The Third Man

It cheered me somewhat surprisingly last night to learn that the Phillies had signed a third baseman. Puzzled me that I had not heard of the guy, though. He’s a National Leaguer, after all; has played for the Giants for something like seven years. His name is Pedro Feliz (“Happy Peter,” one of the message-board fans was already calling him).

The opinions on Peter are mixed. Some of the Bay area fans have terrible things to say about him; how frustrating he is to watch, flailing at bad pitches in clutch situations. His batting average is only .250, and his on-base percentage is lousy, they point out. But he hits 20 home runs a year; in Philly’s small park they say he’ll hit more. He drives in 80 runs. And by most accounts he plays a terrific third base.

The paper said Rollins was juiced when he heard Feliz was coming. I wonder how that makes Dobbs and Helms, the incumbent third basemen, feel. Both were already sounding a little miffed at the strenuous efforts of management this off-season to replace them. Good riddance to Helms, I say. He was a real drag last year, the turd at third. But Dobbs is a scrapper, and a good clutch hitter. He may not be an everyday player, but I’d hate to see him go.

Crunch Time

This is the week, Phillies fans. This is what it all boils down to. Will they do what we expect, leave us brokenhearted yet again, repeating the well-worn pattern? Or will they shock our very innards and rise to the occasion, like the Merry Kruksters of ’93?

This morning’s paper verified the unbelievable: Despite an endless string of crippling injuries, despite the early immolation of their entire starting pitching staff, despite a relief corps that was sadly threadbare when the season started, the Phillies, our Phillies, are tied for first place in the wild card race with the San Diego Padres. Clean slate! Reset to zero! Gentlemen start your engines: It’s anybody’s ballgame.

Six games left, and no room to screw up. It’s almost too much to bear!

My instinct as a Phillies fan is to protect myself, button down my hopes, get ready to fail. But there’s a part of me, a tender winking spark, that says this team is different.

And it is. With the adversity it has faced, there is no way this team should even be in the running. I can’t count the number of times I have left them for dead. Each time, they have clawed their way back. Each time, worming their way a little deeper into my heart.

Can the rim-running pitching hold up? Will the booming bats go silent? Will the role-players, stop-gappers—every damn one of them finding a way to contribute—cease to step up? Or will this gutty bunch somehow prevail?

It’s crazy to hope. But I’m hoping.

Whatever happens, it has been one hell of a ride. And pain is definitely a part of it.

The boys are back. Maybe? L'il bit?

It's not clear yet whether it was my last post or the team meeting that did it, but the Phillies have shown distinct signs of life in their last two games. The kid, Cole Hamels, pitched a masterpiece on Saturday night, striking out 15 Reds and getting the complete game. Utley hit a homer and a double. And the infield pulled off a triple play to boot! "Nunez to Rollins to Dobbs," oh my.

Then yesterday afternoon Freddy Garcia looked pretty good for 5+ innings, and the hitters finally erupted. Two more doubles for Utley, and Ryan Howard, back after three games, taxed one to center.

That's what I'm talkin' about.

De profundis

The Phillies lost another heartbreaker last night. At 4-11, they are now officially the worst team in baseball.

Last night it was Tom “Flash” Gordon’s turn to blow it. After Jon Lieber pitched beautifully in his first start since being reinstated, and Charlie Manuel walked the managing tightrope to get the Phillies out of the 6th, and Alfonseca and Myers did their jobs well in the 7th and 8th, respectively, Gordon came on in the 9th with a 1-0 lead, got two outs, and then gave up a game-tying homer to a guy whose name I can’t remember. Back out for the 10th, Gordon completely unraveled. The Reds won it, 2-1, with only four hits.

Yes, the offense was terrible, too. Their only run was a gift—a third-to-first throwing error that Carlos Ruiz exploited well to score from second. Ruiz is one of few bright spots outside Myers and the starting pitching. A man among zombies, he has been a spunky hitter, a fine defensive catcher, and smart on the bases.

Utley, Howard, Burrell, Rowand, Helms, Victorino. None of these guys is hitting worth a damn. Burrell has hit, but not in the clutch. Utley and Howard are still in hibernation. They’ll come out of it, everybody says. Sure, but by then the Phillies may be all but invisible in the Mets’ (or the Braves’) rear-view mirror. Howard sat for the second day with a leg injury that I haven’t seen specified. He may struggle all year. Utley’s patience has been painful to watch, as he waits grimly for the sap to start flowing. Only Jimmy Rollins has played up to his pre-season prediction.

The bullpen is a disaster zone, as predicted. Geary and Madson have been awful, and Gordon himself has appeared shaky. The converted Myers has pitched well in two outings, looking strong-armed and determined, and Alfonseca (the big-bellied, six-fingered “El Pulpo”) has been fairly effective. Too early to tell whether the fire-throwing Rosario can help. Last night, I found myself willing Charlie to leave Myers in to pitch the 9th. I have a feeling that Gordon, the compact, coil-springed right-hander, may be reaching the end of the line. He’s been a real pro, and he looks strong physically, but right now I don’t see him lasting the season as closer.

“It’s still early.” They’re still saying that in the locker room, but by now it’s coming through clenched teeth. There’ve already been a half-dozen dispiriting losses like last night’s. How many more until their confidence, and their season, slip away entirely?

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.