After the Phillies-Padres Sweep, California To Pass New Legislation (Satire)

Those silly Californians will vote on anything.  And after the Phils capped a three-game series sweep, the richest state in the nation initiated legislation to ensure they’re the winningest.  They’ve started “Proposition Raul.”  And unlike other legislation, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger has promised to terminate the pesky left fielder.

 

I can see it now.  Dodger fans will show up donning t-shirts with a portrait of the MLB RBI leader outlined in a thick red circle with a line through it.  The caption will read:

 

“Vote Yes on Prop R: No more RBI for RI”

 

or…

 

“Take away his RBIs and what do you get?  -aul –anez”

 

maybe even…

 

“Without his RBI, -aul –anez is just a shell of a man”

 

Actually, I’m afraid for his life.  Really. I think he should hide out somewhere until this animosity blows over.  It just so happens, I know of a safe place.  My house.  It’s secluded and it’s owned by a completely unknown writer, so there’s no danger of drawing attention. 

 

Door’s always open.

 

Now for the tragic news: Shane Victorino left the game with a hip strain. 

 

Ahhhhhh!

 

Don’t panic. Okay, maybe you’re not, but baseball babes across the world are.  Okay, maybe not across the world.

 

But I think I can be of assistance.  It just so happens, I’m a hip specialist.  And I’d be happy to help with that area for free. 

 

Door’s always open.

 

Besides I think the lineup would appreciate what I’ve done with the place.  During the last home game, I saw a vender selling big laminated pictures of the 2008 World Champs wearing black tuxes.  At the very sight of them, I thought what any real baseball babe would think—placemats!

 

I purchased six and arranged them around my dining room table with such precision and care, you’d think I was crazy.

 

Okay, we won’t go there. My husband saw me sitting among them reading my Inquirer sports page and sipping coffee from my Phillies travel mug and said, “It’s official. You’re a Phillies redneck.”

 

My first reaction was to be insulted but then he pointed out my penchant for intermingling Phillies garb with even the most formal of attire. So I pondered for a moment and said, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

 

And you know what? The Phils are rednecks, too.  They have homegrown pitching talent right here in their own backyard and they still don’t know it.  I guess the grass is always greener…Hell, every player who’s been brought up off the farm this year has won. 

 

That includes J.A. Happ.  He’s now 4-0 and he pitched seven scoreless innings last night.  Phillies management just has to face the bare facts—there’s no place like home.  And there’s no place to see Phil’s pitchers bare than at home—my home.

 

Door’s always open.

 

Phillies-Padres: I Have a Good Joke For You

Here’s a joke: a South Korean walks into a ballpark…

 

That’s so mean!

 

Now, I like to keep score but in the seventh inning last night when I heard Chan Ho Park was coming to the mound, I grabbed a brand new sheet of paper. Lucky for me I had plenty of space to record his accomplishments:

 

A single, a single, a K, a pop fly, and then a walk to load the bases. Then he allowed an RBI single to raise the stakes. And as if walking in another run wasn’t bad enough, Park faced the NL co-player of the week, Adrian Gonzalez, with the bases still loaded. 

 

Gonzalez had already hit a homer for the fourth consecutive game, so when he stepped to the plate, my son said: “Whoop, there he is.”

 

I guess walking in another run and topping that off with a two-run single wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. Any one of the Padres could have hit a grand slam homer in the seventh and created a crucial save situation, but it took Chad Durbin to make that dream come true.

 

When he jogged from the bullpen in the eighth, my son cried, “Why me, Lord!” I can see Charlie Manuel’s reasoning—Durbin’s worst outing looks pretty descent compared to Park’s. 

 

But when he loaded the bases with back-to-back walks with two out, Manuel folded. He bet on Ryan Madson and won as the reliable reliever threw one token pitch to end the game.

 

So, Park finally ended his outing (and possibly his career) after tossing 33 pitches and reducing the Phil’s lead to five. I haven’t seen that kind of perfection since my husband cleared an entire room with a single burrito fart.

 

Worst of all, he almost cramped the style of minor league ace Antonio Bastardo. That young lefty waltzed into Petco Park and embraced opportunity like me meeting Jayson Werth—only without getting arrested.

 

Under the direction of Carlos Ruiz, he pitched six innings of four-hit ball and added only one earned run to his resume while striking out five. He may be too young for the majors but he’s of legal age for me. 

 

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

 

It’s newsworthy to add a Happy Birthday to Raul Ibanez. It’s obvious from the decimal level of the Raauuuuls when he hit each of his two-run dingers, that Petco Park was a full-house of Phils fans.

 

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Phils don’t have fans anymore, they have groupies. They’ve infiltrated major league parks this season like a hookah haze at a Dead concert.

 

With Ibanez’s season stats of 51 RBI, 19 home runs, and all over great team attitude, sports psychologist, Harvey Dorfman has made him his poster child. 

