“It was no big deal,” the media told us. “They’ve been through this before.”
They had us all fooled.
Just like in high school, though, there was a party held that we didn’t know about. But this time you don’t have to hide under the sweaters in your closet and swear you’ll get revenge by having a Phillies blog no one cares about some day. Because probably I wasn’t going to be invited to this party anyway.
“As players slipped into their traveling clothes and then out through the doorway, the only sign of life was the mellow sound of the Red Hot Chili Peppers humming through a speaker in the far left corner of the room.”
–David Murphy, Daily News
If I know anything about music, its that RHCP can be easily equated to insta-parties. Sure, maybe the clubhouse had been transformed into a ghost town, but you don’t put on the Chili Peppers for a relaxing evening of travel. You put them on so you can party, whether in a room full of champions or in your pants.
The frequency of playoff berth may wear down the initial excitement, but I believe we have evidence that a secret celebration had gone down for a few minutes before the press broke the door down and swarmed the room, greeted only by the warbled evidence of Anthony Kiedis and maybe a stray streamer that had gotten stuck to John Bowker’s cleats.
“We’ve been to the top of the mountain, reached the pinnacle so to speak, and we know what that tastes like. It’s kind of like anything less is just that.”
Yes, yes; we’ve all tasted mountains. They’re not as sugary as they look from far away.
If the Phillies are downright bored by clinching a spot, and need more than that to get a thrill, then they should win the World Series by way of addiction. But of course, they’ve already done that too. So what twisted practice will these salivating adrenalin junkies turn to in order to fill the void? Is this why Jayson Werth started his own private UFC league? Is it why Chase Utley hunts endangered species for sport?
This isn’t a process that just ends. It’s an addiction that burrows deep into your soul and begins tearing it up from the inside, quelled only from time to time by performing the actions of a madman.
I’ll tell you what–the Phillies had better have a party in that locker room. Otherwise they’ll all be riding jet packs during their Russian roulette tournament over a lake of fire next October.