A Babe's Take

Philadelphia Phillies: Wind, Wins and Other Things That Pass in the Night

2011-10-04T11:03:00.000-04:00

by Flattish Poe

Crickets and crows. That’s what we’re reduced to.

The songbirds that tweeted their 140 character posts from dawn till dusk have exploited the north and closed their accounts. The weeds that grew like beanstalks have begun to grey, a reminder that their exoskeletons will haunt me until our first big snow. And today it took only a breeze to rain leaves.

It all means just one thing: the postseason has rushed in like a brisk wind.

Or I’m just feeling the effects of tacos.

Growing up in the Midwest made me appreciate how short a 162 game season can be. Summers were abbreviated by camping trips, fish flies and fears of flood. By this time each year my little brother would empty the yard of crab apples by smacking them one-by-one with his plastic bat into the lawn across the street, dreaming that each one that pitted the siding cleared the wall at a major league stadium almost 200 miles away.

At County Stadium. That’s where Robin Yount and Paul Molitor swung like gods on deck. Where we snuck my little brothers into the game by shoving them through the turnstiles with a large group because our four country butts barely filled two bleacher seats. Where we handed our clothes packed in brown paper bags to the doorman at the Hyatt Regency who threw them in the trash because he thought we were just cleaning out the car.

Where our sunburns were the color of ketchup and the boys filled the air with the aftershock of digesting brats all the way home.

If they’re still looking for alternative energy sources, they should test the tailgaters in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Now another regular season has passed. A few days ago I flipped my Phillies’ calendar to a month of empty dates and ESPN didn’t have to pretend the Yankees were the only team worthy enough to make the promos.

Is it a coincidence that Moneyball came out at the climax of the baseball season? I think not. As a result, Brad Pitt is on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Now that's what I call masturbation material.

Soon the season where I don layers to make up for my lack of culinary skills will be upon us. Before you know it, that whitewashed period of memory called ‘the holidays’ will pass and we’ll enter the point in time where we can ask, without criticism, “When do pitchers and catchers report?”

If the Phillies have one more 'Game 2' they’ll be asking that question much sooner than they thought.

In Game 1, Roy Halladay got hit before he retired 21 straight.

That night I witnessed the 11-6 conquest from three rows behind home plate. I saw Phillies’ backsides warm up to bat from a seat so close it was illegal to admire their body parts through my binoculars.

The gourmet hot chocolate in Diamond Club was so good I got a pimple.

I saw Hunter's pants warming up from ten feet away. I’m still drooling.

When Shane Victorino ran onto the field, I had to adjust my binoculars—one eye is dirtier than the other.

And you should know that the screen behind home plate was put there to keep people like me from fondling the players.

I’m not saying I was born with an abnormal amount of Phillies spirit (nor will I admit to my other abnormalities for that matter) but that night TBS televised my face and voice as the poster child for Phillies love.

When a friend texted me that I was on TV, I had one thought: I hope it wasn't when I let that stinker slip.

My husband says my whoop-whoop was the first time I’ve opened my mouth where it didn’t sound like I was simultaneously talking through my ass.

And thanks to a good headwind, he didn’t know what part of that pre-game meal was slipping through my crack.

So there I was, famous—if only for a moment.

Let us not forget, baseball is the endless quest for moments, the sum of which we hope produces a great memory. Cliff Lee, last year’s Christmas lift, could only claim in Game 2 that he sent nine guys pouting back to the bench with a capital K like he left them a lump of coal on a cold yule morn.

Hey, that’s an idea for a 5-hour energy commercial: “Cliff catch you looking?”

The loss was anticlimactic compared to the previous game but admit it: amazing plays, timely hits and ruthless pitching often compile a win, especially this year in Philadelphia, but when they don’t, let’s not miss the forest for the trees.

You win some, you lose some, you learn some. Every single day I’m reminded of what I don’t know. Maybe Charlie Manuel is too.

My dad says Charlie needs to ‘manage’ and I should get that message to him if I can. He should trade the ‘big inning’ for small ball. Exploit the speed. Watching Game 2 was a reminder that almost all manufacturing has moved overseas.

The gritty, dirtball, sandlot immaturity fizzled, replaced—one would think—with the illusion that less risky strategies would work. But if you’ve been paying attention, the only sure things in this world now are death and taxes for the middle class.

Don’t get me wrong, I hope the Phillies win the series. And I’d love to go head-to-head in the NLCS with the new Younts and Molitors—Fielder, Weeks, Hart and Braun. It wasn’t long ago Brett Myers drew a 9-pitch walk off Milwaukee’s CC Sabathia before punctuation of his initials was debated. The NLDS win led to another where Matt Stairs became an icon at more than just the Country Buffet. And then Joe Blanton earned the nickname Joe Lumber for his closed-eye homer that put the Fightins one win from a World Series parade.

Another one of those isn’t much to ask. Luckily for the Phils, I’m low maintenance—I don’t need to cook or clean to boost my self-esteem.

So the series is tied as the contenders head to St. Louis for two. The bookies bet the Phillies would win the series in four. The chance my son gets gassy in the third? Pretty good.

He’s from Midwest stock. Brats are in our DNA.

Is a World Series win in the stars?

Believe it.

See you at the ballpark.

Stalk me on Twitter.

I Did What I Did Because Love Came To Town

2011-09-15T19:02:00.002-04:00

by Flattish Poe

Well, the inevitable happened. On August 2nd, 2011, I was censored off the blog site The Bleacher Report. They said my posts were over the limit on their content criteria and I had failed the limbo with my language. Much like the Game Commission, they were hunting for violators and I’d been tagged.

(The blog that started the ending is here.)

I said, “I shouldn't be held responsible. I only did what I did because love came to town."

It didn't matter. Obviously relaying my honest intentions regarding the bodies of major league players is immoral, especially when the site has highly intelligent life forms posting articles like ‘Sexy American Wags’ or ‘40 Hottest MLB Wags’ or ‘One Night Stand Wags’ (WAG = Wives and Girlfriends).

I mean there’s nothing more offensive than reading the secret thoughts of a middle-aged MILF when guys are secretly stroking in the john with their ‘Wag of the Week.’

Fortunately for you, I’m a poacher. I have lots of chocolate and I’m not afraid to pour it on everything. So if you like what you read, spread the word. Copy and paste me like a Scarlett Johansson nudie or forward me to your friends.

They’ll find me much less distasteful than an STD.

But just as hard to shake.

Let's get started. Like my boyfriend used to say when he pulled over on a dirt road, “Look out, speed hump ahead.”

The Phillies lead major league baseball in wins, they didn’t lose a series until mid-May, and they’ve been sweeping through the season like the broom of the National League.

That’s more cleaning than I did all year. My idea of housekeeping is a flash fire. Unfortunately Clorox doesn’t make a product that can clean my mind.

My husband says I should try OxyClean. It’s effective on certain types of morons.

Back to baseball. I know fans were fretting some decisions made by upper management, like the one to bolster the pitching rotation but neglect replacing Jayson Werth with a big bat. But I had only one problem: how I’d survive without him.

Outside of the fact that he has no idea who I am, we’re very close.

I’ve wanted to blog about my despair at losing the bearded one for months but every time I thought about it, I’d drool on my keyboard.

I'm like Pavlov's bitch.

Rest assured, two things are mutually exclusive: dreaming of Jayson Werth and keeping my panties on.

Don’t look at me that way. Why do you think women watch baseball anyway? Because unicorns wear cute shoes? We want to see men do amazing things. And I’m not talking about putting the toilet seat down.

On May 4th I prepared religiously for the appearance of Jayson in Philly for the first time in a Nats uniform. I colored my roots before the game because if there’s one thing Jayson likes, it’s not me.

Last year he was responsible for 11% of the Phillies’ RBIs but a far greater percentage of my sick thoughts.

From his stats it doesn’t appear as though he’s a major National's offensive contributor. Yet. But he’s got six more years.

By that time my eyes will be so bad my husband will resemble someone I want to have sex with.

I think I’m aging into a shar pei.

Let’s face it, some things aren’t figured in Jayson’s numbers: like a cool slide for a high fly, stealing home, or a 9-2 double play. They count OBP’s, putouts, and sacrifice flies, but there’s not yet a stat for ‘stud.’

Now that he’s gone, I’ve given up hope for a Jayson Werth thong giveaway at Citizens Bank Park. So I fashioned my own out of paper and streamers. I’m upset because my husband said I can’t wear it on my head.

I told him it’s origami. He’s not buying it.

How will anyone ever know what’s dear to my heart if I wear it on my ass?

I wonder if swear words on the internet are pixilated like they are on The Late, Late Show?

I wonder if these could be called ‘swear thoughts.’

My husband says in any case, it’s inappropriate to wear my panties on my head.

That’s his job.

Did you know the cap Wilson Valdez wore when he posted the first win of his career in the 19th inning save against the Reds will now be displayed in the baseball Hall of Fame?

Now that’s something I would wear on my head.

His ass I mean.

I wish Jose Contreras would come back. I like his nickname. Charlie calls him ‘big truck’ because he drives one. If that’s the case, for the first time in my life, I could be called ‘smart.’

My husband says, “Remember, you’re just leasing.”

You just got that joke.

Can you imagine if you could lease a brain? Blondes would immediately trade it for bigger boobs, white guys would swap for a black man’s penis, and Texas—no matter what they got—would claim theirs was bigger.

Oh my God I just figured out why Rick Perry doesn’t like Barack Obama.

Where were we?

Jayson. Just when I was sure the sexy right fielder on my Phantasy Baseball team would forever remain faceless, they signed pesky Hunter Pence. After the trade was confirmed I had one thought: Ruben Amaro, Jr. must have gotten the memo from Tracy Morgan that I needed more masturbation material.

Pence has provided so much protection for Ryan Howard I heard they’re naming a salve after him.

I’m still hurt that Brett Favre never sent me a picture of his privates. How do I get on that distribution list?

Just once I wish a major league player would choose Anthony Weiner as his mentor.

And in case Michael Stutes was taking a poll, ‘no’ he should never cut his hair. He should let it grow until they call him Michael Godiva.

On that note, I think they should stop making wax sculptures of people and mold them out of chocolate. They should start with the 2008 World Series champs.

Unlike a milk chocolate bunny, I wouldn’t start with the ears.

There. Hopefully we’ve covered the four food groups: chocolate, sex, Phillies, and Pence. I hope I’ve earned my much maligned ousting from the most trusted source in poorly reported sports. And I hope to see you again.

From the ballpark...

Stalk me on Twitter. Check out my old posts on the site that banned me here.

And thanks for reading.

Why Did Hunter Pence Cross the Road With Chicken Legs? Stop Me If You Heard This One

2011-08-02T12:10:00.000-04:00

Cougar Lane. That’s where I live.

It’s where I swirl big league innuendos into a slurry of revulsion that makes primordial stew look like shepherd’s pie.

It’s where visions of man-parts dance in my head and the thinnest calves in major league baseball have now taken center stage.

Weeks ago, when there were rumors connecting Hunter Pence to the Phillies, I had one thought: I wish there was a rumor connecting me to Hunter Pence.

One that didn’t end in a lengthy court case.

It was a report that left my titties hard until well past midnight.

And since then I’ve been talking in my sleep. I told my husband I’m talking to sheep.

