Moving On

It's early November, and I am hungover. The impetus for my hangover has both immediate and slightly more removed beginnings. On the one hand, I was out with Fine Tone last night. Nuff said. On the other, I've been dating the Phillies since mid-March. Much like a night filled with Jameson served in plastic cups, a season with the Phillies can be bitter, nauseating, yet simultaneously fulfilling. And here I sit, comfortably resting on my overpriced couch, oddly pleased that the Phillies season is over. In recent days, I've had an opportunity (largely because I don't have shit else to do) to recount the wild ride that we all have just endured.

To begin with, let me say this: the Phillies were fuckin great this year. We all must remember that the Phillies--let me reiterate...the PHILLIES-- just played in their second straight world series. And while the season undoubtedly ended in disappointment, and I may or may not have wished horrible pain upon Pedro Feliz due to his awful tendency to leave people on base, the fact of the matter is the Phillies were the second best team in the land. They are the Jason Mann to Peter Rook. They are Fake Dude to Dude. They are Jonah to Leon in a drinking contest! Although none of that makes sense, the point is we had a stupendous year and I am proud to wear copious amounts of red. Next year we will rise again, these are the glory days people!

The playoffs damn near killed me, for the record, and not because there isn't a pill purple enough to cure the heartburn triggered by the sight of Brad Lidge's mole. They damn near killed me because they turned me into an old man, constantly in need of more sleep and frustrated by the slow pace of the game. While Jorge Posada might find it necessary to suck on Any Pettite's earlobe twenty times in the first three innings, I prefer Cliff Lee's brisk pace, 7:05 start times, and national anthems sung by celebrities, not Lower Merion police officers. On a related note, how do the Yankees get John Legend and Mary J Blige to sing the anthem, and we get the fuckin cast of Glee?!? Shiyeeeet, if that doesn't explain our porous showing at the Bank, I don't know what does. Whatever, I mean, I'm not complaining. The Phils added an additional month of anticipation to my life. Very few things get my blood pumpin, and work aint one of em. So thank you Phirries, you make me want to dance.




But now that the love-fest is over, I turn my attention to two teams that, truth be told, underwhelm me. The Eagles, for certain, are a good team, albeit not a great one. We have skinny superstars, worthless superstars, injured superstars, and bipolar fatties who we thought were going to be superstars. We dominate one week, lose to the Raiders the next, and secretly begrudge the more successful team across Pattison Street. Let it be known, I will ride or die with the Birds, but until the playoffs start, I reserve the right to latch onto this train with a rather ambivalent clutch. Safe to say, there will be no pre-game face-painting on Appletree street, bukaki aside.

And then there's the seventy-sixers. Whereas the Phillies inspire, by the look of the crowd at the Wachovia Center, it's apparent that the fans don't realize two important things: (1) Ed Pickney is the new mayor of mixville; and (2) the new Dei Lynam could get the bottom lip. Here's hoping someone pulls an Erin Andrews on her. It would seem, however, that the fans are focused a bit more on the lackluster rotation Coach Eddie is throwing out there on the floor. Without question, I am increasingly frustrated by Sammy's dwindling minutes, Elton Brand's aversion towards scoring in double-digits, and Jrue Holiday not being Ty Lawson. But I want to believe! I want to foresee anything other than a 42-40 season, an early playoff exit, and Giul wasting all his time in those god-forsaken seats! There is no white towel in my linen closet, rest-assured, but the Sixers are dangerously close to being unmistakably insignificant.



And finally, I note that the annual celebration or our existence is creeping up on us. That's right, the annual DR awards -- in the Gianni room --is less than three weeks away. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I intend to shamelessly flirt with the cougar hostess. Get your outfits ready, press your pocket squares, dust off your favorite public league ball-cap, and load up on brown liquor. Remember, if we don't celebrate Sammy, no one will!