Weak end at Bernie’s

I cannot stand hype, especially when the beneficiaries brandish brash opinions of themselves as athletic gods. The buildup often comes from the media yet often derives from forlorn fans desperate to have their team or country matter on a national or global scale.

Australia is experiencing summer now, and I feel many Aussies may be suffering from heat exhaustion, as so many feel that a native will capture the Australian Open, the first Grand Slam on the tennis calendar. Please note they reside in a land with a tremendous tennis history, but no Australian has won the singles title since Christine O’Neil secured the ladies’ singles crown in 1978. I am using context to have you appreciate how long ago that is, as your humble author, who often speaks of being old, was a few months away from conception.

Bernard Tomic won the 2008 boys’ singles tournament, and that propaganda machine began spewing plaudits for a player with an unorthodox game and supposedly boundless talent. Fast forward to today. The 19-year-old, already having to deal with accusations that he cheated in his third round match, faced four-time Aussie Open champion and my idol (yes, I have a tennis idol) Roger Federer on Rod Laver Arena, the tournament’s top court.

I read plenty of chatter that said the match could signal a changing of the guard, as Aussies noted that Federer achieved his breakthrough as a 19-year-old by eliminating seven-time champion Pete Sampras in Wimbledon’s 2001 fourth round. Sampras, the all-time leader in major championships until Federer, 30, now with 16, scored his 15th at the 2009 Wimbledon championships, was 29 when suffering a five-set loss to the Swiss forehand machine, so I could see the age parallels. What differed? The fact that Federer hails from a land sans hype.

Australia is 16 hours ahead of us on the East Coast, so the scheduled 7 p.m. start meant I would need a 3 a.m. wakeup if I wished to see a definite great against a presumed one. I figured sleeping until 5 would still give me a chance to catch the third set and on, but I found a women’s match delighting the crowd. Fairly calm, I went online to learn that Federer had thumped Tomic, 6-4, 6-2, 6-2, in under two hours. The teenager awed his mates over three matches, but Federer has attained legendary status for breaking tons of hearts. Highlights showed Tomic way out of place on many shots and feeling resigned to say at least he played Federer in the marksman’s 999th career match.

With his exit, the hype monster must pine for Bernie to regroup and mature quickly, as Federer did in collecting his first major two months shy of turning 22. The latter marches on to yet another quarterfinal and engineered a weak end at Bernie’s. Pardon the pun, as I could not resist using it, much like the Aussies cannot refrain from advocating even marginal chances.

Opportunity shocks

Having just celebrated my son’s six-month birthday one week ago, I must admit I have slacked a bit in analyzing the sports world. Instead of singing the praises of athletes, I have become quite the troubadour of the tunes from The Disney Channel. “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” and “Little Einsteins” have dominated my brain just like the Green Bay Packers have ruled the NFL. See, I still pay attention! I even know the lauded Wisconsin juggernauts lost their chance at an undefeated season today against Kansas City.

My time away from intense study of baseballs, footballs and pucks (Sorry, basketballs, your bouncers and shooters deserve as much attention as a Rick Santorum campaign speech.) has helped me to realize how fickle the nation’s athletic heroes can be. It seems as if opportunity shocks as often as it knocks for stars, and my recent run of casual observance offers no rebuttal to my views.

Take Ryan Braun. How strange that a man whose last name is a homophone  for a term indicating strength would have to combat allegations that he used a performance-enhancing drug. If Braun unsuccessfully battles to clear his name, “The Hebrew Hammer” will likely be striking himself over receiving a suspension. I am a fan of the Milwaukee Brewer and reigning National League Most Valuable Player, yet I idolized Roger Clemens for years, too.

I am glad to see Jimmy Rollins will remain a Phillie. I cannot wait to see how that new contract will increase his walk totals and willingness to leg out grounders.

As for the old pigskin, I see the Eagles are teasing their fans again with two straight wins. What a sad division the Birds find themselves in that an 8-8 record could clinch the NFC East for the perpetual teasers! The temperatures have grown quite cold, fellow Philadelphians. Allow Andy Reid to pull the wool over your eyes and the rest of your bodies.

The Flyers are impressing me, yet the loss of defenseman Chris Pronger has me fearing Paul Holmgren will make a foolish trade (the Flyers have made a few of those, just so you know.) to sure up his bunch. I worry that young talent will be the bait for oldheads whom he will praise as solid veterans, a synonym for hacks.

