NL East Race: The Devil Wears Prado

Things have certainly not been going well. It might be the Year of the Pitcher somewhere, but not in Philadelphia.

I’m sorry. Perhaps that wasn’t supportive. Let’s petition to focus only the positives.

I’ll start: Jimmy Rollins is the current active leader in consecutive steals, Placido Polanco is back from the DL with his team-leading batting average, and Ryan Howard leads the league in RBI.

Jayson Werth, however, has developed an unexplained aversion for touching his bat to the ball.

Someone should tell him it won’t make you blind.

Here’s another petition: stop the Tweet-volume graphs on the game recaps. There’s nothing more irrelevant to the game. It’s no secret that the volume of twits tweeting about the Phils is directly proportional to stuff happening during the game.

It’s just as circumstantial as the level of disgust rising in my house when my husband uses the john.

It’s not rocket science.

Supposedly things are so bad people are petitioning to get Pat Burrell back.

Fat chance. He feels right at home peeking over at old teammate, Aaron Rowand, in center field in San Francisco. But Pat’s move to the Bay Area has people wondering about those rumors that he got married—to a girl.

Or maybe I just made that up.

Now the Phillies have three more chances to turn it around against the newly crowned NL Central kings fresh off their six game winning streak.

Perhaps under the lovely shiny arch the Phils will figure out why the early season hitting explosion had an expiration date. Like a Viagra pill for batters, maybe they’ll find something that makes a big, stout piece of wood more effective.

How ‘bout putting Marisa Miller on the mound?

Or just paint her on the center field wall?

Now, you usually only have to glance at stats to tell when a team stinks, but in this case it makes no sense. The Phillies’ lineup leads the division in runs, home runs, RBI, total bases, slugging percentage, intentional walks, extra base hits, and fielding percentage.

They also lead in stolen base percentage because they think like I do: If you don’t steal, you won’t get caught.

And Jayson Werth leads the team with 92 strikeouts—most of which he’s earned since the All-Star break.

That might seem like a rather dubious honor but other players who’ve appeared on the annual “Special K” list are: Babe Ruth, Mickie Mantle, Reggie Jackson, Michael Schmidt, Sammy Sosa, Jim Thome, Adam Dunn, and Ryan Howard—not long before he signed a bank breaking contract.

It’s also possible that those other guys led their league in another important hitting category that Jayson’s failed to conquer. I’d love to investigate this further but I have dishes to do, a cat box to clean, and re-runs of Hawaii Five-O on at three.

Besides we’re staying positive: The Phillies are a better second half team.

The only reason that’s a scary statement is because the current first place team, Atlanta, leads the division in only one stat: on-base percentage. They’re like the Rudolph Valentinos of the NL East. They could sweet talk a girl out of her pants with a timely hit, a little hustle, and enduring patience.

Matter of fact, for their next stadium giveaway they’re handing out EPTs.

Even without extraordinary stats, they’re contenders. And trading off the slacking Yunel Escobar for the slugging Alex Gonzalez is a sure indication that they know this. As long as Brian McCann is the McMan, Chipper Jones continues to take his retirement advice from Brett Favre, and the Mets find the formula to forego flunking late in the season, it’s going to be a tough semester.

So while the Phillies search for the MLB equivalent of the Bunsen burner, I looked for the magic stat that could determine who the next division champ would be. As much as I tried to sway my decision to Philadelphia, the only conclusion I’ve come to is this: The devil wears Prado.

Martin Prado is on course to having a career year. He leads Atlanta in endurance and studliness, and was one of five Braves who made Charlie Manuel’s All-Star roster even though the skipper couldn’t say his name.

Hey, five team members on one All-Star roster? Doesn’t that sound like the 2009 Phillies?

I hate to say it, but if I’ve struck stat gold, Phillies fans might have to settle for good baseball, sexy facial hair, and appealing camera angles this year. Diehards should be asking themselves if they can survive a season unadorned by pennants or trophies or even postseason TV.

Hey, if it’s any consolation, I heard Kim Kardashian has decided to just appear naked in her next season on E!. And Survivor is having a reunion—only breasts and penises are scheduled to compete.

Or maybe I just made that up.

Stay positive.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

 

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My Cliff Lee Quandary: All My Ex’s Live in Texas

I drive a Honda CRV.

It might be the first of its kind; it could be the prototype. There is nothing modern about it. The only gauge I have measures gas; mileage stacks up via flipping digits, and mechanical failures are indicated when the appropriate circle lights up red.

Some people call them idiot lights. That’s because when they glow, idiots wait a few weeks to see if they’ll go out—all by themselves.

