Your weekly Phils playoff-run column starts now. Ends when they win it all.
Hello, Asher Roth fans. My name is John and the big men with the big wallets at PW think my little weblog, The Big Sharkey Show, and the intellectual musings on the Philadelphia Phillies contained within, are worth a go in print. I’ll be with yous weekly as the Phils attempt to plough their large genitalia through the weak competition on their way to a third World Series appearance in as many years.
Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep it simple. Who knows, in a couple weeks some of you might be able to maintain a conversation with an adult. I kid, I kid. This is the time when strangers become brethren and hetero-men embrace in the streets, so I’ll cut the smart-ass shit and get down to it. Like it or not, you’re all my Followers now.
This year has been a strange ride for anyone smart enough to don the P on their person. A season plagued with injuries, Facebook nerd nay-saying and a general sense of futility in the media has, in the end, somehow found the Phils division champs with the best record in the game and with home-field advantage throughout October. Anyone surprised? Not fucking me. This is why they pay me the big bucks.
I am supremely confident a team with this much sack will make hay in the playoffs. Let’s break it down.
Roy Halladay, Cole Hamels and Roy Oswalt
I actually feel like a dickhead for having to articulate why these men are so crucial. It’s like having to explain the merits of Kill ’Em All. Lovingly dubbed H2O by their beloved Phaithful, these three starting pitchers have completely and utterly set fire to, and then pissed on, everything that’s gotten in their way.
We know Roy Oswalt has the stamina for the deep months as he’s played the part of ace for the Astros World Series pitching staff in 2005—and just look at his hunting pictures on Flickr. His disdain for the media and his dismissive attitude toward the opposition make him equally as potent as the re-emerging Cole Hamels, who has taken off his 2009 skirt.
While both these men have post-season success, it’s a new tingle for Mr. Halladay. Something tells me he’ll be fine. Maybe it was the perfect game and 21 wins he brought to the table his first year in the red pinstripes.
The 1-2-3 butt-fucking these guys will provide should be brash and vigorous enough to barrel through any opposition.
Carlos Fucking Ruiz
The Panamanian assassin has been the life blood of the team in good times and in shit. Through all of the desperation and slumpage, this sick animal has steadied an at times mercurial offense through the choppy waters of mid-season Phamine. As a catcher, Choochie is defensively unmatched and responsible for some of the success in the pitching department, selection-wise. If he stays as focused and vicious, we should be coming up roses like Ethel Fucking Merman.
In a season beleaguered with annoying injuries, it’s been professional pine like Mike Sweeney, Ben Francisco, Ross Gload, Brian Schneider and Wilson Fucking Valdez especially who’ve saved this team’s ass from a late September vacation. In the absence of Utley and Rollins, Wilson Valdez has really stepped it up and for veterans like Sweeney and Schneider, this is their first whiff of October play. You can smell the gratitude in the sweat they leave on the field when the beckoning, all-knowing hand of manager Chollie Manuel goes a wavin’. I say this with the confidence of a thousand woodsmen: If one of our warriors is to fall, these men can take up the slack.
Like I’m gonna sit here like some pony-tailed fruit with an empty Hall Of Fame ballot in my hand and write this thing without acknowledging the work horses that have brought our team to glory in the recent years: The Dynasty Men like Chase Utley and Ryan Fucking Howard, who’s bashed his way to his fifth consecutive 30/100 season, have brought our team to a notoriously fearful status.
Last season’s bed-shitter Brad Lidge has picked up his threatening closer game, sharpening that slider of his to cold 2008-esque accuracy, while everyday bash artists like Placido Polanco, Jayson “The Rooster” Werth and RAUUUUUUUUL Ibanez just keep fingering away. I’m also not going to ice Shane Victorino or Jimmy Fucking Rollins just because I’m running out of adjectives.
The First Enemy
Our first post-season match-up will be the Cincinnati Reds, and I’ll tell you one thing: They strike not an ounce of fear in my tender little heart. The once proud and honorable club has snaked its way to the top of the weak NL Central while harboring the braggadocios dick-dogger Brandon Phillips, who’s proclaimed to be the best second baseman in the game. I don’t know what the back of your fucking baseball card says, but I can think of at least six two-sackers with the drop on Phillips after the name Chase Utley in line before him. Their starting rotation is about as potent as Rush Limbaugh’s, well, anything. If Bronson Arroyo and the dirty, girl-fighting Jonny Cueto (who forced Cardinal’s back-up catcher Jason LaRue to retire after sucker-kicking him in the head several times during a brawl earlier in the season leaving him with brain damage) is your level best, I have no reservations sending Kyle Kendrick on five Ambien out to start game one.
Immigrants are not a zombie invasion