Ah, basketball. Aside from a passing interest in the college game, I have taken only immature joy in the failure of Kobe Bryant’s marriage. Bryant has never won my favor, but his wife certainly gained her own share of my interest by booting him. Here is to a fruitless season for the Lakers, too. I sense a Dallas dynasty.

Only a few hours separate me from another morning with Mickey House and the gang. I am tempted to think DeSean Jackson, showboater extraordinaire, devised their “Hot Dog Dance.” I am sure he will be able to perform his moves in early January at a dance club instead of during a playoff game. Ah, an opportunity to rag Jackson, how could I resist? It is an opportunity whose knock I will always answer.

Old man autumn

I have never given gobs of time to the nature versus nurture debate, but the Flyers and the Phillies have rendered me ponderous. My cynicism can prove disastrous when I discuss sports, and I blame it on the local players and their penchant for sadism. Philadelphia’s teams are to my sanity what air is to a sliced apple, instant alteration. I see them as cruel examples of life’s ability to give and take with impunity.

However, I am going to stop knocking oldtimers, as my bones will one day be as creaky as theirs courtesy of my throwing my arms in disgust and needing long walks to shake off defeats. (Note: I hate the Blackhawks, I hate the Blackhawks.) Jaromir Jagr has shown that along with possessing one of the worst hairstyles in sports history, he owns a resilient body. He is defying me and a greater source of vitriol, Father Time. I hope the Czech keeps age in check until the middle of next year, as he will finally be able to look forward to his days of prunes and Depends with joy instead of consternation.

He will not don a uniform until late winter, but Jim Thome provides another example of an older man choosing autumn to prove his resolve. The Phillies have never won my ultimate favor and likely never will, but I dig class acts regardless of the shirts they wear. Thome, after all, kept me from witnessing hundreds of Ryan Howard strikeouts by being a great performer from 2003-’05. He whiffs often, too, but something about his personality makes me overlook many of his failures. Just call me the baseball wing of the athletic administration at Penn State University.

I told someone the 41-year-old might hit 15 home runs and drive in 45 runs. In actuality, I would take 15 hits and 45 at-bats. His presence alone will help the squad to shake off the sting of falling nine victories short of the World Series crown and if he proves successful, he might consider taking hacks until the AARP comes calling at age 50. Stranger things, dear friends, stranger things.

Better luck next century

We are nearing the end of the 12th year of the 21st century, meaning many moribund franchises will feel time is giving them dozens of chances to reverse their horrible histories of ineptitude. I do not claim to be Nostradamus, except for when it comes to predicting the amount of white hairs that will mingle with my blond locks when I have my hair cut, but I believe the next four teams can consider themselves cursed until at least 2100.

What must being a fan of the Chicago Cubs involve? Their supporters likely would have excelled in the Middle Ages, as they have mastered enduring torture. The Cubs won the World Series in 1906 and ’07 but have left their faithful (I will be nice here) followers forlorn since. I have heard all the talk about the team’s possible acquisition of Albert Pujols and, being a religious chap, I can understand the severity of whatever petitions the organization will make to the slugger. My faith also lets me know losing builds character. When the Cubs lose out on Pujols, their perpetual pining will receive a confidence boost. The late announcer Harry Caray loved to declare “Cubs win!” Rest in peace, my man, as the victories are going to have to be moral ones for quite some time.

The Toronto Maple Leafs have found themselves in sticky situations since 1967, the year they captured their 13th and most recent Stanley Cup. They have missed the playoffs for six straight years and seem settled into the Northeast Division’s fourth or fifth spot. I scanned their roster and knew five guys, all of whom I am familiar with because of their time with other teams. I hear Toronto is a beautiful city and believe residents will have plenty of occasions to leave games early to see the sites.

I despise the New York Knicks, who last won a title during the Nixon administration, but not because of their players or coaches. As a Philadelphia native and a fan of most Massachusetts teams, I have to hate New York teams. The Knicks, regardless of their dynamic duo of Carmelo Anthony and Amar’e Stoudemire, are going nowhere whenever the NBA resumes. They play a frenetic style that shuns defense and relishes being eye candy for  seriously impatient people. With the league’s labor situation in peril, maybe the players and their fans can join the Occupy Wall Street movement, where they can be equally successful at feeling frustrated.

Was I ever wrong about the Eagles (http://southphillysports.wordpress.com/2011/09/02/bird-flu/)! The Birds cannot even reminisce about their title days, as they do not have any. I would tab them loveable losers but still wonder why people love them. Management seems clueless, the players appear lost and the fans are still bonkers about their boys. Move on, people. You have an equally frustrated team only a couple blocks away in the Flyers. I love the fly guys for this year, as I never want them to appear on a similar list by another scribe. Let’s go Flyers!