 

I hope he’s naked. I’ll pin him up by my Phillie “Playmate of the Week” calendar.

 

JC Romero returns today and you know what that means. Someone’s got to go. I wonder who’ll make the discard pile?

 

So, this South Korean walks into the ballpark.

 

That’s the joke.

 

Philadelphia Phillies: Phils Immortalized in Beach Boys Song

The epic 60’s singing group has agreed to change the lyrics to one of their hits:

 

“West Coast boys are hip I really love those clothes they wear. But the East coast boys with the way they hit, they knock me out when they’re out there.”

 

Okay, a lyricist I’m not. And you know I’m kidding.

 

But, my dad is visiting and I’m just so excited he saw the Phils sweep a three-game series and win the first game of their west coast stint.

 

Then he asked me a question to make any mom proud.

 

“Who’s that center fielder?”

 

Well, legally he’s called “Shane Victorino,” but we like to call him TOTALLY AWESOME! 

 

Now, maybe it isn’t fair to exclaim his Shane-ness when he’s alternating outfield gigs with the Nationals, led by hustle extraordinaire, Adam Dunn–the antithesis of fielding.  But honestly, I think he looks good no matter who we’re playing.

 

Let’s be authentic about it.  And not in a roundabout way like, “Does too much of my butt show in this miniskirt?”

 

“Not if you’re going to be submerged.”

 

Let’s just say it like it is.

 

“I wish Shane Victorino played in a kilt.”

 

Wait, that’s not what I meant at all–I just got stuck watching his flyin’ Hawaiian bobblehead gyrate next to my keyboard. 

 

What I meant was, just like a shrinking miniskirt, Shane has taken his game to a whole other level.  Let’s not skirt the facts:

 

-He leads the team in triples, and is second in total hits.

 

-He hustles ‘round the bases stealing as good as anyone in his crib.

 

-He’s third in runs he’s scored, and fourth in hitting doubles.

 

-Frankly, to the opposing team, he’s nothing less than trouble.

 

Okay, a poet I’m not either.  Where are those Phillies cheerleaders when I need them?

 

What this means to me is, he’s a guy who can really get around the bases, and that’s something baseball babes covet.

 

So when my dad asked who that was in center field, I had a simple answer: That’s “Shane.” 

 

And I’ve coined my own term to explain what he does—“Shane it”.

 

So, he “Shaned it” last night against the Padres.  I’m sure with his undying Hawaiian smiling, he’ll keep it up tonight, even if my husband can’t.

 

Whoops, was I thinking out loud again?

 

Sorry about that. Maybe I should change the subject.

 

JC Romero returns tomorrow and I’m as giddy as a call girl…whoops.  I meant “school girl.” I really need to stop while I’m behind. Sorry, I just missed him so much.

 

And, I miss the team. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could sop up the drool that slips from my lip around the fifth with my Jayson Werth blanket.  But I won’t be able to pick that up until July 24th so I have plenty of time to whine about it.

 

Heaven forbid I miss an opportunity to complain. 

 

Just ask my husband. 

 

Go Phils!

 

 

 

 

Philadelphia Phillies Starting Rotation: Death By Chocolate?

The series sweep of the Nationals was sweet. 

 

The first game gave JA Happ his third win and boosted the confidence of closer Brad Lidge while Jayson Werth broke his 145 game no-error streak–a National League record. Hopefully, he’ll streak again and not just in my dreams.

 

Then in game two, Ryan Howard broke Michael Jack’s franchise career grand slam record. Well, it was destined to happen. Ryan’s a show-off. In little league, he was the only player to hit a home run over the Red Lobster. I wonder if he got a free dinner.

 

Then yesterday, Jamie Moyer reached the elusive 250th win—in almost as many tries.

 

This calls for a celebration. And I think my sister should be in charge.

 

I partied at her house on Saturday night (which is obviously why you didn’t hear from me on Sunday). But I have some great insight on celebrating.

 

First, you start with food. Food’s good and great food’s better, but just having great food isn’t what makes the party. As I rounded the counter to throw away my most certainly biodegradable Styrofoam plate, an item deserving of awe and respect caught my eye.

 

A chocolate fountain.

 

You heard me right.

 

As I gazed upon the cascading liquid candy with awe and delight, my focus narrowed like a strike zone. One thing was certain: When I die, I want to come back as chocolate.

 

At first I wanted to strip naked, dive in, and bathe myself in the lukewarm magic, but then a remote stroke of sensibility fluttered through my mind that said, “That’s probably illegal.” 

 

Alas…I simply shoved my cup under the stream and gulped until the mustache painted my lip like a “Got Milk” commercial.

 

Got chocolate?

 

Got a point?

 

Hang in there.  I do–and more great dessert ideas.

 

There’s something euphoric about chocolate that moves. It makes the confection come to life like a giant wax sculpture. Actually they should start casting celebrities out of chocolate.  And they should start with the Phillies. 

