A post-season no-hitter, capitalizing on errors, the return of King Cole.
Well, my loyal Followers, I’m back and that can only mean one glorious thing; The Fightin’ Phils have bashed their way through the NLDS victoriously.
Game 1 of the NLDS series saw our top stud, Roy Halladay, touch a milestone with his long-awaited play-off debut. Giving us his best rendition of the G N’ R’s Chinese Democracy , Roy-Toy went completely hitless throughout his nine innings on the mound, a feat only matched in the post-season by Don Larsen of the 1956 Yankees. Michael Jack Schmidt called it “The Greatest Moment in Philadelphia Sports History,” and I’m hard-pressed to prove him wrong. Throwing fake bags of money at J.D. Drew in his first appearance at the Vet back in ’98 after he turned down a Phillies contract to play for the Cardinals has to be a close second.
The only well-struck ball came off the bat of Reds reliever Travis Wood. That sentence alone speaks volumes, and anyone in attendance will be regaling their ungrateful grandchildren of this tale for generations to come.
You know there are actually people in this world who believe Tim Lincecum’s two-hit, 14 strike-out debut the following night was more dominant than Roy’s no-no? Let’s be honest here for a second, people. Anyone who believes this is a sexually frustrated, SABR-wielding virgin and just wants to shit in the Philadelphia hot-tub.
The crux of this argument is that Lincecum had less run support, which led to more pressure, and his swing-through-strike count was 31, somehow proving his penis is larger than Halladay’s. I’m sorry, but whiffing 14 men on an over-anxious team that could tie the game with one solid crack isn’t shit on an actual no-hitter against a line-up that boasted the most runs scored in the entire National League. Of course they’re gonna be swinging like frat boys in Tijuana; if one of those errant swats connected on the sweet spot that game could’ve possibly been another four boring innings.
I’m in no way trying to belittle Lincecum’s feat. He’s one of my favorite men in the game at present, and I have lauded him many times for being the utter vision of modesty in success. But if you’re seriously trying to tell me his outing was more dominant, you can take a hike up Dumbshit Mountain and get cozy.
Nevertheless, Halladay’s performance set an evil tone for the remainder of the series, and that was more than apparent in Game 2. Roy Oswalt came with his usual this-is-war sexual swagger, only to be met with the hungry bats of a demoralized Reds’ batting order. A lead-off dinger to the gloating Brandon Phillips and some uncharacteristically weak defense had our boys on the ropes for the first half of the affair, seeing Oswalt’s start cut short to five innings and the Phils down four runs to nothing.
Things quickly changed in the Fightin’s favor though, as timely, Monty Python-esque errors by the Reds, headhunting and the beating around of Cinci’s new toy, Aroldis Chapman—who boasts an adorable 105-mph fastball—opened the door to hell for the Queen City foes. The most karmic and notable of all errors of Game 2 came on a Jimmy Rollins’ routine fly-out to Reds’ right fielder, Jay Bruce. Fans reported Bruce taunting members of our fine Phaithful earlier in the game with promises of taking us to Great American Ballpark with the series tied a game a piece.
Not long after this nincompoop spewed his weak attempt at flexing nuts he lost Rollins’ ball in the lights and let it sail right past him, allowing Chase Utley and Jayson Werth to score and take the lead and keep it. It wasn’t the prettiest win, but I’ll take it. A good team takes advantage of the lesser experienced team, especially this part of the year.
The Reds nerves were never more prevalent than in Game 3, as these bobbling dickheads just laid down for Cole Hamels while he decimated every batter in their line up. Top-to-bottom, King Cole made his opponents look about as threatening as the last Train single, “Hey Soul Sister.” A complete game, five-hit nine-K shutout in enemy territory capped off the vanquishing of the Dusty Baker Zombie and brought home the first post-season sweep in franchise history.
With this, our third consecutive trip to the Championship Series, I can’t help but chime in on the luke-warm, airtime-eating debate that’s been bandied about all over sports talk radio. In the last week if it hasn’t been “Is This The Best Phillies Team We’ve Ever Seen?” argument, it’s been this “Are you Red or Green?” drivel—does your allegiance rest with the Phils or the Birds? The sane answer is Brown, but under these circumstances it shouldn’t even be a question. The tide is turning and you’d have to be an actual asshole not to feel the pull of the Red current.
Let’s face it, Followers, every ball on every roulette wheel is landing on Red, for good or for worse. A team that’s taken us deep into October for three straight, glorious years is starting to dominate a once Green-Bleeding market. The hatch-backs are covered in large P magnets, the streets are a sea of red caps, and Jeffrey Lurie’s tawdry attempts at vamping publicity from the Fightin’s are coming more frequently. (You’re telling me it was coincidental that he announced Michael Vick’s starting QB status 20 minutes before the Phils took on Atlanta in the crucial division title deciding series last month?)
National sentiment is widely mutating, as well. It’s gone from “Well, these Phils really lucked into it again” to “If I were any other team out there my ass would be puckering in Phear.”
Finally, some respect.
All bullshit posturing aside, the Phillies fight to live another day and give our town another week of good sex in a stretch of success that’s long overdue, while enjoying legitimate recognition. I, like many other Phaithful, will be sleeping slightly better until the San Fran gaggle of fucksticks show up for the NLCS.
Want more gratuitous use of the f-word and references to male anatomy? Read Sharkey's daily musings at bigsharkeyshow.blogspot.com
Letters to the Editor