Phillies get Oswalt

The Phillies have acquired starting pitcher Roy Oswalt  from Houston for pitcher JA Happ and a pair of prospects, Anthony Gose and Jonathan Villar. The Astros also kicked in between $11 and $12 million dollars to help offset some of Oswalt's huge contract.

The deal will be officially announced at a 4 p.m press conference. Oswalt has already confirmed he is flying to Washington, D.C. tonight and will start for Phillies tomrorow

What Now?

Philadelphia, PA (The Phanatic Magazine) - When Eric Hinske swung over another nasty Brad Lidge slider, it was over.

Like Steve Carell in the 40-year-old virgin, Philadelphia and the Phillies finally scored.

The well-chronicled 25-year drought (28 for the Fightins) was over.

So now what?

In one fell swoop -- did the city become Boston?

Will Philadelphia fans, known for their brashness and the ability to love without precondition, turn into the same type of haughty fans they have always despised?

Will WIP, built as the original whine line/suicide prevention service, need a government bailout to survive?

Will fans forget that Donovan McNabb puked in the Super Bowl?

Will they give Andy Reid and Jeffrey Lurie a break?

Will Ed Snider slink off into the sunset while lamenting his own curse? After all, poor Ed has really been trying to win you all a championship for over 30 years.

Will the Sixers ever learn to defend the three-point line?

When will Paul Holmgren realize the coach he found in the Walmart clearance aisle is broken?

Did anyone wake up this morning and think the Phillies ownership group isn't all that bad?

Or will they count this as a 10-year pass and play Florida Marlins?

Does Pat Burrell walk and satisfy the ladies in an American League city?

Do the Phillies balk at another huge Ryan Howard raise in arbitration and trade the slugger to a team with more famous pinstripes?

(Closed circuit to Howard Eskin and Bill Conlin) Does Charlie Manuel now understand that pesky double-switch?

Why is Frankford and Cottman the party epicenter of this city?

Did McMullen escape South Philly and the Sixers game before Armageddon hit?

Does anyone realize Barack Obama and John McCain are two of the worst presidential candidates in American history?

Who knows and who cares.

For once, Philadelphia is a champion...Enjoy it.

One victory, one column 25 years in the waiting

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

I’ve been waiting 25 years to write this. And now that the time has come, I’m not sure how to do it. It just feels a little too surreal right now.

But I’ll give it my best shot; just start typing and see what comes out…

You see, the world makes a little bit more sense today.

There's finally a rewarding destination at the end of this painful journey filled with heartbreak and disappointment. And now the sun shines a little brighter today. Hell, the sun is actually shining today period, which is miraculous in and of itself lately!

The scene that I witnessed last night, outside of Citizen’s Bank Park at 10:00, in the madness of the surrounding parking lots at 11:00, mingling with thousands of elated people, drunk on life as well as beer, wandering aimlessly down Broad Street toward City Hall, well into the early morning hours, giving and receiving hugs and high-fives to hundreds of strangers, people from all walks of life whom are more accustomed on most days to wallow in their own self pity… well, it was something that even the greatest writers could struggle to put into acceptable words.

It was also something that, up until then, I’ve only viewed secondhand, on TV, wistfully wishing, wanting, waiting… and as the years turned to decades, it began to feel that this viewpoint would be the one fated for me for eternity.

But, suddenly, the demons have been exorcised. The Curse of Billy Penn can rest in peace. The ’64 Collapse, Whiz Kids, Wheez Kids and Black Friday no longer sting as much for the older folks. For me, Mitch Williams is now completely exonerated, and years from now will be known more for his outstanding baseball analysis in town than for his misplaced, soul-crushing pitches. Hell, Joe Carter can have his glory now, too.

And in one night, one victory which will culminate in one incredible party this Friday, can be dedicated to many who have trudged through this interminable path along the way.

This one is for Brett Myers. A hot prospect with a wicked curve frustrated fans for years by not living up to his potential, both on the field and off. Finally finding his niche as a reliever went short lived when the starting rotation remained short on talent. Came back as the Opening Day starter, a de facto ace, he struggled once more, this time to such an extent that he was forced to swallow his pride – as well as an enormous piece of humble pie – and head back to the minors. The struggles continued there and Myers essentially was deemed a non-factor in the forthcoming push for the playoffs.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the finish line: The Myers we always knew existed but never were convinced could perform, did just that. And then some. His heart finally overcame his head.