 

Then my husband yanked me from my fantasy by whispering those three little words that go straight to my heart.

 

“Strawberry shortcake.”

 

Okay, that’s two words, but it eats like three. There at the end of his finger sat a pot of gold; a triple-layered strawberry shortcake.

 

It exuded an aura that lured me and my mustache over like Prada shoes on a discount rack. One thing was certain: it would be mine. What I was about to do was immoral, but no one like me (female and menstruating) would accuse me of idiocy. It was a Triple Crown, palate pleasing, intertwining of cake, whipped cream, strawberries, and love.

 

Which reminded me of the Phil’s pitching staff. 

 

Not for that reason, although now that you mentioned it…

 

One thing was certain: I needed a big piece and I wanted it to last a long time.  But I didn’t want to look weak. That’s when I decided I’d cut one ginormous piece and split it among many plates. Then I could chow one after another, moving about the place so no one would notice, and satisfy my sweet tooth with multiple layers of love.

 

My point is, Phillies pitchers need love too. And it’s easier to do when they’re covered in whip cream and strawberries.  I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud? What I really mean is, their struggles this season have cast a totally different light on my perspective of pitching in general.

 

And that giant piece of strawberry shortcake led the way to my answer: The game needs to be split. That “complete game” piece was divvied up like a game heavy in relievers, and it worked like a charm. 

 

So maybe baseball should become a game of relievers–not starters–which is what’s been happening with the Phillies anyway. And as much as we whine about it, it’s working.

 

All this time we’ve been thinking Phil’s pitchers need to go deeper into a game. They need to man up, get tougher, and hang longer. We just have to find the right man for the job, and right-hander Jake Peavy is who we’re writing about. 

 

But what if the problem isn’t with the “man,” it’s with the “job.”

 

That’s the stuff I think of as desserts bathe my brain in a sugary matrix.  

 

I read an article in the Daily News a few days ago that said just the opposite. The writer’s expectation was that pitchers need to toughen up and pitch the whole game, just like olden days.  And the pitch count needs to be abandoned.

 

What if it was abandoned, but not for the same reason?

 

I like to think I can expect people to understand why a middle-aged woman dunked herself naked in a fountain of chocolate, but that’s a warped perspective.

 

Maybe our perspective of pitching is wrong, and our expectation.

 

What if the problem is, starting pitchers are expected to maintain a freshness into the seventh inning that’s unrealistic for someone who’s only in the game every five days. Charlie even tries to get his pinch hitters in more often than that because he knows they need love too. 

 

I think the argument against that theory is, relievers would get overused. Given the current system they would. But I’m saying throw your starters in the bullpen too.

 

There’s no difference between pitching a few innings every other game and pitching seven every five days. Whether you eat one huge piece or many small pieces of cake–it all comes out in the same place.

 

What if the solution to the starting rotation is doing away with it altogether? We’re thinking we need more durable arms, but what we’re seeing are surgeries and therapies designed to repair less durable arms. Maybe we’re expecting 300,000 miles from a 100,000-mile part.

 

What if our entire pitching staff was the bullpen? I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing them all sitting in the outfield den together. That makes them much easier to stalk with my binoculars, which is legal. It’s peeping at them outside the stadium that’s considered inappropriate.  How would I know?

 

Back to that party. 

 

I gorged my soul with more sugar than a Peeps factory and sustained a high that lasted all the way through the last play of Sunday’s game. That’s when the Nats connected with a Brad Lidge pitch that threatened to start a rally until Chase Utley decided that ball would not get by. When he spun, leaped, and threw to a stretched-out, reinvented Ryan Howard for another Light’s Out save, one thing was certain.

 

I died.

 

My epitaph read, “Death by chocolate.”

 

That’s the only way to go.

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

Phillies-Nats: Brad Lidge Goes Clean While Jayson Werth Soils His Drawers

Praise Pete, the Phils won.  I couldn’t take anymore of my day.

 

First, I had to drive my husband 80 miles north so he could catch a bus to ride 80 miles back to Philly to see the game with 30 people who drink so infrequently they would forget their native tongue by the ninth inning. 

 

Why do they do this?

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question.

 

Then I discovered what was causing the atrocious smell in my son’s room. 

 

Don’t ask.

 

Okay, now that you brought it up, let’s just say my son now understands why he can’t shut the cat in his room at night and ignore its meows. Hint: There was more than two No. 2s. And after cleaning them up, the odor embedded in my memory like my selective recall.

 

Then I got back in a car and drove to center city to eat a delicious dinner while sitting next to my nephew who believes that hygiene is an option. Whew!

 

Then I got to sit in section 137 with him and my son. As soon as we sat, a woman in front of us hoisted an umbrella the size of the sails of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. It was obvious she had never read the manual of stadium etiquette that blatantly states the discovery of America had already taken place. 

