Will the Philadelphia Phillies Live Happ-Lee Ever After?

All throughout the land, the angry, vibrant, and at times, classless citizens of Philadelphia were hungry for a victory to match that of yesteryear.  The pressure was on, and Ruben feared his inexperience would show.

“I’ve got to make a deal for a pitcher before the trade deadline,” he thought.  “I’ve just got to!”

It was true.  The Phillies needed another dragon-slayer, if they hoped to be a playoff contender.  As rumors came in from other kingdoms, Ruben had some decisions to make. 

He walked through the land, pointing a questioning finger at several of the kingdom’s top baseball prospects.

“But who will I trade for a starter?” he wondered.

“Not me,” said J.A. Happ.

“Not me!” cried Kyle Drabek, all the way from Lehigh Valley.

Dominic Brown and Michael Taylor had also been squirreled away for safe keeping.

Who, then? Who would go in our blockbuster trade?

Ruben was feeling ballsy, so he decided to trade for the King of Toronto.  “How about some of our top young players?” he asked, his heart in his throat.

“Absolutely not,” the Toronto GM claimed, spitting in his face.  “Get out of Canada.”

Ruben wandered back to his home, hands shoved in his pockets, kicking stones and “Aw, shucks”-ing all the way back.  It was his big idea, and now it was gone.

“Wait a minute,” Ruben exclaimed.   “Those Indians!  They’ve got that Cy Young Award winner, who fears he’ll be trapped in Cleveland forever!” “But I must be cautious,” he continued.

“I could never give up all of our young prospects for the sake of a single playoff run.”

Toronto was off the table, and time was consistently scurrying away, like rats in the subway.

As the deadline loomed, Ruben penciled in a meeting with his backup plan.

The Indians arrived, and slammed their fists down on the table collectively.

“We’ll send Lee your way, Ruben, but you’ve got to give us Happ or Drabek, and a collection of other young’uns.”

Ruben began to sweat profusely and remembered the people’s demand for a future of victorious years, not just the season at hand.

He gulped visibly and gave his response: 

“No.”

“Okay,” the Indians replied.  “You can have him anyway.”

Ruben sent some minor-leaguers his city wouldn’t miss to Cleveland in exchange for the pitcher, and also an outfielder who proved to be useful when Shane Victorino happened to damage himself.

As other contenders from neighboring cities scrambled to make last-minute trades, Ruben sat back in his chair, comfortable with his decision.

He had kept Happ, he had kept Drabek, and still managed to snare the extremely talented Lee.

It was the fairy-tale ending he’d hoped for.  His job was safe for a bit longer.

Merry Trade Deadline, everybody.

Save Us With Your Baseball Magic, Roy Halladay

Roy Halladay has reached legendary status. But how many must be sacrificed in order to feed him?  Five prospects?  Six?

These trade rumors have been swirling around now for so long, with dreams of a Halladay/Martinez/ Hamels rotation being enough to keep opposing hitters from leaving the dugout.  Except that Cole’s year isn’t going as smoothly as he’d like, and Martinez is old.

I mean, look at him out there. He’s… so old.

Then again, he could take a sip of whatever Raul Ibanez has been drinking and completely forget that the numbers in his age column keep going up.

Roy Halladay is a pitcher.  His numbers are incredible and they’re already polishing off a seat for him in Cooperstown.

But, thanks to all these trade rumors, he’s now reached this mythic status in our heads; like he’s a legendary god, descending from Canada, who is literally unhittable and hurls maelstroms instead of baseballs.

The way we rationalize giving up some of our most spectacular young guys is to assume that with Halladay, we will be unstoppable.  With him at the helm, Phils’ fans see him barreling his way through our division rivals, chucking 94 mph cutters at people.

And maybe that would totally happen!  Its quite an image.

But there’s danger in these waters…and it’s a shark that keeps whispering, “Welcome to Philadelphia.”

These days, Philadelphia baseball is something to be proud of.  Very proud of.

As surreal as it was to get to keep watching baseball into the fall, the gratification of a World Series trophy is… is just great.