This one is for Jimmy Rollins and Pat Burrell. The two with the longest tenures here. Drafted while the franchise was still in laughing-stock mode. The identity of this team through thick and thin – both cool, calm and collected, with the occasional burst of enthusiasm.

And for Pat the Bat, as disappointing as his tenure here may have been at times, his last at-bat in a Phillies uniform may have occurred last night, and if it did, it was only two inches away from being poetically ideal – a thunderous blast which was ironically held up by the winds in the alleged band box of a ballpark, settling in for a double which would eventually set up the Series-winning run.

This one is for Ryan Howard, who has endured a love-hate relationship with the fans from the first time he put on the Cursive P: Love the raw talent, hate the nonchalant approach. Love the homers, hate the strikeouts. Love the clutch hits, hate the klutz defense. But in the end, love conquers all, and we love the fact that he took part in turning the team into champions.

This one is for Cole Hamels. It’s funny to say that, for a guy who was the bar none best pitcher on a championship team yet only had 14 wins in a full season, that it was a certain victory each time he stepped on the mound, but that’s how it felt. And the postseason may just have been his coming-out party, the moment when he went from very good to historically great.

This one is for Jamie Moyer. As we speak, I’m certain that Disney is in the process of buying the rights to his story. Jamie got to take part in both of the two World Series championships in this team’s 125 year history – one as a spectator, the other as a contributor. Never one with dominating stuff, he’s somehow lasted 22 years and well over 200 victories at the big league level. And at 45 – almost 46 – years old came one of his better seasons. “Invincible” and “Rocky” have nothing on him.

This one is for Brad Lidge. Written off as damaged goods after serving a deflating home run in the National League Championship Series, the man with the devastating slider was predicted to never be the same again. In his first season with his new team, his fresh start, he was simply perfect. Literally. Not one blown save.

In fact, this one’s for all the relievers. For how many years was this crew deemed to be the Achilles’ Heel? Instead, they were more solid this season than the Gibraltor-esque statues of Schmitty, Whitey, Robin and Lefty which linger outside the Bank.

This one is most definitely for Charlie Manuel. Say what you want about Uncle Cholly (and I’ve certainly said my share), but it turns out that he was the perfect man for these players. He masterfully brought together a group of fragile egos, even as he struggled to master proper syntax. An amazing contradiction to the MENSA applicant sitting in the opponent’s dugout during the World Series, Charlie proved that substance truly does win out over style in the end.

But, most of all, and most selfishly, this one is for us, the fans. And the fact that the deal was sealed on our home grounds was only right.

It’s also for me, personally.

You see, on Oct. 31, the day of the largest parade that’ll ever be thrown, will mark 25 years to the day that I moved to this area. Yes, Oct. 31, 1983 was Day One of the ghoulish suffering I would come to bear as a fledgling, 6 year-old brand-spanking-new Philly sports fan, a fourth generation one at that.

And now Halloween will no longer be as scary.

However, both sides of my family dating back to great grandparents have called these grounds their home. And when my father brought he and his family back to his native dwellings after years away, it was a chance for him to relive his passion for Philly sports – a passion he passed on to his son – up close again.

Memories of watching and playing baseball with my dad are some of the most vivid I still have left of him. In 1987, four years after moving back to the Delaware Valley, he passed away, and never did have the opportunity to celebrate a World Series with his son.

So yes, this one is for my dad, too.

And generations before him, to boot. It’s very likely my father’s father’s father had felt the pain I felt, and cried in his Prohibition beer after another disappointing loss at the Baker Bowl.

But now those tears have dried. Now there is a dawn to a new day, a new era. Now a city which has long suffered, long carried the burden of being labeled in such ways as “loser,” and “disgruntled” bears a new brand to wear proudly on its chest:

Winner.

Cinderella? No - Happily Ever After Will Do

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

This is not a special team.

At no point this season did I ever get that feeling that the 2008 version of the Phillies was going to take us where no area team in the past quarter century has taken us before.

There have arguably been more talented teams, deeper teams, since then. There have certainly been clubs with more personality (try to find more than a couple players on this roster who don’t have permanent bite marks on their tongues).

