It doesn’t matter if you’re an aging relative, a sickly family guinea pig, or a poisoned tree sapling. Eventually, we’re all getting shot in the face.
Age sneaks up on us all. Right now, you’re reading this, and perhaps chuckling at the notion of me holding a shotgun in my trembling nine-year-old hands as I look into Chunky the Guinea Pig’s eyes for the last time. What you should be thinking about is the grim spectre of death creeping upon you in the night.
Because its there; gripping your shoulder with the icy touch of the unknown. Go ahead and look over your shoulder–you’ll never see it coming.
It doesn’t have to approach. Its already there.
Just biding its horrible time.
Like you, the Phillies suffer from this haunting, inescapable phenomenon. This is no shock. One thing that each and every human walking this earth has in common is that one day they won’t be here anymore. And yet, this widely accepted knowledge is treated as awe-striking terror when its said to occur to our favorite players.
Perhaps this is why the Phillies are so often dissected in this way–that their weakness is identified as an advancing age, despite this being the case with every player in the game. Right now, as you read this, Stephen Strasburg is getting older. All the elevated hopes and monstrous predictions in the world can’t stop it from happening. His arm, his mind, his skin; all of it is rotting in time with the quiet, constant beat of death’s drum.
And because these Phillies are the best Phillies the world has ever seen, they are chastised for their age. They are getting old. And if writers can only meet their quota by describing the Phillies as a team whose biggest problem is the problem everyone of us has, then things probably aren’t as bad as anyone is untruthfully saying they are.
After all, we’re all only one casual misstep away from the grave; no matter what game we’re playing.