Everything I Know About Baseball, I Learned From “Elf”

My dad visited the cemetery today and he’s happy to report that no one’s missing. 

That includes Brad Lidge’s adrenalin, Jimmy Rollins’ batting average, JC Romero’s permission to pitch, Shane Victorino’s bat, Greg Dobbs pinch-hitting skills, and Brett Myers mojo.

They’re all still gone.

Heck, Chase Utley hasn’t smiled since his last error.  And I love smiling; smiling’s my favorite.

So after four straight losses, I think the Clausometer says it all.  We’ve got no spirit.  And everyone knows the best way to spread Phillies cheer is singing loud for all to hear. 

That’s why, no matter what happens in this series, on Thursday I’ll be the loudest fan in section 145, singing Take Me Out To The Ballgame.

Go Phils!

Philadelphia Phils vs. Atlanta Braves Recap: Un-Happy Mothers Day

It had the makin’s of an off day. 

 

First, my son made me a custom card for Mother’s Day so on the way to the game I read it: 

 

To Mom

Roses are red

Violence is blue

I can’t wait to hit you.

 

One thing’s for certain: he’s acquired my skills as a poet.

 

Then while driving down interstate 95, the pre-game show reported that Jayson Werth wasn’t playing today. 

 

What!  He’s on the blanket!  He can’t “not play”!  I think that’s illegal.  Can I get instant replay on that?

 

Then, just inside the gate, my world fell apart.  The boxes of blankets were empty and they were handing out fliers to use for redemption at a later date.  Say it ain’t so! 

 

The blankets wouldn’t be available until July 24 because the manufacturer screwed up Jayson’s lips.  That’s okay!  I’ll just suck them off anyway! Doesn’t Phillies management understand there are no rain checks on sex appeal?  This isn’t K-Mart Park.  Gesh!  

 

So the only things I had available to me today were my binoculars and my memories until late in the game when Jayson emerged from the dugout to go on deck.  I thought all the world was right again, but alas, it got even worse.  I was denied a hit and a blanket.  Jayson struck out and so did I.

 

But Jayson must have tagged in Ryan Howard to have the most fun in a game.  He hit two doubles and scored both our runs.  And he doesn’t just field balls anymore, he pounces on them—like a cat. 

And cats only succeed in one of three leaps; Ryan’s still error-less.  That guy’s worth his weight in gold.  And that’s some serious cash these days. 

 

They said Brett Myer’s outing wasn’t half bad.  Well, except the half that couldn’t get ahead in the count and used the batters as a ball return.  Seriously though, it wasn’t bad.  He just walked a few and sent a guy to first with a beating.  It was Taschner who took home the loss.

 

How about Brad Lidge?  He seemed like he was trying to throw first pitch fastballs for strikes but it was his slider that got him out of trouble again.  It’s his landmark pitch and the one that won the World Series.  Sooner or later, he’ll find his roots.  I know this because my stylist has to address mine every six weeks. 

 

And who is Casey Kotchman?  Today he stepped up to bat like he’d been cloned.  I swear there was two of him, and he hit like it too.  Just as we were celebrating Chipper Jones’ elbow misfortune, Casey took the plate like the feel good sequel to Casey at Bat and hammered us three times.  Curse him. 

 

Everything else was pretty in pink.  The sun was shining, Scott Eyre’s mom was interviewed to honor mommy’s everywhere, the Phanatic’s old woman was on hand to party, and the bats were garnished in red mellowed by white.  Even Matt stepped off his stairs and slid into third like he’d forgotten he could get hurt.

 

But the most annoying thing about having so many women at the ball park is they don’t understand that it’s common courtesy to wait until the batter is through before you interrupt everyone in your row with your exit.  Whether you need to empty your bladder, perk your girls, or fluff your do, remember there are other people than you.

 

Even while we were trying to watch Code Orange Moments on Phanavision a party of girls sauntered by with the velocity of tree sloths, each one of their Phillies-adorned noggins blocking out the punch line of each subsequent clip.  No wonder American productivity is suffering. 

 

So, we gave up two of three games in this series and now we’ve lost four in a row.  Hmmm.  The good news is we’re off Monday.  It’s always good to have Monday off.  Maybe I’ll take it off too. 