But the revolving door of starting pitchers that have been systematically lined up and shot this year is vaguely reminiscent of a time , not so long ago, when a player would be the cock of the walk, only to show up in Philly and forget how to play baseball.

Roy Halladay impresses everyone, including me.

In fact, Roy Halladay terrifies me, because if nothing else, he is highly evident of a government-run facility somewhere in the desolate Midwest, where they are constructing cyborgs for the sole purpose of achieving athletic perfection.

Yet, it’s hard to ignore that baseball players are, in fact, human (maybe).

As much as it may seem like Halladay could roll in here and start ripping opposing batters apart, he could very well slip on a pebble in the parking lot or have his pelvis shattered by a “Welcome to the Team” pie-ing by Shane Victorino that somehow goes horribly wrong.

And then where would be?

Well, first place.

But the Blue Jays would be on the other side of the fence, taunting us with their newly manufactured Toronto jerseys, with names like “Carrasco,” “Happ,” or “Drabek,” on the back.

Should Halladay show up and have nothing terrible happen to him, and help us to another World Series win, and stick around until the end of his contract, then, you know.  Yippee.

Meanwhile, the Blue Jays are rolling in hot Phils prospects like happy dogs.

If you guys are fine to settle with a 2008 World Series Trophy and then relax for awhile, great.

…

Actually, not great.

It’s people like you who are going to cost us the seasons ahead.

Without these prospects, a Phillies’ future gets that much bleaker.

Don’t act like you can’t remember when we were scampering around the NL East basement, trying to make the best of a roster full of injured mediocrity, and sending one reserve player to the All-Star team because somebody had to go.

There were so many Phillies’ jerseys in that NL dugout this year.

Wasn’t that nice?

Call me a pessimist, but I live in a city with 10,000 professional baseball losses and a sky-rocketing homicide rate.  Success doesn’t last forever and the ability to look down at your farm system and see some real talent coming off the assembly line is a great way to feel all tingly inside.

Maybe we should consider what Roy really costs, maybe not now, but in the future.

A future that will probably have cyborgs.

 

He Wanted it More: Shane Victorino’s an All-Star

Shane Victorino was not the All-Star on that list.

A simple comparison of the stats is going to show you that out of the five, he was the least likely to be voted in.

According to the stats.

Two years ago, I sat in the stands at Citizens Bank Park, while the Phillies were embarrassing themselves in that way they sometimes do, or “Lidge-ing” it, as we’re calling it these days. Having just lost the lead late in the game, someone behind me yelled, “Remember this! Remember this in September when we’re a game or two out!”

This was followed by a hurricane of garbage being chucked from the outfield stands onto the grass below, while the Phillies were still on the field.

I peaked over the fence and looked down from the 400 level. There was Shane Victorino, kicking trash off the field, looking up and shaking his head, asking us, “Why?”

Another year, another game, and Shane hit the walk-off home run on a day they were handing out bobble heads with his likeness. I was carried out of my section by screaming fans simply because I was wearing a Victorino jersey.

Guess what, San Fran, L.A., Arizona, and, uh … Washington. You can put up a hissy-fit about how he doesn’t deserve it; how his batting average was the lowest and the whole “Bran Torino” thing was cheap.

Here’s the difference: Shane just wanted it more.

Who else of the five prospective All-Stars went door-to-door with the Mayor of their city, asking nicely for a simple click of the mouse next to his name? Who else smacked a game-winning base hit to prove their worth?

The guy’s got heart, talent, and an attitude that doesn’t make you want to throw up.  He’s fast, he’s clean, and when he isn’t throwing out Gregor Blanco at home to end the game, he’s shoving pies into a teammate’s face during an interview.

OK, yeah, Pablo Sandoval had that grand slam. Whatever.

Shane could have been elected president today if he wanted to. It’s just a matter of finding the city with most jobless, open-scheduled, OCD baseball fans.

Well, here we are.

So, Pablo, sorry about all that. But, come on, you get some time off. go home, see the family, take it easy. Shane’s going to be in St. Louis, a town most famous for having a giant parentheses within its borders. 

He’ll be relaxing on the bench, his eyes doing that weird thing where they almost bulge out of his head because the adrenaline is pumping through his veins like a dog on a chain, just out of reach of a rubber ball.

