Friday, October 13, 2006

Do Ex-Phillies Die In Three's?


I’m gonna bring up something morose and depressing, so turn your heads and watch a repeat of “The View” if you can’t handle it. On second thought, Rosie O’Donnell defines morose and depressing, so maybe you should watch “Sponge Bob” if you can’t handle today’s subject, which is death and dying.

I just found out Johnny Callison kicked the bucket today after 67 years on the planet. That’s nearly double the time Cory Lidle, dead at 34, was assigned by the Great Cosmic Jackoff who, if he exists, has designed this life like John Calvin on LSD, with creations like baseball, airplanes with parachutes and restrictions against masturbating in the daylight during certain 30-day cycles (go ask your local imam about that one) all calculated to fucking drive us out of our childish gourds, fascinated with the wonderment of it all. Nothing is fair or makes sense, thus making nuclear weapons a priority second only to the kim chi stockpile.

Now here I am contemplating The Big Inevitable Nothingness just a few days after I was jumping for joy when the Tigers ate the Yankees for breakfast in the ALDS while the A’s did likewise against the Twinkees, who still use a ballpark with a Hefty bag as an outfield fence as opposed to the more durable airplane parachute that failed to open for poor Cory Lidle.

Lidle sure scared the shit outta people as he traversed this plane of existence into the unknown. What a way to go. New Yorkers, half of whom are born psychotic, were all made justifiably and certifiably insane after 9/11, and when Lidle slammed into that high rise, thousands of underpanties must’ve been soiled seconds after impact. And that came just a few days after Yankee fans shit themselves after getting the old heave-ho from the Tigers.

Unfortunately for Cory, he’s dead now, and so is his flight instructor, not to mention a few innocent victims in the high rise he flew into are seriously injured, one suffering from painful burns.

To top it off, Baskin Robbins lost a damn good client.

Nothing is fair or makes sense, right? Now comes the bad news about Callison two days later.

Godless fuck that I am, a revelation has crept over me pursuant to Callison’s demise after a few long illnesses, including heart disease (he was a smoker who tended bar) and his obstinate decision to live in Philadelphia after his playing career despite his Okie roots and other baseball ties to Chicago and New York.

Ex-Phillies, like movie stars and Jesuits, will begin to die in three's. The Great Cosmic Jackoff has foretold this to me. The off-season will become a cornucopia of close calls, assaults, arrests, manic depression, and finally, death – but only for one more EX-PHILLIE.

We are spared the off-season torment of 40-man roster deaths because each game every season is one quiet, inexorable march to the season’s nihilistic end. We all die a little every day with this team. But as for the others…

Ex-Death Number Three is right around the corner.

Saturday, September 30, 2006

Don't Hog The Covers, Harry. I'm Rollin' Over.

Friday, September 29, 2006

Bend Over, Here It Comes Again


Do you hate yourself yet? Did you make it to work on time? Maybe you drank yourself to sleep?

You knew as well as I what you were getting yourself into last night…this morning…whatever. Major League Baseball, via its evil proxies, the umpires, decided THE SHOW MUST GO ON so they demanded Team Schizo and the Gnats engage in mortal, splishy-splashy combat for millions of drowsy Philadelphians up past their bedtime watching on cable and the 119 fans still hardy enough to remain unseated and wet on location. They sure as shit weren’t from Washington – they were masochists, performing Phillies flagellation “wit,” assembled at the waterlogged modernist monstrosity named for a murdered Red Sox fan – and, if they held out any hope these choke artists could beat a last-place team, they were as deluded as a jihadi who supposes the world would be a better place if we squatted on prayer rugs and stopped eating hot dogs.

Jesus Fucking Christ. Now there was a name invoked bedside as the glow of plasma televisions were doused throughout Hostile City boudoirs a few clicks beyond 2 a.m. as the Fightless meekly went down in a swampy, foggy city-state with a southern accent that assumed governance from Philly a long, long time ago and tonight made the city’s baseball team their bitch.

Let’s be fair to the Gnats. They won it fair and square – relished it, as a matter of fact.

“It's good to go out and ruin their season," said Ryan Church after the game, savoring his midnight home run that gave the Gnats a 1-0 lead. “Now they've got to get on a plane, take a two-hour flight, then strap it on against a good Florida team tomorrow.”