Oh, that’s right, I’m a mom, I only get today off (she says as the “poet” yells, “What’s for dinner?”).  Well, it was a brief stint, as brief as our stint as No. 1 in the NL East.  Whoops, did I just say that?  That was so mean.

 

For me it could be a long stretch until next May, but the good news is I’ll get a reprieve on July 24 when my blanket comes in.  Unless the Phils make the playoffs.  Then October will be Mother’s Month.  But we have some winning to do.

 

Phillies are red

The series is done

Watch out Dodgers

Here we come

 

Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.

 

See you at the ballpark.

Forget Flowers for Mother’s Day, Jayson Werth’s Coming Home with Me

What’s the over-under on my husband forgetting Mother’s Day?

 

I’m just kidding. The only problem is he’ll do something nice and, in return, I’ll have to acknowledge Father’s Day. The hardest thing about that holiday is I can’t think of anything to do for him that will also benefit me. 

 

Wait, here’s an idea: If I sat naked on a Phillies rally towel, would the emblem emboss in my flesh? 

 

I’d sit on it like an old mother hen. It’ll be like laying my own Philly…oh, I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

 

Actually, it doesn’t matter what my old man gets me, because we have tickets to today’s game, and they’re handing out Jayson Werth blankets to every mother 15 years of age and older. It’s kind of creepy how they have to qualify that, but I digress.

 

Anyway, I can’t wait to drape myself in him when I admire my Phils on TV, and I—and only I—will know that I’m really fantasizing about being wrapped in the arms of my favorite right fielder.

 

Speaking of Jayson: I don’t think I’ve shown Pat Gillick enough graciousness for bringing that sprawling 6’5″ athletic piece of eye candy into Citizens Bank Park. Thank you, Pat.  I’m sure he did it simply for the girls. Why else would they put him on a Mother’s Day blanket?

 

So women everywhere can fantasize about getting him in…well, their house.

 

The only problem is, he’s not naked. 

 

Happy Mother’s Day.

Phillies Vs. Braves: Cole, the Next Precious Metal

Did you hear that last night?  That was the sound of Philadelphia starting to breathe again. 

 

After Cole Hamels took the mound, one thing was certain—there was no dust on the bottle. He had seven K’s in 95 pitches, sailing 2008-style through the game atop his 80 mile an hour changeup. Then in the sixth, he sent two batters to base on balls when his arm ran out of quarters. 

 

That’s when Charlie came to the mound and said, “We’re clean outta change.”  And when Charlie says something, he means it.  I don’t imagine Charlie’s the type of guy who wastes words (unlike yours truly who’s been known to stretch a 300-word intention to well over the limit).  And I’m willing to bet Charlie’s never used Wikipedia.

 

The lower end of the lineup is still looking tough. You know that part—the land of misfit boys. It includes Jayson Werth, a guy who sat out the 2006 season with a bad wrist and didn’t even start when he was signed by the Phils with a cautious one-year contract ‘Werth’ a measly $850,000. 

 

There’s Raul Ibanez who in 2001 passed waivers twice and was turned down by all twenty-nine teams.  We picked him up as a replacement for Pat Burrell who had developed as much on-field speed as Winnie-the-pooh. 

 

I don’t think our expectations for Raul were high.  Although opinions on his ability differ (Mariner fans said, “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” but other sports professionals claim he was underrated), I guess all the ‘I-Bomb-Nez’ signs in left field sway that decision like the votes by fans on Dancing with the Stars. 

 

Then we have the aging Pedro Feliz, who came to the Phils last year booked as the best third basemen in the league to form the “Three ‘Infield’ Musketeers” along with Jimmy and Chase.  It was a pleasant surprise.

 

But then!!! Who’d have guessed Ryan would show up for spring training early (even after signing a comfortable three-year $54 million contract) intent on improving his footwork to become the 2009 error-free fielding machine. From this moment on, I dub thee ‘D’Artagnan’.

 

Last but not least we have Chris Coste who admitted in a memoir to being a 33-year-old rookie—a rather dubious honor.   But even he delivered a dinger last night.  The cost of fame for Coste is high.

 

So the mixture of talent and experience helped the high-priced toys and the misfit boys deliver last night.  If you put yourself in Jo-Jo Reyes shoes, all you can think is, “What’s a pitcher to do?”  If you couple the eight runs he gave up with his error and his fielders’ brief lapse in ball throwing, you get a game you just assume drink away. 