Mark Reynolds, honestly, I was scared of you the most. When that endorsement popped up on John McCain’s Twitter, I thought, “Wow, John McCain twitters? What a horrible waste of a politician’s time.”  Surely, your stats would speak for themselves, and having a presidential candidate say you were the one to vote for would be the end for us in Philly.

Cristian Guzman, I’m only apologizing to you because you’re on the Nationals.

Finally, Matt Kemp, being a Dodger, you should be used to your fans leaving before victory is achieved. 

What I’m trying to say is, no hard feelings. I am perfectly willing to acknowledge that yes, Shane was not the league leader on that list. But he did get the most votes. And you can’t get mad at a guy who’d rather play ball than have time off so badly, he jump starts his own grassroots campaign. It’s all I’m trying to say.

That, and apparently, John McCain’s opinion is worthless.

 

We Need To Talk, Phillies: A Message From Citizens Bank Park (Satire)

Hey, guys.  It’s me, Citizens Bank.  I was hoping we could have a little chat.

You’ve been spending a lot of time in other parks lately.  No, no—don’t deny it.  It’s all over the news, don’t embarrass yourself by lying about it.  It just makes this all the more painful.

Now, you know I don’t care if you want to play in other stadiums.  In fact, I’ve come to expect it.  Away games are part of any team’s schedule.  But… but do you have to like it so much?

“What do I mean?”  Do you have to ask?!

Nobody else has less than 15 losses on the road.  You guys are 24-10!  You can’t tell me you’re not enjoying it out there, frolicking around on the elderly confines of Dodger Stadium, or slicing and dicing the Marlins in front of their own fans.

Remember when Jamie Moyer got his 250th career win?  I don’t, because it happened in Washington.  Washington!

You must be saving your best stuff for when I’m not around, because 13-22 is no way to treat a stadium. 

Do I even matter to you anymore?  Because 22 gut-wrenching losses are telling me otherwise.

I’ve got Kentucky Blue Grass!  Do you know how much that costs?  Probably a lot!  It sounds very fancy!

So, while you take off again to impress another away crowd with your on-the-road skill, I’m left to pick up the pieces.  We used to make quite a team, remember? 

Why, it wasn’t even a year ago we won it all.  That World Series trophy was ours, and the next thing I know, you’re out there gallivanting like All-Stars all over Citi Field.

I mean for god’s sake, Phillies.  That place is half my age.

My question is, why?  What is it about being somewhere else, anywhere else, that makes your luck change?

Is it the fans?  They can chant—well, let’s not make promises we know we can’t keep.  Philly fans are Philly fans, and they’re not going to be making any real personality adjustments anytime soon.

Is it Brad Lidge?  Is he hurting you?!

I guess we’ll be welcoming him back soon enough.  Some embarrassing blown saves have made him into that guy who shows up at the party and makes a big entrance, but nobody really cares that he came.  In fact, after he crashed the last party, everybody’s just hoping this time he doesn’t try to sing karaoke and pass out in the punch bowl.

Is it Harry Kalas?  The wounds must still be fresh, Phils, but you’ve got to see what’s right in front of you:  me.  I’m ready to take us to the top again, but we both have to contribute in order for this to work.

We used to have fun together, didn’t we?  Laughing as the Mets suffered the worst collapse in baseball history, splitting a rain-soaked Game Five into a two night affair… remember when the city of Philadelphia devoured itself alive? 

All because of us. 

All because of what we accomplished together.

Whatever it is, you need to get yourselves figured out, because I can’t go on like this.  That game against the Orioles last Sunday made me throw up in my mouth.  How many times did you guys pop out in key situations?  20?  30?  And that’s just Jimmy Rollins.

I am $458 million of brick and mortar; grass and funnel cake.  I was voted as having the  best ballpark food in baseball.  The fans are rowdy, ravenous lunatics fueled by an unwavering sense of loyalty.  Obviously, I’m giving all I’ve got.  I can’t really change a whole lot; I’m a building.  It’s on you guys to turn it around.

I need this.  We need this.  So, I’m asking, nay, pleading with you:

Please.  Make yourselves at home.