Philitically Incorrect

Not only does Cliff Lee compLEEte me, he pulled another compLEEte game out of his hat. His domination of the team with the best record in the majors, the most home runs, and the highest payroll was something out of a storybook. Hey, they should act that out on Broadway. Wait, they are. The hype surrounding Game One of this seven game magic act included a woman who tried to trade her body for tickets. Now that’s a fan. They better recruit her for that Phillies' cheerleading squad. But all the hype in the 28 pages of pre-series coverage in the “Phillie” Inquirer could be reduced to three things: Brett Myers fixed a mechanical error, Shane Victorino was fitted for a skirt by the New York Post, and Cliff Lee and CC Sabathia are pen pals. But the conclusion of this Cy Young faceoff was just what the Phillies ordered. The recap of this game is easy. Chase Utley reached base for the 26th consecutive time in the postseason at his first at-bat, and then did it again… and again. He showed h

Twas the night before Christmas… At least that’s what it feels like because the anticipation is killing me. But not in the way that little kids lie awake with giddiness at what Santa will bring. This is the anxiety of a parent who hopes she came close to fulfilling a kid’s wishes on a limited budget to extend the belief in a childhood hero for yet another year. But she won’t know until it’s over. I imagine the Phillies are feeling the same way. Even when faced with a second consecutive World Series appearance, it’s almost a moot point to point to last year’s achievements. We entered the 2008 Series playing underdog to a Cinderella team. This year we’re told we shouldn’t have bothered to try out—Hollywood’s Dodgers should have taken us out of contention like a blockbuster up against a lame comedy. It’s like we’re the movie extra that got a spot because the star came down sick. Do we dare dream of repeating? I will. I’ve got sugar plums dancing in my head. My husband says that’s not the

Last week the lady behind the counter at Wawa told me people are always nice when the sun shines and the Phillies win. Well, it’s a great time to work at Wawa. And a perfect time to be a Phillies’ fan. I’ve only lived here a few years but I remember vividly the scorching summer day in 2007 when I walked into my sister’s house and announced, “I heard the Phils can sweep the Mets today and we have to be there.” The eerie part was I don’t know where that came from. Sure I grew up in a household with a faith based strongly on sports, and my dad had a city league softball team for most of my youth, but something moved me that day. And when those words escaped from my mouth (without a few choice ones that come from the potty) I knew the Phillies had entered my soul. Since then, my sister has supplied me with enough season tickets to make attending games a part-time job. And she gave me my birthday present early. Yesterday I read my very own subscription of the Philadelphia Inquirer . How fi

This was the last stat I saw on the Phil’s odds of winning this series: In NLCS history, 20-of-29 teams that led the series 2-1 went on to win. Those are good stats. Better than mine. My numbers make me a goddess in like some other universe—one where the ratio of guys to girls is 10 to 1. And every guy is snow-blind. Hey, aren’t those are the odds in Alaska? No wonder Sarah Palin is so popular. She has big boobs and can group words together to make a sentence. She struggles with logical thought, but no one’s even noticed. She’s living proof that after eight years of No Child Left Behind, we’ve eliminated the need for reasoning altogether. Whoa, did I just say that? Hey, everything there is to be said about the Phils has already been said, so I might as well drag Sarah into it. Why not? She wants to be a part of everything else. I heard she even offered to speak on behalf of New Jersey gubernatorial candidate Chris Christie. New Jersey? Isn’t that a continent? No, but I think I can see

By the end of the fifth inning with the Phillies up by eight, I was thinking, this game can’t be over fast enough . But after the eighth, when the home team added three more to the score, the Dodgers were thinking the same thing. The signs said it all. “City of BrotherLEE Love” “UnbeLEEvable” “We BeLEEve” But like Bill Engvall says, “Here’s my sign…” “You compLEEte me.” By the time Cliff Lee came out to bat in the eighth, he had pitched so effectiveLEE that he could have flipped the fans the bird and not fallen from grace. In the postgame Lee was humble, mentioning that Manny seemed to give him a little trouble… Manny who? Lee put the kibosh to LA’s plans to score like a custom-made chastity belt. He closed a chapter on LA with double digit K’s, no free passes, and only three hits over eight innings. At 114 pitches, I think he earned the right to watch the last three outs from the bench. And let’s hear it for Chad Durbin. If he keeps this up, I’ll have to change his nickname from “Dis

One morning my kid wandered into the kitchen half asleep and accidentally sent my favorite coffee mug to its demise on my hard ceramic tiles. Okay, accidents happen. But this wasn’t just any mug. This was a 32-ounce monstrous work of art I earned from an overpriced jousting show at the Excalibur in Las Vegas on one of our rare real vacations. My first instinct was to flip, scream, holler, squawk, or fume, but forcing out my frustration through my potty mouth usually only results in something dribbling into my panties. So, I said the only thing that the powers-to-be would have allowed. “Stuff happens.” That’s exactly what the moral is to the NLCS game two loss to the Dodgers. “Stuff happens.” Checkmate. Seinfeld had one word that summoned up his dislike of the despicable USPS employee that lived next door. Newman . I’m sure Jayson Werth will join me in changing that to, “Padilla .” How can you anticipate a curve ball that’s 40 mph slower than the preceding fast ball? Victorino broke out

I thought my kid gave me gray hair. I think we all agree that the game that clinched the Phillies' NLDS championship was a hair-pulling, nerve-racking, nail-biting, drunk-inducing, hyphenated stress-fest. Before the game even started, I was so nervous I had to find something to do with my hands. And since I’m married, I chose cooking. What’d you think I was going to say? But as my level of anxiety built with each inning, I had gone on such a cooking terror that, by the ninth inning, I had roasted a chicken, baked a pie, canned tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and had a casserole ready for the oven. The problem is, in my frenzy, I don’t recall where I got the meat. Hmmm, where’s that pesky cat? I’m kidding, don’t tell PETA. I’d never chop up my cat for a casserole. Maybe for a stew. I hear they’re gamey. No, really, I’m just kidding. I’d never chop up my own cat. I’d use the local stray. Wait, isn’t there a Chinese take-out joke in there somewhere? I’ll stop now. But I have some d