Mourning the morning

The Green Bay Packers and the New Orleans Saints played Thursday, but the NFL season began in earnest today, and I wish it had not. Last Sunday would have been more appropriate, as I am sure plenty of fans are using today’s games as therapeutic aids in dealing with the 10th anniversary of 9/11, and I disagree with their thinking, though I am angrier that the league chose the starting day.

I do not care that the teams had to regroup quickly after the end of the lockout. An even faster start would have suited me. Label me moronic, but I doubt the ability of athletics to heal nations. Contests display participants’ skills and rivet observers’ attention spans, but nobody should ever see sports as balms.

I have competed in and watched many games and matches, so I know the thrill of winning when defeat had seemed certain. I have sampled the joy of swapping smiles with satisfied followers of local teams and have enjoyed paying for great efforts.

What I have loathed is the treatment of athletes as saviors. After the attacks, I could not care less about sports. I respected every athlete on every level, but I saw no need to have their vocations receive as much acclaim as those of firefighters and police officers. I know, I know, everyone cannot be a civil servant, but I dislike that on such a sad anniversary, people are crowding around television sets to watch how the new kickoff rule will affect scoring, how the Eagles’ offensive line will hold up and how the Colts will survive without Peyton Manning.

Sports count as art forms to me, but the NFL should have yielded to the real arts. The season should have begun last week, leaving today to exist as a day minus shameless promotion of the league as a key figure in the country’s recovery. Only certain forms of creativity win my approval for being tragedy trumpers.

I loved poetry before I loved sports, so, in addition to calling me moronic, call me egotistical, as I have included a poem I wrote in honor of 9/11. It and its artistic brethren possess far more ability to heal than a Michael Vick scramble or touchdown.

Mourning the Morning

We became morning people to start life

when whoever would lug us off to school,

but the afternoons would silence that strife

and hand our cares over to laughter’s rule

Now we are mourning people, a cruel twist,

a turn designed to destroy our will,

but once our eyes have given off their mist,

today’s hopes will heat that stinging day’s chill.

Thousands will never live another day,

though millions will always preserve their name,

and not one life that hatred took away

will ever have its value cloaked in shame.

Death took them one morning in September,

but in mourning, they know we remember.

Bird flu

I fear I am becoming sick. Prior posts have revealed that the Eagles delight me like nude beaches thrill eunuchs, so my positive views on their prospects must indicate delirium.

I have followed the Birds for 22 of my 32 years, meaning 69 percent of my life has gone to trying to decipher how they consistently lure folks into believing they will raise the Vince Lombardi Trophy. Maybe I am still radiating the glow of new fatherhood, as I feel the need to dispense with complete negativity when pondering this year’s squad.

I saw not one snap of the preseason, but its games usually yield as much as President Obama’s State of the Union addresses. Sixteen authentic chances to impress await, and I see victories in 14 of those contests.

Yes, 14 wins! That total would set a franchise record and would certainly guarantee home field advantage in the playoffs. I became incredulous when a look at their schedule led me to predict nine straight triumphs to begin the season. Please note they won 10 last year, so I must be suffering from an affliction that has yet to reveal its devastating aims.

The Eagles should be undefeated when they head to MetLife Stadium Nov. 20. I know all about their mastery of the New York Giants and expect for them to wallop their NFC East colleagues Sept. 25 at Lincoln Financial Field. I see Eli Manning and his boys exacting revenge and pulling to within two games in the division with a close win.

Call me whatever you wish, for I like the New England Patriots and expect Tom Brady to remind Nnamdi Asomugha and Dominique Rodgers-Cromartie that his right arm possesses more ability than their feet. Plus, his appendage often interlocks with Gisele Bündchen’s left arm, so take that, new guys!

Momentum will soar again when the Birds dump their last five opponents, including the hated Dallas Cowboys and Washington Redskins. I expect their division mates to stink anyway, but wins are wins, especially ones that help to end 2011 and start 2012 on good notes.

Along the way, the footballers will disappoint a few solid teams, including the Atlanta Falcons, Chicago Bears, the New York Jets and Arizona Cardinals, with ex-Bird Kevin Kolb throwing multiple interceptions for the Grand Canyon State squad, and a few awful teams. Hello, St. Louis (I am not into the Sam Bradford hype), San Francisco (Steve Young, where are you?) and Buffalo (not even the personnel from their four Super Bowl teams in their primes could stop the annihilation).