Tell you what. Any alpha male would file that comment for next season and direct a little high heat toward that guy’s noggin. Do you really think our pansies might insist on a little retribution? Fat fucking chance, considering these boys have been every pitcher’s speed bag this year, getting plunked more than 100 times yet…no fight. No bile. No vim. No vinegar.

Yeah, they’ll strap it on, alright. I’m sure they can afford the finest in dildos.

Jesus Fuckup Phillies. Their opposition tonight on the mound was a rookie mediocrity who owned them, a 26-year-old who has allowed 35 percent of hitters to reach base against him. Tonight, the Pukies succeeded to get three hits and two walks off him. They touched him for a run. Bad? No, that was the good part. The bad part was the Gnats relievers, sensing the desperation of a trapped animal, allowed just two hits the final four innings of the game.

Jesus Fuckup Rollins. Jesus Fuckup Victorino. Jesus Fuckup Utley. Jesus Fuckup Howard. Jesus Fuckup Conine. Jesus Fuckup Burrell. Three hits between the six of them. By the way, congratulations, Conine. You’re a Phillie now!

And don’t give me that shit about Howard being the MVP and I should lay off him. Fuck that. I gave him his “props” as the kids like to say. But now he’s swinging at junk and can’t ignore the adrenaline. As Chollie might say, “he’s like a hedgehog that can’t git out from under the water pail. Stuck, like. Confused, as it were.” Frank Robinson could smell blood Tuesday, and, unlike every other manager this month, had his closer challenge him to end the game. Ryan, I love you like a son, but I feel horrible about your choice of profession: You’re a Phillie now!

Oh, what the fuck. Maybe Chollie can drain a bottle of V.O. and settle back for a few nights on Miami’s South Beach with the teetotaling Jelly Roll, and review the season with somebody who compared himself with Derek Jeter, obviously ignoring his team’s results and his championship season virginity, his maiden’s head as safe for another year as his manager's job.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

This Sure Beats "Sex and the City"


I was tempted to jump in the car and head down to D.C. after Team Vomit won that five-hour torture and turned into pumpkins at the stroke of midnight today. The Old Lady had already missed another tantalizing repeat of “Sex and the City,” and whenever that happens, bedtime just ain’t the same.

The whores on that show are so clever. Imagine some skinny, hideous gash coming up with a nickname like “Mr. Big” for one of her mansluts. Surely, that had Carrie Bradshaw nominated for a Pulitzer in the “Most Creative Name for a Guy with a Large Penis” category. But wouldn’t you know it – I cracked the morning internet open after a little shuteye and there was Chollie going hog wild with the imagery after the game, thirsty reporters gaga over the bizarre material. Even Sarah Jessica Parker’s skeletal mask of a face would have been blushing. She might have even fingered herself.

“We’ll put some glue on his pants or something,” Chollie said of the slippery Michael Bourne, seeing more playing time even after his Tuesday impression of the cocaine-era Lonnie Smith. “Some pine tar. Keep him from sliding past the base.”

Then Old Backwoods had a revealing Carrie Bradshaw moment, suggesting a little sado-masochism when he said maybe he could provide Bourn with “one of those shock collars. That's what I put on Varsh sometimes.”

Whew doggie! Sounds like Chollie hit that moonshine while the game was in progress. I can’t blame him. This shit is a little too much to take at my age. Five fucking hours of push-me pull-you bullshit. Erectile dysfunction with men on base. Throwing the ball around like girls. A rookie pitcher getting a pinch hit. More bad umpiring. A smiling Pat Burrell. Two blown saves.

And then, our beloved Jelly Roll -- he of the do-rag, the Cadillac strut, the two errors that almost cost us the season -- got the big hit, further proof that he is an egomaniac who only responds to pressure in August and September, the rest of the year be damned.

Unfortunately, we may never know how good he is in October until he learns to answer the bell in April and May, when he’s busy uppercutting the ball and popping out – and considering the paucity of walks he receives, handicapping the top of the lineup, undercutting production, and costing the team wins.

Go get ‘em, Mr. September.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

End Is Near - Expect The Expected


The fates sent Philly fans a big giggle after Team Vomit failed to win as expected last night. Terrell Owens tried unsuccessfully to kill himself, which would have never happened if he had stayed an Iggle. If he were still playing here, his girlie man pill suicide would have succeeded. The Iggles would have been instant head cases again, Donovan McNabb would have been blamed, and Andy Reid would have had to strip T.O. of his Latter Day Saint status.

