Phillies-Braves Series Sweep: Hmm, That Went Well

Atlanta had the Phillies’ number: 8-6-7-5-3-0-9.

 

Whoops, sorry. That’s Jenny’s number.

 

The Braves were dialed in on Phillies’ pitching.

 

In Thursday’s Philadelphia Inquirer, the banner article on the sports page focused on the hoard of pitching talent residing in the Phillies’ minor league system. But the article curiously didn’t mention a guy named Rodrigo Lopez, yet he’s the choice to start Friday’s home series with the Mets.

 

I’m in the dark on this one.

 

Lopez hasn’t pitched in the majors since 2007 when he underwent Tommy John surgery. Maybe Ruben Amaro Jr. is thinking he has another Jayson Werth-type “diamond in the rough” prospect on his hands. If that’s the case, maybe I should keep a spot open in my “Phillies’ Playmate of the Week” calendar.

 

But the article failed to mention why suddenly the Phils are spotlighting their pitching prospects. Either every team in the MLB has decided they’re a postseason contender and aren’t willing to trade real pitchers for prospects (but Ruben doesn’t want to tell us), or the Phils are trying to convince other teams they have the talent to trade.

 

Can you smell propaganda?

 

That brings us to the current pitching problems.

 

On Tuesday, things seemed to be going okay. Joe Blanton gave up some hits, but kept them in the ballgame until Ryan Madson took over in the sixth. Madson then put enough guys on base to tie the game, before Chan Ho Park gave up the game-winning run in the 10th inning.

 

Then Wednesday, Cole Hamels stunk again and the bullpen could do nothing to dispense of the odor. They say that’s because his pitches were up. Funny, in that kind of heat, I thought balls always hung a little low.

 

High balls are how Phillies’ pitchers made Atlanta hitters quite comfortable at the plate in game two. Postgame commentator, Ricky Bottalico, said he was disgusted that the pitching staff spoon fed the Braves a level of batting ease that rivaled a comfy round of crumpets and tea.

 

Well, obviously I’m paraphrasing, but his point was the batters should have been sweating beads because the pitchers should have been shooting at their feet.

 

Where has the pitching coach been through all of this?

 

Instead, Hamels gave up nine hits on 88 pitches and even allowed a single by the pitcher with a sloppy selection of pitches, while cursing the umpire again. Tyler Walker gave up two home runs in the fifth to earn his first earned run of the season and help Hamels close out his line with seven earned runs over four innings.

 

Then Jack Taschner lived up to his nickname “Trash-ner” when he added a few runs to the Braves’ lead before they shut down the Phillies’ offense in the ninth for an 11-1 loss.

 

Then came game three.

 

What’s happening to Ryan Madson?

 

My husband swears I put a curse on Madson when he signed my backpack at the Winner’s Circle in Exton, Pennsylvania. But I swear I didn’t touch him. And you have no clue how much restraint that took.

 

CSN and now MLB.TV sportscaster, Mitch Williams, says Madson lost his confidence in his first blown save in the absence of Brad Lidge. He says Madson isn’t throwing his changeup, and that’s a confidence pitch.

 

Well, there you have it—straight from the Wild Thing’s mouth. I love Mitch. I have his autograph on my backpack too. He appeared at my Giant grocery store to promote his salsa and I got his signature.

 

I know what you’re thinking—I’m a stalker. Really I’m not, I just play one on Bleacher Report.

 

In the end, the Braves handed Philadelphia their first series sweep in Atlanta since 2005 and gave a fourth straight win to their fans in the stands—all 10 of them.

 

It’s been so long since I experienced any euphoria over the Phillies’ performance, it feels like I’m married.

 

Whoops, that’s right. I am.

 

Things could be worse. The team could be anticipating the return of their greatest offensive contributor only to get the news that his rehab assignment has been postponed.

 

Whoops, that’s right. The return of Raul Ibanez has been delayed.

 

Let’s look on the bright side.

 

Jimmy Rollins broke his 0-for-27 streak, at least for now. I hope he starts a 27-for-27 streak because the Mets love nothing more than coming to town when Philadelphia is feeling down.

 

And right now I think they’ve reached pitch black.

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

What Happens When Mean Boys Take Over a Blog Site

It’s a tough world out there. And blogging is no exception.

 

Recently, a bunch of readers attempted to coerce me from posting to a site called The Good Phight on SB Nation. For your convenience, you can click on those words and it’ll take you there.

 

Isn’t technology great?

 

Basically their beef is that they only want to read news from statisticians and don’t want to be bothered with any opinion on the game outside of graphs that post the Phillies performance on an X/Y axis or ideas aside from numbers that affect a player’s BABIP.

 

A BABIP? Can I calculate that on a slide rule or should I fetch a pipette?

 

Trust me, I get the BABIP. It’s the batting average of balls hit into play and is a method of determining a player’s future value in fantasy baseball. But there’s not a stat in the world that’ll tell you why the Phil’s ruled in come-from-behind wins early in the season and now can’t post one to save their skin. Or when Jimmy Rollins will get his groove back, or what identity Brett Myers with pitch with when he returns.