I think Ruben Amaro Jr. has a few on. The problem is there’s one that won’t go out all by itself.

Admittedly he’s concerned about pitching. And admittedly he has what it takes to get what he wants. That can only mean two things: Jayson Werth should keep the beard to accent his sex appeal for a trade and the love affair with Cliff Lee continues to be the quintessential story.

Where do I begin

To tell the story of how great a team can be

A great love story ‘bout the man they call Cliff Lee

Another year with a World Series victory

Oh Ruben please.

The way I understand it, Cliffy’s “Dear John” letter traded him to a soggy AL port so Ruben could restock a farm system with guys a lot like the ones he traded for a Cy Young winner he hoped could pitch as well as the Cy Young winner that earned him the only two wins of the last Series.

Did I get that right?

Well, anyway you say it, it broke my heart.

It was like missing a blue light sale by an aisle.

It was like watching any movie by Nicholas Sparks.

It was like finding out Ricky Martin is gay.

And it was like fumbling for your ID at the liquor store and hearing the clerk say, “I won’t be needing that.”

Now the media is teasing Cliffy because he got flustered when someone whispered the name of his ex World Series partner upon his arrival in Texas. That caused him to commit the faux pas of saying he was a Mariner when he was actually obligated to the Rangers.

Cliff, that’s why you never specifically speak a name when you’re in bed together.

Not that I’d know anything about that—darlin’.

I know I’m not alone in wanting him back, and as a devoted fan I’d like something more concrete than reports that Philly is missed by Cliff.

Even a cheesy commitment will do. Something with no legal basis like a promise ring—or a clanky oversized class ring with a tacky stretch of yarn encircling the bottom.

Actually, all it’d take is a steak dinner and a few catchy lines. Come to think of it, if you drive your own car, have enough teeth to eat a steak, and can at least split dinner, I’m yours.

My point is, I don’t care how you do it, just get the job done.

Hold on. What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, Cliff Lee.

I miss his behind the back defense, the way he quick pitches cocky batters, and his ability to yawn while fielding a ball. Don’t get me wrong, I love Roy Halladay. He throws with surgical precision, he’s devoted and proven, and he tossed the perfect game. But in my book there are two perfect number thirty-fours: Cliff and Roy. Call them 34a and 34b if you like, just don’t call them by the wrong name.

Obviously with all the recent whining Ruben’s been doing about his desire for pitching, he knows this too. So when he considers improving his rotation, he should remember one thing: It takes two.

The Phillies and Cliff Lee were meant for each other.

That’s the only way to make that idiot light go out.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.

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

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Philadelphia Phillies: Who’s Not Enjoying This?

 

Yesterday, my son wanted to go to the Dairy Queen. Since I’m trying to eat healthy, I inquired about the selections they had that didn’t resemble candy.

The girl offered me a chocolate covered banana.

I said, “That’s it? Don’t you have a more phallic desert?”

Obviously not. So when she handed the treat my way, one thing crossed my mind:

I’ll have to hold this in a way that makes me look like I’m not enjoying it.

But there’s no way I can hide my pleasure about the series win in the Bronx.

Everyone’s thinking the bat formation in front of Chase Utley’s locker before the Thursday whooping was the series clincher, but I believe there’s only one thing that can cause a change this profound:

Charlie Manuel is on performance-enhancing drugs.

Of course I’ve alleged that before. But how else do you explain Greg Dobbs getting a hit, Raul Ibanez stealing a base, or the Phils finding a rally without Jimmy Rollins?

When’s the last time the team hit back-to-back homers? When’s the last time they even got the ball over the fence?

And when’s the last time we spelled bullpen relief like this: Jose Contreras.

I haven’t had that many questions since I spent the night with Jose Cuervo.

And what about that guy named Placido Polanco? His name doesn’t yet roll off our tongues like Rauuuuul Ibanez, but since the questions surrounding his ability to be effective in the hot corner surfaced at his signing, having a guy named Polly has been nothing less than poetic.

He’s the only guy in the starting lineup still hitting .300-plus and he has the highest fielding percentage of third basemen in the National League.

But when he saved Kyle Kendrick from ruin in the sixth by mounting the tarp, his face had this taunt appearance as if he was up to no good.

I’ve seen the same expression on my dog.

He was having a good time too.

That brings us to the most pleasant surprise of the series—Kyle Kendrick. He was welcomed to the show in 2007 and was up against some heavy hitters for Rookie of the Year like Ryan Braun, Troy Tulowitzki, and Hunter Pence.