Last night was obviously not the makings of a championship team.

And you wanna know something? So freaking what!

If these guys find a way to somehow pull it out, will a big-ass parade on Broad Street be any less sweet because they never reached “Team of Destiny” status?

Hell no.

There is no need for rags to riches, fairy tales or soap opera dramas. In fact, the first two games of the World Series were, admittedly, boring for the most part (any time Eric Bruntlet and Carlos Ruiz are your offensive heroes – at ANY point – is never encouraging).

But that’s fine, too. Like a girl who’s been dating a guy with commitment issues for 25 years, we don't need excitement - we just need a ring. And we need it now.

(Upon further review, that wasn’t the manliest of analogies there. But again, so freaking what. Now I’ll digress.)

Not to say there isn’t a storyline here: The losingest professional team of the 20th Century versus the losingest team of the 21st. One World Series victor in 125 years versus one winning season in 13.

The fact that those obnoxious chumps from Boston are sitting home versus the fact that those phonies from L.A. have long since hopped off the bandwagon again.

It’s a sad state of affairs when we live in a town where its runners-up have just as much – if not more – folklore than its champs (See: ’93 Phils, ’01 Sixers, ’04 Eagles). Perhaps it’s because we need something to hold onto. If we can’t afford a nice pair of Oakleys, it’s still somewhat reassuring to wear a nice pair of Foakleys, right?

I must confess, though: It was extremely difficult for me to come to this conclusion. It was hard for me to become emotionally invested in a squad that never provided the stereotypical image of being a true contender, one with so many maddening shortcomings. And when the stars of the team always look like they wish they were anywhere but the Delaware Valley, that’s never a good thing.

But lately, my denial has dissipated. I’m thinking big picture now. It’s the end result which matters most, not the journey. If the ’93 club was mullet-and-personality free yet a Joe Carter longball was nowhere to be found, would we think any less of them? Au contraire!

After all this time I've come to terms that we don't need a special team. We just need a team that can make it to the Promised Land for the first time since Moses took us there.

After 25 years, we don't need a Cinderella story. We just need a success story.

Boo who? Us – and here’s why

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

It’s a sound that’s become - fairly or not - synonymous with the culture of Philadelphia sports.

It’s a longstanding tradition, evolving from the days of yore, reverberating from the ghosts of the Vet past to the Bank of present day. Stories are legendary, growing more extraordinary as the years pass, as folklore often does.

So I wanted to set the record straight because there’s a very good chance that the once-local demigod J-Roll is going to hear his least favorite sound upon his return to town tomorrow, one that has defined us as a fan base for quite some time, and one that, for those who are not from here, struggle at times to comprehend.

And one that especially seems to hurt the feelings of poor millionaire athletes who’ve been coddled and caressed for so long that they are appalled at even the thought of being criticized en masse.

Boo!

Did I scare you? Because it seems to scare them.

But for those who can’t comprehend why on earth this nastiness would be directed at them – the hometown players, the good guys, for gosh sakes! – please allow me to explain:

We boo because there is no tolerance for complacency or underachievers in this hard-working, blue-collar town.

We boo because we’re incredulous that some people find it so difficult to hustle 90 feet to first every time and show up to play a game on time.

We boo because we’re incredulous that your teammates aren’t as incredulous as we are about this.

We boo because, although simply switching allegiances may be easier, it’s not an option.

(And do you know why it’s not an option, Mr. Rollins? Because we’re not “frontrunners.” Frontrunners have no pride. We have plenty - perhaps too much - of it.)

We boo for retribution for the ghosts of our past: for the collapse of ‘64, Black Friday and Mitch Williams’ meatballs placed in front of Joe Carter.

(And yes, Jimmy, we realize you weren’t here for any of that. But if you can’t realize that history means something in sports, you were obviously never a true fan yourself.)

We boo because, after 10,000 losses, it’s still easier (and manlier) than crying.

We boo because first place teams with two MVPs and a potential one shouldn’t be batting a collective .253 on the year.

We boo because politely cheering for “almost” getting it done won’t send the message that “almost” is no longer acceptable.

(Plus, showing gratitude for failing is just plain silly. If you were our children with fragile egos, that’s understandable. But just acting like you are isn’t.)