Hey, some people count them, others strike up a conversation. I’m Irish; we fail to communicate in many different languages.

But rest assured, the pieces of anatomy that twirl in my dreams aren’t ones I’ve viewed on Twitter. I love nothing more than a glimpse of male skin that seldom catches sun but I’ll make one thing clear: I don’t follow people who Photoshop their privates or have a brother named Oscar Meyer.

Okay, maybe Anthony Weiner doesn’t have siblings. Or anyone who acts like his conscious. Actually I wish he’d avoided bad press altogether because even after all the jokes, I still have to Google the spelling of his last name.

You'd think I'd remember it's 'i' before 'e,' except after penis.

Which brings us to my point (which is a great way of saying I have no segue whatsoever).

Philadelphia is the city of brotherly love—tough love sometimes, but in every definition there’s room to play.

Like with me. I post what could only loosely be considered “articles,” written in a style that barely resembles English on a website that truly extends the family tree to regard what I write even a distant relative of sports.

The truth is Philadelphians love what they love devoutly and give anything that is remotely hate-able a chance for scorn. But they do it all passionately. Especially me—I specialize in passion.

Wait. My husband says that’s not true. Last week the judge called it stalking.

That’s only because they can’t lift fingerprints off polyester.

Hey, it’s not my job to interpret the law.

And luckily, there’s no cache on my binoculars.

Anyway, back to the Pence who would be king. Ruben Amaro Jr. has been trying to assemble another World Series squad. In 2009 they found out wins don’t arrive solely on the back of Cliff Lee and in 2010 they were shown that runs don’t accumulate with slumps. But this year they have a quiver full of pitchers and a shield for Ryan Howard that wields a right-hand bat.

They’ve witnessed the 25 millionth fan and 182 consecutive sell-outs. And they didn’t do it because Charlie Manuel wears cologne.

Actually I’m not sure what Charlie wears, but I’m sure it’s not pretty.

Like how I make my meatloaf, some things you don’t want to know.

But this you’ll appreciate: Victoria’s Secret now has Phillies gear. They put a “P” on the front of their provocative panties.

Finally I have something classy to wear on my head.

I have no idea where I was. Oh, yeah, why Hunter Pence came to Philly. The honest truth is he was suckered. Someone once said, “Build it and they will come.” I don’t think there’s a single word that describes what the Phillies have built, but if I expand the definition of a favorite, I’d call it “delicious.”

When Pence comes to the plate, I now have another wonderful backside to zoom in on from left field, the vendors can monopolize on mid-season jersey sales of a new trade victim, and best of all, he’s steroid and hormone free.

Hell, he’s cleaner than a Perdue chicken—with the legs to boot.

Can I get a "Jayson who?"

I just can’t get used to seeing Pence and not thinking, “Damn, he’s gonna hurt us bad. And he’ll look bad doing it.”

But who said bad can’t feel good?

Wait, I know this.

Whoops, if I tell you, my husband will know I wasn’t a virgin when we met.

Anyway, there are a few things Hunter should do to fit in. One, get a nickname that rhymes with boo—for obvious reasons, especially if he’s sensitive. Two, plaster only the pictures of himself he wants to see on crowd posters on Google images. And three: sport some sort of facial hair.

That last one is more for me than anything. When guys grow beards it helps distinguish me from them.

Hey, I saw an ad that read: “Dog models needed.” Think I'll stop plucking for a week and apply.

There was another one: “Lilypad Originals—Spreading the word of God through photography."

I think that's all Anthony Weiner was trying to do.

I must now bid adieu. I have to add Hunter Pence to my fantasy baseball team.

And in my version, a homer isn't what you think.

See you at the ballpark.

Stalk me on Twitter or view my old posts on the web site that censored this article here.

The Phillies' Slumping Offense: What They Need is a Good Dose of Poe

2011-05-23T16:39:00.006-04:00

By Flattish Poe

I’m excited thatthe baseball season is in full swing. My husband was so bored inthe offseason, I had to fake a bladder infection just to get some sleep.

At first, things for the 2010division champs looked promising: The February 15th Philadelphia Inquirer headlined the sports page with apicture of the five aces—an upgrade from the “Bought and Paid Four”.

There they sat with name plates infront (like those were necessary) and the words “Spring Training” and thefamiliar “P” logo splattered across the back like Christmas wrap. Smiling in Phillies red and displaying a surprisinglylow level of male pattern baldness, it wasa picture I pondered cropping to make a border for my bedroom.

Then again, I ponder a lot of things.Like if I change my profile picture on Facebook to a shot of my backside, doesthat make it Buttbook? I also wonder why I continue to buy bras—I question thenecessity to house something I don’t have.

My husband says the same thing aboutmy skull.

Hey, at least I don’t claim to usesomething I don’t have. After 15 years of marriage I wonder why men were givena brain at all.

My husband says I shouldn’t talk:I’ve made it this far without boobs or brains.

That's no secret. If you've read thisfar, you already know that. I compensate by being a natural blonde. Says soright on my box of hair color. Which is why my train of thought about menhousing sufficient brain tissue should be followed closely. I don’t know whenthis stream of logic will stop dead.

Okay, maybe"logic" is too strong a term.

Let’s call it "threadyrationale".

After an unfortunate loggingaccident, my husband is proof that one nut supports the irrational thoughtpattern of two. For instance, after losing a nad he was clocked going 92 in a45.

This makes me question where theheadquarters of rational thought actually occurs. And since this proves thatguys really only need one, why not tuck all the brain tissue necessary tosustain life into the other sack and free up their skull for storing importantthings—like beer, cheese steaks and porn?

And if the average person uses only10 percent of a brain, then all the smarts of a true American male could occupythe space of the average testicle. And if that’s the case—and one ball will dothe job of two—what if through evolution a man’s brain occupied one side of histool while all the testosterone he needed was produced by the other?

Hey, is that the transitive property?

Then getting flashed by a guy wouldtell you instantly if you were in for a great roll in the hay or a long nightof Sudoku.

Funny how a kick in the groin willdeem a man useless but a knock to the head only leaves a lump.

My husband saysif my brain was stored in my boobs, I could name them Dumband Dumber.

Then when I strap on my bra, I’d beputting on my thinking cap. And right away you could tell I suck at Sudoku.

That gives me an idea for a new promotionfor Citizens Bank Park: Small Breasted Women Day. We’d celebrate the fact thatwe have any at all.

Hey, it’s better than MILF Day.That’s where I thought I’d promote my new game: Pin the Brain on Cliff Lee.

By now you’re probably thinking thesame thing I am: What the hell was my point?

Oh yeah, the Phillies. Let’s recapthe season (with all the words I know or less):

Roy Halladay had 29 consecutive scoreless innings.Like me, he'll never admit to reaching 30.

While watching AmericanIdol, my husbanddiscovered that Jennifer Lopez is not the anatomical term for a woman's butt.

ChaseUtley played a fewsimulated games before his much anticipated return. I have a simulation I'dlike to play with him. Wait. Guess you could call that a"stimulation."

Ricky Bottalico and I both miss Chad Durbin and Jack Bauer.Okay, I might have made that last one up.

In honor of theroyal wedding, I'm looking for a body part to name “The Duchess.”

Pete Orr-eo was sent back down. I can't believe hewon’t be the sweet vanilla frosting between my chocolate cookie infieldersanymore. I feel naked.

At one point this season, Raul Ibanez was 0 for 34. My husband says he knowshow he feels. He had a dry spell in April too. At least Ibanez got battingpractice.

Now here we are nearing June. Youknow the season is well under way when the disabled list reads like my AmazonWish List and the batters are in a scoring slump that rivals a toothlessredneck.

Or my husband.

It shouldn’t be such a surprise that,in this season of the pitcher, even the Phillies have won games without anoffense. Their scoring slump is a concern, but not as urgent as when the smokedetector signals that dinner is done.

I try to tell my child that “Mom iscooking” is not a valid reason to call 911.

Even so, Phillies fans are soprevalent at opponent’s ballparks that the volume of cheers for Phils’ featsmirrors the Hyundai slogan in their new ads: "It'smore than an event--it's a movement."

Hey, my husband yells that same thingfrom the potty.

And with thatimage in mind, he wonders why he’s scoreless.

Did I mention Iapplied for the MLB DreamJob?When I wasn’t considered, I made my husband review my application to see what Idid wrong. He said I should be happy I wasn’t arrested. Apparently it’sinappropriate to request a live video feed of the men’s locker room as acontingency of employment.

I really thought I had a shot. When Isubmitted my video, I tried to stimulate what men think is the ideal telecastby a woman and pointed the camera straight at my breasts.

I wanted to see if the camera reallyadds ten pounds.

My husband says HD is high density,not special effects.

Well, if you’ve read this far, Icommend you. I don’t even know what I’m talking about so if you do, pleasedon’t hesitate to share it with me. Together, we’ll show the world what happenswhen you teach rednecks to punctuate.

See you at the ballpark.

Special thanks to my friend Jimi Mack and my dad for their contributions.

Stalk me on Twitter

Philadelphia Phillies Second Annual Bucket List--From a Babe's Take

2011-01-28T16:47:00.005-05:00

by Flattish Poe

As the title says, this is my second annualbucket list—Phillies style.I hate the redundancy of writing a totally self-explanatory title and thenreaffirming the topic in my first sentence but with those darn search enginesconstantly looking for articles with relevance, I’m already at a disadvantage.

When it comes to blogging about baseball, I’mthe master at having nothing relevant to say.

And I’ve proved that for two whole paragraphs.

First, I should let you know that unlike mostbucket lists, mine isn’t composed of death-defying acts of irrationality likewhite water rafting. Hell, if I wanted to be tossed about by a current I’d callmy husband in on the waterbed. Besides, I don’t need to do something daring—Igot married. I don’t need another adventure to end with, “What the hell was Ithinking?”

Now, on my first bucket list, I gave considerable thought tothe organization—I thought about bullets or numbers or an alphabeticalarrangement. I even tried little ShaneVictorino silhouettesbut I couldn’t get them to stand still. So eventually I settled for the rant.Not only is it my favorite form of communication, it’s the least effective one.

Anyway, I’m hoping you enjoy this more thanyour annual pap smear or your prostate check (although I might bediscriminating against single people when I say that).

Here goes:

Until the day I die, I pledge to boldly go where middle-aged women have all gone before—into the pants of major league players. And to the dismay of many, the thoughts in my mind will flow senselessly through my computer keypad.

Yes, I still use a pc. No, I don’t have an iPad. That’s what I do to my bra.

I give a whole new meaning to the question, “Are those really yours?”

Sorry, I got off track.

Let’s try again:

I want a bladder that doesn’t leak when I sneeze.

I want a wrinkle cream that makes me look like a Hollywood hottie but not someone Hugh Hefner would boink.

I want Philly weather to go straight from fall to spring.

I want my cat to puke in a designated area.

I want my dog to find a way to tend to his genitalia before he comes to bed.

I want my husband to find a way to do that too.

I want to prove that Shane Victorino is a descendant of the Mexican jumping bean.

I want someone to find a way to keep Justin Bieber cute and little, just like a kitten.

I want my husband to stop calling him 'Justin Beaver.'

I want the next Phillies charity event to have a Raul Ibanez kissing booth.

