Mike Sweeney Starts, Finishes Hilarious Mets Slaughter

Everybody comes to Philly and has their eyes open.  Guys have been snatched in early August for the last few years who’ve graduated from places like Baltimore or Seattle, where the post season hides like a frightened child.

Mike Sweeney is one of these journeymen, and like any guy who wanders into a scene that is much more exciting than the last place he was at, boy, is he excited to be here.  Last night, he got his first Big Phillies Moment as he was cast by fate as the bookends on a six run terrorizing of the Mets‘ bullpen in the eighth.  They were singles, but his gritty baserunning and clear exhilaration was the ticket to victory.  Even if we needed a strong enough lead to withstand our own bullpen.

Yes, like a bored single father leaving a group tour at the Natural History Museum and stumbling upon an orgy, Sweeney is intrigued, enthused, and a willing participant .

Phillies 7, Mets 5

Now that win was an actual win.

The “Battle of the OMFG Bullpens” was finally won by the efforts of Bobby Parnell and Jesus Feliciano, who allowed the Phillies to bounce a six-run eighth inning off a Braves loss and slide that much closer to where they’ve been bumbling around all year:  first place in the NL East.

Not that the Phillies didn’t make a valiant drive toward a late inning smear campaign against themselves.  J.C. Romero took point on yet another eye rolling late inning performance, mere hours after I chose to defend him in a bar.

If I were a more honorable man, I would return to the pub, hat in hand, and beg for forgiveness from my debating opponent, who’s arguments of “Romero sucks” and “Romero sucks horse dick” I contested heavily.  Instead, I’ll probably just head over to a Phillies message board, where comparisons of baseball players and animal genitalia go hand in hand on donkey penis.

J.C. and his theory of “no outs baseball” gave up a three run home run after all that glorious commotion the Phillies caused in the top of the inning, courtesy of Mike Sweeney, Benny Fresh, J-Roll, Ross Gload’s cautious eyeballs, Chooch, and Mike Sweeney again.

Watching the Mets have their lives destroyed is always like entering a check out lane in a grocery store and seeing that kid who used to distract the gym teacher by calling the front office and saying he was his estranged wife so he could brain you repeatedly with a basketball without anyone stopping him bagging your groceries.  And then getting him fired by telling his boss that every time he would put one of your groceries in a bag he’d whisper something racist.

What are we talking about?  Baseball?  Whatever.

A night after staggering into a three-game sweep against the Marlins, the Phillies back up squad managed to flee far enough any potential bullpen antics for the win.  Nobody crushed a dinger, nobody had “the big hit;” there was a collection of patient, precise offense, assembled together, piece by piece.  This is the only way the Phillies can step over the bodies of Howard, Utley, Victorino, and whoever else is going to wither and die.

Attempting to play All-Star baseball when half the All-Stars aren’t there anymore does not work, and should this be attempted, the Phillies will become a malfunctioning machine.  They will collapse with swift speed and morose, pathetic endgames.  They will fail to sidestep any debauchery from their bros in the pen.  They will be the Mets.

Anyways.  It was nice to see them do what they can with what they have, where they are.  It is a successful formula for the ingredients they have in front of them.