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Archive for the ‘Phillies’ Category

Let’s cruise around the information super slip ‘n slide for a few minutes for things that are currently cool, useful, and/or amusing.

First, I wanted to write something here about how Pedro Feliz is pretty much a soup bowl of suck, but then figured that the new blog “Pedro Feliz Walks” illustrates my point nicely. It plans to track Pete Happy’s base on balls, which might make it the only blog updated less than this one.

Next, I’d like to direct you to my friend Nick’s podcast that he does with his buddy Dan, which is called “On the DL.” In just a few months, they’ve turned it from two guys talking about sports (mostly Philly-centric) to being a legit enterprise, where they interview folks like Will Leitch and AJ “The Balls” Daulerio from Deadspin, Chris Carlin from WFAN and others. This week they’re interviewing Mike Missanelli, who will hopefully spout off and reveal that Howard Eskin has superseded Jerry Penacoli’s position as Philly’s preeminent gerbil stuffing media personality.

Just cause I’m addicted it to it, Muxtape is an awesome music site.

On the beverage front, anyone who lives in Pennsylvania knows that visiting another state’s liquor stores opens up your world view as much, if not more, than your first handjob. However, we all try to make due with our state stores. Phoodie, the new site by Philebrity, has a great running feature called “It’s Vintasastic” that helps navigate the pre-Glasnost shelves of PA liquor stores and find well priced bottles of wine.

And finally, because every batch of links on the internets must conclude with a You Tube video (it’s the rule right after the brilliant “Internet Fuckwad Theory“), here’s a clip comparing the Phightin Phils to Foo Fighters (or should they now be the Phoo Phighters?):

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CIMG1531
My mind right now is as conflicted as my stomach, which has taken a thorough beating the last few days from consuming midday baseball, griddled animal flesh and watery domestics. And while my stomach churns, my brain is having trouble wrapping its battered self around how to feel about the Phillies.

Part of it knows that this team plays best when we have left it for dead. After another jarringly bad April start. When they momentarily get it together and they swoon in June. Following moments like Tom Gordon and Brett Myers’ epic meltdown in Atlanta. This team needs doubters. It needs its disgruntled fans to begin the first few letters of a chant for the team that plays a Ryan Howard homer away. It needs us to think they’re the Mother Fucking Same Old Phillies.

So I almost want to feel that way, knowing that my doubt–my sense of impending doom–will somehow affect a baseball game half a continent away, because, surely, that would make sense. When I doubt, they win, right? But now does my awareness of this line of thinking mean that it isn’t real? That it would then become a manufactured sense of doubt that was actually created just to keep up some superstition of how these Phils have kept winning this year. Like I said, my brain hurts.

So you know what? Screw it. I’m going to enjoy the one, or two, or please-God-let-there-be three or more games left this year. Because the Phils are playing their one hundred and sixty-fifth game of the year tomorrow night, and I might as well enjoy the time leading up to it.

That said, if that fat fucking diaper stain Josa Mesa makes another appearance, I’m going to punt a puppy dog into the Schuylkill.

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CIMG1524

I’m hungover from going to the game yesterday, so here’s my in-depth analysis of the game: The Schmitter is a tasty fucking sandwich.

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The entertainment value of a playoff series has a sharp relation to the level of hatred one feels for the opposition. Had the Phils hosted the Padres, that lather of hatred would have been well whipped. A tense mid-August series with the Pads featured a few near bench-clearing brawls, some inside pitching and the batshit crazy Milton Bradley egging on the well-lubricated and feisty leftfield crowd at CBP. But Colorado? They weren’t on the radar much all year. Or the year before that. Or the decade before that.

This series on the field comes down to two teams who are strikingly similar. The Good Phight does a great job breaking down how alike the teams are, so let’s focus on how we can actually hate the Rockies. This is difficult for me, as I actually spent nearly a year in Colorado, living as a ski bum, and it was one of the greatest times of my life. The people were super friendly. The weather, awesome. The skiing, unparalleled. The scenery, inspiring. The potent marijuana, plentiful.

Trying to dislike Colorado is like trying to hate the lovable stoner in the back of your social studies class–the dude who could play Bonham’s part in Moby Dick using two pencils, a lighter and an unread copy of On the Road. But alas, we shall try. Anyway, here are a few reasons that we Philadelphians, who specialize in spite, should hate Colorado and the Colorado Rockies:

For a land overflowing with hunger-inducing narcotics, the food pretty much sucks: A decent roll is nowhere to be found. Chains rule the landscape. Testicles are a delicacy. Let’s move on.

The Phils helped out the Colorado grounds crew as the Rockies collectively shaved Matt Holliday’s balls: I’m going on hearsay here, but I have it on good information that while the Phillies–helpers to the meek, assistants to the frail–helped the Colorado grounds crew from certain death, the Rockies felt the need to manscape Holliday.

Meanwhile, the Rockies were clubbing seals.

Their hippies ain’t no Oregonian hippies: Sure, Colorado has its fair share of the poorly bathed, the barely kept, the glassy eyed. But Oregon hippies are busy giving natural in-home bong water births to their babies while Colorado’s hippies fumble for their Graffix.