I want a Cliff Lee blowup doll giveaway at Citizens Bank Park (anatomically correct, of course).

I want spell check to be nominated for sainthood.

I want Carlos Ruiz to catch the next perfect game.

I want my husband to stop telling people that my remorse over Jayson Werth leaving is a passing phase.

I want to outlaw pimples, menstrual cramps, puking on people at games, throwing stuff at each other and mean people.

I want a Phillies t-shirt with built in boobs. They could come in three sizes: small ball, pitcher’s mound and grand slam.

I want sex to come in different sizes too.

Wait, it already does.

I want hair styles to come in a spray can.

I want Brad Lidge to pitch a slider so nasty they call it “The Bitch.”

I want to be carded again.

I want chocolate to be declared a food group. I also want someone to make it the official food group of the Phillies. Then I want it nominated for sainthood.

I want Charlie Manuel to live forever.

I want it to snow only when it’s convenient for me—like in a snow globe.

I want people to quit wondering who the fifth man in the rotation will be. Like at my house, we’ll just call him, “Pizza Night.”

I want people to stop thinking I’m making a funny face when I’m not.

I want forms to stop asking me if I’m male or female and I want traffic cops to stop that too.

And now that Cliff Lee is back I want to act like a typical woman and find something else to whine about.

That might take some time. Then again, maybe not. Like I often say to my husband, “I thought that would take longer.”

Most of all I want a guaranteed World Series win. I want to parade down Broad Street, I want Chase Utley to throw the f-bomb to fire up all those hypocrites who use it but don’t want their kids to hear it from someone else, and I still want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days.

With those new stalker laws that last one might be tough. I sure hope they’re lenient on stalkers in heaven because when I die, I’m hunting down Harry Kalas and Robin Roberts. That might entail a small chase and some jail time but sooner or later they’ll have to talk to me. It’s not like we won’t have eternity.

Hey, is it a copyright infringement to have Chase Utley’s butt engraved on your tombstone? And is it a violation to spy on the Phillies locker room when you’re a ghost? It won’t be near as haunting as seeing me in person.

Well, that’s my bucket list. You might be thinking it more closely resembles the one they give you when you’re about to puke; you also might say exactly what my husband says—she might look funny but she’s not. But you can’t argue that the 2011 Phillies’ rotation will be an amazing fan experience. It might not be the best rotation ever but it’s here and it’s now.

And to the dismay of many, so am I.

See you at the ballpark.

Stalk me on Twitter.

Philadelphia Phillies: Who Just Pitched 36-24-36?

2010-05-31T11:44:00.000-04:00

Roy Halladay’s figure might be far from perfect but Saturday he threw a 10.

I watched Roy’s own personal Man Show fittingly on a girl's night out. From a seat at Barnaby’s we celebrated, and were soon joined by a group of guys in traditional Scottish attire.

“Why kilts?” I asked.

“Just exploring our ethnic tradition,” the scholar said. “Wanna peek?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I have one of those at home.”

I wasn’t talking about the skirt.

And I don’t have to pull up Roy’s to tell you what’s underneath. Saturday’s performance tells the tale.

Pardon me, I have to change my panties.

Then Sunday I picked up the paper and read the front page headline: “Perfect.”

What I didn’t know was the article that followed was written by immortal columnist Bill Lyon. If you don’t know Bill, I’ll explain. His Excellency resides in a levitated state above a swirl of melodic words and catchy phrases in a land far, far, away. And every now and then he descends through a scripted mist to transmit prose as only he knows.

I imagine the late night email he sent to the Inquirer after Roy’s masterpiece went something like this: “Hi, this is Bill. I’ll take it from here.”

Then he graced us with giblets of sports gospel.

I started to read, sucking down the imagery with the few coherent brain cells that were spared by the eighties, and did the only thing any aging, premenstrual baseball enthusiast would do.

I wept.

That’s right. While my husband confirmed that I’m crazy, I continued to cry. It was hours before I could speak of the game without that curveball lodging in my throat.

I have bats in the belfry; Roy had angels at the plate.

And at Sun Life Stadium in Miami, Florida almost 26 people witnessed it.

The only problem with the ace’s career quest was the scoreboard records whole numbers, and runs are tallied in increments of one.

There are no A’s for effort or badges for courage. A perfect “P” can only be attained if your team scores at least once. Achieving that seemed to be more elusive than my first “O.” But after endless days of struggling to manufacture runs, the game was ironically won on an “E.”

I’m putting out an APB on the long ball.

The Phil’s offense is as frustrated as a middle-aged babe who can’t perfect the fake press pass.

Hypothetically speaking.

Now let’s give credit where it’s due.

Imagine you’re Carlos Ruiz, an unimposing dude from Panama. You experienced brief notoriety this season as the first batter up in an extra innings game against what could be called the best team in the league.

You walked to the plate in the bottom of the tenth knowing you were the eighth guy in the lineup. If it weren’t for the pitcher, you’d have been ninth.

You’re Ugly Betty.

After a first pitch foul touched down aside of the left field pole, you watched two pitches whiz by to move the count to 2-1. Then you recognized the next pitch as your opportunity to straighten it out. You summoned the same swing and briefly admired the ball sailing toward the left center wall. With confidence you pointed to the dugout as you jogged by, rounding first as the man who’d won the game.

Last but not least, you jumped into the pile at home plate knowing you sent a little guy from section 146 home with a souvenir.

I once saw a quote that read, “It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a tendency toward subtlety.” Well, maybe this is the year for Carlos Ruiz. I can’t wait ‘til the day “Chooch” becomes a household name.

Roy gained so much faith in what Doctor Chooch was prescribing he gave him the honor of calling the game—starting in the sixth.

So Carlos knelt calmly and did what he was told to do: handle the pitchers. And he does that in English and Spanish.

He can whisper sweet nothings in my ear in Swahili for all I care.

I get a hot flash just thinking about it.

At the end of nine, Chooch added a perfect game to his catching resume, and Roy Halladay enhanced his biography.

The last Phillie to do that chose the year 1964. I had just turned two. While Jim Bunning pitched perfectly to 27 batters I was chiseling my way into my mother’s padlocked medicine case with the claw of my Fisher-Price hammer, intent on getting my fix on children’s aspirin.

Now I just Jones for the Phils.

I know they’ll work through their offensive rut but if they don’t, I won’t be the only doe still in season.

Enjoy the rest of this Halladay weekend.

See you at the ballpark.

You can also view this blog at http://tinyurl.com/roysmyboy.

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter http://twitter.com/ABabesTake.

Philadelphia Phillies: Another Reason to Rauuuuul!

2010-05-29T12:55:00.000-04:00

Finally… time for a blog about something other than the Phillies’ struggles. It's like a long awaited warm summer breeze. Okay, maybe it's not that refreshing, but it's better than hearing, "Mom, the cat puked again..."

Trust me on this.

There’s nothing like a 30 inning losing streak to make you feel a little gratitude.

But we had to wait yet another rain delay and four innings before Raul Ibanez hit a blazing line drive that beat speed demon Cameron Maybin to deep center to drive home a flying Ryan Howard.

Cheers sounded the world over and all the Phils had done was score a run.

Then they tied it at two in the fifth and pulled ahead by one in the seventh. But like Charlie Manuel says, “We play 27 outs,” and there were six more that had to be snagged before the game was officially a long-awaited win.

Since Chad Durbinator one-two-three’d ‘em in the seventh, Charlie took a risk on schizophrenic Danys Baez. With Danys we just never know who’s gonna show. Now I’m onto him. He has to come in at the beginning of an inning and only play one. Charlie’s onto him too. And it was a plan that worked.

Three batters later, Charlie looked to interim closer, Jose Contreras. He hadn’t faced a professional hitter in a week and hadn’t seen his team win one in a five-game skid.

It’s possible the sweat that leaked down his cheeks was caused by more than the heat.

M. Night Shyamalan can’t write suspense like this.

‘No Way’ Jose took the mound and struck out the first batter on a 95 mph fast ball like he had an .063 ERA for a reason. But then the ghost of 2009 Brad Lidge possessed his mind. He allowed back-to-back singles to Jorge Cantu and Dan Uggla—the hitters who make up the Marlins padded middle. And just to show they were serious, Fredi Gonzalez put Brian Barden in to pinch run.

Fingers crossed, toes crossed. I even crossed my cat’s paws.

Gulp. Cody Ross was up. He’s your average stud. He’ll not only foil hits in right field, I’ve even seen him brought in to pitch. But he must have been dreaming of his conquests when he was caught window shopping on a 1-2 count. Then Ronny Paulino had no reason to swing on a 2-1 count but he did. He lofted a gift to Shane Victorino and Jose hoisted his arms in the air.

Phillies 3, Marlins 2.

A one run win never felt so good.

I think I need a cigarette.

With the region ecstatic over the Flyers feats of strength to get to the Stanley cup finals all it took was a broken bad streak to lift the dread that preempted last night’s game.

Then the crème de la crème. The Milwaukee Brewers ceased the Mets march of shutouts with a walk-off two-run home run by the Brewers poster child, Corey Hart.

It just can’t get any better than this.

I’m so happy I’m even gracious for Jayson Werth’s new look and the fact that I only got a glimpse of him for an inning. At first I thought he was on the bench with a bad beard day but then I heard that Charlie thought he needed a break at the plate because he was jumping at the ball.

Here’s an idea. “Jayson, I’m the ball…”

Hey, a girl can dream.

Lao Tzu once said, "Clay is shaped into a vessel, yet it is the emptiness within that makes it useful."

That same thing has been said about my head.

And now that I’m out of thoughts, I’m outta here.

And I’m high hoping. Go Flyers! Go Phillies!

See you at the ballpark.

View this article at ABabe'sTake or catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

Philadelphia Phillies: It's Gone!

2010-05-28T11:47:00.000-04:00

Wow. It’s not going well. I don’t need to recap how poorly the Phillies have been performing. It’s like the pharmacy is plumb out of Viagra.

The stats say it all and I’m sure by now there’s not much left to say that hasn’t already been said.

Except this: Aunt Dorothy died.

Yup. She lived a life void of the Phillies, the Flyers, or even a genuine Philly cheese steak. The last month of her life she knew nothing of a third straight NLCS wish, a Stanley Cup quest, or the end of Jayson Werth’s sultry bearded body. And she was fine.

We will be too.

But can you believe it? Jayson shaved! I knew he went hairless hours before he unveiled his baby-soft cheeks on TV because I saw Todd Zolecki’s post on Twitter.

I’m so cutting edge.

And as suspected, Jayson got his energy from his hair. He struck out three times and hit into one of the double plays that ended three consecutive innings. That’s one way to shorten the torture that seemed unstoppable at Citi Field. Thank God it wasn’t a four game series. This one seemed to last for eternity.

Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. Just ask Aunt Dorothy.

Liberated woman the world over are now burning their signs. There’s no more, “Be the Beard,” or “Beard Power.”

I have a new one myself—“Jayson I’d Still Do Ya.”

After an excruciating two hour rain delay, the Phils moved through the first few innings doing what they haven’t been doing—failing to score. It was as frustrating as watching Twilight. By the end of the third, they’d managed to chalk up 31 innings without a run against the opposition’s starting pitcher.