I could hear the press conference now. Chubmeister Mormon would be at the podium, gasping for breath, and start: “Injuries. Terrell Owens. Suicide. On the permanently unable to perform list.”

Man, that sure would have helped us get over the rancid hangover we Phillies fans have today. Even if he had the guts to pull it off, imagine if T.O. had done that as an Iggle! The brother would have been getting round-the-clock, helicopter-injected, swirling, whirling, whoring media attention! The Phils would be relegated again to the usual 15-second summary at the bottom of Action News after the erectile dysfunction feature. That would be an appropriate slot considering last night’s horror show.

It is remarkable how Team Psycho always seems to introduce new Legends of Losing to its pantheon of late season fuck ups. Ladies and gentleman, introducing Michael Bourn, our rookie pinch-running sensation who has managed to get picked off and caught stealing in the rare opportunities, albeit critical ones, Chollie has tossed him into this September.

Last night, he overslid second base with two out in the eighth. Naturally enough, he said that had never happened to him before, so he has saved it for the major league level in the last week of a wild cared race. In a deft, media-savvy move, Bourn paraphrased Chinua Achebe to the assembled inquiring minds after the game.

"I've never had that happen," said Bourn. “I hadn't had a baserunning blunder in two or three years, and I come up here and everything falls apart."

If only Chollie had channeled Earl Weaver, Chase Utley’s plain-as-the-manager’s-English home run off the foul pole might have been correctly called after a managerial rampage inspired one of those down-home umpire conferences, considering most everyone else in cavernous RFK Stadium heard the ball hit the pole, and, for the deaf in the crowd, saw the ball careen the way balls that hit foul poles typically do.

This is one of the reasons teams have first base coaches. In our case, Marc Bombard, who obviously figures he will go to hell upon death if he fudges the truth (as opposed to the umpires, who just count time until their post-game beer), or who needs corrective lenses, held up his thumb and forefinger about four inches apart, indicating, among other things, the distance of the ball from the pole. In sign language, that meant he was telling Chollie either he wasn’t well endowed or the ball was foul.

The umpires refrained from comment on that one like suspected thieves; Chollie seethed after seeing the video the next inning; Utley somehow digested his post-game meal after watching it hit dead center on the pole on the video tape; and Phillie fucker Frank Robinson openly admitted his team was lucky, a sly, wide smile and a wink punctuating the thought.

Bombard showered and dressed in private. And T.O. lives another day to inspire Pat Burrell that, yes, even if you are able to still play the game, life is damn depressing if you are unloved.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Yo Gnats: I Got Your Derailment Right Here!

I would have shared my lamentations yesterday with you, dear reader, as they were multifarious and horrible, but the monster that hosts this publishing service was about as useful as Baby Girl Burrell. You know what I mean – just when you think it’ll start functioning as expected, it lets you down, then you try again, it frustrates you, until you finally say “Fuck it!” and give it all a rest, hoping that’ll solve the problem. Worse comes to worse, you can always replace it. All things considered, it’s better than Burrell, because it won’t set me back $9 million just to disappoint me. It’s free.

But back to more pressing matters. See, after that Gene Mauch dream, and after watching the Astros beat the Phils yesterday, I’m sorry to say the impending sense of doom is returning. Our next opponent, the Washington Nationals, was involved in a train derailment on the Amtrak last night, and that only forebodes bad things for Team Psycho. You know the old baseball saying: Unlucky on trains, lucky against Philly.

But the Gnats will have to use that advantage without the specter of the Larry Bowa Family egging it on the field. Bowa nephew Nick Johnson is out for the year with a broken leg. You’d think that would be an advantage. That beefy bugger can hit.

Then there’s the pitching matchups. Tonight, Brett Myers faces off – did I just use a hockey analogy? Yeah, I did – faces off against the ever-lasting and brilliant Ramon Ortiz, who has served up 31 homers this year. You’d think that would be an advantage for a team whose top six hitters in the lineup average 26.7 this season.

And if you were a betting man, you’d have to say Cole Hamels and Jon Lieber stack up nicely against Pedro Astacio and Mike O’Connor. You’d think.

