Baseball: No Place For Old Men?

Late bloomers—that’s what the Phils’ seem to be. They’ve bloomed late in a season, in a game, and in an inning. I know how they feel. I’m a late bloomer too. Some of us take a while to catch on, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find our stride eventually. Like the past season’s Mr. September, Ryan Howard, it takes me some time to warm up too. 

 

Growing up I always thought the inflated number at the top of the holy trinity (34-24-34) was a genetic lottery. I thought you either had it or you didn’t. But then I figured out it’s not what you have, it’s how you use it. 

 

Just ask Jamie Moyer. 

 

Strategy goes a long way. Moyer knows how, what, when, where, and why to throw to whom. And if the ump’ stretches the strike zone a micrometer and a few rookie hitters step to the plate, Jamie’s the man. 

 

With a little underwire and some padding, I’m the babe. The older babe. 

 

But age isn’t something that’s coveted in our society and some would argue baseball’s no place for old men. But I think Susan Boyle is a symbol that age isn’t the culprit—it’s aging. The Phils’ get this, Jamie Moyer understands this, Matt Stairs has a grasp, and Raul’s like fine wine, getting better with time. 

 

Personally I favor experience over talent and patience over speed. Old guys tend to have a little stiffness but I know how to take care of that too.

 

And as we’ve seen, success isn’t achieved simply by buying the best. The Yankees are a good example. Success is about chemistry, timing, and patience, and all that comes from experience. 

 

Sure we let Pat Burrell go but look where he went. Tampa Bay needed an experienced leader and they got it. To replace Burrell, we got Raul Ibanez. His timing has been perfect. Raul and the Phils’ have chemistry. My only problem is I’m impatient—good or bad, I can’t wait to see how this season plays out.

 

Phils vs. Nats: Welcome to the Slugfest

It was a weird night at Citizens Bank Park.

 

How weird was it?

 

It was so weird that a girl stood up in front of us to order a drink and took nearly thirty minutes to finish the transaction. Someone sold a ticket to a tree sloth. 

 

It was so weird that when the guys in section 144 started insulting the Nats left fielder, no one joined in. 

 

It was so weird that when someone behind us asked, “Where’s the beer man?” I turned around to see a child of four.

 

It was so weird that Blanton struck out the side in the first and then forgot how to locate a pitch.

 

But the weirdest thing was what happened when Ryan Howard stepped to the plate with the bases loaded, Phils down by four, and did something he hasn’t done since 2007.  

 

When he tapped the bat to the plate, you didn’t hear the usual mixture of “please, Ryan, please,” peppered heavily with the pessimistic, “he’ll probably strike out.” Instead it was like peace and love had blanketed the field, raising fans to their feet like they were levitating.  It was such a fantastical display of optimism and excitement that I knew only one thing could be true: Bin Laden really was dead.

 

It must be true.  When has any other team come from behind four times to win a game?  What happened tonight could only be viewed as mystical.  Even the scoreboard displayed hits and runs in such a consistently even form: 2-2, 5-5, 7-7, 10-10, and 11-11, that everyone sensed synchronicity in the air.  And it promised to work for someone.  So the Phils picked their magic number and put runs on the board in fours: first by Ryan, then by Raul.  Tonight, grand slams came in R’s. 

 

But not all went well.  I lost count of how many batters walked to base for both teams.  Our pitching was so bad, I almost started believing my own theory of the Carlos curse, and it was so bad I almost expected Charlie to call up Cody Ross from the Marlins to close.  But honestly, I think there was a lightness to the air that made sinkers sink, cutters cut, and sliders slide completely out of control. 

 

It was the same lightness that hoisted five home runs into the stands for the Nats, some of which may have set distance records.  I think one landed in a cheesesteak stand.  They flew so far the only thing our outfielders did was sigh. 

 

Even Jimmy Rollins got a break.  It was like mild mannered Jimmy finally found his cape and mask and appeared from the dugout like the old “J ‘Mighty’ Ro,” the superhero we love and missed.  I think he went 3 for 5.  Welcome back J Ro.

 

But alas, I felt bad for the Nationals.  They have the worst record in the MLB, but it’s not for lack of trying.  Our fielding was phenomenal.  And have you seen their batting averages?  They’re really no worse than ours.  I guess there’s no shame in losing a game by two when you scored eleven. The shame lies in losing a game when you scored eleven.

 

So, babes and gents, welcome to the slugfest.  We hope you enjoyed the show.  Tune in again Tuesday.  Maybe it’ll get even weirder.

Phillies Phans: A Perspective on Phlorida

I’m a fan of one of the teams people love to hate, and I’m a lover.  I have to be, I’m a mom.  If there wasn’t estrogen in the world, babies wouldn’t be born and baseball greats wouldn’t be raised. 

 

Or baseball fans. 

 

And one thing’s for certain about Phillies phans: Everything’s about them.  Let me show you what I mean.

