Phillies Home Debacle: ‘Til Death Do Us Part?

Father’s Day is always tough for me because I have to honor my husband in a way that doesn’t directly benefit me.

 

But this holiday was easy.  He made two requests:

 

No. 1 – Spend more time with family.

 

I know where he was heading. That meant he wanted me to back off my blogging fixation and acknowledge that there’s more to life than baseball and the Bleacher Report.

 

After hours of debate and a long intervention, I had to admit, he had a point.

 

“Besides,” he said, “you have a son.”

 

“A son?” I asked. “When did that happen?”

 

I’m just kidding. My child has been extremely patient, but now that school has ended and baseball is simmering, he’d like to share more of that enthusiasm with me instead of seeing me share it with my laptop.

 

And he’s pretty easy to please. He thinks I’m cool just because I can talk like Yoda and maneuver any conversation to a punch line ending with “poop.”

 

And for ten-year-olds, poop rules.

 

But my husband continued.

 

“And,” he added, “you’re starting to look like crap.”

 

“Crap?” I said. “I prefer old and haggard.”

 

Am I the only one who thinks that’s funny?

 

Obviously.

 

I started blogging as a way to give people a short and sweet version of my writing—something my sister strongly recommended.

 

And I admit, writing blogs is a blast. It’s like jumping on my kid’s dirt bike and taking it for a death-defying ride. But writing fiction is like taking the Harley out for a road trip. And if you’re in it for the long haul, you have to hop on the hog.

 

So it’s time to get back to the business at hand. I have a polished story looking for a market, a first draft waiting for a rewrite and a virgin in a new novel dying for a climax.

 

Like my family who’s been wondering where I am, it’s time to address them.

 

But for now, let’s address the Phillies.

 

On behalf of me and everyone who thought all the Phillies had lost their Phightin’ phire, I suggest you do what I did.

 

Shut up.

 

We can no longer pledge the allegiance in school but we can definitely pledge our allegiance to which it stands to Ryan Howard, our first baseman.

 

After running a 104 degree fever, Ryan went from the hospital to the ballpark on Saturday to stagger off the bench and hit one effortlessly over the fence to push his struggling team into the lead. Then it was back to the ER.

 

If that ain’t a Hallmark movie, I don’t know what is.

 

So, I pledge my allegiance to Ryan Howard of the United Phils of America.

And to the Republic to have and to hold, from this day forward, ‘til death do us part…

You may now kiss the bride.

 

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

 

Seriously though, I know the only reason the Phils are first in the division is because everyone else is struggling too. I know Jimmy Rollins isn’t hitting and when he’s not producing, neither is the team. I know the disabled list has a waiting list. I know June is historically a limp-wristed month. I know we can’t win another championship playing like wimps. And I know sell-out crowds can’t continue to be lured to Citizens Bank Park simply with dollar dog nights and the promise of Jayson Werth bare on a blanket.

 

And I know the Phillies were 1-for-8 on this home stand. But getting back on the field after a losing streak like that is like posting your blog for the very first time—you feel naked in front of a crowd.

 

Careful, no giggling.

 

Except in my case, please do.

 

But I think I have the solution. I think when the plane lands in Florida, the team should take a bus and drive to a remote sand lot and engage in a good old fashion game of wiffle ball.

 

Yes, wiffle ball. They need to feel the wind blow through the ball. They need the opportunity to play the game and get smiling again.

 

And I think they should play it naked. It’ll let the wind blow through another area that needs to be fed some sunshine.

 

Last but not least, I know what you’re thinking.  My old man made two requests…

 

Like Ryan Howard said about the Phillies failure to win at home.

 

“I’m done talking about that.”

 

All this means is my blogs will be fewer and farther between, much like my old man’s second request.

 

Until next time…