 

Whether the Phils dominate this year or not, there’s one thing for certain: the hodge-podge will do it together; they’re a team. 

 

And they all have the same dream: all for one and one for all. 

 

Phillies Vs. Mets: Werth’s Performance Overshadowed By, Well, Everything

My dad said it best, “I went to a drug bust and a baseball game broke out.”

 

Actually, I think that’s a twist on an old Rodney Dangerfield line, but you get my point. 

 

The saddest thing about Manny being Manny is it overshadowed some of the cool things that happened in yesterday’s Phillies loss.

 

Wait, has Flattish lost her mind? Cool things and loss? Can you even use those two words in the same sentence? 

 

Yes. I was 20 years old and the guy’s name was Trevor and he had a terrific body.  Are you with me so far?

 

Anyway, everyone has said plenty about Manny and we’re about to be inundated with what a bad boy A-Rod’s been, so let’s find something else to talk about.

 

Like ballplayers—more specifically the Philadelphia Phillies. Ahhhhh, I feel better already.

 

Was it just me or was Jayson Werth having a great time last night in spite of everything?  He was sliding and catching and hitting and running and scoring.

 

He was like that happy stray dog that runs up to you in the park and sets down a log three times the size of his body and then barks twice, meaning, “Wanna play!” 

 

I’d take him home. 

 

Shane Victorino extended his personal hitting streak to sixteen games.  And what about that pickle?  I thought Shane was fried, and as much as I appreciate deep-fried pickles I couldn’t bear to watch my favorite little Hawaiian get luau-ed.

 

Then, the call…Obstruction?! I thought that’s what my dad was when my dates came to pick me up. 

 

Shane’s pickle has definitely topped my list of favorite all-time baseball plays.  Sure, it’s dirty ball but it’s dirty ball that worked in the Phil’s favor.  You can’t fault a guy for wanting to get around the bases; that’s all part of the game (which is probably why my dad ran interference). 

 

And Shane’s savvy had nothing to do with performance enhancing drugs (which I’ve heard make it hard to slide into home).  It was just good old-fashioned baseball – as refreshing as seeing a new Matthew McConaughey movie.

 

Raul’s performance in left field had similarities to that of Pat Burrell. NOT!

 

How about JA Happy?  Sorry, I can’t stop smiling and I just can’t drop the ‘y’.  That kid’s got balls coming off the bench and cleaning up that mess with three-and-two-thirds scoreless innings. 

 

Mitch Williams said he looked so good he believes the next pitcher who falters will be replaced in the rotation by Happy, and Mitch mentioned names—Joe Blanton and Chan Ho Park.  Curiously, Brett Myers, who’s slated for Sunday’s game was not in the mix.

 

Maybe he’s found his mojo?  On that note, maybe we should start consulting with his wife instead of all those sports professionals. 

 

Now for a bit of bad news.  Jamie Moyer was screwed by the home plate umpire.  Wait, that didn’t come out right.  He was the victim of bad calls.  That’s better.  Jamie needs the corners—he deserves the corners. 

 

If the ump was simply stingy with the zone, that’s one thing, but he was as irregular as a dirt-eating donkey. And it simply left a stench. I’m hurt because I want Jamie to reach 250 wins simply because it’ll make for a great moment (like that one with Trevor).  And that’s what life’s all about – great moments.

 

So even after suffering a two-game sweep in new Citi Field and helping the Mets almost double their home field number of dingers, we’re still in first place.

 

Come on home, boys.  As Tom Bodett would say, “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

 

The Phils Had a Crypt-O-Night and What About Ster-O-Mites?

I love fantasies. Before last night’s game I fantasized about donning a skin tight shirt spun of fire engine red, embossed with a superhero diamond, except instead of an S there was a huge power P for “Phillies” plastered across my padded underwire to call attention to the superpower that they are. 

 

But even Superman had a weakness and yesterday the Phils had a crypt-o-night.

 

I didn’t see that coming. That game was as much a surprise as a 47-year-old spinster winning Simon Cowell’s heart or a 50 to 1 underdog taking the Kentucky Derby…No wait.  It wasn’t quite like that.  It was more like getting your period at the grocery store—it wasn’t pretty. 

