I’m a woman and I'm a lover. By design one makes me do the other. So after yesterday’s 5-3 loss to the Dodgers, I left all the hating to the man I married, whom we’ll now call “Husband Vader.”
The Dark Lord was so distraught at Phillies' pitching yesterday, he nicknamed Chad, “Disturbin’ Durbin,” and he said, “Lidge throws balls and strikes in a ratio like kids share candy—one for you, one for me.” He says the problem with Phil’s ball slingers is Ruben Amaro didn’t amend the pitching staff in the off season - like my better half told him too.
I hate it when he’s right.
So I got to thinking (which is always a little scary). Then I read the article in the Daily News about sports psychologist, Harvey Dorfman, and I got to thinking even harder. Then I went deep, like a Ryan Howard hit.
I decided we need that magic back; be it luck, chemistry, or timing, we have to find it. Then I glanced over at the skipper of the Death Star and it came to me. We need to tap into “The Force.”
So with the team looking toward Harvey and my husband representing the dark side, I thought I’d pick another route. I’d contact the Dalai Lama.
I’ve been thinking of calling him myself because the temperature adjustment on my shower is so sensitive that the only way for me to take the perfect shower is to set it via mental telepathy.
So when I ask the Dalai to help me manipulate things with my mind, I’ll put in a good word for my team.
Maybe the Dalai has a special running—like the Phil’s ticket office: a six-pack of sessions we could split to save money. But getting in touch with him could be tricky. I guess I could Google his contact info and find a number to fax or text. I wonder if he Twitters—or is that Tweets?
I’d probably have to explain that that’s not the same as communicating by bird, although a guy in Conshohocken used that to vent his frustration with me quite effectively yesterday.
So here’s how I’d start.
Dear Mr. Lama, Esquire:
I think that shows respect. Then I’d get right to the point.
My Phils need your help if they expect to finish at the top of the NL East. So could you please give them the attitude of a Jedi Knight, turn their arms into lightsabers, and say something cool like, “May The Force be with you?”
Oh, and I hope you’ve seen Star Wars. If not, this most certainly makes no sense to you so if that’s the case, just give me a call at… well, you’re the Dalai, I reckon you know how to get in touch with me.
Then I’d write something catchy to get his attention to distinguish my request from the other worthy causes like peace, hunger, and global warming.
Maybe a poem.
Now if you’ve read my articles, you know - a poet I’m not. I don’t know pentameters from odometers, and I’d have to consult that site that helps you find rhyming words because the only one I know that rhymes with pitching is the one my husband uses to describe what I spend my time doing.
So here goes.
Help Us To Pitch, From the Bitc…
(Vader helped with the title)
There are so many things that Phillies can do
Like winning the division, the league, and the world.
But this year we’ve struggled and if I had my say
I’d have to blame pitching and poor ERAs.
I pay you great homage; I think that you rule
So I’m sending this message to ask for some fuel
For a staff of Phils pitchers who can’t find their groove
And a stand full of fans whose frustration still brews.
We need cyborg arms like that Terminator man’s
Made of titanium with wrought-iron hands
And mitts that attract any hits from the plate
That thought there’s a chance they’d pass us in haste.
Give us sliders that drop like the ball’s on the take
And changeups that stop just a foot from the plate
Hundred plus fastballs and sub-one ERAs
But no torsos that say they like Tasty Cakes.
We want what we want, and not a bit more
Just another Broad Street parade to make our hearts soar.
So if you’d oblige which we ask with great shame
We’ll give you the credit in the very next game.
It’s not like we’re asking to conquer the world
We just want our pitchers to learn how to hurl.
Would all welcome the challenge (or so we say).
So send us Four Horsemen or the Magnificent Seven.
It doesn’t take many to salvage a season.
Throw in a game-saver who’ll pitch a first strike
That hits Chooch’s glove and takes a out a bite.
Or send us something that’s legal when used
A concoction made from Dalai juice.
And last but not least, to prove our sincerity
We promise to pray for things like world peace
After we beat every team in the league.
Then I’d end it with something gracious because I heard he goes for that. Something like...
Ever grateful for your help,
You don’t think he’ll think my name’s weird do you and then think I’m a freak? (Husband Vader says it’s not the name that makes me a freak.) But, think about it. I’m writing to a guy whose name is based on a little girl’s toy and a long-necked fuzzy animal, and he communicates via the airwaves. How much more freakish can you get? (The Dark Lord says, “Lots.”)
Wait! Where are my manners? I didn’t even invite him to a game. How thoughtless. I’d have to add a postscript.
P.S. If you’d like to see what I’m talking about, please don’t hesitate to join me at the ballpark. I’m in section 145 so you might even catch a home run ball. (And I don’t imagine you’d need a glove for that.) But don’t wear any Mets gear. Not everyone in my section is a fan of unconditional love.
Anyway, that’s what I’ll do. I know I’m just a fan but I feel I have to do my part, too. I’m just hoping to help the ball club and take a comfortable shower in the process.
Until next time,
P.P.S. Dalai, please give our offense a shot of magical juice too (but not the kind that Manny used). Much obliged.