That Old September Feeling


Nationals 8, Phils 7

A cold wind was swept into Philadelphia, bringing with it a deluge of miserable rain, howling banshees of wind gusts, and a sense of bitter disappointment, all trapped and swirling beneath the slate grey cloud cover usually reserved for New England in Mid-November.

Last night, I flipped back and forth between the Phils-Nationals finale and the NFL kickoff game between two teams I don’t really care about.

Each depression of the “Previous” button on the remote took me from Pittsburgh to DC, not an incredible distance geographically, but the emotions emitted by either side went curious excitement to complete and utter disgust.  As the numbers in the Nationals’ column just kept going up and the Phils decided to stay with their comfortable “2,” (until the last second) the wind outside reached whiplash velocity, and a series of cheese steak vendors and ill-tempered street-walkers soared past the window.

It’s ugly out there, people.

What am I saying, exactly?  That the Phillies abysmal road trip, on which our only two victories were marginal at best, has inspired a swarm of banshees to settle in their home city, destroying the week and a half of beautiful weather?

The baseball gods, unhappy for whatever reason, have initiated an onslaught of terror on Philadelphia, and whether we are experiencing it via the weather slapping us across the face, or the Phillies performing the same action from Houston or DC, it is quite apparent, we have wronged them.


No, of course I am not saying that, for that would be the ramblings of an insane person (though I am not ruling it out).

But If I were an insane person, I’d say, from a biblical perspective, such a scenario calls for a relatively simple solution:  a sacrifice.

“… But it’s better to go on a bad stretch, I guess, against bad teams than against good teams. You do it against good teams, you feel like, man, maybe we’re not good enough. Against bad teams, it’s like, we’re just bad.”

Jimmy Rollins

As if the weather wasn’t an indication, it is now September.

In September, “We’ll get ‘um next time” turns into “Well, I guess that’s it.”

“Against bad teams, it’s like, we’re just bad.” = “Okay, see you in Clearwater.”

“We’ve got to turn it around, and fast!” = *Sound of CBP home locker room door slamming shut*

You know why I have such a soft spot for Joe Blanton?  Because he throws strikes and hurls shit in the dugout when he’s pissed.  But also, because after a performance that no one was blaming entirely on him, his postgame quotation was:

“I [stunk].”

And that was all.  He didn’t go have a heart-to-heart with Charlie, he didn’t sit in the dugout for awhile after the game with his head in his hands, he recognized what he believed was the problem and said it out loud.

That’s a problem these days; it seems like everybody’s feelings are floating around the staff, like suddenly we’re a support group for underperforming baseball players.

It only gets colder in September, boys.

P.S.  Shane, hit god damn the ball please.  Sincerely, Everyone.

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