 

Now I haven’t done anything really significant in my life so it’s my nature to find ways to think I’m special.  Like Shane continuing his personal hitting streak, I started what I like to call my own Phillies cheer, “C’mon Chase, get on base!”

 

Okay, a poet I’m not. And I’m also not the best singer of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ either, but I’m undeniably the loudest. I love a sold out game, playing in the rain, or when Charlie gets thrown out of a game. Everyone has a purpose, and I can’t be a ballplayer or do one, so I’m the next best thing—I’m a fan, a passionate one. 

 

But not a perfect one. I’ve been known to grab a Phillies rally towel to dust my furniture, so when things started to go awry last night I had to remind myself, I’m not perfect either. 

 

Who’d have thought our defense would be reduced to a pile of errors and our offense would strand runners like the SS Minnow? And who’d have guessed Chan Ho Park would take my advice? No one takes it, that’s why I’ve turned to blogging my opinions instead of talking about them. 

 

But Chan Ho Park walked to the mound like Flattish Poe ordered him to get his act together. I hate to take credit for his great outing but I was in heaven seeing him give Johan Santana a run for his money (and that’s a lot of dough). Everything was wonderfully analogous.

 

Then my husband said, “Not Scott Eyre!” 

 

Can you tell where his loyalty lies? 

 

That’s right – with that other left-handed reliever, JC Romero.  But JC took something and tested positive. 

 

It’s not that I want to talk about this—trust me, I’ve put it off as long as I’ve procrastinated picking the fuzzies from the Velcro on my sneakers. But as with my marriage, if I can’t stop thinking about it, ‘it’ needs to be addressed. Like my husband says, “I’ve always got something up my…” Well, you get the gist. 

 

So here goes. When I hear of a ballplayer who’s done something wrong, I think, “What if he was my boy?” 

 

I talk to my child about the difference between right and wrong and believe I empower him to make informed decisions, but sometimes—like a good base runner—he misses a signal. 

 

Now I realize Alex Rodriguez injecting steroids isn’t like catching my ten-year-old with a Playboy (or anyone’s hypothetical 10-year-old with a hypothetical girly magazine).  A-Rod’s paid a lot of money under the pretense that he’ll follow the rules.  

 

But how long ago did he make that admission? Maybe we only stopped talking about it momentarily because he had surgery. Maybe even in the media it’s uncouth to condemn a guy who’s had a sharp instrument that close to his privates. 

 

But now it’s back. And they say women can bitch and moan. Gesh! Then my husband told me the problem is A-Rod’s steroid encounters are featured in a book written by a woman. I rest my case. 

 

So what if Alex was my boy? 

 

I’m his mom. By design I love, and I’m supposed to do that unconditionally. But really, what do I do when my boy brings home surprising news? Well, first I take a deep breath to remind myself I’m no angel. Then I help him clean up the mess.

 

I’m not disappointed in A-Rod like Jamie Moyer and company. Sure Jamie is hardworking and giving, and I love that about him, but don’t go into that whole role model thing. I don’t want to ‘be’ A-Rod, I want to ‘do’ him.  Whoops was I thinking out loud? 

 

My point is you don’t have to model yourself after him.  Just take what’s useful.  You don’t have to be Charlie Manuel and raise your siblings, survive cancer, or have your own bobblehead to be great. Just take his advice—don’t get too big for your britches. 

 

Be your own role model or better yet, be your kid’s role model. You, yourself, be diligent, set non-negotiable goals; persevere with devotion, and believe in yourself. Jamie would probably make a great role model but I like to remind myself that when I’m pointing the finger (not the fowl one), there’s three pointing back at me.    

 

I look at A-Rod’s indiscretion as an example of what not to do. And I’ve learned to be careful—people tend to band together more for a common enemy than for a common cause. I believe it’s simply my cause to withhold judgment because I’m sure the MLB has the MLB’s best interest at heart.  It’s how they make their living. 

 

So whether A-Rod should be punished, Pete Rose should stay banned, Roger Clemens should be stripped (I’d watch!), or JC’s suspension was unjust, I say just clean it up and move on. It hasn’t tainted anything for me except the taste of those dollar dogs. I just can’t get them down. Remember, life’s too short to drive an ugly truck. 

 

So no matter what controversy arises in the MLB, I will look at it through my candy-coated lenses. As for Barry, Roger, Alex, JC, and now Manny, punish me and punish me good, I’ve been a bad girl. Let’s kiss and make out, I mean, make up. 