 

My first inclination was to ask her a facetious question. My motto is, if you don’t have anything nice to say, please let me say it. But the canopy was so big it fully encompassed her and the spectator to her right, so I got to thinking…maybe I don’t want to know what’s going on under there.

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question.

 

Then I thought about how roomy my own rain poncho was and how quickly my concealed hands could…I’m kidding. Besides, I was with two little boys who could embarrass a nudist colony while fully dressed. I didn’t want to encourage them. 

 

Then I almost forgot what it was like to have Pat Burrell in the outfield until I watched Adam Dunn. Praise Pete we have Raul Ibanez.

 

Then sometime in the third inning I saw wisps of peanut shells floating by like dust in the wind. When I looked over, my nephew was disintegrating the casings and caressing them all over his wet-clothed body. Even knowing better, I asked what he was doing. 

 

He said, “Now, I’m properly seasoned.” 

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question. 

 

Then the boys had to have Italian ice. Of course they came back with two cups the color of blood. If you’ve ever been around little boys, I don’t have to explain how blood-red ice can creatively be used. Let’s just say, I’m glad I was draped in plastic. 

 

Before their cups were empty, my son had his hand deep between his legs chasing a stray blob. I was hoping JA Happ would go deep but I had to stop my son. He was starting to giggle as he fondled his crotch for the fragment. 

 

I said, “Hey, put a poncho on before you do that.”

 

Then before I knew it, Happ had a couple guys on and was being pulled from the game. 

 

What?  In the fifth? 

 

Do I smell shit?

 

My husband said, “Not yet, Durbin hasn’t pitched.”

 

I hate it when he’s right.  The aroma whisked past a few times that inning. Chad couldn’t hold the runners on and Jayson Werth soiled his drawers on a bobbled ball that earned him his first error in 145 games. That’s the longest streak by an outfielder in the national league. 

 

It’s also about the length of time I’ve gone without finding a tick embedded in my flesh. Jayson bobbled on a sensitive play; I found a dangler in a sensitive area. I won’t tell you where, but my husband said, “Please, can I get it?”

 

He eliminated my leaching friend without a glitch, but Jayson’s error was costly. Before I knew it, the six Washington hits had yielded a juicy four runs, while the Nationals managed to hold our sixteen hit affront to five.

 

But someone failed to hold it in the car on the way home. By the time we stopped, a child had pooped his pants. As he sat in the bathroom begging for my help, a zillion reasons to say “no” crossed my mind, but the repercussions of leaving a stray turd in the hands of a gaggy child endeared me to aid.

 

Now, I don’t know why, but a No. 2 drowned in a toilet is much more tolerable than one that’s alive and kicking in the crotch of some boxers. As I garnered the courage to scrape up a misguided missile, I said, “What the hell happened?”

 

He said, “There was a brown snake playing peek-a-boo with my butt hole.”

 

Sometimes there is nothing but a stupid question.

 

So today was a throwback to my diaper changing days. I donned my “I smell shit face” more times in 24 hours than I did in the last eight years. 

 

Praise Pete our other relievers, Scott Eyre and Ryan Madson, stayed clean. 

 

As did Brad Lidge.  He cut the game short with a 1-2-3 inning. Considering how my day went, I’m surprised he didn’t stop at the number two. It would have only been fitting. 

 

But the Phillies won. In my native tongue that spells victory. And that’s a whole lot sweeter than some of the things I smelled today.

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

Without the brown snakes.

Philadelphia Phillies: Shane Victorino Proves Size Matters

Shane made a bad decision in the Monday night game against the Marlins. No, he didn’t pass on a Samuel Adams. He tried to steal second after a free pass to first with no outs and power-hitter, Matt Stairs, at the plate.

 

Shane was thrown out by a mile, chewed out in the dugout, and drilled after the game. That’ll cause “bitter beer face.” Oh, well, now he knows.  But he did hustle, he did try, and he looked fabulous doing it. 

 

I won’t fault him for that. Why?

 

I always go for the underdog, the little guy, the small fry; the diamond in the rough. I liked Shane when stitching Victorino on your shirt was a risky acquisition. You could say, I was country when country wasn’t cool. 

 

I’d like to think I “discovered” Shane, but it’s not true. Someone in the Phillies organization saw something in him long before they shared it with me. I just happened to think of checking into his marital status about the time other real baseball babes were. Not that it matters, but a girl can dream… 

 

…of Shane on the “Playmate of the Game” calendar, the luau layout in my mind, or the flyin’ Hawaiian centerfold of my dreams.

 

I almost touched him once—physically. I know, it’s probably illegal. And that’s what kept me from doing it.  Damn those new stalker laws.

 

Here’s how it happened. The marquee at the Granite Run Mall read, “Shane Victorino appearing at the AT&T Store.”

