The Phillies and baseball gods thought it best to trample John Mayberry’s emotions the other day; first, declaring he was off the team and sending him to meet up with Lehigh Valley, then bringing him back because Ross Gload had decided to reproduce nine months before.
“I just try to perform wherever I go and trust that things will work out,” John said.
“Me too,” no one heard Ross Gload mutter as he packed his things.Ross utilized the game’s new paternity leave, which allows for players to leave in order to have some paternity somewhere. It must be pretty nice, but let’s take a “Richie Whitt” perspective to this situation: Its not nice. In fact, its terrible.
What if Ross Gload’s sore, broken body, and the single aspect of baseball it offers–the bat–are needed within the next three days? What if a situation arises where the only answer seems to be a pinch-hit, without needing the flavorless garnish of “fielding” or “running” to round it out? What if there’s too many homeless kids playing around the Phillies bus? Whose vacantly penetrating stare is going to scare them off now? Michael Martinez? Because he can’t do it. He can’t do anything.
Sure, its only two to three days, but the frequency with which our players are currently exploding indicates that every guy needs to be primed and ready to go in the time it takes a human knee cap to shatter. Besides, with Ross Gload already hurt, and still playing, that makes him some sort of anomaly. He’s beaten death at its own game and soldiered on, and there wasn’t even a series of extensive Rube Goldberg-esque death traps lined up to correct his survival.
So it all makes sense now.
The birth of Ross Gload’s child is merely Death’s attempt to lure him away from the Phillies and restore its original design.