Their mark will give the Birds a bye and a mid-January clash with the New Orleans Saints. Dumping them, they will have their rubber match with the Giants and will intercept Manning, who will likely be eager to console brother Peyton after the Colts miss the playoffs, at least three times.

They will play the Patriots Feb. 5 at Indianapolis’ Lucas Oil Stadium and will again fail, with Michael Vick likely to mimic Donovan McNabb’s inability to come through against Brady’s bunch.

While no parade will be able to complement the certain Phillies’ celebration, the Birds will be primed to win the Super Bowl in 2013. I need to lie down now for fear I will predict a 100-point season from Jaromir Jagr.

 

Hurricane Joseph

Greetings, fellow East Coasters. An earthquake and a hurricane gave Facebook ample traffic and newscasts fantastic ratings, but with what athletic treats did the latter natural disaster endow us? Too much time for journalists to ponder how well the Eagles will do!

I saw the Florida Marlins dump the Phillies Friday. The weather wiped out Thursday’s game and caused holders of tickets to yesterday’s doubleheader to be stuck rushing to supermarkets for bread, eggs, and milk (many homes must have enjoyed their French toast today); lamenting the fate of drenched newscasters; cleaning; and engaging in other activities that this PG blog can refer to only vaguely. Let me just say I would not be surprised if the tri-state area had an unusual number of births come late spring!

I hoped the Phillies would win for two reasons. My name is Joe, not Rich, so the expensive tickets certainly had me wishing for a win. Knowing they would not play Saturday, I felt a loss would have plenty of people wondering how rusty the homeboys would feel when they would trek to Cincinnati. Done! I have encountered a few folks who believe the batters will suddenly forget that the ball is supposed to elude the opposing fielders and the pitchers will grow leery of making sure fans in the outfield do not go home with souvenirs.

I have always been a reluctant Eagles fan, sensing that the Birds will be a perpetually lovable loser. The offseason moves gave me a giddy fit, but call it Philadelphia cynicism that sees a divisional playoff loss in their future. Though the defense should be fantastic, I suspect the offensive live will be offensive. Michael Vick may need to be more of a comedian than a quarterback, as improvisation will likely keep him from dying on hostile road stages.

I expect a parade for the Phillies and would love a celebration for their neighbors; however, I have to let my angry waters dash the hopes of the pigskin propellers. Consult the alphabet, everyone. Hurricane Irene has to yield to Hurricane Joseph.

A Woodsy smell

I enjoy a healthy relationship with dislike for certain athletes. The union trails my partnership with respecting sporting folks, but I never have to worry about giving enough amore to the antics of buffoons, troglodytes and underachievers. The reciprocity is fantastic; I give them adulation and they grant me gobs of goofiness to chronicle.

I experienced overload this weekend. My son’s Sunday Baptism overwhelmed me with positive emotions, so I needed some incidents to let negativity pour a little cold water on my happiness. Enter Tiger Woods, Carlos Zambrano and the top stars of the Women’s Tennis Association.

Woods, the recipient of 14 years of disdain from me for his theatrics and arrogance, missed the cut at the PGA Championships. The golfer came nowhere close to being a part of the last two rounds, extending his winless drought and proving he will never approach the greatness that saw him hold the number one ranking for 281 straight weeks. If one could log a list of the most pathetic tales, Woods would hold the chief spot for eternity.

Zambrano could give a Woods a run for his dwindling money, though. The eccentric Chicago Cub threatened retirement after the Braves made his offerings bleacher dwellers Friday. His team, hopeless with or without him, put him on the disqualified list. Unable to hurl his cheese or cash any checks, he should prepare for his inevitable move to the White Sox, where he can challenge manager Ozzie Guillen, a fellow Venezuelan, to a “Who’s crazier?” contest. I foresee a draw.

Shame on the top players on the WTA. I love tennis but cannot offer equal affection to the women’s tour. I am not a sexist pig; I am simply someone who desires a quality product.

Serena Williams won the Rogers Cup in straight sets yesterday. In only her fourth tournament after missing a year with health troubles, the 29-year-old nabbed her second title. She looked unchallenged in Toronto after having looked the same in Stanford. What gives, ladies? I know Williams presents numerous problems for you, but two titles in four events? Why are you not running her ragged? It amazes me how none of you dominated in her absence, and you surely are doomed to be second-rate bashers. I do not like her, but Williams will surely be holding the U.S. Open trophy next month. The Australian Open title should follow in January, the French Open crown in June…

 

 

Intern-al pressure

People always say wisdom comes with age. My interns have proven that the years need not be copious for someone to be a sagacious observer of athletics, however. For this week, I have handed over my blog to Ben Griffiths and Tim Johnson, Temple University students who always love to remind me that pudding pops are wonderful and Styx is the greatest group of all-time. Enjoy!