 

My favorite comment was written by a guy who was so disgusted that he’d spent his only five minutes that day to try to update himself on Phillies stats by reading my article called, “And You Thought Steroids Were No Laughing Matter.”

 

What part of my title infers that it’s a game recap? Then, instead of simply ignoring my blogs, he used another five minutes of his time to write me a very lengthy request to stop posting.

 

Is that an oxymoron?

 

Is that an actual moron?

 

Funny how technically advanced these readers are, yet most of those who posted comments are unacquainted with the shift keys on either side of the keyboard that are responsible for creating capital letters.

 

And it’s obvious most of them need to review a manual on grammar or better yet, read the contents of the First Amendment.

 

Here’s a banner idea. If a blog is posted by someone you don’t want to follow—don’t read it.

 

No, they couldn’t possibly do that. That’s a great piece of advice from someone they don’t want to read, but now they can’t take the advice because it was crafted by someone they didn’t want to read in the first place but were mystically forced to click on their blog.

 

Ahhhhh! It’s a vicious cycle!

 

So Good Phight guys, here’s the deal. When I post something that has the little words “A Babe’s Take” listed as the blogger’s name under the title, don’t click on it. Don’t do it! Stop yourself! Take control, or better yet devise your own 12-step program to deal with it because this three-step program is mine:

 

1.      Get

2.      A

3.      Life

 

Just stop your pointer finger from clicking on my blog because I could care less if your middle finger relays to me what you truly think of my posts.

 

And if you continue to coerce me from posting on this site I’ll start posting more. And I’ll follow that with recipes from Charlie Manuel and holiday gift ideas for baseball lovers from Martha Stewart.

 

I might even contact that lady from Hints from Heloise to gather stain fighting tips for the players who tarnish their uniforms on a slide, or worse yet, start collaborating on blog ideas with my grandma.

 

And for your information, a frequent reader of The Good Phight secretly emailed me to let me know this would happen, yet he encouraged me to keep posting.

 

So let me tell you what you can expect when you see that I’ve listed another blog. I’m a hundred pounds of pure babe and this is my skinny on the Phillies. I have words and I’m not afraid to use them. I’ve even been known to share facts via cheesy poetry. But be warned, Dr. Suess is my idol.

 

Matter-of-fact I feel a poem coming on now. Nope, sorry that was a side effect of tacos.

 

Here’s the poem.

 

Ode to Mean Boys

 

Do not read my blog today

‘cause now you know it’s not your taste.

I’ve been known to skirt the stats

And post a blog that’s causes laughs.

 

I sometimes write these in a car

And sometimes when I’m driving far.

And at the bar

And on a star

While drinking from a Mason jar.

 

I love the Phils and I love men.

I’m sometimes like a mother hen.

I will not stop what’s in my head.

I will not fear what lies ahead.

 

So read my posts if you can make

A cake from scratch for your blind date.

But rest assured I mean to stay

And post my thoughts upon your page.

 

There. Put that in your pipette and BAP it.

 

The rest of you I’ll see at the ballpark.

And You Thought Steroids Were No Laughing Matter

Testosterone, steroids, PEDs, or performance enhancers.

Anyway you say it, it means one thing: We can’t stop talking about them—or rather we can’t stop talking about the people who abuse themselves with them.

 

Honestly, I think the whole “steroids in baseball” thing is a welcome reprieve from reality TV, and a lot more interesting than Who’s Got Kate’s Eight or whatever that show is called, but one thing doesn’t make sense.

 

I thought baseball players volunteered for the 2003 test that put them on that “list.”

 

Don’t get me wrong—taking steroids is unacceptable—but a secret list of men on ‘roids is as dangerous as parading the Chippendale dancers past a crowd of desperate housewives.

 

That “list” is like a who’s who of “men I’d love to…” Well, let’s just say we shall heretofore refer to it as the “MILF list.”

 

But who’s leaking the names?

 

It’s not me. I only leak when I sneeze.

 

My money’s on Dr. Evil. I’ll bet he’s in bed with one of the lawyers who feeds victims from the list to the New York Times in return for derivative tips on how the announcement will affect Wall Street.

 

And I think Dr. Evil has developed an undetectable method of performance enhancement and has a team of slaves he’s collected and injected for league domination.

 

On that note, Dr. Evil could only be a girl. And I’ll bet she’s mad that Alex Rodriguez wouldn’t sleep with her.

 

That’s the answer – a woman scorned. Nothing’s more vindictive. Just ask Lorena Bobbitt. Except Lorena could actually find what she wanted to cut off her husband.

 

Whoa! Did I just say that?

 

That’s the ironic thing—when you use steroids to enhance your performance, your package gets smaller.

 

Hey, if someone needed advice on enhancing something, they should have asked me. I can make my 32As look like decent points with a few tissues and some duct tape. My only regret in life is that Fox cancelled The Swan before they chose me as a contestant.