But, alas, this is the Phillies. I half expect Frank Robinson to start a beanball war just for old times’ sake. He’s practically out the door. He’s 71. He’s tired. He’s never won a thing as a manager.

But worst of all, he was standing at the plate when Chico Ruiz stole home against the Phillies in the sixth inning of a game on Monday, September 21, 1964. The Reds won, 1-0. For the Phils, it was the first of ten straight losses, the beginning of the Mauch Mens’ historic collapse.

Fuck you, Frank Robinson.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

A 42-Year-Old Recurring Nightmare


I’ve been a little sick the past couple days, and last night the medication drove me to bed early; thus I found myself listening to the conclusion of the Phils’ glorious victory against the Marlins on the radio.

It was not quite a throwback experience for me. I am an AM radio addict, open-eared for any space alien conspiracy theory freak occupying the late night air or any neo-con nut slightly to the left of Hitler by day. And I have a confession: Your host finds kernels of truth in most any agenda posited. Yes, I do believe there are god-infected lunatics who are serious in their threats to commit mass murder, allah inshallah. Yes, I agree it is bizarre to hear even a bad sitting president accused by another of being “the devil” at the United Nations – and even more peculiar to hear applause by his political “peers” supporting his medieval declaration, let alone seeing lost souls like Danny Glover parading around Harlem with him like an unabashed whore.

If Hugo Chavez dropped the sulphur-stinking shtick and stuck with the facts about Bush being an alcoholic, he would have gotten a lot less flack from the godsquad, particularly hard drinkers like the Catholics. Do you have a spot of Jameson, Fadder? I think I need a tightener.

There’s a lot of assholes in the world, and people can vent about them on the radio. That’s what makes it fun. But somewhere after Scott Franzke’s game re-cap and the middle of the UFO show, the Ny-Quil took hold and a vision dream was manifest upon me with all the clarity of a Yuengling piss stream.

“One down, nine to go,” a voice intoned, and as the fog of the subconscious cleared, I beheld the living image of Gene Mauch!

“I’m pitching Hamels again Sunday,” Mauch said to me. “Then Myers, then Hamels again. Gotta go with the hot hand. Gotta clinch this thing now. Lieber’s fat and bad. Wolf has nothing. Hamels and Myers…Lieber once, then Hamels and Myers again.”

I was 15 months old when “The Mauch Men,” the 1964 Phillies, conducted for Hoagie Land’s sporting pleasure probably the biggest collapse in baseball history. I have no memory of my time in diapers. But I heard the stories for years -- about how the Phillies blew a 6 1/2-game lead with twelve games left. About how Mauch insanely and adamantly started Jim Bunning and Chris Short five of the last six games. About how I peed in my Dad’s beer glass during one of the losses. About what a perfectly Philadelphian failure the whole mess was. But what did Mauch mean when he said one down, nine to go? And who was he to fuck with the 2006 pitching staff? Why did he come to me in a dream now? I soon had a few cryptic answers. Visions are like that.

“We need to win all the games,” Mauch said. “Just like the Cardinals did.”

Well, the Cardinals didn’t win their last ten games in ’64 – but they did manage to win eight of their final ten games as the Phils were busy losing ten straight to take the pennant from Mauch's Chokemen. “Mauch – speak to me from the grave,” I implored him. “Mauch, are we going to do it this year?”

The recently-deceased manager seemed to look off at the distance. He squinted and got that trademark “little general” look about him. The conspiracy show’s experts tell me when a person has painful, unresolved issues at death, they leave an electromagnetic impression – a ghost – that remains on earth to find closure.

I always pitied Phillies managers in that regard.

“What’s Richie Allen doin’ with 58 homers?” he asked.

“That’s not Richie Allen, Mauch,” I said. “That’s Ryan Howard.”

“Frank Howard plays for the Senators.”

“Yes, he sure did,” I agreed. “But Ryan Howard plays for the Phillies. Hopefully, for life.”

“For life,” Mauch laughed. “Nothing’s for life.” He looked around in a northeasterly direction and something else caught his attention.

“What’s that sonuvabitch Bowa doin’ at third?”

“He’s the Yankees’ third base coach, Mauch,” I explained. “But at one time, you’ll remember, he had your old job until just before your expiration.”

“He never won anything at the helm while I was still alive,” the little general said with a smile.