 

The moral of the story is, I love baseball—no if’s, and’s, or butts (and there are some fine ones). So when JC Romero walks to the mound in June, I’ll be the babe in section 145 who just can’t stop cheering. 

 

Phils Vs. Mets: What Have We Learned?

Some things are just fact: Jayson Werth can do anything he wants to me with that arm, Shane Victorino is the MVP of my dreams, and Raul Ibanez continues to be as hot as a Charlie Manuel bobblehead on a desert dashboard. 

 

And some things are good news: Carlos Ruiz is back.  Every now and then Chooch comes through with a big play that helps me answer the question people pose when I say, “I love him.” 

 

“Why?”

 

Answer: “Did you see Saturday’s game?”

 

He’s as under-appreciated as the elastic on a 42 triple D.  Not that he should be compared to a woman’s undergarment, but I’m a chick—I write what I know.  My point is, you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.

 

That brings us to the bad news.  The reader poll in the Inquirer today asked if Chan Ho Park should be kept in the rotation.  No contemplation was needed when I clicked NO. 

 

I don’t have anything against Chan; he may be quite lovely in person, and I know no one on the Phil’s pitching staff has been banner.  It’s as if there’s a virus going around, like the swine-pitching flu—it just makes them stink. 

 

So much so that after the second inning of Phils/Mets Episode I, my son said, “Where’d we get Park anyway?”  My husband said, “It doesn’t matter, they won’t want him back.”

 

With pitchers who throw innings like Park, it’s no wonder we’ve got the best fielding percentage in the MLB—we get a lot of practice. Man, did I just say that? 

 

I know that’s not nice, but here’s something about professional sports that irks me:  players who don’t play up to their paychecks. Now I’d like to believe it’s not intentional but that’s a lot of freaking money. 

 

Take Adam Eaton for example. In 2006 the Phils signed him to a three-year $24 million contract that was chocked full of candy like a Halloween basket. Then Adam stunk so badly in year two that they released him from his obligation this year with a $9 million parting gift.

 

So what happens if they don’t perform? 

 

You fired?

 

Nope.  I got a contract.  Right there in black and white it says, “Go screw yourselves.”

 

I think if there was a performance clause, we’d find out if the proverbial slump really exists.  Maybe it’s a motivation thing.  I mean it is 180 games.  I haven’t even heard a teacher happy with working that number of days a year.  I guess I’d get a little overwhelmed too, but if I only got to shop if I performed, my husband would be a much happier man.

 

What’s the problem?  Have we raised wimps?  What happened to the good ol’ days of baseball?  The Daily News recently wrote a blurb about two pitchers who long ago both threw complete games—of 21 innings each! 

 

It’s one thing to be in a slump. REM said it best—everybody hurts sometime, but to fail to take steps to rectify it is about as attractive as a cat that stops covering his dumps in a litter box. 

 

Let’s look at it this way.  Say you can’t get it on—batting, pitching, or fielding (what’d you think I was gonna say?), and you’re sitting on the bench re-evaluating your life.  “Should I keep stressing myself out or should I maybe take that cool 16 million I have saved and hit the beach?” 

 

I’d consider the sand. Nobody goes to work all day, every day once they win the lottery—even if they say they will.  But some of them continue to contribute and the best of them learn how to give back.

 

Like Jamie Moyer.

 

If there was ever a guy who seems more gracious for his stint in the MLB, it’s Jamie.

 

Sure watching him run the bases is like watching the bobblehead race on Phanavision, his pitching is as therapeutic as watching fish, and he hasn’t surpassed many MLB milestones outside of longevity.  

 

Wait.  Did I say longevity?  Endurance is a big turn on for me and I’m certain for baseball babes everywhere.  Sure the Phils can’t win ‘em all with bad pitching and ‘come from behind’ wins but Jamie’s pleased a lot of win-hungry fans with an unremarkable fastball and a ‘nothing to write home’ about ERA. 

 

I guess what I’m trying to say is if the Phil’s fight their way to a winning percentage that’s comparable to the one of that other under-appreciated player, we’ll be okay. 

 

Go Jamie. 

 

Go Phils.

 

Get your act together, Chan Ho.