 

Trust me, I’m qualified.

 

Speaking of TV…We all watch PHL17, CSN, and occasionally, Fox and ESPN, to see all our favorite Phillies games, but not one has passed where Cialis or Viagra wasn’t promoted during the game to enhance your performance after the game.

 

And the new AndroGel “T level” Enhancer wasn’t designed to increase your IQ. Ironically, when it does its job, it will decrease your level of intelligence, so the “T” definitely doesn’t stand for “thought,” yet their ads are placed strategically within the Daily News reports on major league baseball.

 

Is that hypocrisy?

 

I hope so. I love hypocrisy. Actually it’s quite good on toast.

 

I’m sorry. That last line was taken straight from Shrek. But it’s such a choice line I couldn’t help myself.

 

I better be careful. People will accuse me of using comedy-enhancing methods. God knows I have to do something—I gave up comedy-enhancing drugs a few years ago. But that’s not to say they’re not rampant.

 

Matter of fact, I wonder how many bloggers are using writing-enhancing drugs as we speak.

 

Huh! And all this time I thought I was blogging on a level playing field.

 

That’s why I propose we start drug-testing bloggers. Sure posting blogs is something people do for free, but how many of them are spelling while under the influence or worse yet, using grammar to get high.

 

This calls for an intervention!

 

I think our industry needs its own twelve-step program.

 

And I have just the one. Fortunately for all those with busy lifestyles, it’s a time-saver. There are three simple steps:

 

1.      Get

2.      A

3.      Life

 

There. I’ve said it.

 

Admit it. Steroids are like a Victoria’s Secret catalog – they’re everywhere.

 

Matter-of-fact when my babysitter came with her bags of tricks and pulled forth her favorite DVD, my 10-year-old took a gander at the cover and said, “It looks like Shrek is on performance-enhancing drugs.”

 

Hey, it wasn’t as bad as when he donned a dish towel as a cape and ran past her, proclaiming, “I’m Cialis man!”

 

No industry is immune. Some type of performance-enhancement method has been used in virtually every professional sport: the NFL, the MLB, horseracing, NASCAR, and biking are just a few that come directly to mind. I’m sure the only reason I haven’t heard of them everywhere is simply because I don’t know everything.  

 

And that’s hard for me to admit.

 

Just ask my husband.

 

I think our obsession with the witch hunt is it fulfills our need to be disappointed in people.

 

We’re obsessed with making others live up to the standards we place on them simply because we’ve spent a buck to fulfill some egotistical need.

 

I’m guilty of it. Personally my beef with players doing steroids is they were blessed with a talent possessed by few, and they’ve exploited it.

 

But you could apply that to Michael Vick and Donte Stallworth, among others.

 

They were born with a gift. Straight from the factory, a lightning bolt was installed in their arm or jet packs affixed to their heels. They were born a head above the crowd while the rest of us were dropped with a chip on our shoulders.

 

All they had to do was use their God-given talent to obtain world domination, but they chose to waste it. They ruined it for themselves while ruining our hopes for them.

 

We wanted them to show us what real gods were. We wanted someone physical we could believe in.

 

Because we have no reason to believe in ourselves.

 

Let’s face it. They’re not gods—they’re just people. They’re just sports figures. They’re just doing the best they can with what they have and they look good on a cereal box.

 

And when that’s not enough, they enhance themselves.

 

We all do. That’s what Creatine, Red Bull, Viagra, Lasik, Botox, Spandex, and Certs are all about.

 

And how many natural blondes do you know?

 

We’re all just increasing our odds of making it.

 

What’s my point?

 

I don’t have two nice ones so I better come up with something.

 

Here it is: that list was a confidential collection of MILFs who participated in a test under the terms of an agreement with the MLB.

 

Anyone who disseminates information from that list should be prosecuted just like they’re trying to do to the guys whose names were leaked.

 

And I think Lorena Bobbitt should man the guillotine.

 

That list should have been destroyed. Much like my Christmas list last year, it was something controversial and private.

 

I never meant for Shane Victorino to know I asked Santa to abduct him, roll him in gift-wrap, and set him under my tree. I’m sure the union has rules against that. And I’m sure those regulations require a potty break.

 

But this list is being distributed and I would simply like to know who’s leaking the names.

 

I say it was Alex Rodriguez in the bedroom with the nanny.

 

Whoops…wrong game. I meant Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick.

 

Speaking of that, how lethal is a candlestick anyway? I’ve never heard of someone being accosted by a criminal with a candlestick. Don’t let Al Qaeda hear about the versatile candlestick. That would start a whole other concern at airport security.

 

Allow me to ramble on.

 

Where was I?

 

Oh, yeah. I’m tired of people alleging, accusing, and peeing in the pool. From the moment steroids were discovered, everyone knew how they’d be used, so any league that didn’t jump on the opportunity to ban them is as responsible for their use as the guys who used them.

