We all saw Ryan Howard collapse and scream in front of us. We all read in terror as Chase Utley mysteriously disappeared from Phillies training camp only to reappear in some monstrous doctor’s lair. And this week, we all worked to convince ourselves that these horrific developments were mere coincidence, not a methodically constructed plot to eliminate our beloved infield.
And then Placido Polanco was forced to flee from the field in the middle of a game as once again… a killer struck, proving to everyone but the almost willfully ignorant and skeptical local sheriff that someone is after the Phillies. Someone who wants them seeing red… blood red.
This all, of course, makes Jimmy Rollins the sexy blonde protagonist who has no idea that her demented Uncle Dubee actually survived the accidental impaling on a foul pole all those years ago and is killing all of her friends.
The bloody fate befalling the Philadelphia Phillies is hard to ignore, and the media has done just that: not ignored it. Obviously Ryan’s injury is old news, and Chase’s knee has gone from “not currently injured” to “we’re going to have to take the leg.” With Polanco’s latest injury, we’re left holding J-Roll’s contract, wondering what terrible thing is stalking him.
Fortunately, it’s not all bad. Why, Polanco’s finger isn’t even broken! Kind-hearted camp counselor Scott Proefrock addressed all of us the other day to assure us that Polanco is just fine, and that our worries about a malevolent force of evil turning our infield into hamburger meat is just fodder for camp fire stories. Then he didn’t show up for s’mores and we found “EVERYTHING IS FINE” written across his cabin door in human blood. Then we turned around and noticed that Michael Martinez was missing. As a fringe character, his disappearance was actually expected far sooner. But still.
In other words, we can all relax. Our 36-year-old third baseman is not all eviscerated, and will return to the hot corner in due time, ready to sharply field, accurately throw, and put his aging body at risk of grotesque injuries for as long as his crumbling bones can stand it.
Meanwhile, we all must either pretend nothing is wrong, or do the sane thing and stand guard outside Jimmy’s house with a shotgun, unloading at anything that creates sound.