The Manchurian General Manager by Ben Griffiths

As Hunter Pence, the latest All-Star to defect from the Astros to the Phillies, continues to live up to expectations, let us pause to give thanks to the man who sent him here, Houston’s General Manager Ed Wade.

That’s right, the same man who spent eight years guiding the Phillies through mediocrity, should be praised for a lifetime of service to Philadelphia sports. This is especially true considering that Wade inexplicably continues to find ways to help the team. My dad presented a theory, which I think best explains Ed’s continued loyalty to our Fightin’s even after seemingly moving on to another franchise.

“Ed Wade is our Manchurian Candidate,” he said.

This is how it works. The trade deadline is fast approaching and Ed Wade needs to cut loose an expensive player, say Roy Oswalt. No matter how many teams have provided Ed with tantalizing offers, eventually the phone will ring and on the other end will be Phillies GM Rubin Amaro, Jr.

“Mitch Williams’ mullet,” he’ll say, and it will be all over in a flash. Ed, triggered by the magic words, will suddenly see only an upside to J.A Happ and happily accept a deal that sends Oswalt to Philadelphia.

Actually, when you take a look at the tangled history of the Phillies, Astros and Wade, any other explanation sounds kind of far fetched.

Ed joined the Phillies at the start of the ’90s, serving as assistant to then-GM Lee Thomas. Before coming to Philly, Wade had held the position of Director of Public Relations for several clubs, including the Astros.  During his eight years under Lee, Wade tasted short-lived success and plenty of failure. Unfortunately for Ed, by the time he took over as GM in 1998, the team had hit rock bottom, finishing dead last the previous two years.

Wade’s problem was the same one that he is currently facing in Houston. How do you keep a team competitive when you are in dire need of revamping an aging, over-priced roster with young talent? His infusion of new blood into Phillies was slow and often misguided. But most of all, it earned him the bitter hatred of the loyal Philly fan base every step of the way.

His plan was to build the team around a young core of players including Bobby Abreu, Pat Burrell and Jimmy Rollins. This meant slowly dismantling the old guard. The fans didn’t mind when he fired Manager Terry Francona and hired fiery, former Phillie Larry Bowa. But they howled when disgruntled stars like Curt Schilling and Scott Rolen demanded to be let out of town and were traded for the likes of Travis Lee. Their attitudes didn’t improve much after Schilling went on to win a couple of World Series and Rolen found immediate success in St. Louis.

Wade infuriated us by spending years trying to patch up a terrible bullpen by trading for the kind of guys that had the look of defeat in their eyes before they even took the mound. I mean, who can forget the blockbuster trade of 2001 where we sent Bruce Chen and Adam Walker to the Mets for Dennis Cook and the unflappable Turk Wendell? It felt like the organization was content to tread water.

Still what most people forget is that Wade was there at the dawn of a renaissance in Phillies baseball. The signing of the power-hitting Jim Thome in 2002 electrified this town and suddenly baseball mattered again. The team moved into brand new Citizens Bank Park, and the Phillies were playing for sold-out crowds.

However, by ’05 the luster of the new stadium had worn off and attendance dropped even though the Phillies had been in a tight Wild Card race. Ironically for Wade, the team ended up finishing one game behind the eventual World Series-bound Houston Astros, With his name already being dragged through the mud for firing popular manager Larry Bowa in favor of a plain-talking senior citizen named Charlie Manuel, the failure to reach the playoffs was the final straw, and Ed received his walking papers.

The rest you already know. The Phillies plowed forward to eventual success, and the Astros were there to scoop up Ed Wade. Wade’s bad luck continued, as he inherited a Houston team still hung over from the recently ended Bagwell- Berkman-Biggio era.

Wade was forced to dismantle the team and, perhaps looking to repeat his success in making big deals between the two clubs, seemed to turn to the Phillies whenever he had to unload a big name. After all, he was there when the Phillies got Schilling from the Astros in ’92, and he orchestrated the deal that brought Billy Wagner’s heart-stopping fastball to Philadelphia.

