Oh god, I think my fantasy team’s going to be kidnapped and thrown out of a moving truck tomorrow.
But none of that matters, as the “What Will Chase’s Arm Do Now?” show rolls into town for its first Philadelphia appearance.
If there’s consolation to be had about Friday’s stroke-inducing baseball, it’s that we handed the Dodgers the game in a neatly wrapped gift box, curtsied, and went on our merry way.
Errors, walks, and screaming led a 2-1 Dodger win, evening the series and making all of us on the freezing side of the country a little sicker.
Charlie Manuel, without a ton of ammunition in the bullpen, began firing wildly at the advancing Dodger horde in the eighth inning, and wound up with five different pitchers hitting the mound.
And nobody could stop the bleeding.
Well, Cliff’s starting Sunday, so that gives you a confidence boost right there.
And Joe Blanton goes in Game 4.
Joe’s nothing to be worried about. He was the most consistent guy on the staff this year, and like I’m always blabbering, the dude throws strikes. He’s a machine, and a workhorse, and for a team like us whose bullpen gets a daily smattering of put-downs on blogs and syndicated sports programs alike, a guy throwing into the late innings would be a great help.
Wouldn’t want Charlie hemorrhaging pitchers all over the field again.
Against us tomorrow is Hiroki Kuroda, the only guy on the Dodgers to beat us in the NLCS last year. 8-7 with a 3.76 ERA is nothing to be shaking about in the batter’s box. Also, he’s coming off a neck injury that might have kept him off the Dodgers’ NLCS roster.
Heads should be high for both of these games, as long as clutch hitting becomes even more prominent (Talking to you, Feliz) and Chase gives his arm an inspiring enough pre-game pep talk.
But then again, all of this may be completely pointless, as a white squall seems firmly intent on storming into the Philadelphia area and laying a blanket of cold, wet, misery all across the Northeastern United States (a little factoid that has seen ticket prices collapse like the Angels).
Either way, hold onto your hats and strap on the dumb-looking ninja head warmers.
Because this isn’t L.A. anymore.
It’s Philly, where we’ve awoken to nature spitting in our faces for the past week; where instead of screenwriters we’ve got crack heads, and instead of palm trees we’ve got anger.