We boo because people like Schilling, Rolen and Drew shouldn’t have rings.

We boo because people like Ferguson Jenkins and Ryne Sandberg should have had their Hall of Fame careers here.

We boo because people like Adam Eaton, Wes Helms, Freddy Garcia and countless others should have never had careers here.

We boo because minor league hockey, arena football and lacrosse aren't good enough.

We boo because it's safer than, ahem, throwing snowballs or batteries.

We boo in fear. Fear that this nightmare may never end.

Admittedly, we boo out of jealousy, too. Most of us can’t even dream big enough to fathom your salaries. And even if we could, we’re too busy busting our asses in our 50-plus hour a week jobs trying to pay the mortgage and put food on the table.

Yes, we’re worried about making it in life. You’re worried about your feelings getting hurt.

Simply enough, we boo because we care.

And we boo because you deserve it.

Baseball season already? Time to get our Phil(s)

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

Where did the time go?

Just six months ago, fresh off a disappointing cameo in the postseason, Philadelphia fans quickly looked up and shivered a bit at the local sporting prospects they faced between then and the time that pitchers and catchers reported.

It didn’t look pretty.

On one hand, they had a hockey team coming off the worst season in its franchise history.

On the other hand, they had a maddening football team that, only a month into the season, already showed signs of being just good enough to be competitive and just mediocre enough to remain home in January.

On the third hand (yeah, I know - just work with me here), they had a basketball team that… wait, they still had a basketball team?

Anyhow, as we know, the winter wasn’t so cruel to us, after all. The latter two teams have made surprise showings to give us hope for the future and the former team… well, they are the Gold Standard, right?

But what was once a forgone conclusion that a large bulk of the sports conversation in the Delaware Valley between October and April would pertain to the Phils, the defending division champs have largely flown under the radar. Yes, the one team that has actually proven itself in the recent past was basically forgotten about!

Last year, The Phanatic provided you “35 Reasons to Believe,” and included names like Randall Simon(!) as one of them. Yes, the Tonya Harding/Jeff Gillooly of wiener races made the cut.

This year? Nada. A vast emptiness of baseball chatter.

Does that mean that we simply expect great things this year, and it’s not necessary for a build-up?

Or, maybe, is there an uncomfortable feeling inside of us that we care not to talk about, like a kind of jinx which may transform our fears into reality?

The perennial skeptic that I am, I responded last year’s reasons to believe with reasons to “be-leery.” Regardless of how many of my reasons came to fruition (and many, in fact, did), the Phillies somehow still made it to October, so yes, I know where I could stick those reasons of mine.

This year, I’ll just call them simply “concerns.” Not predictions. Not damnations. Just “concerns.”

For example:

- Our No. 1 starter has never pitched a full year in health. Our No. 2 was a reliever last season and was not as good a starter as many of us recall. Our No. 3 is old enough to have fathered our No. 1 and 2 starters. Our No. 4 hasn’t pitched a full season yet and every time I think of our No. 5, I vomit a little bit in my mouth.

- Uncle Charlie STILL fills out the cards! Does that not scare you a little bit?

- The Mets got Santana this offseason. The Braves quietly got a lot better, as well. Did the Phillies improve as much as they did?

Again, just “concerns.” But sometimes concerns can become truths – a la the 2007 Phillies – and it still doesn’t matter. Perhaps that’s what we’ll see this year in order to repeat the excitement once more.

And now for my picks. I was hoping to put them off until Kenny Lofton got signed (since whatever team he’s been on over the past seven seasons – excluding his stint with the Phils – has made the playoffs), but, to no avail, as he remains unsigned.

NL Division Winners: Mets, Cubs, Dodgers
NL Wild Card: Braves

AL Division Winners: Red Sox, Tigers, Mariners
NL Wild Card: Yankees

World Series: Dodgers over Tigers (The Tigers have a sick batting lineup. The Dodgers are simply solid across the board. In the end, a shutdown bullpen, a resurgence by Andruw Jones and the steady leadership of Joe Torre prevails.)

I would love nothing more than to be proven wrong. Especially from the National League side. But, you know, I have these concerns…

If Only...

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

They are the two most annoying words when living in hindsight: “If only.”

If only Pat Burrell took a better angle to that ball.

