’ll behave,

And have only nice things to say,

When I kneel down and pray,

That they’ll put New York away.

 

Go Phils!

 

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Joe Blanton: Pardon Me, Do You Have Any Gray Poupon?

Last December, my little nephew had a speech impediment and a very specific list. A total boy and a Toy Story fan since birth, he spouted his Christmas wish as only he could:

 

“I want a big fruck an’ Woody.”

 

Okay, maybe that’s not funny.

 

Maybe there’s nothing funny about the 7-4 ninth-inning loss soured by a New York rally that yanked the turf out from under Citizens Bank Park. If you didn’t see it, that’s when the regular-season Brad Lidge reared his ugly head like a double agent twist in a James Bond movie.

 

I’ll admit. I didn’t see that coming.

 

My husband calls him “Lights Gone Out” Lidge. Could be. It was definitely a dark scene.

 

Honestly, I thought the rash would be in the Phightin’s bats, with an annoying itch in the bullpen. But I never imagined, even in my worst nightmare, that “Two-Run Lidge” would come down with the plague.

 

I think the problem is, 2008 was an amazing season. It had a fairy tale charm that climaxed against a Cinderella team. Like a Disney movie, everything we needed, we got. The top of our lineup hustled to keep up with a bottom as fine as Shane’s behind, pitchers pitched better, batters hit farther, and even without gratuitous chest shots, unsuspecting heroes took the main stage for the feel good movie of the year.

 

In this series, there have been moments of true inspiration, but at no time has the team fired on all cylinders.

 

Bar one. I’d like to pull back the curtain on the booth housing Ruben “The Great Oz” Amaro, Jr. and say, “Pardon me, do you have any more Cliff Lees?”

 

Last night’s three-run loss didn’t feel like one. The Phillies stayed in the game in spite of the error-that-wasn’t-an-error pinned on Raul Ibanez, and a performance from Joe Blanton that wasn’t qiute like Cliff Lee’s on the mound. 

 

Ryan Howard hit his way on base, stole second unopposed, and then scored without ever touching home plate.

 

Wow, I’ve never had that happen to me. And you thought this wasn’t a fairy tale.

 

The Phils only had one less hit than the Yanks, Charlie Manuel’s bandage matched his skin color perfectly, Derek Jeter didn’t earn his first RBI of the series until the fifth inning, and both teams left seven good men on base.

 

But the Yankees got the bargains they needed like the perfect yard sale, especially when Johnny Damon’s heads-up baseball earned him the best baserunning performance of the night on his unopposed steal of third.

 

I’ve never had anyone take third base without a warning.

 

Who am I kidding?

 

Then, in the bottom of the eighth, the Philadelphia boys, who earned more come-from-behind wins than any other team in the National League, made a break for it. But not until after Jayson Werth—the white-hot hope—struck out and was followed by another lame at bat by Raul Ibanez. That’s when Pedro Feliz, who got it in gear in Game Two, shifted into overdrive. Suddenly, we thought we had ourselves a convoy.

 

But like my husband said, our only rally was in the towels.

 

Then he said, “Please put in Scotty Eyre.” He prefers a jelly-bellied leftie with a bone chip in his elbow to a closer who grew an Amish beard for the series.

 

But after two quick Lidge outs, I could taste the third.

 

I had a big fruck an’ Woody.

 

Okay, maybe figuratively.

 

Then…game over. Wow, that was anticlimactic.

 

So why did the Yankee bats that at times struggled coming into this series, suddenly find their fire? Maybe it’s in their water. If it is, that’s because it flows gold like liquid Steinbrenner.

 

The Bombers can be as stone cold as a pack of genetically modified wolves, stalking from the shadows until they sense a weakness and pounce.

 

But even they lost 59 games; even they lost to the Nationals. Every team has an Achilles’ heel. Their truncated three-man rotation has come as close as possible to bridging the gap to Mariano Rivera.

 

Hey look, Oprah’s gone nuts for corndogs!

 

Okay, maybe that’s not funny. But it wouldn’t hurt to smile. Smiling’s my favorite.