But mediocrity clings to Ed Wade like a tumor. Can you chalk it up to anything other than bad luck when you trade two over-the-hill pitchers like Lidge and Oswalt only to see them return to greatness as soon as they step off the plane in Philadelphia? He has received plenty of young talent in return, but only time will tell whether he has made a good trade since he joined Houston.

But before you dismiss Ed Wade as a buffoon who has unwittingly helped propel the Phillies into a golden age of baseball, consider this. Only two players (Jayson Werth and Pedro Feliz) on the starting 2008 championship team were not drafted during Wade’s tenure. Furthermore the MVP of that World Series Cole Hamels (2002) and key late-inning reliever Ryan Madsen (1998) were both drafted during this time.

So as Astros’ fans tear their hair out and Phillies fans snicker, I am still torn as to whether Ed Wade is really as dumb as he looks. Maybe five years down the road, long after Wade has been fired, the Astros will become a contender with all the young talent that the Phillies have given them. But for now, let’s just hope that when the trade deadline rolls around, Ed Wade continues to pick up that phone.

Untitled by Tim Johnson

I came across an article the other day that brought up that oh-so-often-used claim in these days of Philadelphia sport euphoria.

“By signing Cliff Lee the Phillies have stolen the New York thunder—they are the new Yankees”

“The Phillies do it again, trading for one of the best hitters on the market (Hunter Pence) while somehow also holding onto most of their blue-chip players like Domonic Brown. Not even New York could do this.”

“The Eagles nabbed Nnamdi Asomugha from the Jets and just about every other team in desperate need of a corner. They are the Dream Team—the Miami Heat of football.”

These are not actual quotes, but I think we’ve all heard these sentiments sputtered out at least once over the past calendar year.

While I am simply giddy with all the success, Id like to take a step back.

We all remember the pained days of Philadelphia sports, don’t we? I am a newly turned 21-year-old (the very first alcoholic beverage I ever ingested was delicious thank you very much), and I remember Travis Lee, Omar Daal, an aging Ricky Watters and, my personal favorite, Bobby Hoying.

A mountain of progress has been made since then and while it has yielded only one parade in 2008, every team, save the 76ers, is a legitimate championship contender every year.

This is all great, but why compare us to New York and Miami? Can’t we just be Philadelphia for once?

It’s all part of some twisted fallacy that no matter what a team does, they still sit beneath the light of New York and whatever “bigger” market teams there are. To quote our good friend at the South Philly Review ‘The Midnight Caller,’ we got to tell it like it is.

The Phillies are great. The Eagles have made great signings, and it is clear players will take less money to play here. The fans are great. The stadiums are mammoth achievements of architecture. The teams support their players. Everyone is here to win. The list goes on.

Can’t that be enough? Or is the success of a team some sad attempt to hold a light to the unstoppable force that is New York?

Well this Philadelphian’s stomach churns at the thought of warm nut vendors at every street corner. I’ll take my cheesesteak and Schmidtter any day.

So please, stop the comparisons, national media.

We in Philadelphia need no reminder or comparisons. We are better than New York.

 

 

 

 

Weed love to beat you

No, I have not lost my ability to spell, my educated amigos. I have decided to indulge my love of puns in my latest entry as the resident naysayer.

The Phillies finished a sweep of the Pittsburgh Pirates today. I hope the team and the fans are not that impressed, as the Bucs, no matter what progress they have made this year, still stink. The local boys will not impress me until they can begin to prove themselves against the San Francisco Giants.

Expecting to see Tim Lincecum, I attended July 26′s game against the California club. The pitcher, whose Oct. 2009 marijuana possession incident inspired my wordplay, had the flu and likely had to tend to another sort of hurling. When I saw that Barry Zito would be his replacement, I knew the Phillies’ bats would explode. Three home runs off the lefty proved I should still consider running for president in 2016. If I can predict blowouts, who is to say I would not see the consequences of bailouts?

The hometown nine returned to earth the next two days against Matt Cain and Lincecum, who helped to deal the Phillies their first two-game losing streak since early June. I knew Pittsburgh would be a remedy for theirs swings, but the Steel City dwellers are the epitome of boredom.

If the Phillies want to shut my mouth, they need to make a huge statement Aug. 4-7 in The City by the Bay. Splitting the series will do nothing to make me feel fuzzy. Scoring two victories should not content them either. If the Phillies want to soften my hard heart, they need to win at least three of the games. Hammering Cain and Lincecum might just lead my doubt to vanish in the air, much like Lincecum’s pot smoke.