If only Jamie Moyer wasn’t pinch hit for. (Were we worried about overthrowing his 44 year-old arm, as he threw pitches to homeplate which many could outrun?)

If only the offense – the alleged best in the majors this season – hadn’t gone statue-stiff.

Hell, if only they hadn’t began the year 4-11. And traded for Freddy Garcia. And signed Adam Eaton. And Rod Barajas. And Wes Helms. And… More>>

'Yo Adrian!' A Real-Life Cliché Story

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

Karma comes in all shapes and sizes. Though there’s still quite a long way to go for cumulative retribution, the Phillies have certainly been finding some yangs to the yins of the past lately.

A generation before me endured the miseries of 1964 and Black Friday. A generation before that experienced 35 consecutive campaigns without a postseason – most of them featuring losing records.

Before this decade, I was privy to viewing one winning season out of 17. The one – 1993 – was, of course, an extremely memorable one, one that captured the city’s heart, one of the most captivating and endearing non-championship-winning squads in Philadelphia sports history.

It was also the last time we as Phightin Phans got to experience an extended October of not needing to create reasons to route for another team.

Until now.

Okay, this next statement is cliché, perhaps soon to be a hackneyed depiction expressed proudly at water coolers throughout the Delaware Valley over the next several days. But it fits, so here goes:

The 2007 Phillies are a real-life Rocky story.

Yes, maybe it was because I made a stop at the art museum today, but the metaphor really seems to apply. And here’s why: Like the Italian Stallion, this is a flawed team – make no mistake about that. From a coach whom the players love but makes maddening in-game moves to a pitching staff that can give you so much indigestion, they could be spokesmen for Alka Seltzer, juggernauts these Phils ain’t.

Also, like Mr. Balboa, their chance at glory appeared to have passed. Many of us seem to have conveniently forgotten about the Firesale of ’06, when we shipped away key contributors, including All-Star and alleged Gold Glover Bobby Abreu, for the equivalent of a pair of dirty socks. We forget about Pat Gillick’s plea for patience, to hold out til ’08 and maybe we’ll turn this around.

Furthermore, the Phillies, like our favorite southpaw, just kept getting knocked down, many fan – including some of us here at The Phanatic - resigned to throwing in the towel, only to bounce back up. No Ryan Howard for a month? No problem. Same deal with Chase Utley, Cole Hamels and a couple closers? We’ll find a way.

The pitching equivalent to Acid Reflux? We’ll just score more runs.

(Oh, and Rocky was from Philly. But you knew that.)

Before this season began, I wrote a column entitled, “Ten Reasons to Be-Leery,” a counterpoint to all the optimism from my colleagues that I just couldn’t understand. The ironic part is this: Many of my “reasons” to be skeptical came to fruition – and yet it still didn’t matter!

In the end, Rocky – like our last group of gritty warriors 14 years ago – lost the fight but won our hearts. Being that we’ve already overcome our version of Apollo Creed (The Amazin’ Mess –er, Mets), and being that this team has already defied common logic of what comprises a championship-caliber squad, there’s no reason not to assume that maybe we’re witnessing the makings of a Rocky II script, instead.

On the evening that Rock of Love’s Bret Michaels gets to decide which glorified groupie will become his “destiny,” perhaps Philadelphia’s latest version of just that will give us “Something to Believe In.”

(For those under 20, it’s a Poison song. Bret Michaels was in Poison. Look it up. It works.)

Act lacking of tact hard to defend

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

Here’s a sordid confession: I love being a Philadelphia sports fan.

To many, that may sound the same as proclaiming my love for root canals, but it’s true. There’s something endearing about rooting for a perennial underdog, something so uplifting about how ardent supporters unite when hope peaks its head out from behind the dark clouds. It’s truly authentic, filled with genuine emotion; perhaps something we locals take for granted, because it’s all we know.

For a decade, I lived far away from my native land. What I learned in my time away - to the surprise of few, I’m sure - is a Philadelphia fan carries with it an off-putting image. We boo too much. We complain too much. We’re fickle. We are unrelenting in our criticisms – both of the opponent and the home club. We lack tact.

During my extended sabbatical without a support system, I often single-handedly took it upon myself to defend my fellow misunderstood brethren to the core.

