by Mike Schmidt

Did anybody notice when I didn’t do one of these last week?  I kept thinking I’d get to it, but other, better things came up.  In my defense, my KDR in Battlefield 2 is now much, much more respectable.

For that reason, I think Mike Schmidt is about to shout at me.  The subtitle makes me think I’m about to get an earful of “In my day, we posted our weekly book reviews on time!” Opening this book, I feel like I’m bringing the car back after curfew and my dad’s bedroom light just came on.  But in the picture, he looks totally chill; like maybe he’s going to hand me a tropical drink with a crazy straw, and then scold me for being lazy.

Maybe I should just read the book.

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When he’s in his season-opening thunder storm in April or the annual September power surge, he can be easily convinced.  “Come on Ryan,” you say, slapping your thigh quickly in succession, as he affectionately ka-slams a baseball 450 feet.  He runs the bases, that signature enormous smile on his face, happy to be here, happy to contribute, happy to bring exactly what his presence on the roster is supposed to bring.

When he’s slumping, he turns a deaf ear to your calls.  “Come on Ryan,” you plead desperately, but there he is, swinging at a pitch way low and even way-er outside.  The home crowd groans as he begins another dejected journey back to the dugout.

Watching a Ryan Howard at bat in the bottom of the 9th inning of the NLCS with two outs, a full count, and the winning runs on base, is like trying to get a stray dog to love you; when all that dog really intends to do is tear your guts out.

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