 

And I could care less if users are inducted into the Hall of Fame. I think it’s true that major league baseball has taken a wrap worse than any other professional sport, but once I leave this world that’ll be the farthest thing from my mind.

 

And a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

 

I saw that on TV, so it must be true.

 

I just like watching the game. I like squeeze plays at home, double steals, and grand slam home runs. I like Shane Victorino and Jayson Werth, and after I die, I’m going to peek at them in the shower.

 

Then I’ll go sit in that booth in the sky with Harry Kalas and continue enjoying my Philadelphia Phillies from cloud nine.

 

There might be more to life than baseball, but there’s nothing more than baseball in the afterlife.

 

Just ask Harry.

 

On that note, as far as this topic is concerned, “I’m outta here.”

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

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…

Phllies-Orioles: Evolution Of a Nickname

There’s one thing the Phillies loss did last night, it made it easy to find my car.

 

When Jack Taschner replaced Antonio Bastardo after seven innings of five-hit, four-run baseball, it didn’t take long for the reliever to clear the stands.

 

My husband, the self-proclaimed Phillies pitching critic, has been known to coin a term here and there to capture his frustration.

 

So far he’s created “Disturbin’ Durbin” to describe his delight with reliever Chad Durbin, and crafted a catch-all phrase to describe what the bullpen does in poor outings.

 

He calls it “jack-assing.”

 

So it’s only fitting that Jack Taschner fell victim to my husband’s wit as well.

 

Jack ran the gamut of stats. In two innings he struck out one, walked one, gave up three earned runs, and made sure one of the five hits allowed cleared the outfield wall.

 

My husband says he shall now be known as “Trash-ner.”

 

I say he was just being efficient. Like a good multitasker, “Trash” was getting more done in less time.

 

But the batters were getting less done with more.

 

The Phillies offensive put 11 guys on base: five from walks, but could only get two home. Jayson Werth continued his hot streak going 2-4 and collected both RBI. And the new tall drink of water, John Mayberry Jr., managed two hits too. But add a single by Carlos Ruiz and the 17th double of the season for Shane Victorino and that pretty much completes the show.

 

Last night I decided I’d forget about all the Phil’s shortcomings and do something that would bring the players closer to me—bait them over with candy.

 

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

 

Actually I decided I’d examine one player through my binoculars—a good looking one.

 

My victim was Shane Victorino. I stalked him because first, he had the inaugural hit of the night; second, the huge green stain on his backside lured me in like a latte, and third, his image was tainted during a prior game round of “Ask the Phillies.”

 

If you’ve never been to Citizens Bank Park, let me explain.

 

In “Ask the Phillies,” one of the ball-girls poses a question to the players.

 

Wait, ball-girls can speak?

 

I know I was shocked too.

 

Anyway, the answers are previously recorded and played back on Phanavision. In one go-round, Victorino was badmouthed by the following question, “If you were stuck on a deserted island, which one of your teammates would you want with you?”

 

Well, not only did no one pick the hustlin’ Hawaiian, some of the guys verbally excluded him before sharing their actual choice.

 

What could be so bad about Sugar Shane?

 

He has hustle and guts, not to mention eyes in the back of his head when it comes to fly balls. I’m sure all these things could be useful on an isolated land mass.

 

Well, while dissecting his baserunning, I discovered why no one wants to be left alone with Victorino and why a position clear out in center field suits him.

 

He’s pesky. He’s a non-stop display of perpetual motion.

 

He danced on the base path, dug up the dirt around it, harassed the baseman, and even swatted a guy with his gloves. Then after he stole third, he stood on the grass next to the third base coach to chat—while the ball was still in play—just to taunt people.

 

Honestly, it looked like he had ants in his pants. And I feel like if he had a magnifying glass he’d be burning them like a little kid.

 

I now call him “No-Shame” Victorino. But he’s still one of my favorite players. And one of the cutest.

 

But I’m still concerned that the faltering bullpen will make that one-year contract man a prime candidate to trade for an A-list arm.

 

Better gather up your Shane memorabilia, girls, it might have just increased in value.

 

And if Brad Lidge doesn’t find his groove in his rehab stint in AA, his bobblehead may rest in peace.

 

Well, the Phillies have lost six of seven at home. Last night they lost the first of three to the team with the worst road record in the American League.

 

It could be worse. The Yankees are trying to forget that they lost two of three to the worst team in all of baseball, the Nationals.

 

But even New York saw those little town blues go melting away as they bounced back to win one against the Marlins last night.

 

So there’s hope.

 

There’s hope that the Phillies will discover their world champion fashion and ascend from this chasm unscathed. I just hope they pinpoint the problem.

 

I’m afraid it might be a home field curse. I know about those, I suffer from one every month.

 

Maybe that’s it—June is the month the Phils “cycle.”

 

Why didn’t they say something?

 

In that case, I totally sympathize. I’m just coming off mine.

 

Here’s my advice: take two aspirin, where loose clothing, eat lots of chocolate, and rent a good tearjerker.

