Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Roy Halladay

With Christmas peaking its head around the corner, its hard not think of screaming children.

As a kid during the holidays, once everything’s unwrapped and the mystery is over, you start playing… and after two hours, everything that was clean and plastic and fresh isn’t new anymore.  At this point, imagination kicks in.

In my own house, I would start putting two gifts together.  A Lego set being attacked by a plastic dinosaur.  A Nerf bow and arrow being aimed at my sister eating cereal.  Oh, look it all got in her hair.  Bonus.

Its just way too awesome of a concept to ignore.

I wonder exactly how long Cliff and Roy were in Philadelphia at the same time.  If at all.

Because that toy concept can so easily be transferred over to the Phillies latest wheeling and dealing, which was mostly just dealing.  Jay Mariotti, writing what he hears about on the subway, has his latest piece dripping with “Gaw! Wouldn’t it be awesome if Lee and Halladay were combined?”  Then all of the kids who are already playing with their Lee/Halladay hybrids give him that look that rich kids give children with the cheap toys and silently agree that he should be grateful that he’s even in the sandbox.

Way to say what we’re all thinking, Jay.  Or, were thinking.

We’ve had a few days to be sad about Cliff.  He was a good fit and sending him away feels unnatural.  Its strange that you could say it won’t be the same without him; a guy who was only here for half a season.

But he’s gone.

He is gone.

It’s almost being tossed aside that we also gained something from the deal, and that something is ROY HALLADAY.  The Roy Halladay.  It’s a bit insane that a lot of fans are focusing more on Cliff’s absence, but as we learned in 1993, when the most fun team to watch in baseball, ever, hit the ground like a glass ball within the two years following and scattered in a billion directions… wishing and hoping don’t bring players back.

Nothing does.

So we swapped out one ace for another and didn’t truly gain in the general sense.  At least we’re didn’t get an Angels-esque screw job on our hunt for an ace starting pitcher.

It’s a different chair, but when the music stops, the goal is to be sitting down.

Maybe Roy won’t gel as well.  Maybe he is confused by the difference in regional temperaments between Toronto and Philly.  Maybe he looks awful in red.

Or maybe, just maybe, on a warm night in April, when the World Series is once again a goal and not a lament, when the air’s thick with fireflies and obscenities and wildly overpriced concessions, we’ll sit back and watch Roy Halladay drag each and every member of the Washington Nationals off their bar stools, toss them into a back alley, and beat the living bodily fluids out of them with some of the most masterful pitching in modern baseball.

And if that’s not enough to make you happy, there’s always plastic dinosaurs.

Don’t worry (yet).  We’ve still got some prospects.