“No, he didn’t,” I told him. “I suppose you were his mentor after all. But now we have Chollie Manuel to fuck things up.”

“They made him a manager?”

“Not only that, he’ll probably be back for his third season next year, especially if he wins the wild card,” I informed him. “He finally understood your most famous invention, the double-switch, after a season and a half.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, the two-man rotation is the way to go the last week. Maybe he can do a little crammin’ and learn quick,” Mauch said. “The fans will never appreciate my legacy.”

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

BEAT L.A.!


Fucking Los Angeles.

I lived in L.A. for three years, eating pupusas, kim chi, Tommy Burgers and shawarma the whole while and speaking Spanish, Korean, Russian and Armenian because I had no choice.

I had to listen to the English and Spanish speakers tell me how fucking great Vin Scully called a ballgame, how “The Penguin” was a better third baseman than Mike Schmidt, and how Tommy LaSorda’s turds were re-constituted as Dodger Dogs.

I had to listen to the Russian and Armenian speakers tell me how they made their meters run faster in their taxis, and that Americans were “too stupid” to know the difference. I called an ambulance for a pummeled cabdriver who ran into a customer greedy enough to know he was being ripped off.

I had to restrain myself from throttling my Korean landlord after he refused to fix the toilet. I had wondered why another tenant tried to run him over with his truck the day we moved in. I got my answer soon enough.

Fucking Los Angeles.

The local gang in my Koreatown neighborhood was the highly-promoted Mara Salvatrucha-13, a.k.a. MS-13, with chapters in El Salvador, Washington D.C., and for all I know, Shanghai. They wore Dodgers hats and wondered what gang I claimed when I wore my Phillies cap. “OG Carlton y OG Kruk’s set, essay,” I told them. They nodded as if they knew. I might just as well have answered them in Urdu. I’d like to see John Kruk try to put a pistol down his pants. It’d be a tight fit and he might lose his other testicle. Now Carlton…I think he already has a gun collection. Maybe he smokes crack with his wine. Who knows? He might be able to hang with those homies and convince them the bankers, not the police, are the real enemies. But he would need a translator.

Fucking Los Angeles.

I look at the standings and see L.A. a game up on the Phils and the memories come rushing back. Dodger Stadium is a ghetto adjacent to a rapidly hipsterizing ‘hood, Echo Park, that has gone from working class to Latino class and now Hollywood upper class. Sorta like Fishtown with colorful murals and tacos. The Old Lady and I looked at a “two bedroom apartment” there – that was a lie, it was two rooms with a kitchen in the middle – and the owner wanted to charge $1,100 a month. That’s a bargain in L.A., by the way. The view was terrific, if a homeless camp was your inspiration.

Fucking Los Angeles.

Their ballclub somehow attracts quality free agents who ignore the enormous hassle of the incessant traffic crawl, where a simple five-mile drive can turn into a two-hour time vampire without warning. I suppose you can bring a laptop to analyze the day’s starting pitcher, or marry a porn star wife like Kris Benson did and get a hummer on the way, or become a porn star yourself like Jeff Kent and plug in the auto-suck and run the camera to catch the action.

I am so glad to be back in the Holy Land of Philadelphia.

I eat cheesesteaks and speak English. Harry Kalas, for all his errors, still sounds soothing to the ears. Ron Cey is a nobody. Hatfield hot dogs don’t taste like turds; besides, the kielbasa in Bridesburg is sublime. The cabdrivers are less wont to thieve from their customers. And my landlord is grateful to get his check every month on time and fixes things promptly and apologizes if he can’t do it right away. When I wear my Phillies cap, I am not asked if I am a “Blood.” And most of all, when I look at the standings and see my team a game behind the fucking Dodgers, I know I can walk down the street and proudly exhort my fellow miserable, underachieving losers that if they do one thing this season that would be this:

BEAT L.A.!

Monday, September 18, 2006

Iggles To Phils: Choke's On Us


Philadelphia was on the verge of mass suicide or riot yesterday, and most of the credit for averting this horror can be attributed to Flash Gordon.


Talk about a save. Not that Gordon mowed the Astros down in the ninth – he made it exciting by allowing two base runners – but if he didn’t finish the job at the same time the Giants were finishing off our pathetic, heartless choke artists who call themselves a football team, there would not have been enough room in the morgue for the dead or holding cells for barroom combatants. (Why didn’t the Iggles build a large jail at the Linc? The cinder block cells were charming at the Vet, and rarely empty).