 

Whatever you do, don’t do something drastic to your hair—you’ll regret it in the morning.

 

I don’t know what’s more troublesome, their sluggish bats, the stagnant bullpen, the indifferent defense, or the big blemish forming on my chin.

 

I need to find my Clearasil, my “complexion” enhancing drug, to fight the pimple I got from eating too much chocolate, my “zit” enhancing drug.

 

Until the Phillies manage another victory, the cocao in my Dove bars is the only “wit” enhancing drug I have.

 

So the Mets pulled within two, the Phils can’t win, and I have a zit on my chin. It attracts stares like a closer celebrating on the mound under a pile of Phillies.

 

Wait, a closer actually did celebrate on the mound under a pile of Phillies. But it’s been a long time since one of them have had the opportunity.

 

I hope that’s all about to change.

 

Brad, can’t wait to see you in the bullpen.

Phillies-Blue Jays Finale: The Sequel to Benchwarmers?

First, let’s look on the bright side.

 

The Phillies came from behind to tie the game twice with the help of home runs by Jayson Werth, Jimmy Rollins, John Mayberry, Jr., and Greg Dobbs. New reliever, Tyler Walker, was once again thrown to the lions in a bases-loaded, one-out situation and survived. Jimmy Rollins was 3-for-5, lending faith to his renewed offensive demeanor. And every starter made it to base – at least once.

 

And I have a name for my new goat.

 

I now dub thee Marco Scutaro.

 

I name my goats after Phillie killers and this one certainly has a nice ring to it.

 

When Scutaro scooted around first on a walk and stole second on fielding indifference, my child said, “Wow, that’s embarrassing.”

 

Then when John Mayberry Jr. was daydreaming in right when he fielded a single as Scott Rolen rounded first and then took second to embarrass the Phils further, my son said, “That’ll put you on the bench.”

 

Last year Jimmy Rollins was stashed in the dugout for lollygagging to first base, and also for dawdling to the game in New York. But I’ve seen a bunch of malaise lately and none of it has landed anyone on their butt.

 

Charlie Manuel says he’s not ready to throw stuff around the locker room to fire up his team.

 

Yet.

 

But I’m sure some players are on his dart target.

 

My dad used to coach little league. He tells a story of how he took his junior high team to a playoff game in northeast Iowa. As they were warming up, they watched the opposition’s starter throw pitches. He said it was the crack of a pitch into the catcher’s mitt that first caught their attention.

 

So by the time the game started, the lead-off man stood at the plate and could only cower. After the second batter watched three scorching strikes whiz by, my dad pulled the kids aside and seethed, “Are you baseball players or pussies?”

 

The next batter hit a single but was eventually stranded on base. But at least they’d started swinging. When the first little hitter came back into the dugout, he glared at my dad and said, “It’s not as easy as you think.”

 

It’s not. Nobody ever said it was. But bad at-bats, no try, and injury excuses in the middle of June are getting old. If you log into the Phillies home page and check out the injury update, you’ll see the team’s pretty well off.

 

They’ve got a groin pull, a bum knee, a sore calf, and a bad hip. Add a yeast infection and you have a book club.

 

Does that make Midol a performance enhancing drug?

 

My point is, things could be worse.

 

I hope it doesn’t need to get pitch black before it gets better.

 

We’re natural pessimists. When things are going well, we’re programmed to think it has to come to an end.

 

So it does.

 

Or doesn’t. The Phillies beat themselves today. The fielding indifference put two runners in scoring position that made all the difference in the world. Add the third error of the season by Pedro Feliz to squelch a sure double play and you have an 8-7 loss. That’s aside from the nine strikeouts that helped strand the same number of runners on base.

 

So, do you want to play ball or gather around to discuss a bestseller? It makes no difference to me. I even have a few books I could suggest. But there are plenty of those.

 

I’d rather see a great team play.

 

So would my goat.

 

Phillies, we want you baaaaaaack.

 

Philadelphia Phillies: Welcome to the Land of Oz

If I had a nickel for every time I said, “What do you plan to do with that booger?”

 

I’m sorry, I got sidetracked.

 

I meant, if I had a nickel for every time I said, “The Phillies don’t need another pitcher,” I’d be rich. Okay, maybe rich only from my son’s point of view—when you’re 10, a buck buys a lot of Big League Chew.

 

But I might be alone in my thinking. Charlie Manuel announced yesterday that he wanted another A-list pitcher.

 

If I only had a heart, I wouldn’t see through Charlie’s words. I think this is Charlie’s way of booing his starters.

 

Hey, he’s the one who said Phil’s fans need to start booing their team. I think he thinks they’ve become complacent at home. Well, their home stand record would indicate that.

 

I’ll admit, the team’s starting pitching has been bad. But what if it’s just been spoiled?

 

Everyone’s making a big deal of Brett Myers being out for the rest of the season, but if I only had a brain, maybe I’d remember he had some other great outing this season besides his domination of the Yankees in New York.