 

My son and I both pushed our eyes back in our sockets, just before I rear-ended a guy.

 

My son screamed, “What!!”

 

I answered, “Here?!”

 

He added, “In the ‘burbs?!”

 

I ended with, “Wow, they must have something on him. He must have been a bad boy. Ah, don’t even tease me.”

 

My son said, “You’re disgusting.”

 

I get that a lot. I don’t just wear my heart on my sleeve, my thoughts splatter unconsciously from my mouth in endless monotony. 

 

You know what I’m talking about. You’re reading it right now.

 

So I thought I’d give you my favorite Shane Victorino moment–the one that’s stuck in my mind, frozen in time, just like my favorite episode of Hawaii Five-O or Magnum PI. 

 

All-time favorite moment: We sit in section 145. Anyone who’s ever sat in the outfield knows that Shane throws his warm-up balls into the seats when he’s done. And he’s usually pretty fair about it.

 

But although I send my son to the front to vie for a memento, I always wait in my seat. That’s because I have a personal strategy when baseball’s approach at a high rate of speed: I cower and scream. Yes, just like a plane crash. 

 

Well, for some magical reason, Shane went deep into section 145 one day. (Keep your mind in the ballpark, Poe.)

Anyway, his ball looked like it would soar just overhead so I assumed the position, tucking my head and grabbing my knees, and when I dared to surface, the ball landed miraculously in my lap.

 

It’s true!  I swear!  Like a beach ball at a rock concert, that rawhide plopped its way down the rows like a pinball until it finally found a hole. 

 

With me. 

 

That’s why seeing Shane’s name on the marquee in Granite Run was so orgasmic. 

 

My son took that ball and got it signed by that man. 

 

That’s why, right there at the AT&T store, I wanted to “reach out and touch someone.” 

 

That’s why, when there was talk last year of trading Shane in a package for Rockie’s hottie Matt Holliday, I was bummed.  But I’m still not encouraged by his signing of a $3.125 million one-year contract for 2009.  That makes him far too dispensable (along with Jayson Werth and/or John Mayberry, Jr.) in a trade for a high-speed arm for the mound. 

 

But after last night’s performance from Chad “Disturbin’” Durbin, my husband says, “Ba humbug.  Let ‘em go.”  The Phil’s poor pitching performance is a bug up my husband’s ass.  Maybe he should try wearing a thong?  It’d not only block all those pesky intruders, it’d give him a reason to tug as this butt instead of just at his balls.

 

Even though Joe Blanton took “Player of the Game” honors last night and a place among the naked pages of my imaginary calendar, the flyin’ Hawaiian soared to new heights. 

 

He went 4-for-5 with a run and an RBI, and pushed his average up 14 points to 284.  I wish a good outing would do that to my bust-line.  Shane’s proved he’s a contributing force even after he entered the season cold from his bench sitting stint at the World Baseball Classic. 

 

I’m glad that only happens every four years.  That’s as often as I can handle that aggravation. 

 

I’m only 5’ 3” tall.  From down here, Shane’s only six more inches of pure power. But I like the view. 

 

Who says size matters?

 

Philadelphia Phillies: No Butts About It…No Intensity

A-Rod was back in Texas for the first time since his admission. Alex said he loves Texas; he has a lot of friends and support there. 

 

Those supporters chose to encourage him with boo’s.

 

And it worked. He went 5-for-5 in a 19-hit slugfest that scored 11 runs and squelched the Rangers to one.

 

Take that, supporters.

 

And the Dodgers aren’t missing Manny as much as they’re missing his m-antics.  They’ve won 10 of 16 games since his suspension (from my count).  That includes an 8-0 shutout against the Giants, a 9-2 win over the Phillies, a 12-2 trounce of the Marlins, and a 16-6 victory last night. 

 

I think it’s more mental than Manny. 

 

Don’t get me wrong.  Steroids in baseball are wrong.  Taking them is wrong.  Lying about taking them is wrong. And defending their use is wrong.  Okay, are we on the same page before I make my statement?

 

Casting people into hell for their use is wrong.

 

Matt Stairs said it best.  You can’t give a guy in the stands steroids and think he’ll hit 400.  That’s why I say let’s move on.  But no matter what I say, fans can’t.

 

Why?  They’re feeling used, they’re feeling violated, they’re feeling offended; and they’re acting ridiculous. 

 

It’s the same philosophy as punishing your child for days over something he did wrong.  We think as parents, if we let him know how bad he made us feel, he’ll reconsider bad choices next time.  He won’t.  You were a kid once.  Did you reconsider?  Probably not.  Your kid won’t either. 

 

All you can do is make rules and stick with the consequences.  Or I guess you could hate them forever and banish them from your house and your life and pretend they’re dead to you.  Some families do. That doesn’t work for me.  And it definitely doesn’t change what that child did.