Then the question popped up on “Stump the Fans.” My husband calls it “Stump the Dummy.” Here’s why. The question was, “Which pitcher holds the Mets’ rookie record for most strikeouts in a game?”

I said, “Twelve.”

I heard, “You moron, they want a guy’s name.”

I said, “I’m going with how many strikeouts. I’m Irish. Not only do I not know the answer to the question being asked, I don’t know the answer to the question not being asked.”

Aunt Dorothy would understand.

In the sixth my son stated the score and the obvious, “We’re only down by one? It feels like so much more.”

By the eighth, he’d discovered that our TiVo remote won’t go through his knee or the cat, but it seems to pass easily through my head.

My husband said, “That’s why they can 'Stump the Dummy'.”

When it was all said and done, the Phils had hit their way to the National League batting average basement.

The ship started to sink in Boston against a hurler they call Dice-K and took on a bunch of water over two consecutive games against that rare MLB commodity called the knuckleballer.

Hey, I heard Pedro Martinez is taking lessons from R.A. Dickey.

But let’s look on the bright side. Three runs is the Phil’s smallest margin of loss in this five game skid, and Cole Hamels is now a four-pitch guy.

I love variety.

Carlos Ruiz is back in the game and doesn’t blame his bum shoulder for his poor performance at the plate.

Pssst, Carlos… that’s what excuses are for. Just ask Jesse James.

Jimmy Rollins is eligible to return on June sixth. And just a hair over three stints on the DL.

Shane Victorino is the Phillies leading hitter with RISP in the lead-off spot, which is ironic since he’s the batter with the fewest runners in scoring position when he takes the plate. He also leads the team with nine steals. And last night he broke Mike Pelfrey’s 96 inning record for not allowing a steal.

He’s my own personal Speedy Gonzalez. But I’d hate to be drunk in bed with him. Not only would you not remember, there wouldn’t be much time to not remember it.

And did you know that Rockies ace Ubaldo Jiminez leads the MLB with a May ERA of .097?

He’s NOT learning to throw a knuckleball.

Neither is Aunt Dorothy.

In five straight losses the Phillies’ NL East lead dwindled to 1.5 like toilet paper in a sorority. Now the team can slither out of Flushing, NY after helping the Mets move from last to third in the division. And they head to Florida to play a Marlins team that recently gave up the third spot to the Mets.

It’s like wife-swapping only with knuckleballs.

I have no idea what that means.

I’ll end it there. Besides there’s not much more to say that hasn’t already been said about what the Phillies have not been doing.

But remember, it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s that you got to play.

Just ask Aunt Dorothy.

See you at the ballpark.

What Jimmy Rollins Can Learn From Terry Francona

2010-05-22T10:21:00.000-04:00

“You can do a lot with two inches.”

That’s what my son said while pondering his binder preferences at Staples.

Maybe you can.

You can also do a lot with two pitches. Cole Hamels tossed his curve into his limited repertoire but it was his fastball and change-up that ruled the game.

As a result, Ricky Botallico said Cole Hamels has “turned the corner.”

Are you kidding me? That’s like saying my child is safe because he hides a cheap Swiss Army knife under his pillow to fight off perspective burglars. I said, “What you gonna do… file his nails to death?”

No doubt Cole had a hot night against a tough interleague rival. He threw 116 pitches—76 for strikes, sent eight batters back to the bench bitching, walked one, and allowed one earned run on three hits. But the question remains: has he turned the corner?

Let’s just say he put on the blinker. Except for excessive home runs and walks allowed this year, it looks like he’s recovered from his 2009 hangover. But Cole is more comfortable pitching with an offensive cushion and the lineup gave him that. He’s also less flustered when his fielders aren’t flubbing and he got that too. But showing mild displeasure as the result of a bad strike call can’t be considered a new level of maturity.

Maybe he’s outgrown the terrible twos but all moms know when your pitcher is tired and grumpy all you can do is put him to bed.

I’m just the girl to do it.

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

In this 5-1 Phillies win, the lineup was restored to its previous luster—if only for a moment. Jimmy Rollins stepped to the plate first while Shane Victorino was demoted to seventh because it let him watch more guys bat in front of him.

That’s a warm, fuzzy feeling I thought you could only get by rolling naked in polar fleece.

Not that I’d know anything about that.

But then Jimmy limped to 1st base in the sixth and Juan Castro took his place—again. Saturday I predict Shane will bat leadoff—again. And I’ll bet Wilson Valdez, freshly outrighted to Lehigh Valley, is packing enough socks and underwear to come back for at least 15 more days—again.

The injury report has also changed the life of Paul Hoover. I’m willing to bet he’s found himself a home as permanent backup pitcher. It was an untimely strain for Brian Schneider but one man’s misfortune becomes another man’s wife.

Just ask Jayson Werth. An injury to Geoff Jenkins is what gave every girl the option to drool over the bearded wonder and gave Jayson the opportunity to prove he was an everyday player.

Now he’s landed on baseball’s 50 best list at a humble 49th. He’s behind like, well, everybody, but look on the bright side: Hanley Ramirez made the top 50 best players in baseball but he won’t make the top 50 best teammates.

And I’m certain my boobs are as big as they’re gonna get but my butt isn’t.

Did you hear? Pat Burrell was released from his duties as a pinch hitter for Tampa Bay. He can now be had for a cool $350,000—that’s what a player is worth when all he has left is one tool. He’d get picked up faster placing an ad in the personals.

Baseball’s a tough crowd. What if I was off my game? Would I be put out to pasture with the other middle-aged innuendo junkies and see people hold up signs in my honor that read, “Mom or Machine?”

And if contracts are all about ability to perform, maybe Jimmy Rollins is coming closer to being considered a trade alternative to keep Jayson Werth. Jimmy has been around longer than any of the Phil’s original draft picks on the current 25 man roster. He was chosen in 1996 and is playing his eleventh season with the team. He’s spent more time as a Phillie than Pat Burrell or even Brett Myers who found a new home because he couldn’t get his mojo back after surgery.

Now Jimmy’s injured—again.

Like Terry Francona told the struggling David Ortiz, “You don't take for granted the time together.” With Ruben Amaro Jr. weighing options to keep his outfield intact, this might be a no-brainer.

Unless Jimmy’s calf can turn the corner.

See you at the ballpark.

This blog can also be viewed at http://tinyurl.com/with2inches (and if you click here I'll get more reads and be considered cooler than I really am).

Check out my humorous Philadelphia Phillies blog called, A Babe's Take, at http://tinyurl.com/ababestake or catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter http://twitter.com/ABabesTake.

Philadelphia Phillies: Jayson Werth Here's Your Sign

2010-05-10T10:23:00.000-04:00

My husband had to work on Mother’s Day, so when he rushed in the door about three o'clock, he was breathless. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he panted. “How’s your day going?”

“Great,” I said. Then I rattled off my conquests. “I cleaned the house, caught up on laundry, made your favorite dinner, and started taping the Phillies game.”

He paid me his highest compliment. “Take your pants off.”

Chad Durbin, Jose Contreras, and Brad Lidge—take your pants off.

After Cole Hamels went cold in the fifth, Charlie Manuel chomped on his gum through three bases loaded situations, two walks, four hits, and three runs. And this time Cole can’t blame his extended inning on a fielding error. It was unfortunate—Phillie starters had a combined 1.22 ERA in May coming into this game.

To stop the bleeding, Charlie could have called in Nelson Figueroa—the starter/long reliever/reliever they acquired just for this occasion. But instead he chose Chad Durbin.

My husband looked like he smelled shit. “Disturbin’ Durbin?!” But The Durbinator showed up for the sixth and retired six straight, striking out four.

Jose Contreras—put your Pants on the Ground. After a 1-2-3 eighth, one thing’s for certain: Jose needs a nickname. He stepped on the rubber believing there was no way the Braves were getting on base. He started the inning with a .93 ERA and now it’s so small I have to get out my reading glasses to see it. I shall call him, “No Way Jose.”

In the ninth, Brad Lidge came in for a save situation. After his implosion last year, I wouldn’t have called him with a flat tire, but now I think he could have saved those poor people on Lost.

The first two batters Lights Out faced hit some long balls—that’s not the same as big balls. One hit pushed Shane Victorino to the wall and the next put Raul Ibanez there. But it doesn’t matter how hard it’s hit, it matters where it lands. And he pitched with a little help from the wind.

Hey, Marilyn Monroe did her finest work with it blowing up her skirt.

In four innings the bullpen retired twelve straight but a little offense helped take home the 5-3 win.

Carlos Ruiz continues to lead the league in on-base percentage. He’s been making it around the bases at such a rapid pace I heard they’re giving away EPT’s as the next promotion.

He was part of a lineup where the first seven on the card made it safely on base at least once and three of them decided to make it all the way around on one pitch.

Placido Polanco went first. He hit a homer in the second just to show up his single in the first, and Jayson Werth hit his 100th career dinger to make every mother’s day in the third. But by the time Great Shane came to the plate in the seventh, he’d already flied out, popped out, and struck out. Plus he was sore that Jayson had infringed on his team high RBI. All that was left was to hit one out. Now that’s a different kind of cycle.

Injuries continue to waste payroll. Paul Hoover was welcomed to Philly to backup Carlos because of the injured Brian Schneider. Plus Ryan Madson’s broken toe has him wishing for a do-over, J.A. Happ is still tending to his nursemaid’s elbow, and Juan Castro was available to hit but can’t run—he’s now Adam Dunn on a good day.

Wilson Valdez, the third string shortstop, hit into another double play to help Atlanta's cause. He’s now 0 for life.

Fittingly, on a day that honored mothers, Jayson Werth was once again named Phillie of the Week. There was pink on the bags, pink wrist bands, pink bats, and pink around the player's necks. The only thing missing was Jayson Werth wearing me on his lap.

Whoa, did I just say that?

On that 58th consecutive sellout, they might have given away Motrin scarves for Mother’s Day but from the signs I saw, it was obvious Jayson Werth is why moms came to the game:

My Mom is Werth It

Jayson Rings My Bell

Sorry Mom, I'd Rather Spend the Day with Jayson

Believe in the Beard—Beard Power

But none of them quite captured the thoughts of thousands like mine:

Jayson Take Your Pants Off

My sister texted me: “Jayson just bent over to stretch right in front of us.” I texted back: “My dream job is to man the camera at third base.”

Then he hit a mother with a foul ball. Not only was her pain eased when she got a game ball, she had him kiss it and make it all better. At least I hope she did. My move with stray hits had been the “Scream and Cower,” but from now on I’m diving in front of them. Then I’ll pucker up.

And to close a perfect day, the night ended with a pink sky. You know what they say… pink sky at night, sailor’s delight. I’m sure that has more to do with a girl than the weather.

Now I’m gonna answer the question some of you might have had at the start of this blog: Why was this mom doing chores on Mother’s Day?

Well, when my husband looks back on this day he won’t remember how disappointed I was that he had to work. He’ll consider how I happily spent my day, smile my way, and say those coveted words. “Take your pants off.”

And I’ll hold him to it.

See you at the ballpark.

http://tinyurl.com/takeyourpantsoff

Check out my humorous Philadelphia Phillies blog called, A Babe's Take, at http://tinyurl.com/ababestake or catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter http://twitter.com/ABabesTake.