 

Let me think again. Nope, got nothing, but my IQ test on Facebook would indicate thinking’s not my strong point. Then again, it said Britney Spears got it on with Albert Einstein.

 

And if I only had some courage, I’d say they don’t need more starting pitchers, they need the ones they have to do their job.

 

Whoops, I just said it.

 

Welcome to the Land of Oz.

 

Throughout interleague play in the Emerald City, Phil’s pitchers have shown glimpses of the World Champions, but lately they’ve mimicked a team that looks lost in front of interleague batters.

 

I feel like they had one glorious week where just about every pitcher had their best outing of the season, including J.A. Happ and Antonio Bastardo.

 

Why can they do it one day and not another? Beginner’s luck?

 

Maybe Charlie’s thoughts are buried in another thing he said lately—Pedro Feliz has been successful at the plate because he’s “aggressive and selective.”

 

Maybe he really means that’s what his entire team needs to be. Maybe he’s speaking in secret code—maybe he’s a spy. Or maybe he’s the great and almighty Oz.

 

If I wore a Phillies jersey, I’d follow the yellow brick road.

 

See you at the ballpark—without the little dog.

Phillies-Blue Jays: It Sure Ain’t the Luck of the Irish

There’s Murphy’s Law, and then there’s Murphy’s game.

 

Phillies ace Cole Hamels suffered another sub-par start, preempted by two changeups that kicked up dirt in front of the plate on the first batter of the game. The divots his pitches made were deeper than the ones I made during miniature golf—and that’s bad.

 

Although Cole would manage to hold the Jays to only three runs when he passed 100 pitches by the bottom of the sixth, it was another indication that foul balls eat up pitches, and pitch counts get high when balls are left hanging.

 

Then the Phillies bullpen fumbled through the game.

 

Disturbin’ Durbin surprisingly failed to live up to his name as he quickly retired four in the seventh, but then J.C. Romero had a problem getting in the zone.

 

Little did we know, he would walk half of the six batters he’d face and would be spared an earned run only because of a base running error by Alex Rios.

 

Rios failed to tag on a fly ball to left and was stranded on third like an ugly prom date when Romero finally ended the inning. He suffered an outing that jump-started a string of walks that wouldn’t end until the bullpen had served up eight and forced in two runs.

 

In the ninth, Ryan Madson took the mound with a one-run lead and fired a 97 mph fastball for a first-pitch strike.

 

But don’t let appearances fool you. Vernon Wells hit the second pitch for an infield single to break his 0-for-21 hitless streak.

 

And that was just the continuing of the end.

 

Then ex-Phillie, Scott Rolen, decided to start swinging. Until the ninth, he was 0-for-4, which included two walks and a strikeout looking. He was just “watching the world go by” until he took a liking to what Ryan was serving. Rolen fouled off three before connecting for a double, moving two runners into scoring position.

 

But when a pitcher intentionally walks a hitter to load the bases with no outs, it’s usually courteous for the other team to hit into a double play, right?

 

Well, those Canadians don’t know anything about etiquette. I thought Madson would be fine when he struck out his fourth batter, but then a misplaced changeup walked in a run.

 

Whoops, must have been Murphy’s pitch.

 

Although the interim closer managed to force ex-Philly, Rod Barajas, into an infield pop-up and then struck out the last batter by making that previously ailing changeup work, it was the end of his 15-inning scoreless streak, the end of the inning, and the end of the line for Madson.

 

I saw Ryan at the Winner’s Circle in Exton, Penn. on Monday and had him sign my backpack.

So when he ran into some really bad luck in this game my husband said, “You didn’t shake his hand did you?”

 

“No!” I said. “I swear!”

 

I don’t blame him for blaming me. I’m Irish.

 

Besides, passing the blame is what marriage is all about.

 

But this was the game where “anything that could go wrong, would go wrong.” And like the Energizer bunny, it kept going, and going, and going.

 

Mr. Usually Consistent, Clay Condrey, took the stage in the tenth. Our hopes were focused on maintaining the tie and going into the bottom of the inning with a respectable chance of winning.

 

Unfortunately, the Jays were focused on getting on base. And their focus was sharper. Like a housewife on a sixty-second shopping spree, they stuffed ample play in their bag.

 

Condrey was consistent with Phils’ pitching in one area: he loaded the bases. That was the fifth time a pitcher with a “P” on his cap managed that. And sticking with further tradition, he walked one in.

 

Instantly rumors of his sore back started circulating. I even saw a doctor in the stands hold up a prescription for muscle relaxers. But it was too late. He chalked up two earned runs before brand spanking new reliever, Tyler Walker took the mound.

 

It was the third time Walker was told to warm up since he got here, so it was time to stop teasing him. But I’ll admit, it’s not nice to throw a guy in front of 44,958 irate Phils fans with the bases loaded and one out. It borders on cruel.