I tried to explain that booing was caring. It was hard to convey that message to the populace in Miami, whose fans routinely get outnumbered by those who come to cheer for the opposing team.

I tried to explain that we have a right to complain. Because we’ve endured more than can expected in 25 years of unfaltering financial and emotional investments to see no return. Because, seriously, how fair can it really be that the fairweatherd, apathetic residents of South Florida get to celebrate two World Series in six years when we get to view one in 124 from the losing franchise in all of sport?

And we are certainly not fickle. Fickle is having to flip a coin to decide between a Heat playoff game or martini specials at South Beach (yes, Miami sports fan, you get the brunt of my wrath once more). It’s not, however, fickle to criticize your team’s ownership because not enough is being done to advance the organization from merely competitive to unquestionable contenders. If a player making millions suddenly forgets how to put the puck in the net, the ball in the basket or the pitch in the strike zone, we’ll attempt to remind them.

I even defended our alleged lack of tact. Sure, we’re expressive, but again, that’s an attribute of having passion. Personally, I feel sorry for all the tin men out there who don’t know what it means to have a heart.

However, this weekend, as I ventured out to a Phillies-Mets game at Shea Stadium, following the team for a crucial late-season series like a passionate Philly fan does, I encountered something that was indefensible. It happened often and grew in volume as the day progressed.

What was it, you ask, that had me hanging my head in shame and sheepishly shrugging my shoulders in response to confused Met fans?

E-A-G-L-E-S, EAGLES!!

First of all, we’re at a baseball game. An important one at that, despite what a stadium-wide “wave” in the late innings might infer. Why a chant for a football team? If I’m at Citzen’s Bank Park and a group of drunken New Yorkers begin shouting “J-E-T-S, JETS, JETS, JETS!” I would laugh at them. At them, not with them.

Which is exactly what the New Yorkers did. They found these people (notice I didn’t write “us”) ignorant and foolish.

As did I.

What did that irrelevant - and irreverent - chant accomplish, other than showing that regardless of how well the Phillies may play down the stretch and what the playoff implications might indicate, football is what really matters in our town.

If that’s the case for this group of embarrassing idiots, why even show up? Why not stay at home, call into WIP (where it’s all Birds, all the time!) and continue a debate on, say, whether Donovan McNabb’s newest hairstyle is conducive to West Coast Offense success?

Instead, they showed up to Flushing. In droves.

And, for a true, loyal, prideful and long-suffering Philadelphia sports fan such as myself, I finally found something that I was unable to defend.

Time to Believe?

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

I’m speechless.

(Good thing I have a keyboard)

I’m broke, juggle several jobs (including this one), yet spent most of the past 4 hours and 9 minutes bypassing necessary productivity, instead engaged in an emotional roller coaster.

I didn’t mind one bit.

I just witnessed the most exciting baseball game I’ve watched since probably Game 7 of the 2004 American League Championship, when the hackneyed Red Sox curse was on its way to being exorcised and the choking bum Yankees put a new crease into the word “fold.”

Putting it in local terms, it was perhaps the most exciting game I’ve seen from the Fightins’ since the 1993 World Series.

The 9th inning alone was not for the weary of heart: Fan fiend Billy Wagner, nasty as it is and well-rested to boot, against his former team. A seeing eye bloop by the unconsciously hot Jayson Werth (does anyone recall that Shane Victorino is actually healthy now, yet still on the bench?). Werth, showing off his big brass pair, steals two bases on the fireballing Wagner with nary a throw from the catcher.

And instead of sulking as so many in his position would, career starter and recent odd-man-out Tadahito Iguchi then comes through on another clutch pinch hit, a ballsy stolen base himself, topped off my a dramatic slide at the plate for the winning run.

The best part about the inning was that it had “team” written all over it. No one person carried them over the top. Best yet, the pitifully small dimensions of Citizen’s Bank Park were rendered moot when small ball took over.

The rest of the game had its own share of storylines. The Pat Burrell Redemption Tour continues, with two more jacks, including one off Wagner – who you may recall had his share of criticism for “The Bat” in the past. Ryan Howard breaks out of his concerning slump in a big way. On the flip side, 5-0 and 8-5 leads by the Phils unmercifully ripped away from them, the latter time by a excruciatingly painful performance by Antonio Alfonseca.

