Philitically Incorrect

As the title says, this is my second annual bucket list— Phillies   style. I hate the redundancy of writing a totally self-explanatory title and then reaffirming the topic in my first sentence but with those darn search engines constantly looking for articles with relevance, I’m already at a disadvantage. When it comes to blogging about baseball, I’m the master at having nothing relevant to say. And I’ve proved that for two whole paragraphs. First, I should let you know that unlike most bucket lists, mine isn’t composed of death-defying acts of irrationality like white water rafting. Hell, if I wanted to be tossed about by a current I’d call my husband in on the waterbed. Besides, I don’t need to do something daring—I got married. I don’t need another adventure to end with, “What the hell was I thinking?” Now, on my first bucket list, I gave considerable thought to the organization—I thought about bullets or numbers or an alphabetical arrangement. I even tried little ...

I’ll be honest. I don’t watch postseason trades. I find them as futile as foreplay after forty or light beer chasers. But when I read that the phenomenal uniform philler-outer, Jayson Werth, had been signed by a division rival, I burned my bra in defiance. Then I just had to buy a new one. That’s when I made an important discovery: Not everything expands when it’s cold. In this era of disclaimers, stipulations, and legal litigation, let me make one thing vividly clear: I’d still do Jayson Werth. But some people thought I’d take the news hard. Hard? Hell, at least he didn’t run up the phone bill and stick my toothbrush someplace dreary when he left. Besides, who can blame him? Like my husband said, “It's just a man taking care of his family." Considering a few years ago he questioned whether he’d ever play ball again, I take my hat off to him. Okay, maybe a few other pieces of clothing too. And the   Nationals : Was it an accident that a team hoping to fill i...

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 ...

When you do stand-up comedy you’re supposed to start with your second best stuff and finish with your finest stuff. That eliminates anything to do with my boobs. My husband says that eliminates any chance I have of doing stand-up. Thanks, honey. So the challenge is how to start this blog with something almost as funny as how I’ll end it based on a premise that’s pertinent to baseball. That narrows it down to my nose. The problem is it’s hard to show you via Bleacher Report that my honker takes the shape of a Phillies “P” when I’m cleaning it out with a Kleenex. Like my husband says, “I’ll make sure they carve Almost funny on your tombstone.” Let’s face it, most bloggers could give this up at any time. So what is it that drives us to attempt to capture the attention of those who peruse Bleacher Report? You could ask one of the Bob’s: Warja or Cunningham—they’re the heavy hitters. I’m about a buck soaking wet. I couldn’t keep up with them with a subscription to Elias Spor...