Philitically Incorrect

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. Bu...

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 where it affects me. But wait. C...

Late bloomers. That’s what the Phils seem to be. They’ve bloomed late in a season, in a game, and in an inning. I know how they feel. I’m a late bloomer. Some of us take a while to catch on but that doesn’t mean we won’t find our stride. Like the past season’s Mr. September, Ryan Howard, it takes me some time to warm up too. Growing up I always thought the inflated number at the top of the holy trinity (34-24-34) was a genetic lottery. I thought you were either had it or not. But then I figured out it’s not what you have, it’s how you use it. Ask Jamie Moyer. Strategy goes a long way. He knows how, what, when, where, and why to throw to whom. And if the ump stretches the strike zone a micrometer and a few rookie hitters step to the plate, Jamie’s the man. With a little underwire and some padding, I’m the babe. The older babe. But age isn’t something that’s coveted in our society and some would argue baseball’s no place for old men. But I think Susan Boyle is a symbol that a...

It was a weird night at Citizens Bank Park. How weird was it? It was so weird that a girl stood up in front of us to order a drink and took nearly thirty minutes to finish the transaction. Someone sold a ticket to a tree sloth. It was so weird that when the guys in section 144 started insulting the Nats left fielder, no one joined in. It was so weird that when someone behind us asked, “Where’s the beer man?” I turned around to see a child of four. It was so weird that Blanton struck out the side in the first and then forgot how to locate a pitch. But the weirdest thing was what happened when Ryan Howard stepped to the plate with the bases loaded, Phils down by four, and did something he hasn’t done since 2007. When he tapped the bat to the plate, you didn’t hear the usual mixture of “please, Ryan, please,” peppered heavily with the pessimistic, “he’ll probably strike out.” Instead it was a like peace and love had blanketed the field, raising fans to their feet like they were levitating...

I’m a fan of one of the teams people love to hate and I’m a lover. I have to be, I’m a mom. If there wasn’t estrogen in the world babies wouldn’t be born and baseball greats wouldn’t be raised. Or baseball fans. And one thing’s for certain about Phillies phans. Everything’s about them. Let me show you what I mean. The thing that disgusts me most about Phils phans is they’re phair weather phriends. (Get it?) Well, Phils players might be members of the MLB but they proved they’re Phillies at heart when they swept the Marlins by doing what their own phans do best – kick ‘em when they’re down. And I loved every minute of it. It was nice to see our pitchers aren’t the only ones who melt down. At least we didn’t have to bring in our right fielder to pitch the last inning. But that’s not to say we wouldn’t bring Jayson Werth in to catch especially when, in my own personal opinion, the Phils went downhill when Carlos Ruiz got hurt. I think the Phils deserved it and I’ll tell you why. They sign...

Actually we were just trying to get home – my husband, my ten-year-old son, and our six pound dog. But a block from a family picnic, seventy miles from home, our transmission took a (insert expletive here). After we debated the options which included staying over, borrowing a car, coaxing ours home, or just calling AAA, we decided (at my recommendation) to call for a tow. In no time at all, Jim showed. Jim’s a nice guy. Jim’s such a nice guy he shared a little known fact about our AAA extended membership with us. Even though we pay extra to have our car towed for up to 100 miles, the tow truck driver is required to lend a ride to the primary and secondary subscribers only, with every additional passenger required to pay a dollar a mile for their ride. But Jim said if we ‘took care’ of him, he’d let that charge go. I was suspicious. So when Jim stopped for gas, I called AAA and checked on his story. Seems he’s right. Betcha didn’t know that about your AAA membership. So off to Philly we...

Did I hear that right? Maybe not, but I swore they said Jayson Werth is on a blanket to be distributed to mothers at Citizens Bank Park on Mother’s Day. Please tell me he’s naked. And please tell me it’s a picture from last year when he grew his hair out and I could imagine ripping my fingers through… I’m sorry. Was I thinking out loud? What’s not hot about Jayson Werth? That’s a question for Stump the Fans. And I pose it here. Babes, I implore you to reply.

To everyone who resisted the desire to hit the clicker late in the impending shutout in the Friday night game with the Marlins – I commend you. And I have but one thing to say: that’s why we call him Shane Victorino!!! Did you see that?!?! His grand slam was sweet; maybe not as immortal as the one he slammed when we crushed C.C. (wait he prefers ‘CC’ – roll eyes here) Sabathia in the playoffs, but it hit the spot, no doubt. Right before that I was about to fall asleep. Since almost nothing else happened for eight innings, the commentators busied themselves spouting records and lists and promoting Charlie Manuel’s new show. Then everything changed when Shane Victorino came to the plate. They started discussing who would pitch to him: Lindstrom, the Marlin’s freshly groomed pony, or Pinto, the man who could scare a batter to death with his face? Then the intrigue grew when we waited to see if Mr. Victorino would bat left or right-handed. (Switch hitting is such a turn on.) But...

It’s not the ‘church’ of baseball. It’s a jock-infested, red-hot brothel of balls and bats – that’s what it is. Let me explain why I think that. I’m a babe. You heard me right. A babe. I’m also a chick, broad, dame, doll, skirt, or Betty, but please don’t use any of those terms while addressing me unless you’re looking directly at my boobs. Yes, boobs – or hooters (just because it’s catchier), but definitely not breasts - those belong to women of integrity. All babes on the other hand, sell their souls for something, but real babes sell their souls for baseball. And real babes need baseball boys like men need their toys. And I think I speak for baseball babes everywhere when I say tragedy struck yesterday. Thursday, April 23rd we were denied our fix; our dreams were sent packing before we even made it to the sixth. I know what all the other baseball babes are thinking, “Say it ain’t so… no… say it ain’t so.” But, aw-shucks, I have to get this off my chest. Here goes: in the last ha...

As a season ticket holder in the left-center outfield stands at Citizens Bank Park, there are a few things I know. One, Shane Victorino’s backside is a wonderful sight to behold (and a special joy when we’re blessed with extra innings), and two, Raul Ibanez was the best addition to the Phils in 2009. Period. Now, granted his thirty-six year old backside probably doesn’t excite as many of the young execs and twenty-something hotties sitting in the cheap seats as it does me (she says, giving away her age) but he is, none-the-less, a joy to behold. But there are a few things I have to straighten out. First, if you were sitting up close and personal to Raul in section 145 on Sunday, you would have misinterpreted Raul’s miscalculation of that left field fly ball simply as “incredible effort”. After seeing Pat Burrell take too many balls on the hop (and I say that with all the love in my heart, Pat), Raul’s running back-slide (not his backside) was a welcome sight to behold. But the mo...