As Tom Gordon’s deep counts paralleled Eli Manning’s long tosses over the suddenly inept Iggles secondary, I involuntarily began making gurgling noises and grabbed my neck with my left hand as I punched the toggle button on the remote. The Old Lady ran into the living room to see what was wrong. I pointed at the television. She had her answer as Gordon went 3-0 to Brad Ausmus. But for some reason, the veteran catcher defied conventional wisdom and swung at the next pitch despite the two runners on base, his team down to its last out, down two runs, and down against the Phillies - their bitch, their property, their submissive visitor who had gone three years without beating them in Houston until this series.

You have to wonder what Ausmus was thinking. This is the kind of game the Phillies were born to lose. But in that regard, our football heroes didn’t disappoint.

Question: Why are the Iggles so loved, so spared the caustic bile projected at Team Vomit? After all, it’s been FORTY SIX YEARS since they last won a championship. The baseball team has kept us waiting a mere twenty-six. In between, both teams have been bridesmaids twice. So what gives? Why all the warm fuzzies for the Iggles? If you look at management, as downright Appalachian as Chollie is, Andy Reid has an air of the bumbling idiot about him as well.

Today at his day-after press conference, Reid looked like a fatter, balder Mike Ditka, hungover without the booze, hoping his Mormon angel Moroni might somehow heal his failure of a team, physically and emotionally. It’s the same old shit with this lobworm: The loss is my responsibility. The team can take something from the loss and learn. The veterans will use the experience and get the kids straightened out. Yeah, right. Have another donut, Andy. I’d rather have an inarticulate hick like Chollie be honest with me than listen to your bullshit.

I’d like to see Reid come down to the local tavern and shoot the shit with the Philly faithful after a game like Sunday's catastrophe. That’s what I did after watching the carnage. The authenticity would have made for good reality television. I went down to the Shamrock 13 bar and Billy the Iggle fanatic was two sheets to the leprechaun wind.

“Let me end it all right now,” he moaned theatrically, a plastic knife denting his wrist.

“It’s okay, Billy,” I counseled. “The Phillies won today.”

“Fuck the Phillies,” he shouted. “They’ll never win anything.”

“It’s been a lot longer since the Iggles won the big one,” I countered.

“The Iggles are different,” he said, pushing a basket of bar munchies toward me. I chewed on a pretzel and indulged him. “We won the division four years runnin’ baby, and last year with the T.O. thing and shit was, howya call it… an apparition! But every fucking year the Phillies are an apparition.”

I ordered up a Ying and began looking for images of Ryan Howard on the potato chips in the basket. I could have sworn I detected Chuck Bednarik on a Ruffle, but I was hungry and ate it.

It was stale.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Outta The Mouths Of Babes


Behold the innocence of childhood!

“We’re gonna win this game,” my son said in the top of the eighth inning today as the Phils piled on the runs. “And we’re gonna win the playoffs.”

At his age, an uncorrupted nine years, big disappointments consist of parental sugar withholding or video game restrictions. His mother and I have tried our best to shelter him from the foul influences of Phillies baseball, because we know it can lead to harder stuff. But it would be naïve to think the temptation to watch this team doesn’t exist.

Today, little Caesar watched the ball game with your host. Well, kind of. He’s a hyper kid, so Abe Nunez’s at-bats don’t exactly thrill him. Nor does seven innings of one-hit ball by our young ace Cole Hamels. But Ryan Howard? Now you’re talking.

“We’re gonna win the playoffs because Ryan Howard is our secret weapon,” he said as one of his kiddie peers in Houston reached over the outfield wall and stole a homer from The Howitzer. “He’s the best hitter in the league.”

Caesar was not the least bit happy about that kid spoiling Number 57 from our should-be MVP. Here he goes to school every day, our capable school system helping to build the critical foundations necessary for good citizenship. He knows that cheatin’ Texas waif, later seen crying his Astro eyes out, violated a number of societal rules in his misguided effort to catch the ball. And my son had an idea what we Phillies fans should do to exact justice, Hostile City style.

“We should kill him,” he confidently declared.

That’s my boy!