 

The poor guy was hit for a sacrifice fly and an off-the-wall double before begging someone to keep the ball on the ground so overworked shortstop, Jimmy Rollins, could finally stop a hit and get it to first in time.

 

Poor Jimmy. He ended the game looking like a he belonged in a Tide commercial. He made plays reminiscent of his Golden Glove status, and even ate dirt to try to spare Ryan Howard his third error of the week on a wild throw.

 

In the sixth, J-Ro’s dive after an elusive grounder left him empty-handed, but he managed to pounce on the next two only to be denied a play at first on both. He couldn’t have gotten the ball there faster if he’d sent it by Fios.

 

Then in the seventh he put down a perfectly executed covert bunt to get to first and then slid into second on an overthrow that tied the game in errors. But Jimmy was simply a statistic when the inning ended with a Chase Utley K.

 

Without J-Ro in position six, things could have been worse. But he couldn’t stop the bleeding. The Blue Jays pulled ahead by five in the tenth. When Toronto headed to the bottom of the inning with reliever, Jesse Carlson, a pitcher with a 5.22 ERA, one thing was certain—he was hittable.

 

I was a giddy as a goat in a junk yard.

 

It looked like everything that could go wrong had already gone wrong when Chase Utley started out with a single. But then Marco Scutero robbed Jayson Werth—the two-run home run hero of the sixth—of a line drive hit.

 

Even though Chase stole second in a gallant attempt to get into scoring position, Ryan Howard flied out to center, and Raul Ibanez popped out to give Scutero his second putout of the inning.

 

And I was told I could put-out.

 

The R’s in our lineup racked up some K’s. Ryan and Raul combined for six fans. It seemed like Chase was the only one seeing the breaking ball off the Jays “work in progress,” “effectively wild,” starter Ricky Romero.

 

Well, the wild youngster effectively progressed through the game against the Phillies allowing only three runs to score while striking out nine.

 

It was a strange game. It looked more like the Phillies needed a day off rather than just had one. The Jays stranded 15 runners and won, and the Phils only abandoned eight and lost. The infield fly rule was called three times on the same batter, a pitcher who made his first plate appearance in the majors was asked to attempt a squeeze bunt at home, and a great Jayson Werth throw to the plate was so late we thought the rabbit died. 

 

The Blue Jays—a team that was 0-27 when trailing after eight—beat a team that had the best record in the MLB since mid-May.

 

If you go back five or six of my past lives, I have the best record too—in the Jurassic league.

 

Someone, somewhere, was screwing with fate.

 

Probably a leprechaun.

 

Like my husband said, the Irish were responsible somehow.

 

See you at the ballpark.

Abstain From Baseball? Watch Your Mouth

Just because the Phillies were off yesterday doesn’t mean I have to stop writing about them. I’m a babe and I’m Irish. That means I can’t stop my obsession with boys and I can’t stop talking—but not necessarily in that order. 

 

But when my husband asked if I could abstain from baseball for just one day, I was speechless.

 

Abstain?

 

What kind of question is that?

 

“When’s the last time you abstained?” I asked.

 

No answer.

 

That’s what I thought.

 

Besides, I don’t think abstinence works. I’ve read that right-wingers are big on it, and I also recently read an article about how “big on that” they are.  It said Texas leads the union in funding for abstinence-only education, yet surprisingly it also leads the nation in teenage pregnancies.

 

I wonder what the point is.

 

You want to know what I think? 

 

I’ll tell you anyway. 

 

The problem is the campaign is directed at girls.  Allow me to explain.  

 

Girls are estrogen mongers. We’re designed to love.  Without it, baseball players, coaches, commentators, owners, vendors, and most importantly—fans—wouldn’t exist.

 

Neither would jewelry.

 

All babes sell their souls for chocolate, but real babes sell their souls for baseball.  So to tell a real babe to abstain from baseball is like telling Jayson Werth to stop posing for the hotties along the right field seats as he saunters out to his position.

 

And it’s not that I think he should stop that either. I don’t mind him posing—I’m stalking him through my binoculars, but only because it’s illegal to touch him.

 

I’m sorry. Was I thinking out loud?

 

Baseball babes come in heat at the start of spring training, and stay at the ready until the last out in the Series. That’s the real biological clock and it’ll tick no matter what.  If you want Jayson to stop being a man, feed him saltpeter, but don’t be surprised when he loses his desire for everything.

 

So, you can try to take the babe out of baseball, but you’ll never take the baseball out of the babe. 

 

What do you do? 

 

Show her how to be smart about it. 

 

Teach her what hustle is by watching Shane Victorino, or show her how to avoid getting caught with your pants down on a fake throw by Chase Utley. Or let her see how older guys like Raul Ibanez can still get it on in left field and at the plate through sheer effort, or how Ryan Howard improved his game and why it’s so important to believe you can. 

 

Like John Mayer said—fathers, be good to your daughters.

 

Take her to the ballpark and teach her how to believe in her team. Give her an outlet for her enthusiasm. Show her how to think for herself and not follow the fans who boo the other team instead of cheering for their own. And teach her why it’s so important to listen to coaches to get safely around the bases.