 

They said a World Series between the Dodgers and the Yankees would have been the series of the century, restoring the public’s interest in a game recently tainted by steroid use.

 

Let’s not be fans who taint the public’s interest in the game any further.

 

I love the Phillies, but I’m in love with the game of baseball. And if you’re reading this blog, you probably are, too.

 

Let’s act like it.

 

Go Phils!

 

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Ryan Howard, You Want a Piece of Me?

Cole Hamels took the mound with the poise and confidence of a rock star on a blind date. He sailed through the first inning—three up, three down; beaned A-Rod with a pitch to staunch any intention he had of snuggling up to the plate, and then held the Yankees to one hit over three innings.

 

But the night snuck up on him like a light weight on cheap booze. And by the fourth inning, hitting Hamels was like an Irish lass on Russian vodka—easy.

 

Not that I’d know anything about that.

 

He took the loss on Halloween, no less. Like they say, candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.

 

Just ask my husband.

 

Whoops. Was I thinking out loud?

 

Where were we?

 

Oh, postseason pitching.

 

I hoped Andy Pettitte would lose his cool after the Philly lineup had its way with him in the second inning—putting three runs on the board off four hits. But Philadelphia’s lefties failed to do what AL left-handers had done against him all season—hit. Utley, Howard, and Ibanez were 0-for-9.

 

Coming into Game 3, Alex Rodriquez was 0-for-8 with six K’s and Ryan Howard was 2-for-9 with six opportunities to sulk away from the plate.

 

But A-Rod’s reviewed home run in the fourth was the siren he needed to wake that slumbering bat. Big men with quiet bats have been a postseason issue. Remember 2008?

 

Big Papi, David Ortiz, batted .154 in the 2008 ALCS series that went seven games against Tampa Bay. He was O’fer until he tripled in Game 4, but it wasn’t enough to win a trip to the last series.

 

In last year’s World Series, Howard started out slow, going 0-for-4 in Game 1 while fanning three times. It wasn’t until Game 4 that he worried the Rays with three hits at four at-bats and used two home runs to boost his RBI to five.

 

And remember the slumps of 2009?

 

All season we’ve thought that, “When Jimmy Rollins is hitting, the Phils are winning.” That proved true during his mid-season slump. Now it seems like the tables have turned to Ryan Howard. He had two hits in Game 1.

 

Philadelphia won by five.

 

In Games 2 and 3, he never got on base.

 

The Yanks won both.

 

Where in the world is Ryan Sandiago?

 

Sports Illustrated called this series the “Big Bash” for two reasons: Ryan Howard and Alex Rodriguez.

 

Sometimes they know what they’re talking about, but sometimes all they do is jinx the man on the cover. This season is proof. Cole Hamels’ season was shot after he was the cover model, and now Ryan’s gone cold turkey since they used his mug to sell issues.

 

In the third inning of Game 3, Howard’s eighth strikeout in 11 at-bats cooled the team’s momentum like a flashlight shining into a parked car. Even the second hit by Pedro Feliz couldn’t rile things up in the fourth.

 

Then all we had left was the long ball. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

 

Jayson Werth—that six foot five cool drink of water, hit his seventh dinger of the postseason, moving him within striking distance of tying the all-time postseason record of eight.

 

And Carlos Ruiz tried to show his teammates how to be habanero hot by hitting a single, drawing two walks, and capping his game with a homer. But it wasn’t enough to compete with the ease the Yankees showed at manufacturing runs.

 

It’s almost like they’re paid to win.

 

Oh, that’s right, they are.

 

Last year, people told me the Phillies wouldn’t win the World Series with the long ball. Of course, they were wrong.

 

But this year, the Bombers proved they could be right. Last night, homers only kept Philly in the game. And although this series won’t be won by one man alone, I believe the turning point teeters on the six foot four shoulders of a man they call the “Big Piece.”

 

And when you’re called a “piece” you’re expected to deliver.

 

Not that I’d know anything about that.

 

Ryan, we want a big piece of you.

 

Go Phils!

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