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.