Roy Halladay Blanked the Cincinnati Reds—Is That a Double Entredre?

When it comes to describing the emotions of a middle-aged woman who witnessed Roy Halladay’s once-in-a-lifetime postseason feat, I simply don’t have the words.

My husband says, “Add that to the other things you don’t have: boobs and couth.”

That might be true, but he wasn’t disappointed the day I proved I didn’t have man-parts either.

Take that Lady Gaga. She thought she was the only person required to prove she’s all woman. Fortunately she confirmed that before she was photographed wearing her meat suit.

Did you see where she placed her t-boner?

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the surreal world of Roy Halladay.

Nary a week has passed since my sweaty thighs slid off my season-ticket seat in my favorite steamy ballpark. Now on a cold, rainy night, with the tiny cast of William Penn looking on from atop the highest building in a city that’s delivered four straight division wins, Roy Halladay was haunted by the Ghosts of Torontos past and stayed the course on his career vision.

Two things were obvious: (1) he’s a man on a World Series mission and (2) I used the word “nary” and you didn’t even suspect that I’m British.

My husband says, “Nor did they suspect you’re funny.”

In any case, you might have noticed that the TBS commentators were not seasoned Phillies’ fans, especially when Brian Anderson referred to the rally towels as “white hankies.”

Like 46,411 fans suspected there’d be no toilet paper on hand.

I think at one point Brian even called the Phillies’ second baseman, Chase Ugly.

They obviously haven’t examined Chase’s backside through binoculars like me—from row three.

But TBS is what I was stuck with on that chilly Monday. As I sat cozy in the Jayson Werth blanket I received for the Mother’s Day giveaway in 2009, my son stood at my feet and asked to join me. I said, “Nothing comes between me and Jayson Werth.”

Literally. I was stripped clean underneath.

Okay, so clean underneath is an oxymoron. But my mind refuses to accept that the Phillies Phantasy Camp is not the Make-a-Wish Foundation for middle-aged women.

And a fantasy without Phillies is like a marriage without beer.

Early in the evening it was evident Roy brought his A-game while Edinson Volquez found a bargain basement deal on the jitters. After Shane Victorino’s second hit in as many innings, Volquez mouthed his frustration with the Spanish word that means, “I love you long time.”

Okay, maybe he threw the f-bomb.

Hey, is that Australian for beer?

Wait. I got that wrong. I think Foster’s is Australian for “I love you long time.” And if that’s the case, then by the transitive property that makes beer Australian for love.

I think beer actually means love in any language.

My husband says, “Beer is Australian for ‘I love you long time,’ especially when you fool a girl into proving she doesn’t have man-parts.”

Now that’s what I call “too much information.”

With Carlos Ruiz crouched down to catch, Men of a Certain Age all over the diamond, and me—the self-proclaimed winner of the best Phillies Phantasy, I feel honored to have been distracted from the softness of my Jayson Werth wrap by the phenomenon that helped win Game 1.

In the end, many things were evident:

I’d do Roy Halladay.

This morning the statue of William Penn was draped in a No. 34 jersey but was mysteriously missing his pants.

Sometime last night Roy Halladay was kissed by a teammate.

I swiped the tears of joy from my face with my “white hankie.”

And my husband wishes I was more like the cat—with an obsession for tending to a certain body part.

Now I’d love to read the Philadelphia Inquirer coverage of Roy’s gem but someone stole this morning’s edition. That’s okay. I imagine the paper will have one of those not-so-glamorous pitcher photos that show Roy with a contorted look on his face and his jersey swollen in the most embarrassing spots.

A lot like me on my honeymoon.

Although Roy’s postseason photo op was 11 years in the making, I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t spend more than a decade of my life preparing to eliminate the possibility of scoring altogether.

That’s what marriage is for.

But in that time, he developed the focus of a warrior. The Reds tried everything to throw him off: stepping out of the box, drawing pitches, coming at him early, and I think I saw one guy wink. But Doc operated like a pitching machine.

I heard Dusty Baker wants him checked for bionic parts.

So we celebrate one Roy and anticipate the game two start of the other, hoping they perform like clones. But like those twins in college, I bet I could find a way to tell them apart.

Did you know when the Braves clinched the National League wild card spot, REO Speedwagon played the postgame show at Turner Field? Why didn’t Citizens Bank Park ever book them? I’ll have to do something about this and flashing someone at a high level is not out of the question. I just hope they have their binoculars handy.

I wonder if they make actual boob-enhancing glasses.

My husband says, “Yeah, it’s called beer.”

Well, he would know.

See you at the ballpark.

 

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