They battled back. And battled some more. I’ve done nothing for most of the afternoon and yet I’m the one who’s exhausted.

There’s really nothing to say that makes sense of this team. In simple terms, they’re friggin maddening.

This can’t be a healthy relationship. Just last weekend, I publicly lambasted them for showing no heart against the Padres. Well, in Grinch-like fashion, it seemed to grow ten sizes against the Mets.

Like a stubborn atheist who just witnessed a miraculous act of God, I can’t say that I’m all in at the table just yet. I still need to see that string of success. I still need to see momentum carried from one season to the next. I still need to stop taking those cold showers.

Trust me when I say that after watching this game, I want to believe. I’m ready to believe.

My biggest issue which remains: I really, really, REALLY don’t know how this can continue if the Phils have to battle their own pitching staff as well as their opponents. With Cole Hamels still on the shelf, the rotation is as follows: Kyle Lohse, J.D. Durbin, Adam Eaton, Jamie Moyer, Kyle Kendrick. For the record, that’s two journeymen, one senior citizen, one complete bust and a rookie who played Double A not two months ago. Plus, don’t get me started on the bullpen.

If you were presented with that rotation in April, admit it: You vomit a little bit and then begin preparing for 2008.

Don’t get me wrong: 1993 was magical. From Opening Day, there was something special taking place. This year defies all logic. Roster moves and statistical data don't equate for an alleged playoff contender. Every day seems to present a whole new set of circumstances and expectations. Every come from behind win (in which they lead the National League) has fans thinking October, every supposedly debilitating injury initiates the funeral.

I have no idea how they’ve made it this far. So perhaps it’s almost time to throw logic out the window.

Almost.

Phils show their true color

By Jeff Glauser
The Phanatic Magazine

So those showers have been quite icy lately, as per my last article.

And since writing it, the Phillies – Sunday’s offensive outburst notwithstanding – had lost five of six, as well as the respect of many fans.

That’s because this weekend, they were shown up on their own turf.

First, an overreacting and childishly whiny Marcus Giles gets in the grill of Carlos Ruiz after his takeout slide. Ruiz not only stands down then, but also an inning later when Giles participates in a staredown and apparently says a few parting words at the plate.

Then, everybody’s least favorite board game, Milton Bradley, showboats after hitting a home run, then subsequently trashes the fans and later the stadium itself.

A fair response for any team and manager with a backbone is to whiz one at the batter. It happened. To Ruiz from the Padres staff, making their statement (which was pounded home with a 14-3 Saturday pounding) clear.

Like a bully who now gets his lunch money direct deposited by his smaller prey, the Padres came in with a bone to pick with their closest wild card rivals and entered Sunday with a cocky strut and – worse yet – no fear.

The Phillies, through all their injury excuses this season used to justify – and celebrate – any semblance of contention with its fanbase, had a chance to truly give them something to cheer about. They had a chance to show its heart by standing up for themselves and showing the gritty character we come to expect from a winner.

Instead, they showed their true colors – or more accurately, true color: Yellow.

Contending teams don’t turn the other cheek. They don’t play the nice guy role. They fight back. They go for the jugular.

This is especially integral in this town, where we’ve always embraced grit over glamour, substance over style, attitude over athleticism. The only bullies we know around here lived on Broad Street some 30-plus years ago.

It’s why the fans got so excited when the benches cleared Friday night, hoping that one swing of the fist could perhaps lead to a turnaround swing to the season. Or one pitch to the ribcage of a weasel like Giles or a bitter tool like Bradley. It’s why the anticlimactic letdown will be something we won’t soon forget.

That the coach nor players made a stink of things afterwards also speaks volumes. And trust that the Mets heard the nothing loud and clear.

It’s also safe to assume that they’re chomping at the bit to be the next in line to bitch slap the Phils come today.

Up in smoke

By John Gottlieb
The Phanatic Magazine

Well it was a nice run. They gave it their all but in the end, as always, it was just not enough.

With the news the Phillies ace Cole Hamels will miss his next start with a mild strain of the elbow (UGH) the Fightin' Phils can kiss their fledgling playoff hopes goodbye.

