A snarky, unsportsmanlike blogger would fill this space with the groans and bitchings of a man with no finger nails and a depleted amount of brain cells.
So here we go.
What the hell is going on? Have the Phillies become the “kind hearted hooker” of Major League Baseball? A poor, desperate team comes to town, hat in hand, that slightest hint of a tear in their eyes, and the Phillies–sophisticated, upper class, chock full of sex appeal–are everything they want to beat. Not that people should be out there beating up prostitutes.
Except that is exactly what is happening here, metaphorically. First the Pirates come in and respond to an unbridled slaughter with an airtight erasing of our strongest suit, then the Cubs bust in, grab us by the collar, and–
Cubs 4, Phillies 1
How many fantastic starts do you think the unkillable Jamie Moyer has left? Four? A billion? Who knows. The point is, even though he’s unkillable, the unkillable Jamie Moyer is probably a little resentful when this lineup explodes for Kyle Kendrick, and he throws a better game and gets squat. Squat!
Seriously, how pissed is he right now? The Phils can come up any night of the season–almost–maybe that’s an exaggeration too, even–and make a pitcher feel like a lonely puddle of dog piss in a creepy alley at three in the morning. They can systematically electrocute an entire family of baseballs, one by one, in front of each other, as they sob for mercy. During the National Anthem, they look like a nine-armed space monster, comprised entirely of offense, saluting the Plutonian flag.
But now, it can’t even take the best pitcher in baseball, or the best old man in baseball, to get this lineup started. Those were two gorgeous starts gone to waste. Now nobody is getting dessert. Understand?
Anyways, your Jamie Moyer this evening: 7 IP, 4 H, 2 ER, 1 BB, 7 K.
And your Phillies offense: 1 R, 5 H, 7 SO
This is a lot of complaints for just two losses. Yes, I realize things could be a lot worse. But we’re suffering from a brand of role reversal here. We were an offensive team with pitching problems. Our starters were stumbling and our bullpen was lousy. Then the starters became somewhat dependable, and our bullpen was still going off in the wrong directions.
Now all of the pitching is shooting the squirrels off the lawn, but the offense is dropping a trail of nuts through the front door.
The Cubs got their runs on a few RBI singles from Starlin Castro, Xavier Nady, and somebody else, and their closer, Carlos Marmol, shit the bed hard enough you could smell it down the hall when he walked Ibanez, hit Ruiz, and couldn’t seem to find the plate with Google Maps and a GPS. Then he threw two strikeouts. It was like watching a tornado turn into a song.
Have I become dependent on success? Can I not make it through the night without a shot of success and a chaser of consistency? Do I wake up in the morning and think about nothing but that sweet, sweet tang of victory, to the point that I lose my shit over two losses?
“You can play defense and your baserunning can be there every day, but I don’t care how good you are, you’re not going to hit every day.”
Thank you, Placido.
“Over the course of the season, you’re going to run into situations like this.”
I know, Jamie.
“I don’t have any concerns or worries about our offense. They are all great hitters.”
I heard you.
“I probably had all four pitches working.”