Philitically Incorrect

After the Phillies failed in their League Championship quest, I planned a hard luck blog in my head. While words festered in there like a zit from a chocolate Ding Dong, I asked my dad to share a story I’d once heard him tell. But before he did, he wanted me to make one promise: “Title your blog: My dad says, ‘Don't pick on the heavy guys.’” I had to commit because every writer loves a theme and every story needs a hero, and my old man was the key to both. So after I exchanged a title for a gift, he fed me one: “Bradley was his name. Bradley Johnson. He was our second baseman. Good little leaguer. Always was the best dressed eleven-year-old I ever coached. Hard-nosed and bright—extremely so. We were playing Guttenberg and their pitcher was good-sized for twelve and threw hard. Smoke came behind the ball. After three innings of him it seemed we had done nothing but hit foul balls and cower. Now I had kids who were not usually afraid because our pitchers threw hard to them

With the Phillies’ postseason sweep of the Reds, I thought it was time to pay homage. I’ll start: When it comes to Phillies pitching, there’s definitely something in the H20. Mike Sweeney is so generous with the hugs, I applied for a job as bat-boy. The Phils successfully steal so many bases, they gave away EPTs at the last game. Wilson Valdez is such a great backup, I’m tempted to call him when my husband’s out of town. A close examination of Chase Utley proves he definitely deserves the nickname "Chase Buttley." And on a scale of 1 to 10, Jayson Werth should just take his pants off. Speaking of compliments, here’s some comments from the wonderful people who have endured my blogs and can write in complete sentences: “Lots of mental pictures there, some I may not be able to shake.” “You are by far one of the most self-deprecating columnists that I've ever had the pleasure of reading.” Another said, “I haven't seen so much sex intertwined with baseb

When it comes to describing the emotions of a middle-aged woman who witnessed Roy Halladay’s once-in-a-lifetime postseason feat, I simply don’t have the words. My husband says, “Add that to the other things you don’t have: boobs and couth.” That might be true, but he wasn’t disappointed the day I proved I didn’t have man-parts either. Take that Lady Gaga. She thought she was the only person required to prove she’s all woman. Fortunately she confirmed that before she was photographed wearing her meat suit. Did you see where she placed her t-boner? Where was I? Oh yeah, the surreal world of Roy Halladay. Nary a week has passed since my sweaty thighs slid off my season-ticket seat in my favorite steamy ballpark. Now on a cold, rainy night, with the tiny cast of William Penn looking on from atop the highest building in a city that’s delivered four straight division wins, Roy Halladay was haunted by the Ghosts of Torontos past and stayed the course on his career vision. Two