 

The MLB has made a rule and they’re sticking with the consequences.  It’s a 50-game suspension. Period. But some people think it should be a lifetime suspension.  Users should be cast into hell and their names banished from history. 

 

Off with their heads!

 

You know what I say.  Let he who’s without sin cast the first stone. 

 

Look at your entire life there, Mother Teresa.  You’re no daisy.  Neither am I.

 

“But…!” you say. 

 

That’s what’s going really through your head.  “But this is baseball!  But they’re paid a lot of money!  But they’re…!!!”

 

No buts.  But butts… now that’s a topic in baseball I’d like to review, or rather “view.”

 

Jayson’s, Shane’s, Chase’s, Jimmy’s, Pedro’s, Carlos’, Ryan’s, Raul’s, (take breath here) Happ-y’s, Clay’s, Cole’s, Brett’s…you get my point.  And let’s spend a moment anticipating the stocky one that will return on June 3. 

 

The Phils proved last night that the harder you work the behind-er you get.  Jamie Moyer tried hard for number 250.  Jayson Werth tried hard to hit out of his slump. The last thing Chan Ho Park wanted was a Marlins RBI to slip by. 

 

And Shane Victorino tried way too hard to steal second in the ninth, although his dive gave me a wonderful view of his backside.  That’s always a treat.

 

But…the intensity wasn’t there.  It’s no secret the Phils have stunk at home.  Some of the guys say it’s because there are too many distractions.    

 

You know what I think?  I think the Phils need to fight distractions with distractions.  A “fight fire with fire” type of thing.  I think the Phillies need cheerleaders.  They need something to keep their right brain from thinking too hard and their left brain from falling behind. 

 

Outside of Ryan Howard’s multiple home run game last night, I saw few smiles.  Cheerleaders would change that.  Even on the worse of nights, they’d show their behinds and harden some bats. 

 

They’d occupy player’s thoughts with a different type of performance and put fans’ minds on a different type of performance-enhancement (like the ones you see advertised during the game, not injected).

 

Now what could be better than that?

 

Scoring–during and after the game.

 

Get my point?

 

Can’t wait ‘til tonight.

Phillies-Yankees Game Three: Carlos Ruiz Takes Big Bite out of Big Apple

Can you hear that?

They’re talkin’ ‘bout us.

 

If the 2-1 series win is any indication of the prediction Jimmy Rollins made (Phils vs. NYY in the World Series), this could be another banner year.

 

One thing I love about the Bleacher Report is my strong feelings for Carlos Ruiz are well documented. I like being right as much as I like winning. And today I won a double-header.

 

That brings us to my tribute.

 

Ode to Carlos

The guy behind home plate

Hails from another place

Van Halen praised it in a song

Our hero’s home’s in Panama

 

How many clichés can we create?

 

The kid from Panama caused some Panam-onium.

Carlos KO’ed the Bronx bombers and gave the City of Brotherly Love a Rocky moment. 

Carlos hurt the Yankee hurlers and sent them for their barf bags.

 

I’m on a roll—and so was he. 

 

Defensively, he foiled two steals, sold a bad call to the umpire to send Derek Jeter to the dugout with a K and an attitude, then tagged Johnny Damon out at home—again.  I’m sure Chooch’s face is portrayed on Johnny’s bulls eye after denying him a run for the second time.

 

Offensively, Chooch had the first base hit of the day—and the first walk—and added another single and a double to go 3-for-5. This included the hit that drove in the game winning RBI.

 

The $400,000 man took on the $207 million dollar team—and won.

 

The Yanks are saying, “Who was that masked man?”

 

Carlos was sub-200 only a few weeks ago. He’s raised his average over 100 points in that time. Jimmy Rollins did almost the same.   

 

But since Jimmy got it going, the Phils have more hits and runs than any team in baseball. Having that impact on a team can be one hell of a cross to bear, but it can also be a torch. It’s all in your perception. Whatever Jimmy’s carrying now, he has it lit.

 

Let’s gaze at the rest of the stars. 

 

They said Raul was the first lefty to get a hit off CC Sabathia for the first time in 37 games. If that’s true, it simply adds another stat to an amazing season so far. I’d be way over on my word count if I even tried to go into how much Phillie fans ooooo Raul.

 

Let’s not diminish what Cole Hamels accomplished.  Even though foul balls ate up his pitch count and held him to six innings, he had five Ks, no walks, and only two earned runs.

 

And let’s not let overlook the effort of Chad Durbin.

Or Scott Eyre.

Or Ryan Madson.

Or Clay Condrey.

 

My son thinks there are scary monsters in his closet but he wasn’t around today to see the ones in the Yankee’s lineup.  They make Monsters Inc. look like American Girls.

 

But Brad Lidge failed to close the deal—again. 

 

Yesterday Melky Cabrera knocked the win right out of Brad’s sails, but today Lidge only cried over a spilt save.  That’s a step in the right direction. 

