Philitically Incorrect

There’s an old song that sums it up: After you go, I can catch up on my reading. And after you’re gone I’ll have a lot more time for sleeping. And when you’re gone, it looks like things are gonna be a lot easier… You might know the rest, but if you don’t, the punch line is: I’m bluer than blue. And blue doesn’t have the same zest as pinstriped red. Sooner or later, I knew I’d have to quit my nail-biting manicures, start addressing the cellulite that now conforms to my seat in section 145, and stop postponing an appointment to get my roots colored a shade that’s cooler than gray (and I’m still thinking pinstriped red). But for the Phillies, I would have annoyed the eyes of others until after Game Seven. Fortunately my face never flushes red, even when I’m blue. And when I’m down, I like to sing. It’s not pretty but it gives me a warm feeling that doesn’t offend people like peeing in my pants. The last note of the season was just like any other: one team won and one team lost. That doesn

Each day I wake, I attempt to do the same thing: be a decent mommy, be a loving wife, cook for my family, gather notes for a blog, and get my goats fed. Since I’m an old goat, I’ve made a lot of attempts at doing these things well, but sometimes I’ve fallen short. Just ask my husband. Two old goats fill the starting posts at position No. 1 for World Series Game Six. One’s called “Andy Pettitte” and the other goes by “Pedro Martinez.” The number that sums up their combined years of lifetime experience is 75. I have two old goats, but from one game to the next, their names change. That’s because I reference them for the most recent Phillie killers. So this morning, one was Johnny Damon—“Demon” for short—and the other I called, “Old Leftie,” in honor of the southpaws who have haunted the Phillies' big bat, Ryan Howard, through the Halloween season. Howard’s five-game offensive numbers aren’t impressive: .158 average, two runs, one RBI, and 12 strikeouts. But the number that sums up hi

There was a heavy fog in the valley this morning as I drove to the coffee shop. But the stale mist that had settled in Citizens Bank Park for the last two games lifted long before that—at 7:57 Monday night to be exact. And just like this morning, the stars shone bright in an atmosphere of great clarity. One thing was certain. The home team came to win. Admit it. How many of you were humming High Hopes on your way to work this morning in spite of sleep deprivation and a Septa strike? I’ll be honest. I never understood that “rubber tree plant” thing. Until now. It’s all about bouncing back. And there’s not a better way to do it than with an Ut-Lee sequel. Cliff Lee faltered a bit from his Game One dominance, but Chase Utley said, “I gotcha, buddy.” Awww, I think they’re soul mates. In the first inning, Joe Buck happened to mention that Utley “went long last night” just as Stone Cold Chase stared Burnett down from the plate. That was only moments before Utley's three-run homer broke t

Last December, my little nephew had a speech impediment and a very specific list. A total boy and a Toy Story fan since birth, he spouted his Christmas wish as only he could: “I want a big fruck an’ Woody.” Okay, maybe that’s not funny. Maybe there’s nothing funny about the 7-4 ninth inning loss soured by a New York rally that yanked the turf out from under Citizens Bank Park. If you didn’t see it, that’s when the regular season Brad Lidge reared his ugly head like a double agent twist in a James Bond movie. I’ll admit. I didn’t see that coming. My husband calls him “Lights Gone Out” Lidge. Could be. It was definitely a dark scene. Honestly, I thought the rash would be in the Phightin’s bats, with an annoying itch in the bullpen. But even in my worst nightmares I never imagined “Two-Run Lidge” would come down with the plague. I think the problem is, 2008 was an amazing season. It had a fairy tale charm that climaxed against a Cinderella team. Like a Disney movie, everything

Cole Hamels took the mound with the poise and confidence of a rock star on a blind date. He sailed through the first inning—three up, three down; beaned A-Rod with a pitch to staunch any intention he had of snuggling up to the plate, and then held the Yankees to one hit over three innings. But the night snuck up on him like a light weight on cheap booze. And by the fourth inning, hitting Hamels was like an Irish lass on Russian vodka—easy. Not that I’d know anything about that. He took the loss on Halloween, no less. Like they say, candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. Just ask my husband. Whoops. Was I thinking out loud? Where were we? Oh, postseason pitching. I hoped Andy Pettitte would lose his cool after the Philly lineup had its way with him in the second inning—putting three runs on the board off four hits. But Philadelphia's lefties failed to do what AL left-handers had done against him all season—hit. Utley, Howard, and Ibanez were 0-for-9. Coming into Game 3, Alex Rodriqu

So, we tasted the agony of defeat. Actually, it’s quite good on toast. You could say I’m making light of the fact that the PA team focused on a World Series repeat came up short. You’re right. And you could say the Game Two loss to the Bombers was like a kick in the balls. But you’re wrong. My husband took it in the groin by an eight inch tree truck. And trust me, Thursday’s loss feels nothing like it. His crotch looks like a cast iron kettle, and he still talks like Peter Pan, but the flip side is, he could have been dead. Let’s face it, the Phillies simply lost—but they didn’t die. But like my husband, people are getting a lot of mileage from the fact that they’re still alive but took a big hit. In honor of them both, I’ll try to keep my innuendos to a minimum. Really. First things first. In yet another postseason game, the umpires blew some calls. That’s to be expected. There were only what—16 of them on the field, including the one with perfect vision? Besides umping can’t be hard.