 

Philadelphia Phils vs. New York Mets: Ahhh, That’s Not Nice

Last night I had to babysit my nephews so I didn’t get to see all of the 7-4 loss first hand (I know, great aunts make for bad fans) but I wanted to share something anyway. 

 

As we’re hanging out at my sister’s house, her boys start fighting which is a pretty common occurrence.  They have testosterone and mutual hatred for each other so sometimes they come to blows. 

So as they’re brawling, I get nervous and decide to intervene, then I try to negotiate and beg, and finally attempt to bribe them to stop until I’m so frustrated that I turn to my husband and yell for his help.  Here’s what he says.

 

“Fight nice, boys.”

 

That’s it.  That’s how he takes care of it. 

 

Now we all know about the Mets/Phils rivalry.  It’s widely broadcast not to mention manicured.   And why not?  As humans we tend to get more motivated to watch an opposition we hate then to admire a team we love. 

And the media knows that too, that’s why they play off it.  It’s helpful in two ways: it gets people to the ballpark and it sells hotdogs.  Everybody wins (except the cows).

 

So I won’t lecture about how mean everyone is being even though I know you think my favorite Hawaiian was mocking Jose Reyes last year.  Yeah, he pointed, you can’t deny it; they got it on tape (something I wish I had around when my child blames the dog). 

But people suffer from lack of judgment now and then, just like when my stepson threw-up in his room and sucked it up with my vacuum.  I set him straight, just like Shane’s roomies did.  But the clapping at third I think was shear enthusiasm, and you know Shane has that. 

And I know everyone in New York’s upset because Jimmy’s always right and Cole was baited into examining a part of the past New Yorker’s just want to forget, but as Charlie Manuel might say, “We can’t change the past.” 

 

So before someone throws out the ball in game two of this series I have one piece of advice.

 

Fight nice, boys.

Phillies vs. Nationals Phinale: Brett Myers Needs His Mojo

It was a cold night.  As much as Phils fans are fair weather friends, Phils hitters are definitely warm weather bats.  I know how they feel.  I spend November through April in my thermals.  I say I’m just cold-blooded but my husband has another word for it.

 

“Frigid.”

 

I whine, “Honey, that’s harsh.”

 

“The truth hurts,” he replies.

 

To solve my problem (or rather his), my better half bought a mattress heater.  Even though that has enticed me on occasion to strip from my layers…well, you don’t need all the details.  I’m certain the thought of us snug as bugs in a rug won’t do anything to enhance the Phils’ slugging percentage, so I’ll move on.  My point is, it was cold.

 

It was a slow night too.  I don’t know about you, but I’m still hung-over from that Monday night thriller.  The most excitement I felt in game three was in the fourth.  I thought for sure the Howard-Werth-Ibanez bases-loaded situation would conjure insecurity in their starter, but it turns out he was shaken, not stirred. 

But I was definitely nervous when Brett Myers struggled, and our bullpen didn’t stir.  Again, I reached for the antacids.  Fortunately, Brett soon figured out that walks waste pitches.  I know Brett lost twenty-five pounds in the off-season but I think the problem is his package shrunk.  He’s got to get his mojo back. 

 

The game was so slow even two bases-loaded situations didn’t interest my son.  In the crowd, he reported spying two guys with funny moustaches, one man from That ’70s Show, someone wearing sunglasses at night who he deduced must be blind, a teenage boy who pulled up his shirt to flash the camera, a girl eating boogers, and Santa.

 

“Santa?” I confirm.

 

“Yup.”

 

“Ask him for a grand slam.”

 

“Mom,” he says, rolling his eyes, “it’s not Christmas.”

 

He was right.  Olsen closed out the inning.

 

My favorite thing about being a Phillies fan is hearing people tell me why we’ll lose when we’re winning:

 

You can’t win without pitching.

You can’t win on home runs alone.

You can’t leave so many guys on base.

And you can’t win ‘em all when you’re coming from behind.

 

Can I get, “Duh?”  Any sensible person knows we can’t win by doing all of them, but we sure end up winning a bunch one way or another. 

 

You’d think the Nats couldn’t win either if you select the right stats: they have the lowest bullpen ERA in the league, a staggering total of 21 errors, and struggled with plays at first last night, but they managed a W anyway.  Sometimes the best dish comes from the simplest recipe and they had it – just hit ‘em where they ain’t. 