Although he’s hardly lived up to the accomplishments of those guys, do we dare hope he’s finally on pace?

Last night he not only had his tempo down, he could lead the marching band. Maybe with the pressure of JA Happ’s return and the question of who’s moving to the bullpen, Kendrick was forced to pitch more like a guy who belongs in the rotation than someone who just got lucky.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The great irony is, three days ago Roy Halladay was considered the key to taking this Yankees series. Instead it was won with a kid that caused my ulcer and a grandpa named Jamie Moyer who’s intent on being the oldest pitcher to do everything.

Wait, that made Jamie sound like my dog.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It might be too early to sing Kyle’s praises—he still walked two and only fanned three, but the composure he showed made him look as stoic as that other strawberry blond, Roy Halladay.

There’s one thing the two hurlers didn’t have in common last night—Kyle Kendrick smiles when things go his way. I saw a big toothy smile.

And barring a great hit here or a good catch there, there’s been a drought of things to smile about lately.

So the big question remains: Have the Phillies turned things around?

That depends. Are you arranging knickknacks in your curio cabinet or talking baseball?

I will say this: There’s no doubt I’d rather be enjoying Phillie wins then munching down on a treat of extraordinary size with a guilty look on my face.

But let’s face it—every game is 27 outs. Charlie went as far as to say if they win every series, they’ll be sitting pretty.

And if they do that, there’s no way I can act like I’m not enjoying it.

Regardless of what my husband says.

See you at the ballpark.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved. Catch life one-liner at a time at http://twitter.com/ABabesTake

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Philadelphia Phillies: There’s Got To Be a Morning After

Charlie Manuel shuffled the lineup again. That’s good, I like adding something new to the same old routine.

Just like me, Charlie must have a drawer he goes to when things go stale.

Hypothetically speaking.

I imagine the Phils are scraping the barrel on superstitions by now. At this point they’re probably wearing children’s panties, playing hopscotch on the way through the clubhouse, and buttering their Pop-Tarts from right to left.

You heard me. Butter on Pop-Tarts. It covers all four food groups: butter, sugar, flavor, and crust.

But honestly, it’s time to really shake things up.

I’ll start.

This babe’s opinion of what the Phillies are missing is heart. The team has as many errors in about 60 games as they did all last season, and figures suggest that aliens abducted the real Phils in mid-May. But most importantly, I’m beginning to think the only reason they looked so good was because the competition was so bad.

It’s the same concept behind Lady Gaga selling records.

Whoa!!! That’ll stir things up. Maybe the Gaga will give me the finger, then me and Mets fans will finally have something in common.

And maybe I’ll finally get the recognition someone else deserves.

Fat chance. Last year I alleged that Charlie Manuel was on performance-enhancing drugs and all I got was a few reads. Poor Jerod Morris of Midwest Sports Fans actually had a basis for making his allegation about Raul Ibanez and he was chastised on national television.

What’s a girl got to do to earn some disrespect?

I know, I’ll trade sex for ballpark seats.

My husband says that’s already been done.

Is nothing sacred?!

My brother texted me the reason the Phillies are fumbling: That’s what happens when you quit cheating.

My reply was rich in reasoning and intelligence: You’re ugly.

Seriously though, what’s a manager to do? He’s in charge of grown men who play sports professionally. They know their job, they know the game, and they know they get paid millions of dollars to produce. But what if, like the guys who claim to be searching for a solution to the BP spill, Charlie’s out of options?

I don’t think setting off a nuclear bomb will stop the earth from emptying its soul into the Gulf of Mexico and I don’t think setting fire to someone’s fanny will make him hit the ball.

Hey, maybe if I sat on Jayson Werth’s lap it would set something off.

My husband says, “Yeah, the remnants of his lunch.”

He would know. In my house a wind instrument isn’t a clarinet and he calls me the human Whoopie Cushion.

And with that, I think I’ve taken a nose dive into disrespect.

Hopefully I’ve said plenty without saying anything at all. Maybe someone somewhere will appreciate my ability to say nothing of value for long periods of time and decide to give me a chance.

Wait. Isn’t that the prerequisite for public office? I can just see my campaign qualifications: ability to lose train of thought while spouting vividly incoherent sentence fragments.

Hey, it worked for (insert favorite politician here).

I would have written my preference but I don’t discriminate. I even believe bi-partisans should serve in the military.

Now I’m done. Hopefully I’ve taken a little heat off the home team and spiced up a day that could end in a disappointing series sweep.

I’ll say goodbye the same way my husband bids farewell to my son.

Go ahead—pull my finger.

See you at the ballpark.

