The Phillies have remarkably very little offensive
talent. Despite an MVP season from
Chooch and an average start by Hunter Pence there is no one else in the lineup
who frightens even the most pedestrian pitcher.
The starting rotation was blessed with almost unprecedented health last
year, it was unfair to expect results like that again. And our bullpen was
terrific last year despite relying on David Herndon, Michael Stutes and Antonio
Bastardo. This year they have reverted
back to form.
But it’s safe to say that the main reason for the Phillies
struggles can be placed directly on one man’s shoulders; mine. Yes, one of the many drawbacks of being a
famous internet sports journalist and noted Lothario my words are read by on
average dozen(s) of people. So when I
made the Phillies my World Series Champs in the preseason I was painting a
large bull’s-eye on their back for the whole season. As expected they have crumbled under that
enormous weight. To make matters worse
what I thought were steroids that I was handing out before games turned out to
be horse tranquilizers. Needless to say
I’ve fired Crazy Nico as my go to drug connect.
So to recap: I doomed this team to a horrible season by
predicting the team to bring the Championship back to Broad street. I’ve been an unwitting accomplice in a faulty
drug ring. And I sort of accidently
ruined Roy Halladay by starting a masturbation competition with him, and you
know Doc- he hates losing. However I
wasn’t expecting it to end this way.
On May 24 I was summoned to Charlie’s office. This in general wasn’t to strange. Charlie and I had hung out frequently during
my tenure with the team. I was the one
who would spike his Gatorade with Jim Beam and pre- chewed chewing tobacco; he
called it his thinking juice.
When I got in I didn’t suspect
anything. Charlie was at his desk
knuckle deep in his nose with Greg Gross seated in the corner facing the wall. Everything was as it always was.
“What’s up skip?”
As per usual Greg got up and stood
behind the manager who, because he spoke in an indecipherable Appalachian
dialect was unitelligable except to a select few peoples. Greg was one of those peoples and did the
translating, it was the only reason he still had a job.
What came out of Charlie’s mouth
was a series of guttural squeals and hearty guffaws. He finished his sentence with an over
dramatized fist pump followed by blowing on an oversized jug several
times.
“Mr. Manuel would like to start
out by saying, despite not knowing what it is you do around here, he couldn’t
be happier with your performance.”
“Haha, that’s a fair assessment of
my responsibilities. I like to think of
myself as sort of a half motivator, half alibi coordinator and half steroid
injector” (Editors note: at the time I was convinced that I was in fact giving
them steroids. Also it was very
important to use bad math in front of Charlie.
Anytime someone corrected him on basic addition he would fly into a
murderous rage, it was somehow the reason he kept insisting that Chad Qualls
was serviceable.)
Again more farm animal noises
punctuated with a series of aggressive kicking motions and topped off with an
elaborate hand puppet show signaled Charlie’s thoughts.
“What Mr. Manuel means is that while
your clubhouse demeanor and attitude are unorthodox to say the least he’s
unsure of where you fit in with this organization.”
“What are you saying CM Punk?”
Tears started welling up in his
eyes upon hearing my pet nickname for him.
He puffed out his chest and started pounding his fists against it a la
Tarzan, emitting a hypnotic African rhythm to accompany his flickering of the
light switch.
“It seems that you have been
traded to the Nationals for literally a bucket of balls and a new third base. Please talk to Sally in HR. and she’ll have
all your paperwork ready. If you could
go and clean out your locker a car will be waiting to take you to your new
home.”
“Charlie, this can’t be true can
it.” He lowered his head and let out a
deep, low moan. And with that I left the office. To say it was surreal would be an
understatement. I had never been traded
before. Sure I had played for the
Indians for a couple of seasons, but they were like a AAA team then. But this is serious. Now I’m moving to an arch rival city in my
own division. It’s going to be weird.
After moving up Washington’s
wingman farm system I finally cracked the Nationals clubhouse. Starting next week I’ll be a regular of DC,
and it’s not as bad as I thought. I’m
excited for a new opportunity and a fresh start away from all those in
Philadelphia I owe money to. So, goodbye Philadelphia, it’s been great.
But don’t worry I brought Crazy
Nico with me and he has a bunch of exciting, new Chilean Estrogen pills I’ll be distributing
to Bryce Harper.
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