Philadelphia Phillies: Streakers and Stretchers in Section 145

2010-05-07T00:30:00.000-04:00

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 sort of Ryan Howard’s reach.

And that should be an error. With the way Ryan’s playing, he’s so much bigger than his six-foot-four frame. And after seeing throws in this series bounce off Albert Pujols’ 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 numbers 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.

Philadelphia Phillies Continue Division Skid: Who Ya Gonna Call?

2010-05-01T09:54:00.000-04:00

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 1-2-3 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 games 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.

The right-wingers would blame Obamacare.

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 shut-out 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.

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

2010-04-26T22:45:00.000-04:00

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 is 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 hotdogs 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.

The Bucket List, Complete With Jayson Werth

2010-04-15T09:12:00.000-04:00

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 that 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 pour 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 last 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.

Philadelphia Phillies: Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

2010-04-09T14:01:00.000-04:00

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!

I Kissed a Phillie! Okay, Maybe That's a Stretch

2010-01-27T10:03:00.001-05:00

I attended a clinic for members of our local little league that featured Scott Sheridan, the head trainer for the Philadelphia Phillies. It was a seminar designed to introduce coaches, trainers, and parents to the methods of conditioning young pitchers.

To my disappointment, the majority of the clinic was run by local people who, although they were very informative, had never actually touched a Phillie. I was eager to share my coffee breath with someone who had.

So, I sat patiently with my son as they started the clinic with warm up exercises, complete with hot young men to demonstrate. But my attention spiked when the speaker told us the next exercises were designed to “…open those hips.”

Instantly I knew I was in the right place. I fought the urge to volunteer.

Then they showed us drills that were important for achieving optimal cocking position.

I can’t even comment.

They explained that it’s important to work the non-dominant side equally as hard as the dominant side, and that a player should develop his decelerators (front side) to the same extent he works the accelerators (backside), perhaps even moreso.

The information they presented with concern for the health of young players was so valuable, I’d almost forgotten why we were there.

Then it was time. The man of the hour was introduced and I was as giddy as a middle-aged woman with an autographed picture of Zac Efron and too much privacy.

Scott Sheridan took the podium with his 2008 World Series ring glistening in the gymnasium glare. He’s physically touched every member of the Philadelphia Phillies—how’s a girl possibly expected to concentrate?

What a professional. What an invaluable resource. What a cool guy. I want to stalk him. I’ll bet you didn’t know this, but Scott’s only training aid for the Phillies is elastic tubing. I have a room in my house where that stuff would work great. I think I can order it cheaply by the foot and really tie up...

I’m sorry. Where was I?

That’s right, Scott Sheridan. He shared that warming up is extremely important but being too limber is actually a detriment. Overstretching is not an advantage. And too much hyperflexion in a shoulder during a pitch is something he especially watches for in hurlers from the Dominican Republic.

He said the most important thing you could do with your young pitching prospect is play catch. Throw the long ball. He starts short—at 45 feet or closer and works his way up over time, but he doesn’t recommend exceeding 100 throws. To prove his point, he said he helped Randy Wolf successfully recover from elbow surgery in this exact manner. By the time Randy was ready to pitch, Scott himself could throw a ball in excess of 200 feet with no pain. And he said with a body like his, that’s a feat.

I was dying to be the judge of that.

He also stated that when an MLB pitcher throws 35 or more pitches in an inning, injury potential elevates. Then a Little League umpire explained that kids’ coaches are required to limit the number of innings a youngster pitches, but the rule does nothing to limit the number of pitches. This appeared to be a huge concern among therapists and trainers.

The coolest thing about hearing Mr. Sheridan (and the entire staff) speak was I got the feeling there’s one word that describes a successful Little League program. And it’s not training or preparation. It’s fun.

Of course when it was over, it was time for questions and answers. So I stopped daydreaming and focused: I had some very important questions. First, I had to know if the Phillies planned a Jayson Werth thong giveaway on Mother’s Day.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t the venue. I reconsidered.

However, earlier he had stated that Tim Lincecum’s mechanics aren’t the best so I had to know if he thought that put the young pitcher at risk for developing injuries.

Considering Licecum has two Cy Young awards to his name, Scott had no concerns. Matter of fact if a pitcher’s mechanics are getting the job done, he doesn’t recommend screwing with him, although I would highly recommend it. But he’d never make a professional recommendation in this regard because teams have coaches who are paid to worry about that.

Great disclaimer.

He also doesn’t support pitching a young person year round; time off is just as important as time on. And I take it Scott’s a big proponent of the pitch count. A man after my own heart. I didn’t ask him if he thought the off games Cliff Lee pitched last year were the result of his prior complete games because I didn’t want to make a clinic about Little League all about me. But I did get to ask if the team had a mandatory workout rule.

The answer was ‘no.’ Even though we just sat through a seminar on the basics of conditioning a pitcher—backed by data supplied by people far more intelligent than me, the team doesn’t require a multi-million dollar player to pursue optimal conditioning. Scott’s smile would suggest it’s an enigma too.

Last but not least, there’s a reason I sat in the front row. First, my boy’s only four feet tall. Second, I wanted to shake Mr. Sheridan’s hand when it was all said and done.

And I did. And he wears that “ring” on his right hand. Katy Perry thinks she’s cool ‘cause she “kissed a girl,” but I touched a 2008 Philadelphia Phillies World Series Championship ring. And the man wearing it said, “Good questions.”

Good thing I didn’t start with the thong.

Well, I went home and removed the autographed picture of Zac Efron from my wall to clear it for the future accomplishments of the 2009 National League Champions—a team that is where it is because of the support of people like Scott Sheridan.

I don’t get to say, “I kissed a Phil,” but I touched one.

Maybe next time…

Many thanks to the staff of West Side Little League and the KineticPT team at the ACAC in West Chester, PA for a great opportunity.

See you at the ballpark.

Philadelphia Phillies: Topsy-Turvy Series Ends Upside Down

2009-11-06T10:54:00.000-05:00

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 Phil’s 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 JA 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, unemcumbered 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 (2), 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 until next time, sing loud—it’s a big world with bad cell service.

Peace.

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

2009-11-06T10:52:00.000-05:00

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!

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

2009-11-06T10:51:00.000-05:00

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!

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

2009-11-02T10:03:00.000-05:00

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 even in my worst nightmares I never imagined “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. But 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 pinned on Raul Ibanez that wasn’t an error, or Joe Blanton’s performance that wasn’t Cliff Lee’s, or CC’s pants that look like he dresses in the dark.

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 eight, 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.

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 just 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!

Ryan Howard, You Want A Piece Of Me?

2009-11-02T10:01:00.001-05:00

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!

World Series Game Two: Great Blogs of Fire

2009-11-02T10:00:00.001-05:00

So, we tasted the agony of defeat.

Actually, it’s quite good on toast.

You could say I’m making light of the fact that the PA team focused on a World Series repeat came up short.

You’re right.

And you could say the Game Two loss to the Bombers was like a kick in the balls.

But you’re wrong.

My husband took it in the groin by an eight inch tree truck. And trust me, Thursday’s loss feels nothing like it. His crotch looks like a cast iron kettle, and he still talks like Peter Pan, but the flip side is, he could have been dead.

Let’s face it, the Phillies simply lost—but they didn’t die. But like my husband, people are getting a lot of mileage from the fact that they’re still alive but took a big hit.

In honor of them both, I’ll try to keep my innuendos to a minimum.

Really.

First things first. In yet another postseason game, the umpires blew some calls. That’s to be expected. There were only what—16 of them on the field, including the one with perfect vision? Besides umping can’t be hard...

My husband says neither can he.

Whoa. Did I just say that?

My personal opinion is Pedro Martinez pitched a great game. A.J. Burnett just pitched a bit better. There were so many strikeouts—12 by the Phil’s and 11 by the Yanks—that by the eighth inning Tim McCarver was announcing K’s like he was calling a local bingo game.

I think it was also McCarver who called A.J. Burnett, “Beckett”. I can understand how Burnett wouldn’t stick out in anyone’s mind. He’s the guy who once pitched a no-hitter while he walked nine and hit a guy. But last night he didn’t miss a first pitch strike, until Chase Utley took the plate in the third. Then he earned his first postseason win, and was named Player of the Game.

When things are that hot, I can understand calling someone by the wrong name.

Not that I’ve ever done that.

And I’ll admit, I’m a huge fan of the pitch count. I think 100 hurls is all an arm can physically deliver, so I would’ve pulled Pedro Martinez after the sixth. Too much of a good thing will make you blind, you know.

Hmm, now we know what those umps have been doing.

And I’d like to pass blame on what went horribly wrong, but I believe a 1-3 loss is a close game. The teams were so close in total hits, walks, strikeouts, team RISPs, and runners left on base, that if just one of those stats would have tipped the other way, the Phils would be up in the series instead of tied.

What if A-Rod would have ended his O-fer streak in the first? Or Raul Ibanez would have missed that spectacular diving catch in the second? Or Pedro Martinez wouldn’t have quick pitched Derek Jeter to a K in the third?

Or what if Jayson Werth wouldn’t have been picked off in the fourth? Or the Carlos Ruiz fly ball would have landed in an empty seat instead of banging off the wall in the fifth? Or Hideki Matsui would have failed to give New York their first lead of the series in the sixth?

Or what if Charlie would have gone to the bullpen at the start of the seventh? Or they’d have sent the runners early on Utley’s eighth inning hit to avoid a double play? Or what if Matt Stairs would have hit something besides the Chinese buffet before the game?

But aside from suppositions, what’s the actual difference between the Game One 6-1 win and the Game Two 3-1 loss?

The Yankee bullpen. Burnett pitched better than expected on Thursday, limiting the damage by his team’s relievers to zero casualties. Pitching A.J. Burnett on a great day followed by Mariano Rivera on any given day, is a one-two punch greater than my husband took in the groin.

Okay, maybe just figuratively.

So after the loss, I felt like a lot of fans thought 2012 couldn’t come quick enough. But I look at it simply as a speed hump. And I was always a big fan of those. It’s what happens in a parked car on a cold winter’s night. Then you sneak back into the party and hope nobody noticed. Except the next day word gets around before you even get to school.

That’s how the Phillies must feel. They were hoping to sneak back into town undetected. But when they picked up their morning paper...Shazam. There they were—Frillies.

But they’re not losers. The last time I checked, the Phillies led the national league in runs, home runs, and RBI; they won the pennant for two consecutive years for the first time in franchise history, and were tied in this series one game to one. Let me check again.

Yup. Shipshape.

So while Charlie Manuel’s Phightins continue to post wins against Joe Girardi’s Bronx, I’ll take it upon myself to keep Phillie spirit intact against the big apple of original sin.

And in honor of my husband’s involuntary embracing of restraint, I’ll refrain from further innuendos today.

But remember, it’s a tough world out there.

Wear your cup.

Go Phils!

World Series Game One: I Can Be Jayson Werth Too

2009-10-29T10:35:00.000-04:00

Not only does Cliff Lee compLEEte me, he pulled another compLEEte game out of his hat. His domination of the team with the best record in the majors, the most home runs, and the highest payroll was something out of a storybook.

Hey, they should act that out on Broadway.

Wait, they are.

The hype surrounding Game One of this seven game magic act included a woman who tried to trade her body for tickets. Now that’s a fan. They better recruit her for that Phillies' cheerleading squad.