 

But the big thing to understand about Brad’s plight in Game Three is, he faced the last five guys in their lineup.  Now, if you’re facing the bottom five of the Phil’s, that’s a negligible statement, but with NYY it’s something to consider. 

 

So the Phillies won a nail-biter 4-3 in 11 innings, and Carlos Ruiz had the WB Mason Deliveries of the Game with his Damon denial and two foiled steals, and also won Player of the Game for being just plain awesome.

 

That’ll get him in the calendar. 

 

His performance even overshadowed the fact that the 2008 World Champs foiled another win by CC Sabathia. After a slow start, the Phil’s managed three runs off nine hits along with three stolen bases.

 

If CC has a target, the whole team’s the bulls eye.  But his arch enemy is the unimposing guy with the tiny letters on his chest: Ruiz. 

 

That’s so cool.

 

Now the Phils come home for a three-game series with the Marlins.

 

Let’s go fishing.

 

See you at the ballpark.

 

Phillies-Yankees Game II: Jayson Werth To Replace Hugh Hefner

Lidge has greasy fingers. And when “grease is the word,” Madson’s the cure.

 

Mark my words.

 

But let’s look on the bright side. JA Happ-y dominated, while namesake, John Mayberry, Jr., made his major league debut and showed up the lineup as a designated hitter.  He went 2-for-3 and tidied up the bases with a three-run homer. 

 

And Raul Ibanez continued his trek to set the record as the coolest dude ever.

 

That said, I have to come clean. Today, I realized I’m Phillies obsessed. 

 

I turned on WMGK radio and heard, “We’ll be right back with the Philly 500.” Instantly, I thought this had something to do with the Phil’s winning percentage this season. Then I found out it was a song countdown. 

 

Then as I reminisced about the Fightin’s hot bats in the Yank’s series opener, I was reminded I need to buy another stick of Secret Solid for those steamy Sundays in section 145.

 

And as I was spraying my Lysol shower mist about, I recalled the article in the paper that quoted Charlie Manuel saying, “Jimmy (Rollins) has some slick to him.” 

 

Slick? I’d like to see him slick, especially in that “Phillie of the Week” calendar. I’d even volunteer to spray on the oil. 

 

And now that you’ve brought it up, I have some ideas for a centerfold. But we can’t shoot it until after I get my Jayson Werth blanket on July 24. That’s when I’ll have to slather on the Secret solid, because no matter the weather, I’ll be wrapped in Werth.

 

It’s pathetic. 

 

But it’s the curse of a fan. 

 

I’m so obsessed, everyone is suffering. My output as a mom has declined, and my husband says I don’t put out.

 

That always brings up that age old debate: how much sex should a wood chuck get?  (If you have a problem with symbolism, I’m the wood chuck.)

 

I tell him it could be worse. The Pro Bull Riding tour only takes off two months during the whole year.  If I was a fan of that…

 

Oh, wait. I am. 

 

So you can sympathize with his pain but can you also appreciate my joy? Right now is the perfect time to be a Phil’s fan. They’re leading the division and have one more chance at the Yankees before the team comes home for a three-game series with the Marlins. 

 

Put that way, some things are certain:

 

I’m as giddy as a groupie hiding in a Jonas Brothers’ bus. 

I’m as high as a Harry Kalas cloud in the left field sky.

I’m as excited as an old married babe on Jayson Werth day.

 

Well, he doesn’t actually have his own day, but a girl can dream.

 

Now if they’d only give away a Jayson Werth thong, I’d be set.  It’s the only way I’ll ever have the strapping outfielder comfortably hugging my hips. 

 

I know some people don’t like thongs, but my husband does.  He says it serves as a barrier between me and all those bugs crawling up my ass. 

 

Now, aside from the blown save on Saturday, the Phil’s have been looking splendid, but I was trying to think of ways to make them look even better.  Of course you’ll see most of my ideas splashing the pages of that proverbial calendar, but in the meantime I came up with a plan.

 

It’s in the stats. Batting averages are reported on a scale of a thousand while ERAs are reported on a scale of a hundred. I understand it’s because you want the hitting to seem higher, and the hits off the pitcher to seem lower, but what if we added some zeros to the figures. 

 

What if we added zeros until a hitter’s batting average and a hurler’s ERA could be compared to his salary.  Then we’d compare how he was performing with what he was earning.  I like that. 

 

Pitchers could be paid per pitch.

Hitters could be compensated per hit.

Raul would show up the national debt.

 

Well, Sunday’s another game.  It’s ace against ace. 

 

But since the Phil’s are finished for the night, I have some things to do. 

 

First, I think I’ll kick off that age old debate…

 

See you at the ballpark. 

Phillies-Yankees Opener: Phils Yank Yankees Chain as Myers Throws Gold

This morning, the sign on the Methodist Church read, “Count your blessings, not your problems.”