They’re stealing our thunder: We were the story of the team coming back from impossible odds to make the postseason for the first time since the Clinton era. We were the all slugging, no pitching squad that played in the park where homers are given out with each $7 beer. We were the team with the MVP candidate that no one saw coming months ago, and who ignited his team on the playoff-clinching win. We were the feel good story of the year. So piss up a rope, Colorado. It’s our time.

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So, that was quite unexpected.

Sunday promised to be excruciating. Surely we would spend all day chewing the insides of our cheeks. Slowly peeling the labels off our beer bottles. Cracking our knuckles, biting our cuticles and developing other nervous ticks that would annoy our significant others for years to come. It would be a white knuckle affair that would end up with us as Charlie Brown, on our backs, looking skyward after that smug harlot Lucy had lifted the ball from yet another doomed field goal attempt.

But then it happened. Mets down 7-0 before a pitch at CBP was thrown. The ballpark in a state of 8PM-on-2 Street-on-January 1 delirium from Jamie Moyer’s first 77 MPH fastball. The wily Moyer getting the outside corner. JRoll creates a run out of thin air. Ryan Howard finds the one 4 by 6 plot of grass in right field where the Nationals don’t have a fielder stationed. JRoll puts an exclamation point on an MVP campaign with a triple that mere mortals would have seen as a sliding double. Then Ryan Howard, who believes in certainties, clangs a ball off a domestic beer sign in right. And the Mets updates are an aerosol can spraying on a match. Brett Myers strikes out Willy Mo and a gorilla that had been had taken residence on our backs somehow vanished before we even realized it left.

No worrying. No gnashing of molars. Just a solid stomping. And a big ass party. It was like the day you got your driver’s license, or high school graduation, or your wedding day–days that you think about and anticipate forever, and then have a distinct, very particular, yet entirely surreal feel when they finally arrive.

I know the teams with the fans who perennially make the playoffs would laugh at our over-exuberance. They’d scoff at our eagerness to buy hats with “NL East Champs” on it. They’d think we were celebrating the first leg of a relay. They’d find the rally I just attended at City Hall to be a bit overkill.

Well, those fans can eat me.

We’ve waiting 14 years for this. For this team. For Jimmy Rollins, who is short enough to have to check himself against measuring sticks to ride roller coasters, but who carried a team for 6 months. For Chase Utley, the most complete player we’ve had since Mike Schmidt. For Ryan Howard, who hits baseballs farther than anyone on earth. For Pat Burrell, who took the boos, and more boos, and then even more, and instead of becoming the Latest Philly Athlete to be Crushed by the Phans, he improbably had the best 3 months of his career. For Cole Hamels, who doesn’t even seem like a real person–more like a life form that was placed on this earth to throw a baseball with the smoothest motion you’ve ever seen. For every other player on this squad who came up with the big hits at the craziest times. For the patchwork bullpen, who increased my vocabulary of swear words for much of the season, but who held it together at the end of it all. For Charlie Manuel, whose accent is sometimes as difficult to understand as his in-game decisions, but who kept the team fighting even when they should have been waving a white flag.

What can I say. I like this team. And for the first time in many a year, you’re god damned right that it feels great to be a Phillies Phan.

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you said it

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Talk to any Phillies fans and two things become apparent: One, they’re currently anticipating a gigantic collapse this weekend, and two, everyone seems to have a different favorite player. So, what does your favorite Phil say about you? Here is a handy pocket guide:

Jimmy Rollins: You enjoy the talking of the shit. You have pulled your ball sack out to distract opponents in beer pong. Your fantasy football name describes another player’s girlfriend and references a Wicked Video title. You have actually stood above your American Standard and admired your bowel movements.

Chase Utley: Chase appeals to both genders, but in entirely different ways:

Men: You play beer league softball and deliberately aim for the portly girl in right field, and stretch any base hit into a double. You have plowed over an entire Asian family at the beach while playing paddle ball.

Women: You are white and you live in the Delaware Valley.

Pat Burrell: You blew Pat Burrell in the bathroom at 32 Degrees once.

Ryan Howard: You believe in absolutes. You like things to have an unambiguous ending. Over 54% of the large man’s plate appearances have ended in a walk, strikeout or home run, meaning that–typically–no one on the field of play does anything after a Howard at bat. You like closure.

Brett Myers: You are Brett Myers’ legal counsel.

Abraham Nunez: Your can hit a spider with your shoe with all your might and it walks away unscathed. You don’t believe in numbers. Or statistics. Or hitting.

Adam Eaton: You are a Mets fan.

Cole Hamels: You are a true believer.

Aaron Rowand: You don’t have friends, just bros. You own a jet ski with a Nickleback sticker on the side of it. Calvin pissing on anything brightens your day. While watching Steven Seagal movies, you keep your hands occupied with one of these:

Jamie Moyer: You are enjoying the screen time you’ve been getting during the showings of Ken Burns’ The War.

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