But all the hype in the 28 pages of pre-series coverage in the “Phillie” Inquirer could be reduced to three things: Brett Myers fixed a mechanical error, Shane Victorino was fitted for a skirt by the New York Post, and Cliff Lee and CC Sabathia are pen pals.

But the conclusion of this Cy Young faceoff was just what the Phillies ordered.

The recap of this game is easy. Chase Utley reached base for the 26th consecutive time in the postseason at his first at-bat, and then did it again… and again. He showed his efficiency by going for the long ball—just like Jayson Werth did in Game Five of the NLCS. And just like Jayson, he did it twice just to prove it wasn’t a fluke. Then everyone except Pedro Feliz made it to base. Six runs later, Yankees fans sat down.

Unfortunately CC Sabathia and the Yankee bullpen had a hard time finding the teenie, tiny strike zone but that’s not something that bothered Lee. He wasn’t nervous and I thought he made that quite clear in the postgame. As we say in Iowa, “The hay’s in the barn.” He’d spent his whole life preparing for this.

That’s impressive. I’m not even prepared for house guests. Hell, I just called my child by my dog’s name.

Then Lee hotdogged it up as he yawned during his pop fly catch on the mound and made a behind-the-back snatch that kept a ball from slipping through the middle for a hit.

Are we having fun yet?

So, when you have a pitcher like Lee who allows only six hits throughout a complete game with 10 K’s, no earned runs, and nabs Player of the Game, what do your fielders do?

Not much. The only options are basically to cheer, and ignore the fans in the stands. Personally, I’d fart. That’s right. I’d pass gas right out there in the grass and hope someone had a thermo-camera-thingy so they could see the red flames pass from my… well, keester. Now that’s something I’d like to see on the cover of the New York Post.

Hey, gas, grass, or ass—nobody writes for free.

In the end Fox came through and blew Cliffy’s shutout by jinxing him with all that talk about… well, shutouts. I had pains of how they tried to blow saves for Brad Lidge in the 2008 Series by talking about his perfect save season.

Shut up!

But they should have known better. They tried to curse Utley by mentioning that he was a good two strike hitter just before he hit his second dinger. But Chase believes, “If you say it, it will come.” With his stone cold conviction, I’ll bet he still believes in Santa. He’s damn near managed by him.

I just think it’s sad how the commentators only talk about the team that’s ahead. By the 6th inning, Derek Jeter’s Yankee hit record or the games won with and without A-Rod were old news. And before we knew it Jayson Werth was touted as the best athlete on the team.
Hey, Cliff, you hear that? How’s that for a kick in the all-around pants. But they were discounting contributions on a regular basis last night. They even said Ryan Howard was the MVP of the NLCS but Alex Rodriguez could have been the MVP of the ALCS…

Wait. Do they compare apples to oranges in the big apple? I’ll bet that statement makes Sabathia feel all warm and fuzzy. That guy pitches on short rest and they’re already discounting his MVP award. He might as well pee his pants in the dark—it’ll give him a warm feeling but no one will ever notice.

I’m actually surprised I didn’t hear anyone whine that this should have been a series between the Dodgers and the Yankees. I guess sore sports do know bounds.

So, shutouts, shut ups, or sit downs, the most important thing is the Game One winner has gone on to win the World Series for the past six years.

Let’s make that seven.

Go Phils!

Twas the Night Before Christmas and Charlie Manuel is Santa

2009-10-29T10:34:00.000-04:00

Twas the night before Christmas…

At least that’s what it feels like because the anticipation is killing me. But not in the way that little kids lie awake with giddiness at what Santa will bring.

This is the anxiety of a parent who hopes she came close to fulfilling a kid’s wishes on a limited budget to extend the belief in a childhood hero for yet another year.

But she won’t know until it’s over.

I imagine the Phillies are feeling the same way. Even when faced with a second consecutive World Series appearance, it’s almost a moot point to point to last year’s achievements.

We entered the 2008 Series playing underdog to a Cinderella team. This year we’re told we shouldn’t have bothered to try out—Hollywood’s Dodgers should have taken us out of contention like a blockbuster up against a lame comedy.

It’s like we’re the movie extra that got a spot because the star came down sick.

Do we dare dream of repeating?

I will. I’ve got sugar plums dancing in my head.

My husband says that’s not the only thing dancing in my head.

But sugar plums? Let’s be honest. No one really knows what a sugar plum is or does. I mean that could be secret code for dropping acid or something like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds .

And for years we’ve recited that beloved Christmas poem to kids on the night before a hairy fat man dressed in bright velvet scurries down a chimney to drop presents they wanted from a list he’s never seen.

What did parents used to take before they settled down for that long winter’s nap?

All I know is, in my world, visions of Shane Victorino dance in my head. And if Shane is made of sugar, I’m gonna find out how many licks it takes to get to the middle.

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

It’s not my fault. I was just folding up my Jayson Werth blanket and got stuck in a hallucination about the Ladies Day giveaway at Citizens Bank Park next year.

I suggest the Jayson Werth thong. It would hug my hips so nice and cozy that the next time he steals home I could say I knew him in a biblical sense, and I’d only be half faking it.

My husband says he knows how that feels.

But like Carly Simon says, anticipation is making me wait. It’s as nerve-racking as watching my child start at second base for the first time. It’s knowing what the worst can be, but hoping for the best.

I still remember when my baby got his first force-out at second. For weeks we’d tried to convince him that when the shortstop fielded a ball, second base should be covered by, well—the second baseman.

So, of course, the inevitable happened. In the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the tying run on first, the shortstop fielded a grounder. But when position six turned to second base, we did exactly what he did—held our breath hoping my son wasn’t chasing butterflies.

But amazingly, the child I had just told to get his finger out of his nose was posed on second, foot abutting the base, glove raised to accommodate a throw. Simple toss, simple out; game over.

My child’s eyes—how they twinkled, his teammates how merry...

It was one play in a game of plays. It was one out in a game of outs. It was one child in a game of chance. It was a moment in time that will live forever in my mind.

So, no matter what happens on Wednesday night, it will be just like Christmas to a mom. Instead of opening presents, I will embark on a journey of collecting moments. A World Series appearance to me is simply an extension of time to collect them. And I will sit on my couch with my child under my arm and point out everything that exists about the great game of baseball and the team we call the Phightin’ Phils.

With players conditioned and swift
A course as defined as a Christmas list
And a skipper who looks like Saint Nick
This series will be a hit.

Sorry for the cheesy poetry—I just couldn’t help myself. This time of year always does that to me.

Go Phils!

Philadelphia Phillies: Time Is On Jayson Werth's Side

2009-10-23T09:56:00.000-04:00

Last week the lady behind the counter at Wawa told me people are always nice when the sun shines and the Phillies win.

Well, it’s a great time to work at Wawa.

And a perfect time to be a Phillies’ fan. I’ve only lived here a few years but I remember vividly the scorching summer day in 2007 when I walked into my sister’s house and announced, “I heard the Phils can sweep the Mets today and we have to be there.”

The eerie part was I don’t know where that came from. Sure I grew up in a household with a faith based strongly on sports, and my dad had a city league softball team for most of my youth, but something moved me that day. And when those words escaped from my mouth (without a few choice ones that come from the potty) I knew the Phillies had entered my soul.

Since then, my sister has supplied me with enough season tickets to make attending games a part-time job.

And she gave me my birthday present early. Yesterday I read my very own subscription of the Philadelphia Inquirer . How fitting that the front page was plastered with Jayson Werth, the man who earned a place in more of my posts than any other and was smeared across the blanket that wrapped around me in section 131 as the Phillies clinched the series.

And how fitting that, in my first very own Inquirer , I counted 12 pages of NLCS coverage. My only question is, is 12 pages enough?

The fact is it’s packed with so much team news and stats I’m going to change the name to The Phillie Inquirer .

As I read the pages, one thing became evident: Game Five proved that even if all we have left is the audacity to hope, it’s still hope.

For example, Cole Hamels squelched the life from the crowd by falling to 3-0 in the very first count but then earned a K. It was obvious the ace was in trouble when he’d thrown 75 pitches after only four innings, and I was about to kick his butt when he threw back-to-back changeups to Andre Ethier that stabbed me with déjà vu like that third consecutive changeup Manny Ramirez released into the seats in Game One.But then he redeemed himself with a fastball followed by a strike three changeup. Sure he gave up three home runs on 94 pitches over only 4 1/3 innings, but all of it is such yesterday’s news that I can’t even find out what pitch he was throwing that didn’t work.

Poor Chase Utley was 0 for 4 with two backwards K’s, one forward one, and a ground out. As a mom my first instinct was to take his temperature. But the walk he drew tied the record of 25 consecutive times on base in the postseason and made it all better.

Jayson Werth-it had a postseason average below .080 when he stepped to the plate for the first time in Game Five but then hit a three-run home run with two outs on a full count. And just to prove it wasn’t a performance issue, he hit one out in the seventh. But as if we’re all Zen masters, his previous postseason shortcomings were forgotten faster than it takes Cialis to work.

Rocking Ryan Howard settled for a tie with Lou Gehrig for eight consecutive postseason RBI by failing to earn one on Wednesday, but that MVP award makes everything else a slow news day.

And don’t even get me started on the bullpen. Okay, you did. When No. 37 ran in from the bullpen, we didn’t know if it’d be "Disturbin Durbin" or the "Durbinator" throwing pitches. But not only did he earn the win, he got another nickname. A guy behind us called him, “Chad Lidge.”

Of course we were hoping the Chan Ho Park that earned a spot as a great long reliever in the regular season would step to the mound with that same dynamic style. But my husband calls him CHP for a reason—not for his initials, for his inconsistency. Well, “Can He Pitch,” bailed himself out of the eighth after giving up only one.

But when Mad Dog Madson started missing the strike zone like a bad skeeball game, could we continue to consider a six run lead a safety zone? Well, I have a holiday plate that has a piece of mistletoe and a sleigh bell painted just about the word, “Believe.” And it’s not just talking about Santa Claus.

Lights Out ran in from the bullpen to a different song Wednesday night—one that still sounds like it was sung by Metallica. And we all know Metallica is its own band, just like Lidge is his own man. He accepted responsibility for his shortcomings all season as well as remained humble with his achievements, but I don’t think I was the only one holding my breath in the ninth.

Again hope prevailed.

Late in the game, Charlie Manuel came to the mound to the lyrics from, “Dance Like a Freak,” and looked like one when he broke into a jog back to the dugout (losing all that weight didn’t make him light on his feet). But he addressed the crowd after the win like his tongue was on steroids. Charlie will tell you, baseball is a game of 27 outs and he plays every one of them.

So, hope that Game Five would finish with a 4-1 series win was evident even from the start. A spirit of celebration filled the stands before the first pitch was ever thrown, and even persisted through the noxious gas someone continued to pass in row 24. I considered it just another way people in the City of Brotherly Love like to share.

And could the city be witnessing the best Phillies team ever? Is it too early to say that Ruben Amaro, Jr. successfully expanded on the consistently winning picks of Pat Gillick to put the frosting on the 2008 World Series cake to create a Philadelphia phenomenon? Could our kids be watching a team so dominant that a new era of Philadelphia baseball has emerged?

