Prelude to a kiss-off?

Ominous news out of Clearwater today. Tom Gordon is headed north, to be checked out by one of the Phillies’ approved orthopedic men. The team predictably poo-pooed this development as strictly precautionary, but the fact is that their entire season may hang in the balance. Gordon, the closer, is the only solid bullpen performer they have, despite a winter of trying unsuccessfully to deal for a set-up guy. He was old when they got him, and broke down at the end of last season—and the Phillies have no insurance! Without Gordon healthy at the start, their chances to jump out on the Mets, and even to be competitive, are approximately nil. Now the question is, will they panic and do something drastic, and further disrupt a team that seemed to be starting to jell? Will they trade away a position player they can’t afford to lose, like Aaron Rowand? Will the seemingly far-fetched idea of converting Brett Myers into a closer actually come to pass? Word is that Jon Lieber, the sixth of their five starters, the guy they were trying to shop, is pitching well. Does this make retooling Myers, possibly their best starter, a real option?

The other story lines from camp are painfully trivial: Pat Burrell can’t get used to his new contact lenses, the ones the team insists on him trying and he says he doesn’t need. Now begins the relentless questioning of his eyesight in earnest, started by a single epithet uttered in frustration behind the batting cage and rippling out across the vast ocean of chat rooms and call-in shows until the end of time, or he stops looking at called third strikes, whichever comes first. How does any human being withstand the endless kicking this guy takes as the Phillies designated scapegoat without either slitting his own throat or punching the remaining teeth down the throats of a half-dozen inebriated loudmouths in some foul-smelling Kensington taproom just before last call in the midst of a long home losing streak during which he’s gone 1 for 13? It almost makes his grossly overinflated salary seem justified.

The feel-good story is that of journeyman outfielder Greg Dobbs, who in dark-horse pursuit of the fifth outfield spot is evidently hitting the bejesus out of the ball. His would-be teammates have taken to calling him Roy Hobbs, after Malamud’s mythic slugger, or more accurately after Robert Redford’s. Even the skipper seems to be rooting for him.