In spite of all the nonsense that went along with this historically atrocious homestand, I have a hard time getting pissed about it. It’s not rooted in the fact that the Mets haven’t managed to wrest the lead from the flaccid pseudo-grip the Phils have kept on the NL East for weeks, though that helps soften the blow. It might be a defensive mechanism put in place to keep me from getting my BP up over something I have no control over.
I took the weekend off, more or less, not really because the Phillies were playing so badly, but more because the family is important to me, and it was a family kind of weekend. Hell, I still managed to catch most of each of the games, including visiting a AA game in Reading to watch Lidge pitch in person against the Harrisburg Senators.
Brad looked good, if you consider a leadoff double and 2 K’s in a scoreless 1st inning with no pressure against Double-A hitting with Double-A leather backing him up any sort of measure of looking good.
“But Tug,” you might say, “He said he felt no pain in his knee during that outing.” Well, he said he felt no pain up until he went on the 15-day disabled list, so excuse me for a moment. I need to take my grain of salt.
Saturday, June 20
While I was watching #40 Mike Taylor of the Reading Phillies line a circuit clout into the left-field stands for a grand slam, I was missing… well, nothing. The big-time Phillies were doing dick for most of the night, besides losing. As it happens, during the second rain-delay, my brother and I decided to get the hell out of Reading, on the logic that we saw Lidge pitch, we saw a grand slam, it’s only the 6th inning, it’s already late and we’re 2.5 hours from home.
When we got to the car, we turned on 1210 just in time to hear Franzke call Ryan Howard’s swine-flu-induced AB, capping a 5-run rally in the 7th with a 3-run blast. Unfortunately, we also heard Madson blow that effort right out of the heavens with his patented “Madson Meltdown.”
What’s funny about this is the assholes sitting behind us at the Reading game, shouting at Lidge pre-game, “Madson’s a better closer!“
Are you fucking new or what?
I’ll admit, during Lidge’s shaky streaks, I was openly curious about the feasibility of Madson as a closer. But the proof is in the pudding, and that is some shitty-ass pudding, son.
Friday, June 19
U-Peel shrimp and steamed clams. Two scoops of Springer-chip on a waffle cone. I used to live in Cape May County. It was nice to visit Avalon, if only for an evening of too much seafood.
Oh, and the Phillies lost. Not much to take away from this game that hasn’t already been beaten into the ground. But I will talk about one thing, which I tweeted when it happened.
Mayberry pussed out on a catch by the wall. Waved his right arm in front of him, disoriented, like when you wake up in the middle of the night to take a leak and flip the switch in the bathroom, blasting your fully-dilated pupils with rude light.
The ball was catchable, and he blew it. I’m not blaming the loss on him at all, I’m just nominating him for the Abreu Award. It’s something to consider before claiming outfield depth and talking about trading Werth or Victorino, something that I myself have considered a good idea.
Mostly, I just miss Raul. Come back to us, buddy. I’m sure there are plenty of ladies that are more than willing to give your aching groin a rubdown after each game.
Um, go Phils?