We all know winning two straight pennants, earning unprecedented back-to-back World Series appearances, and setting the record of winning 16 of 20 NL postseason games takes time. It takes patience and time. It’s a primordial soup of recruiting, scouting, practicing, discussing, planning, managing, and luck. But really, it all comes down to executing.

Now we have seven days to savor the execution of this one. And seven days to discuss, debate, plan, pray, prepare, and predict.

But for a city that loves its sports, is seven days enough time?

I’ll let you know on Wednesday.

Go Phils!

Philadelphia Phillies: Can They Have Their Cake and Eat It Too?

2009-10-21T10:41:00.000-04:00

This was the last stat I saw on the Phil’s odds of winning this series: In NLCS history, 20-of-29 teams that led the series 2-1 went on to win.

Those are good stats. Better than mine. My numbers make me a goddess in like some other universe—one where the ratio of guys to girls is 10 to 1. And every guy is snow-blind.

Hey, aren’t those are the odds in Alaska? No wonder Sarah Palin is so popular. She has big boobs and can group words together to make a sentence. She struggles with logical thought, but no one’s even noticed. She’s living proof that after eight years of No Child Left Behind, we’ve eliminated the need for reasoning altogether.

Whoa, did I just say that?

Hey, everything there is to be said about the Phils has already been said, so I might as well drag Sarah into it. Why not? She wants to be a part of everything else. I heard she even offered to speak on behalf of New Jersey gubernatorial candidate Chris Christie.

New Jersey? Isn’t that a continent?

No, but I think I can see it from here.

Enough of that. Let’s hit the highlight reel.

Remember this line in the first inning: “(Randy) Wolf allowed only one home run in the regular season.”

Well, welcome to Citizens Bank Park.

Just a few pitches later, Ryan Howard sent a long ball over the CBP wall that gave him and Jimmy Rollins the right to prance across the plate to put the Phillies on the board in the first, up by two. And it gave Wolf a dinger for his postseason stats as well. I love efficiency.

Then for the first three innings, we saw Joe Blanton as the workhorse. As I’ve said before, even the Amish are looking at him. But he looks more like he belongs in a starring role of Knocked Up than on a major league mound throwing pitches. And with Andre Ethier, Manny Ramirez, and James Loney stacked up in the lineup with a history of success against him, he definitely had a long row to hoe.

In the fourth, with his zone getting smaller and smaller as home plate umpire Ted Barrett suffered from tunnel vision (don’t even get me started on the officiating), I thought Charlie Manuel might go to the pen. Even Joe Torre knows you can’t swing at Joe Lumber when he’s low, but if you take that part of the zone away, what’s left is something that gets hit into play. And that’s what happened to Matt Kemp in the fifth.

Dodgers up by one.

But then in the sixth, Shane Victorino showed off with a stand-up triple, becoming an RISP for Stone Cold Chase Utley to use as an RBI and shake Wolf’s confidence with Howard coming to the plate. Howard was there to prove that falling for the breaking ball is a thing of the past when he walked and closed the door on Wolf’s night after only 88 pitches. Chalk another one up for Little Ryan Riding Howard.

Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough that Blanton had to face Manny Ramirez with a man on base in the seventh, Ethier’s blocked stolen base attempt gave Manny the chance to foil the Phil’s hopes again in the eighth against Ryan Madson. If Mad Dog has his eye on the closing position, he’s definitely following in the footsteps of Brad Lidge by creating nail-biters. I know he started and ended the eighth with a K, but does he have to give me agita in between?

Bottom of the eighth. Note to self—kill Sherrill. I also found out my kid can hide a peanut in his bellybutton. If that’s the case, I’ll bet Jonathan Broxton could lose a pretzel stick in his. At least his sideburns are slandering.

Then the ninth. When’s the last time we saw Brad Lidge come in to not only close the game, but to bail out Scotty Eyre? I’m not gonna blow a gasket looking for that stat, but I will say this: It’s refreshing to see Lidge as the Lights Out Lord instead of the Two-Run Ruin.

An 18-minute top of the ninth could definitely be blamed for Broxton’s meltdown. If it was planned, it was strategic. And speaking of bellybuttons, I’ll bet Matt Stairs could hide a hot dog in his. Stairs was as instrumental in busting Broxton’s balls in this year’s Game Four as he was in last year’s. Stairs’ base on balls set Eric Bruntlett on base to pinch run and to become the first of two runs needed to win on Jimmy’s line drive to right. If Broxton’s 100 mph fastball can’t ensure a game, who ya gonna call?

We know that feeling. The Phillies go-to guy blew 11 saves this year.

So the wavering strike zone soon forgotten, the Phillies sit as pretty as the Yankees going into Game Five. What are the odds they win?

With Rollins playing a dual role as the lead-off batter and the walk-off hero, Howard vying to break Lou Gehrig’s consecutive RBI postseason record, Victorino and the boys sugaring the field with hits, and Charlie so thin we can almost see his chin, can we possibly check Game Five off the list?

It depends on who says this the loudest: “I want it.”

And Cole Hamels will be responsible for the “I”. Personally, I haven’t been impressed with Hamels’ performance this season and that goes for more than just his hurling. I know he pitched 227 innings in the 2008 regular season and he could be suffering from a phenomenon coined by a Sports Illustrated writer whose name now escapes me.

I also know his performance last year earned him his first juicy major league contract and a condo in Liberty Place that has a view of Citizens Bank Park for that new baby of his, but I also know games are won one pitch at a time—not by getting frustrated, and whining and apologizing about it later.

Both Pedro Martinez and Cliff Lee proved that maintaining your cool and keeping hitters off kilter is key. Hopefully Hamels comes to the park Wednesday night ready to drop the ‘tude and use his changeup as the frosting on the cake instead of the batter.

Here’s hoping the Phillies can have their cake and eat it too.

See you at the ballpark.

Philadelphia Phillies NLCS Game Three: Cliff, That Was Just LoveLEE

2009-10-21T10:40:00.001-04:00

By the end of the fifth inning with the Phillies up by eight, I was thinking, this game can’t be over fast enough . But after the eighth, when the home team added three more to the score, the Dodgers were thinking the same thing.

The signs said it all.

“City of BrotherLEE Love”
“UnbeLEEvable”
“We BeLEEve”

But like Bill Engvall says, “Here’s my sign…”

“You compLEEte me.”

By the time Cliff Lee came out to bat in the eighth, he had pitched so effectiveLEE that he could have flipped the fans the bird and not fallen from grace. In the postgame Lee was humble, mentioning that Manny seemed to give him a little trouble…

Manny who?

Lee put the kibosh to LA’s plans to score like a custom-made chastity belt. He closed a chapter on LA with double digit K’s, no free passes, and only three hits over eight innings. At 114 pitches, I think he earned the right to watch the last three outs from the bench.

And let’s hear it for Chad Durbin. If he keeps this up, I’ll have to change his nickname from “Disturbin’ Durbin” to “The Durbinator.” Before you know it, he’s gonna want a part in an action movie and an Austrian accent.

The key to the game was getting to Hiroki Kuroda early. The Phils had the Dodger bullpen stirring by the time Jayson Werth slugged a two-run dinger in the first to put the game one winner ahead by four. Then the lineup hit for the cycle in the first eight batters and Kuroda was gone by the second. I thought only I could make someone flee a room that fast.

If there was any doubt about a Phil’s recovery from the game two disaster, read my last blog. I knew the Phillies I'd seen all season would bounce back, and they did—with major contributions. The players pooled their resources like a midwest potluck.

Ryan Howard set a major league record with an RBI in seven consecutive postseason games and Carlos Ruiz is finally getting the league respect he deserves. I’ve even heard Ruiz called the quarterback of this team. After the Sunday Eagles loss to the Raiders, I’ll bet Andy Reid has him on his radar too. But the biggest complement for the Panamanian was to group him with Yadier Molina as one of the two best catchers in the league.

Welcome to the show, Chooch.

Pedro Feliz even broke his series hitless streak with a ball that bounced off the wall. With one swing he earned himself a multiple base hit and checks in the columns for an H, an R, and an RBI. Now that’s efficiency.

And Shane Victorino was on fire. Unfortunately the TBS production team chose him for something they called the Inside Track . That’s picking one player to wear a microphone. Little did they know Shane doesn’t speak in complete sentences—he doesn’t even speak in complete syllables.But it doesn’t matter. As the top Phillies batter, he was 2 for 3 with a home run, two walks, three RBI, and a stolen base. Whew, I’d hate to see what happens when you feed that guy sugar.

At one point it looked like Chad Billingsley would lay a hurt on the Phightin’s. From the last third of the second inning all the way through the fourth, it appeared as though we’d had our fun. But when he gave up two more runs in the fifth, Joe Torre pulled from the pen again. It would take two more pitchers giving up another three runs before the game was stopped, halting the Phillie offensive like bad breath on a blind date.

Well, with a 2-1 series lead, Joe Blanton has his work cut out for him. Pedro Martinez showed what a veteran postseason pitcher can do, Cliff Lee showed what a first-time postseason pitcher can do, and now Blanton needs to show what a second-time postseason pitcher can do.

And I need to think of a new sign. Unfortunately, “You compJOEte me,” doesn’t quite sound right.

Back to the drawing board.

Go Phils!

Philadelphia Phillies NLCS Game Two: Checkmate

2009-10-21T10:38:00.001-04:00

One morning my kid wandered into the kitchen half asleep and accidentally sent my favorite coffee mug to its demise on my hard ceramic tiles. Okay, accidents happen. But this wasn’t just any mug. This was a 32-ounce monstrous work of art I earned from an overpriced jousting show at the Excalibur in Las Vegas on one of our rare real vacations. My first instinct was to flip, scream, holler, squawk, or fume, but forcing out my frustration through my potty mouth usually only results in something dribbling into my panties. So, I said the only thing that the powers-to-be would have allowed.

“Stuff happens.”

That’s exactly what the moral is to the NLCS game two loss to the Dodgers.

“Stuff happens.” Checkmate.

Seinfeld had one word that summoned up his dislike of the despicable USPS employee that lived next door.

Newman .

I’m sure Jayson Werth will join me in changing that to, “Padilla .”

How can you anticipate a curve ball that’s 40 mph slower than the preceding fast ball? Victorino broke out laughing because that’s all you can do—and hope he never throws that again. Or does it three times in a row like the changeups Cole Hamels threw to Manny Ramirez in game one to prepare him for hitting a home run.

But stuff happens. I don’t think Pedro Feliz missed fielding that ball for lack of effort, I don’t think Chan Ho Park had a chance at that one-in-a-million bunt, and I don’t think the second error in as many NLCS games by Chase Utley was totally his fault.

Like Joe Torre said, “I’d like to have (Utley’s) problem.” He’s one of the best players in baseball. I think the ghost of former Dodger, Steve Sax, was screwing with him. Sax was a great second baseman who regrettably ended his career unable to throw accurately to anywhere. Matter-of-fact when he retired, he was turned down for a paper route.

Or maybe the problem is Ryan Howard is shrinking. He’s probably going through male menopause. If that’s the case, I have some tips for him: take black cohash, and when you come back to Philly for the next three games, count your blessings for those hot flashes.