 

 

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Philadelphia Phillies: What’s Not To Love About Interleague Play?

Some people like dogs. Some people only like big dogs.

I don’t blame them. Big dogs are real dogs—a man’s dog. They eat a man-sized meal and take a man-sized crap. They can down a steak in one gulp and leave you a gift the size of a baseball glove when you screw up.

Boston took one hell of a dookie on the Philadelphia Phillies.

The pinstriped NL Pennant champs returned to the scene of their May skid hoping for a Groundhog Day, but got their bats handed to them on a Fenway platter.

The trouble didn’t start with a Boston teammate with a catchy nickname like “Dice-K” or by letting a baseball villain called “The Knuckleballer” have his way with you.

Not that letting a knuckleballer have their way with you is such a bad thing. You don’t ever know where it’s gonna go. In the dark, that could be quite an adventure.

But an adventure is not what the Phillies were hoping for. Baseball isn’t like combing your room for a missing sock or discovering what that bottle of Tequila did with your pants.

Last night’s game felt like a scavenger hunt for a pitcher who could go more than an inning and wouldn’t leave us in suspense.

That reliever was actually a starter named Kyle Kendrick. I’m hoping that means one thing—JA Happ’s coming back. I could really use a change of scenery in section 145 and Happ has quite a tight backside.

But after giving up three hits in as many innings in his rehab start on Tuesday, the possibility of sticking him in the rotation seven days later seems as improbable as my breasts ever attracting attention.

To add insult to injury, the Sox replaced the mildly effective John Lackey with Boof Bonser.

Obviously that’s a real guy.

Boof has spent his major league career perfecting his 2010 ERA of 18.0. He’s even been spotted moonlighting as a hotdog vendor. Fortunately, tossing dogs to patrons has kept him in shape. So after the opposition took a comfortable lead against a slumping Philly team and Jamie Moyer turned the game into a scrimmage, Terry Francona decided to empty his bench.

He just reached a little far into the stands to do it.

Suddenly we’re not thinking Jamie will be playing with one of his sons in the years to come. The Moyer fleet might just lose its captain.

And that brings us to the million dollar question: How much more faith can Charlie Manuel have in players who aren’t effective?

Answer: Ask Dave Trembley.

Whoa! Now before you get your panties in a bunch (and if you’re wearing boxers you probably already do), remember, I’m just kidding.

I’ve always loved Charlie. Even before the weight loss. I love him as a manager, I adore the way his cheeks rumble when he chomps his gum, and I’m still trying to bribe my way into the locker room.

That might have just gotten easier.

But a slump isn’t something that can be assessed and fixed like a car, and putting mind over matter isn’t like learning to bend spoons.

In other words, having a big dog will only guarantee you one thing: big turds.

Meanwhile, I’m happy waiting around to see the losing streak replaced by another, even if I have to run across the field naked to set the pace.

Hey, there are few things funnier than a tiny naked woman getting Tasered on national television. The good news is those little blurry spots won’t have to be too big to hide my privates.

That’ll be one for the scrapbook.

See you at the ballpark.

 

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

 

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.

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. 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 until 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.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe All Rights Reserved

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Philadelphia Phillies: Just Another Reason to Rauuuuuuuul!

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 ending 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 be brought 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 a .63 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 come 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.

 

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe All Rights Reserved

Catch life one-liner at a time on Twitter.

 

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Philadelphia Phillies: It’s Gone!

 

Wow.

It’s not going well. I don’t need to recap how poorly the Phillies have performed recently.

It’s like the pharmacy is plumb out of Viagra.

The stats say it all. 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. Todd Zolecki delivered the news via Twitter post.

I’m so cutting edge.

And, as suspected, Jayson’s energy came from his hair.

Werth struck out three times and hit into one of the double plays that ended three consecutive innings. That’s one way to shorten the seemingly unstoppable torture at Citi Field. Thank God it wasn’t a four game series.

This one seemed to last for all eternity.

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

Liberated women all over the world 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’ve been doing—not scoring runs. It was more frustrating than watching Twilight .

By the end of the third, Philadelphia had chalked 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, “12.”

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 inning, 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 a 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 6. 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 Jimenez leads the MLB with a May ERA of .097?

He’s NOT learning to throw a knuckleball.

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 the Phillies struggles.

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.

 

Copyright Flattish Poe 2010 All Rights Reserved

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

 

 

 

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What Jimmy Rollins Can Learn From Terry Francona

 

“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 first 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.

 

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Jayson Werth of the Philadelphia Phillies: Here’s Your Sign

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. 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.

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.

 

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

Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe All Rights Reserved

 

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