 

Hell, I’m an equal opportunity sinner.  I say we tally them both.

 

Let’s take affirmative action and also exaggerate some facts.  How do you think rumors start anyway? 

 

It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it. 

 

Jamie Moyer spoke with Alex Rodriguez before game one of this interleague series. The two former teammates exchanged what bystanders are assuming were words regarding Jamie’s judgment of A-Rod’s steroid use some seven years ago. Jamie’s a God-fearing man and he doesn’t approve of A-Rod breaking the rules. 

 

Wait.  Rewind. 

 

Judgment? God fearing? Did I hear a “cast the first stone” connotation in there somewhere?

 

Now from what I’ve read, Alex Rodriguez was one of 104 names on a super-secret list compiled of players who tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs in 2003. And somehow, mysteriously, A-Rod’s name slipped from the report and into the hands of stellar reporter, Selena Roberts.

 

I wonder how one name could flow from a top secret page straight into an article in Sports Illustrated. We could always blame the font. I never trusted Courier 12-point anyway. 

 

From what I heard, Alex has slept with just about everyone. Maybe that’s how he got the “Rod” part of his nickname. On that note, maybe this is a case of a woman scorn.  Maybe she was feeling as underappreciated as George W. Bush at a Mensa meeting.  And hell hath no fury… We could only surmise.

 

Now I haven’t read the dirty truth because I’d rather pass around conjecture than read scandalous facts. And I know Selena can write inspirational pieces just as well as she condemns ballplayers, so I think I’ll wait and read her next piece of journalism.

 

The bottom line is, Alex Rodriguez is still playing ball because there were no penalties in effect when he injected.

 

I can only control what I do and how I react, so I’m not spending another moment worrying about anything other than the Phils denying Alex successful at-bats. 

 

And Brett Myers did a damn good job trying. 

 

Simply put, if Budweiser has drinkability, the Phillies had pitch-ability, hit-ability, and field-ability capped with win-ability.

 

Their 14 hits (including four homers) overshadowed Chase Utley’s error in the fifth, the same inning Brett Myers struck out two of his game total of five. And he pitched eight without walking a soul and gave up only three hits–all solo homers. You can’t fault the Yanks for efficiency.

 

Jimmy Rollins seemed happy and he should be.  His first pitch home run was definitely a case for smile-ability. He went 2 for 5 with a walk and stolen base number 301.  Guess whose stats were even better?

 

Nope, not Chase Utley… not Raul Ibanez… not Ryan Howard… not Shane Victorino… not even Pedro Feliz. You give?

 

It was Carlos Ruiz. Yes, Chooch made it look Ru-E-Z last night.  He snuck a two-run dinger over the left field wall in the first inning that escaped a miscalculated leap by Johnny Damon.

Then in the bottom, Carlos denied Johnny a run by tagging him at the plate, so you can imagine Damon’s delight when Carlos miscalculated a fly ball in the fifth and was thrown out by Johnny while trying to get back to first. 

 

Even so, Carlos finished the game 3 for 4 with two RBI and a stolen base.  If Brett wouldn’t have pitched so stellar, I think Carlos would have earned “Player of the Game.”

 

And possibly a calendar page.  Did I mention I’d love to volunteer for the photo shoot?

 

To sum it up… last night was a perfect culmination of game-ability. One where Jayson Werth ended his no-hit streak at 12.

 

Let’s talk about “the streak.” That’s a noun, not a verb.

 

I’m not talking about the one that waves your privates in the wind. I’m talking about the type ballplayers either worship or dread; the one that puts you on a high or haunts you for days. 

 

Acknowledging a streak is as taboo as mentioning a no-hitter in the ninth. You’re not supposed to say anything, because as much as it affects men’s souls, talking about it neither lifts the hoax nor denies a jinx.

 

So when Jayson’s streak was mentioned over the last few days, the press spoke of it as if he had hiccupped instead of crapped his pants. 

 

But I’ll help him out of those later. 

 

As far as slumps go, there’s a whole bunch about baseball that falls into the category of “working it out.” And everyone will give you all the help you need until you can’t. Then management steps in.

 

Like with Chan Ho Park. He wanted to start–bad. He wanted his family in South Korea to watch him play every five games instead of waiting up until three in the morning hoping to see him step from the bullpen. 

 

I feel bad for him, but there are powers that be that send us messages with greater reliance than Federal Express.

 

And they sent Park to the pen.  They’ve also sent Jimmy Rollins to the bench, Brett Myers to the minors, and Adam Eaton packing. 

 

Last night the Yankees were sent packing.  One down, two to go.

 

I’m looking forward to this holiday weekend. Mine is six games long. 

 

Maybe we can use the wins Thursday and Friday to start another streak.  If not, maybe Jayson Werth will drop his drawers and sprint out across the field.

 

A girl can only hope.

 

See you at the ballpark.

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