What we need is a first baseman with the disease like the one Abe Lincoln had where he never stopped growing. Every week our fielder would get taller and taller so when it was playoff time he’d be at his all time loftiest. Oooh, I wonder if getting bigger applies to other parts of his anatomy?

Hey, a girl can dream.

But I have a bone to pick with the postgame and that’s with the annoying jawing of Dennis Eckersley. First, he was talking like he was ever a Philly, and second, he was blatantly dogging the Phils. As he quipped that, “We need a bona fide eighth inning guy—but we don’t really know whose gonna be our eighth inning guy. Park threw good last night—let’s bring him back—he’s our set-up guy (now). (The problem is) there’s no truly defined roles.”

How could he possibly blame Phillies’ management for overlooking the need for a reliable eighth inning man? What’s my kid say? “No, duh.” Of course we’d love a truly defined setup man.

I really appreciate Denny kicking the 2009 World Champs when they’re down. The bullpen has been truly consistent this year in being inconsistent. Need we review the regular season woes of Brad Lidge or what happened when they shifted around the pen to find an internal replacement for him? But Cal Ripkin redeemed the show when he said, “Charlie’s moves have been the right ones but today it didn’t work.”

That’s the stuff that happens.

Charlie couldn’t expect more innings from Martinez and he wasn’t fooling himself in believing anything would be different. Hey, that’s a lot like marriage. Boy, do I know how he feels. And Charlie knows the only role of a reliever in the postseason is to be effective—immediately. It appears as though Charlie’s message is, “One batter-one chance.”

You only get one first impression.

Let’s look on the bright side. We saw an awesome duel of veteran hurlers—each with a grab-bag of pitches like a successful Halloween haul. We saw Ryan Howard’s fifth career postseason dinger and Pedro Martinez strike out his good buddy and .350 postseason average batter, Mannywood Ramirez. We also saw Shane Victorino get overheated in the LA sun (I’ll bet he’s a blast at a luau), Ryan Madson strike out Matt Kemp on a bases loaded change up, and Carlos Ruiz being the postseason hero that he is when he foiled Kemp’s stolen base attempt like a father peeking into a parked car.

Well, that’s baseball and we’re about to see a lot of it. I expect these evenly matched teams to duke it out for seven whole games. And what makes for better baseball than that? The networks will make that much more money and it’ll definitely make buying my 2009 NLCS Championship jersey that much sweeter.

Usually after a game like this, the Philadelphia Phillies I’ve watched all season learn from their mistakes. Maybe seven games are too many to stay intense after a game one win and a home field swap. But now it’s time to get their game back on. And they’re returning home to do it. There’s nothing like good ol’ homegrown fans to make you feel welcome.

Let’s hear it for boys.

Philadelphia Phillies Win NLDS: Did I Hear an Innuendo in There?

2009-10-21T10:26:00.000-04:00

I thought my kid gave me gray hair.

I think we all agree that the game that clinched the Phillies' NLDS championship was a hair-pulling, nerve-racking, nail-biting, drunk-inducing, hyphenated stress-fest.

Before the game even started, I was so nervous I had to find something to do with my hands. And since I’m married, I chose cooking.

What’d you think I was going to say?

But as my level of anxiety built with each inning, I had gone on such a cooking terror that, by the ninth inning, I had roasted a chicken, baked a pie, canned tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and had a casserole ready for the oven. The problem is, in my frenzy, I don’t recall where I got the meat. Hmmm, where’s that pesky cat?

I’m kidding, don’t tell PETA. I’d never chop up my cat for a casserole. Maybe for a stew. I hear they’re gamey.

No, really, I’m just kidding. I’d never chop up my own cat. I’d use the local stray.

Wait, isn’t there a Chinese take-out joke in there somewhere?

I’ll stop now.

But I have some disappointments to voice about the playoff roster.

First, no Tyler Walker? He finished the season with an ERA of 3.06. Only Scott Eyre, Clay Condry, and JA Happ pitched better (of those who pitched 20 or more innings). Chad Durbin had one of the worst K/BB ratios on the team.

Besides, I'm familiar with Durbin disappointment. I’m the one whose husband coined the term Disturbin’ Durbin. And I’m the one who used that term ad nauseam while blogging this season.

And granted, Eric Bruntlett was a bit more ineffective than Greg Dobbs, but Bruntlett dominated the stats in spring training. He simply didn’t get enough game time during the year to stay seasoned. Take it from a babe who’s always in season.

And what about that triple play? Bruntlett has a jersey in the Hall of Fame for that manage et twa.

Ahh, a girl can dream.

And I have some confusion over a decision made during Game Four. Who decided to pinch-hit Greg Dobbs? Ben Francisco had just used up one life to stop a flyball from blowing the game wide open, and he was replaced in the lineup by none other than Greg Dobbs?

I don’t care if it’s better to put a lefty on a lefty, or a lefty on a righty. Just so I get to be on top.

Whoops, was I thinking out loud?

I feel like Dobbs simply contributed a cropped haircut and disappointed sighs to this year’s lineup. Why not use Matt Stairs? At least when he strikes out, I feel like I got a glimpse of Santa.

But I'm sure everyone has already revisited the highlights of that exciting game so I won’t bore you more, but there’s something everyone should know. When Ryan Howard stepped to the plate in the ninth, I so hoped he wouldn’t fall for the breaking ball.

Who am I kidding—“hoping” is for wussies—I dropped to my knees and prayed. I prayed he wouldn’t whiff on a wayward slider, and I selflessly traded my wish for a cellulite cure for a base hit. (I apologize to everyone in section 145 for the unsightliness).

But it worked. That’s my confession. I’ll take credit for his hit. And it may sound futile to trade something so essential as personal beauty for a few RBI, but it’s no more pointless than stalking Shane Victorino with the hope that we’d get stuck on an elevator together.

Not that I’ve ever done that.

At least my Brad Lidge bobblehead has increased in value—and without a government bailout. Actually, it’s no longer a bobble“head”; that’s an unpleasant innuendo. Giving children an item that appears stiff but is really wobbly paints an undesirable picture. But pretending a wobbly head is stiff is second nature for me.

Whoa! Did I really say that?

I’m sorry. The moral of the story is, we shall hereforeto refer to the “bobblehead” as a “bobble figurine.” And we’ll limit our “innuendos” to the Viagra commercials that air during Major League Baseball.

Is that hypocrisy? Can I bake that in a pie?

I especially like the Viagra commercial where two tubs sit, side-by-side, housing horny old codgers...

I’m sorry, my husband tells me that’s not politically correct. Let me try again. So, these two ancient old horndogs are smelling up separate tubs…

He scoffed at me again. Okay, two deprived, shriveled-up old farts are floating their folds under a faucet…

Sorry, how ‘bout one more try? Two respected, elderly citizens are gazing out at the sunset because they hope to get it on before the sun sets on them.

No? I don’t have any idea where I was. I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I posted and I have a lot of built-up tension.

My husband says he knows how I feel.

Okay, let me get through this Viagra story. So, these two horny, wrinkled, respected senior citizens were sitting in separate tubs gazing out over the sunset, when my son asked me, “What’s Viagra do?”

My husband said, “It heats your water.”

Be that as it may, I don’t think it makes sense for a guy to take a dose of Viagra to sit alone in a bathtub.

My husband says it makes plenty of sense. He’s married.

Ohhh! I’ll be here all week. Try the veal. Just not at the Chinese take-out.

And tune in on Thursday night. If the Monday night game was an indication of the standard level of playoff anxiety, I better go grocery shopping.

And hide my cat.

Go Phils!

Pedro Martinez: Quick, Ask Me a Question

2009-07-18T10:59:00.001-04:00

When I walked into my brother’s house for dinner, he asked me one question.

“What did Madonna name her daughter?”

“Lourdes,” I said.

Instantly that answer put me on the Trivial Pursuit dream team. All I needed to qualify was one right answer.

Hell, if that’s how things work, ask me another question. Quick. Ask me if Africa’s a country.

The answer’s “no.”

Now I'm qualified to run for President.

Here’s another question: Are you currently pitching in the MLB?

“No."

You’re hired!

Pedro Martinez can talk the talk and walk the walk, but can he still pitch?

Who knows. No one else was interested enough to give him a contract this year, but the Phillies aren’t worried, they’re only shelling out a million dollars.

A million dollars?! Hey, that’s a lot of money to me. I think I’m qualified to pitch. Quick, ask me a question.

What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

African or European Swallow?

No really, I can pitch. I’ve spent hours doing that on the phone.

Wait, my husband said that’s not pitching, it’s bitc… Okay, you get the point. But that’s how quickly mistakes are made. It’s like trying to fart but accidentally pooping your pants. You just hope it happens close to home.

But Rodrigo Lopez, JA Happ, Antonio Bastardo, or Carlos Carrosco might be looking for a new one. Someone’s got to go. Lopez made his case as a starter in the minors before they were confident enough to bring him up, and Happ has the best stats of anyone in the rotation: he’s 6-0 with a sub three ERA, 6’6”, 200 pounds, brown eyes, nice smile, long thighs…

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

To me, the necessity of needing more pitchers, like the need for radan testing, is questionable.

Forming a pitching staff isn’t as easy as pouring my amorphous breasts into pre-formed cups to make them look bulbous. Pitching is something you can’t fake. And trust me, I know something about that. You can’t mold pitchers like you’re pouring Jello shots. Even though they’re a sweet tasty treat, the side effects are hell—you wake up with no pants and your name’s been changed.

And someone knows you lied about your bra size.

After last night’s win over the Marlins, maybe “Cold” Hamels finally warmed up for good but why isn’t Disturbin’ Durbin looking for a home? And let’s face it. Eight of the 12 pitchers on the Phil’s active roster are over 30 years old. So let’s pick up Martinez, a guy who’s 37, and go after Halladay, a man who’s 32. Don’t get me wrong, I love older men—they’re mature and experienced, and if they need a little performance enhancer to give them a boost, I can wait a few minutes for it to kick in. I have some dishes to do.

What’s my point? I don’t think getting starting pitchers is more important than starting pitchers getting it done. Can they just do the job? That’s a question for Pedro Martinez. That’s really a question for the entire staff. And if they pick up Halladay, how long will he be effective?

As long as Jamie Moyer? Moyer is great against the Marlins especially when his cousin, Little Jack Horner, is behind the plate giving him the corners.

But every pitcher at some point this season has looked like they need a better reason to perform. That’s why I advocate for cheerleaders. Usually money’s the incentive but with the average annual player salary at $3.2 million, it seems like other “figures” need to take the stage.

The excuse before the All-Star break was that the bullpen was overworked but last night’s performance wasn’t an indication of a rested one. Chan Ho Park, Ryan Madson, and Brad Lidge split four of the five earned runs while Disturbin’ Durbin drove up his blood pressure with two hits and two walks in his one plus innings. Fortunately Clay Condrey was activated from the DL to close down an inning and Scott Eyre finally recovered from a pulling a calf while reaching for his beer.

And fortunately the offense didn’t fold when the bullpen did. The 6-5 win in 12 innings put the Phillies ahead by six games in the NL East and increased their winning streak to seven.

That’s not quite the streak I’d like to see Shane Victorino complete out across the field, but hey, a girl can dream.

A girl? How old are you anyway, you ask?

Like I told you last year, I’m 39.

Quick ask me another question.