 

So, enough of that.  Let’s look at the highlights—from a babe’s take:

 

Chase, “we’re gonna change his name to ‘Manly’,” dove back to the bag and after infield hits with the vigor of a little-leaguer.  I hope he didn’t harm his sweet little hips. 

Jayson “Werth-y of my admiration” slid after an outfield fly and into second just to turn me on—and it worked.  Ryan ran the bases like he was Jimmy Rollins and Jimmy fielded just like the new Ryan Howard, but when J Ro struck out, the frustration on his face said he just needed a hug.  I can take care of that.

 

I’m sorry, was I thinking out loud?

 

Allow me to continue.  Raul proved why 500 more Phils jerseys were sold with ‘Ibanez’ stitched above the number 29, but alas, Matt “the Greek God of pinch hitters” Stairs walked to the plate with his thunder-bat and was denied. If I could just hold his hand I know everything would be okay. 

Shane’s lucky he’s fast because if I ever catch up with him… And I missed the first inning.  Did I see a pickle in there somewhere?  You can press me between two Phillies any day.

 

Now I’m warmed up.  Fan me off and feed me grapes. 

 

Rest up.  Friday we host the Mets.  You’ll need your energy.

 

Phils-Nats II: Location, Location, Location

Just as predicted, the rain came last night.  And just as predicted, Cole Hamels found his groove. 

 

They say the three keys to running a successful business are: location, location, location. 

 

Well, last night Phils’ pitchers were all business, except for a few harmless hits and a one-run dinger that was airmailed to the second level. But in pitching, just as in business, you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

 

Especially me. 

 

Especially when it comes to pitchers fielding balls. I’m not a fan and last night proved why. 

 

Last night, history repeated itself.  Cole got hurt, the bullpen scrambled for a replacement, and again, this baseball babe could think only of herself.  What happened to my eye candy?  He was gone way too early in the game.  

 

I don’t know what hurts worse, Cole getting injured and being pulled when he’s doing bad, or Cole getting hurt and leaving the game when he’s doing good?  I’ll have to think about that, but only in terms of how it affects me.

 

But wait.  Chad Durbin?  Please don’t tell me he’s gonna use Durbin? 

 

My husband growled in disgust.  And then Chad proved he’s a professional, too. Whew, glad history didn’t repeat itself there.

 

But it did with Chase Utley.

 

But it didn’t with Jimmy Rollins.

 

But it did with Phillies defense. 

 

The fielding was epitomized by hustle and try.  The defense was so hot even a fan in the stands snagged a tough foul ball.

 

And history wrote another chapter in the amazing chronicle of Raul Ibanez.  Actually all you had to do was copy the pages from any other game and read them again.  There were two sets of “ooooooooohs” coming from Broad Street last night but I don’t know whose were louder: Bruce’s or Raul’s.  But no matter who you were “oooooing” for, say it loud and say it proud.

 

Speaking of history, was that Carlos Ruiz I saw in the dugout?  Don’t tease me. 

 

Carlos and I go way back.  Okay, maybe just in my mind.  Yup, he was in Philadelphia on Tuesday.  I miss him so much.  Wait, that’s why Phils pitching ruled!  The curse was lifted simply with his presence!  Who’d a thunk?

 

Last night they handed out Charlie Manuel bobbleheads.  My nephew went to the game and asked if he should get me one.  Unless I lived in an earthquake zone, I don’t see the entertainment value.  I love Charlie and I love baseball; I love the strategy and I love the stories.  Put that on a bobblehead and then I’ll dust it.

 

I have one last question: Is it necessary to show us the press box during the game?  Why do we have to “see” Tom, Gary, or Chris?  I love their commentary but shifting from my 25-man roster of baseball toys to watching those guys in the press box is like the network interrupting a bottom-of-the-ninth tie game with bases loaded and two outs with the Pro Bowlers Tour.  Need I define “eye candy?”  Okay, enough said.

 

So one more game tonight and then we’re off.  I need it.  My nerves are still shot from the Monday night game. Cole will have one more day to recover, and I’m fresh out of Alka Seltzer. 

 

Maybe I’ll sit and meditate on my Shane Victorino bobblehead. Oh, I didn’t admit to having that?  I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.  He’s hot—even in a skirt.

 

 

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