 

Most of all, show her how sometimes things aren’t going as planned, but that doesn’t mean the season won’t turn around.

 

The last thing I’ll say is, if Texas secedes from the union, I hope Ruben Amaro gets a free trade agreement with them. It’d be nice to pick up right-handed home run slugger, Nelson Cruz. 

 

Like I tell my husband, you can appreciate my opinion or tell me to shut up about it, but don’t ask me to stop dreaming about the game.

 

Remember, there’s no abstinence in baseball.

 

Peace.

 

Phillies-Red Sox: Is That The Swine Pitching Flu Or Do I Smell Truffles?

Sunday’s 11-6 Phillies victory over the Red Sox was a welcome change for a number of reasons.

 

It was the shortest game Philadelphia has played since the June 9 loss to the Mets in eight and a half innings, it was the first Phils win of the series, and it was a game that restored some semblance of faith in our inexperienced pitching staff, thanks to the recovery of J.A. Happ.

 

The Phillies were already three games up in the NL East when the game started, but I wonder if Charlie Manuel knew that the Met’s Johan Santana had lasted only three complete innings and allowed an amazing nine earned runs against the Yankees when he made the decision to let Happ work it out.

 

I wonder if he knew Derek Lowe of the Braves allowed seven earned runs in 2.1 innings. And I wonder if he had an inkling that Josh Beckett of the Red Sox, who had allowed only one earned run in his last 28.2 innings, would regress to his slow season start and give up 11 hits to the Phillies.

 

The swine flu has reportedly reached pandemic proportions.

 

Now it’s infiltrated the MLB. It’s mutated into the swine pitching flu, and trust me—we know what it’s like to stink.

 

The youngster Happ suffered from it in the second inning when he gave up back-to-back home runs, walked two, and allowed two singles and a sac fly to give the BoSox a quick 4-1 lead.

 

But Charlie put the sad Happ-y back in for the third, and watched as he walked his token two while giving up another single.

 

But then Happ shut Boston down in the fourth and the fifth, and allowed only one more hit—a dinger in the sixth—to bitter pitcher Josh Beckett. After one more walk, he finished his day with 108 pitches and a tie game.

 

The most amazing thing about Happ’s performance was the Red Sox didn’t chase his pitches anywhere. They weren’t even interested. You could have sashayed a Playboy Playmate past their bench and they wouldn’t have given her a glance.

 

Is it possible the swine flu mutated into the chastity flu?

 

If so, Pedro Feliz caught it. He chased nothing. He just stood stoic and waited for that hot little fastball to come begging for a hit.

 

You can’t blame him. He knows what he likes. I love restraint in a man, especially when he’s on my favorite team and not married to me.

 

That discipline earned him the “Chevrolet Player of the Game” and the accompanying spread in my Phillies “Playmate of the Game” calendar. He was 3-for-5 on the day, had two RBI, and scored twice himself.  It was his 21st multi-hit game this season and increased his average to .318—a whopping 62 points above his career average. And he’s now just four points below team slugging champ, Raul Ibanez.

 

That brings up the age old question: Is this really no game for old men?

 

Speaking of the old Zen master—Ibanez sat out his first game all year, breaking his 222 consecutive game streak. For a moment, I thought he’d come down with something too. But he was just getting a much needed break.

 

Or so they say.

 

Hey, was that an allegation?

 

I don’t know what had affected Jimmy Rollins’ bat. The ailing mahogany hadn’t seen a base hit in 14 trips to the plate. Then in the top of the seventh, he connected on Beckett’s 101st pitch, sending it soaring over the outfield wall, only to get greeted by the dugout “freeze.”

 

I hadn’t seen the Phillies smile like that since Jimmy orchestrated the “freeze” to newcomer John Mayberry after his first major league home run on May 23.

 

For a while I thought there was no smiling in baseball.

 

But J-Roll started a rally that wouldn’t end until the Phils had ripped through two more Red Sox pitchers and scored six runs off four hits in one inning.

 

Now that’s the job of the lead-off hitter; that’s the job of your leader. It was the first time in the series I felt like I was seeing the real Philadelphia Phillies play baseball instead of watching a team that looked exactly like what Phillie’s fans are used to seeing.

 

Even Chase Utley was caught curling his lips.

 

I know! He faked a pop fly drop in the bottom of the seventh inning, probably to try to catch Boston outfielder Jason Bay off base.

 

But the umpire didn’t fall for it.

 

If Chase would smile at me, I’d fall for it. I guess that’s why I’m not an MLB umpire—aside from the fact that I have breasts—somewhere.

 

So the Phightin’s rebounded to win after two tough losses to what is allegedly the best team in the American League.

 

Since the Phillies won their second franchise World Series win last year, it seems everyone’s coming for us.

 

I spilled truffle oil on my pants and have been stalked by a pig ever since. Should I be alarmed?

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

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