 

The thing that disgusts me most about Phils phans is they’re phair weather phriends.  (Get it?)  Well, Phils players might be members of MLB, but they proved they’re Phillies at heart when they swept the Marlins by doing what their own phans do best—kick ‘em when they’re down. 

 

And I loved every minute of it. 

 

It was nice to see our pitchers aren’t the only ones who melt down.  At least we didn’t have to bring in our right fielder to pitch the last inning.  But that’s not to say we wouldn’t bring Jayson Werth in to catch, especially when, in my own personal opinion, the Phils went downhill when Carlos Ruiz got hurt. 

 

I think the Phils deserved it, and I’ll tell you why: They signed cute little Carlos to a measly half-million dollar contract this year, and after his performance in the playoffs and the ’08 Series, that’s an atrocity.  As Thomas the Tank Engine would say, “Serves them right…serves them right!”

 

But don’t brush aside the “other” thing that happened in Phlorida: Jimmy Rollins sat on the bench.  Yup.  Did anyone happen to catch the article where Charlie Manuel spouted his perspective on Phils hitting, and then in the very next sentence Rollins was quoted as saying the skipper doesn’t know what he’s talking about?  Can you smell dissension in the ranks?  I’m a mom, and I can smell a dirty diaper on kid in a shopping cart two aisles away, and I’m saying something stinks. 

 

I hope they get it cleaned up soon.  The Mets are coming to town, and they’re already mad at Cole Hamels for telling it like it is.  But controversy or no controversy, I still love him.

 

I have to.  I’m a mom.  That’s what I’m designed to do.

Phillies-Marlins: Can’t Wait for the Sequel

To everyone who resisted the desire to touch the clicker late in the impending shutout in Friday night’s Phillies game with the Marlins, I commend you.

I have but one thing to say: That’s why we call him Shane Victorino!

Did you see that?! His grand slam was sweet!

So maybe it wasn’t as immortal as the one he slammed when we crushed C.C. (wait, he prefers “CC’; I’m rolling my eyes here) Sabathia in the Playoffs, but it hit the spot, no doubt.

Right before that, I was about to fall asleep. Since almost nothing else happened for eight innings, the commentators busied themselves spouting records and lists and promoting Charlie Manuel’s new show. Then everything changed.

Victorino came to the plate, and the pundits started discussing who would pitch to him: Lindstrom, the Marlin’s freshly groomed pony, or Pinto, the man who could scare a batter to death with his face.

The intrigue grew as we waited to see if Shane would bat left- or right-handed. Switch hitting is such a turn on.

But when he stepped into the ball on the first offering, I got the sinking feeling that Charlie had given him the signal to get hit by a pitch.

No! There’s nothing honorable in that! He’s not Charlie Buttermaker!

My heart stopped, thinking my Shane, my fantastic Hawaiian hustle machine, was about to wimp out and end his 0-for-4 game by taking a pitch to the body (albeit a fine one).

“Say it ain’t so!” I implored.

But wait! That was just a diversionary tactic, as was the whole game! It was like a suspense novel that took eight grueling innings to build. Every now and then, the Phils like to do stuff like this (see the whole ’08 season).

There were other things that contributed to the fiinale that “brought the house down” last night.

First, the Phils sent struggling Brett Myers to the mound to make us fans sweat 44 pitches in the first inning. This served only to help the Marlins’ Dan Uggla break his 21 hitless at-bat drought with something as unbelievable as a three-run homer.

On the other side, the Fighting Fish brought on a pitcher with a 97 MPH fast ball and a slider that could pick off my Dreamsicle like a seagull at the beach. But wait…

Philadelphia had something (or a few somethings) to counter that. They cast Raul Ibanez as the “Zen God of Consistency” and Matt Stairmaster as “The Pinch-Hitting Guru.” Then Myers hit another closed-eye single, and the Phils flashed their first-in-the-MLB-in-fielding-percentage defense.

Next, they threw in “Little Lou Who” Marson, who, after almost cowering in his first at-bat, cracked a late-game single, and Chase Utley belted a verse of “Anything you can do, I can do better” with a one-run dinger. It was as though he and Shane were playing a game of home-run horse. But it gets even better…

Lindstrom just imploded. I thought seven runs and three walks in two-thirds innings was something that only happened to Phils pitchers. Whew!

Glad that notion was shattered.

And last but not least, just to add to the fantastical, the Phillies had 29,132 people in attendance. Yes, that number happened to include 1,540 dogs (yes, actual canine dogs) and one cat (what was he thinking?).

And there you have it. If that doesn’t have the makings of a 7-3, last-inning, Oscar-worthy victory, I don’t know what does. This wasn’t just baseball, it was the work of a professional scriptwriter.

With suspense like this, who cares that Charlie Manuel was born in a car?

Not me. I can’t wait for the sequel.

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