It's unfortunate too because this team has really played well. That's right after a horrendous start this team is still in the mix for a playoff spot. But it's all over now with the loss of the National League's Cy Young. More >>

Pat to the resuce

By John Gottlieb

The Phanatic Magazine

At the start of the day on May 30 the Phillies were eight games out of first place, as the Mets seemed to be on cruise control to a berth in the World Series.

However, the Metropolitans would fall in 14 of their next 18 games, including a three-game sweep at Shea at the hands of the Fightin' Phils.

Read more at The Phanatic Magazine's official web home.

The train wreck heads to DC

By Steven Lienert
The Phanatic Magazine

Freddy Garcia's four-and-two-thirds innings. Ryan Howard's one home run. Chase Utley's .245 batting average. The entire bullpen.

After just 12 games, the 3-9 'Team-to Beat' Phillies are the worst team in the National League. In all of baseball, only the 3-11 Royals are worse. That's some good company.

Of course, there's just one person to blame: Howard Eskin.

It's his fault that the bullpen is so bad, Brett Myers, who was the Phillies' Opening Day starter, is its newest member. Which, by the way, is supposed to be permanent, meaning the Phils no longer have that "sixth starter" to bargain.

Myers tried his best to play the role of the good soldier, but his mouth got in the way of his good intentions. After saying he'd do whatever would help the team win, he took at shot at management by saying he'd move to the 'pen as long as it was for the rest of the season.

He said he didn't want what happened to Ryan Madson last season happen to him this season. In 2006, Madson was yo-yoed between the bullpen and the starting rotation and, at least in Myers mind, it has hurt him.

Madson's 6.23 ERA would back up that estimation.

It's clearly Eskin's fault that the Phillies were duped in a trade for a starting pitcher once again.

Does anyone else find it an eerie coincidence that Freddy Garcia is wearing Kevin Millwood's old number?

And only if Eskin hadn't convinced Chase Utley to get married. Like Mickey said to Rocky: "Women weaken legs."

And did anyone else see Eskin working with Howard in the batting cage during spring training? That's the reason Howard's pulling his head off the ball. It's his fault Howard posed for the covers of numerous publications, including one on Philadelphia Magazine under the headline, "Ryan Howard won't let us down."

Well, he's not exactly pulling the fan base up right now, is he? Darn it to heck, Eskin!

In all seriousness, Charlie Manuel's explosion last night is clear evidence that he has lost control of the locker room, which was almost reason enough for fans to run Andy Reid out of town during football season.

Yet Uncle Charlie keeps prodding along. Meanwhile, Jim Leyland, who was deemed by Phillies' management to be "not as good a fit" as Manuel, has the defending AL champion Detroit Tigers leading the Central Division with a healthy 9-5 record.

Including tonight, the Phillies have 13 games left this month. They have to go 8-5 over that stretch just to make it to the same 11-14 mark the team has had the previous two Aprils.

At this point, that 8-5 record seems highly unlikely, which would mean a significant step backwards for the team under Manuel's stewardship.

In almost any other city, that would be enough to get a manager canned.

Or enough to get him to focus more on his team than what some sports radio host has to say about his manhood.

Lienert's column appears almost every Wednesday. Contact him at slienert@phanaticmag.com.

Happy Opening Day

It's not a national holiday -- but maybe it should be. For all of those with tickets to the season opener and those who will be glancing at MLB Gameday and listening online while at work The Phanatic Magazine wishes you a happy Opening Day!

Warden back to Indians

Something must be brewing. Either that, or for the first time in over a decade the Phillies are prepared to hand a youngster (Joe Bisenius or Zack Segovia) a prominent role in a mix-and-match bullpen.

Jim Ed Warden, who many thought earlier Wednesday was about to make the Opening Day roster, cleared waivers and was grabbed by his former club Cleveland, according to a report on The News Journal out of Wilmington, Delaware.

That leaves Tom Gordon, Antonio Alfonseca, Ryan Madson, Geoff Geary, Matt Smith and likely Clay Condrey with cemented spots in the bullpen. The Phillies could still pick up a relief pitcher via trade or off waivers before Opening Day on April 2 versus Atlanta.

Earlier Wednesday, the club released outfielder Karim Garcia.

Former Phil gets 14 years in prison

Former Phillies pitcher Ugueth Urbina was sentenced to 14 years in prison in his native Venezuela on Wednesday for the attempted murder of five workers on his family's ranch.