A Vicious Thanksgiving Beating from the Phillies
By Justin Klugh
It’s Thanksgiving, and all across the FanSided universe, MLB blogs are giving you the heartwarming reasons they love and appreciate their teams, and using up all the emotional cap space that should be spent on their families later today.
But the Phillies are my real family, isn’t that right, not-at-all-kidnapped Phillies players?
*Pissed stares; except from Kyle Kendrick, who is smiling and may not understand what is happening*
Ha ha, the holidays!
I’ll tell you what I’m thankful for, Phillies, but first I’d like to tell you about Calvin Maduro.
Calvin Maduro is no one. Sure, he’s a minor league hitting coach. And sure, I’ll even credit that knighthood he was granted by the Netherlands as “something.” But I’m not counting the sixth-place finish at the Olympics, or what I can only assume was an aluminum medal he received for doing so.
I’d like to thank Calvin because he is a Phillies speed bump in time. He played for us for two years, was terrible, and then dissipated like a cloud of pollution. Also like pollution, his presence, though not physically there, lingered for some time. The Phillies, in the late ’90s and early 200s, ranged from terribly average to terribly terrible. Bowa came in, screamed himself hoarse, got us some 2nd place finishes, and left.
Maduro, on the other hand, was gone by 1999. But to me, he’s always been a name to look back on and think “Wow. Remember when Calvin Maduro played for this team?” He is, for the most part, forgotten, and even upon looking up his Phillies stats, you are unimpressed.
And not to skewer him. I’m sure he’s Googling himself Aberdeen, then finding this site and with mouth agape, shock and chagrin slowly on the rise, he reads his own character assassination in this cobwebby corner of the Phils blogosphere.
But for all intents and purposes in Phillies history, Calvin’s invisible. Guys like him, and Gregg Jefferies, and Amaury Telemaco and Desi Relaford, all symbolize to me an age of Phillies baseball where I could do nothing but watch as they skunked and then won and then skunked until September expired.
It reminds me of how many unseen aspects go into a World Series team, how uncommon it is for the right shit to go down at the right time with the right guys, and people unavoidably take for gran–
*Watches as Chase Utley chews himself loose from his restraints and climbs out the basement window*
Shit.
Well, seeing as how this weird suburban compound friendly Thanksgiving social amongst friends is going to be swarming with SWAT officers in a matter of minutes, I’ll wrap this up.
*Turns to look at infuriated tied-up Phillies team. Kyle Kendrick has fallen asleep on Ryan Howard’s shoulder. Ryan’s eyes bulge with disgust.*
Guys, I’m thankful that you have created an unfair stigma from the age of the Calvin Maduros. Do you remember how furious I was when you struck out looking to end the NLCS, Ryan? Or when you couldn’t seduce a hit with RISP, Jayson? Or RoyO! Remember your first outing as a Phillie? I was so frustrated I bit off my own finger!
I say this because I assume you can hear me shouting through the TV. If that’s false, say something.
*They are all gagged*
Ha, ha! Just kidding. But seriously. This city expects you guys to win. You’ll have to forgive us for being dicks about it, but those expectations are a gift. There was a time when the most we could hope for was a solid Whitey-rant regarding his feelings on the sacrifice bunt!
Boy, he sure hated sac bunts.
Anyway. You guys have invented the greatest Phillies team in the history of the franchise. And while we still have to deal with shit like Tom McCarthy, and not winning the World Series every year, its a far cry from the era of bored suffering we sweated, sobbed, and screamed through not too long ago with guys like poor Calvin Maduro.
*Ryan Howard and Jayson Werth have wriggled free as I was talking and are standing over me, furious, and brandishing their chairs as weapons*
…
…
Happy Thanksgiving, guys.
*Sounds of a vicious beating*