Shane made a bad decision in the Monday night game against the Marlins. No, he didn’t pass on a Samuel Adams. He tried to steal second after a free pass to first with no outs and power-hitter, Matt Stairs, at the plate.
Shane was thrown out by a mile, chewed out in the dugout, and drilled after the game. That’ll cause “bitter beer face.” Oh, well, now he knows. But he did hustle, he did try, and he looked fabulous doing it.
I won’t fault him for that. Why?
I always go for the underdog, the little guy, the small fry; the diamond in the rough. I liked Shane when stitching Victorino on your shirt was a risky acquisition. You could say, I was country when country wasn’t cool.
I’d like to think I “discovered” Shane, but it’s not true. Someone in the Phillies organization saw something in him long before they shared it with me. I just happened to think of checking into his marital status about the time other real baseball babes were. Not that it matters, but a girl can dream…
...of Shane on the "Playmate of the Game" calendar, the luau layout in my mind, or the flyin’ Hawaiian centerfold of my dreams.
I almost touched him once—physically. I know, it’s probably illegal. And that’s what kept me from doing it. Damn those new stalker laws.
Here’s how it happened. The marquee at the Granite Run Mall read, “Shane Victorino appearing at the AT&T Store.”
My son and I both pushed our eyes back in our sockets, just before I rear-ended a guy.
My son screamed, “What!!”
I answered, “Here?!”
He added, “In the ‘burbs?!”
I ended with, “Wow, they must have something on him. He must have been a bad boy. Ah, don’t even tease me.”
My son said, “You’re disgusting.”
I get that a lot. I don’t just wear my heart on my sleeve, my thoughts splatter unconsciously from my mouth in endless monotony.
You know what I’m talking about. You’re reading it right now.
So I thought I’d give you my favorite Shane Victorino moment–the one that’s stuck in my mind, frozen in time, just like my favorite episode of Hawaii Five-O or Magnum PI.
All-time favorite moment: We sit in section 145. Anyone who’s ever sat in the outfield knows that Shane throws his warm-up balls into the seats when he’s done. And he’s usually pretty fair about it.
But although I send my son to the front to vie for a memento, I always wait in my seat. That’s because I have a personal strategy when baseball’s approach at a high rate of speed: I cower and scream. Yes, just like a plane crash.
Well, for some magical reason, Shane went deep into section 145 one day. (Keep your mind in the ballpark, Poe.)
Anyway, his ball looked like it would soar just overhead so I assumed the position, tucking my head and grabbing my knees, and when I dared to surface, the ball landed miraculously in my lap.
It’s true! I swear! Like a beach ball at a rock concert, that rawhide plopped its way down the rows like a pinball until it finally found a hole.
That’s why seeing Shane’s name on the marquee in Granite Run was so orgasmic.
My son took that ball and got it signed by that man.
That’s why, right there at the AT&T store, I wanted to “reach out and touch someone.”
That’s why, when there was talk last year of trading Shane in a package for Rockie’s hottie Matt Holliday, I was bummed. But I’m still not encouraged by his signing of a $3.125 million one-year contract for 2009. That makes him far too dispensable (along with Jayson Werth and/or John Mayberry, Jr.) in a trade for a high-speed arm for the mound.
But after last night’s performance from Chad “Disturbin’” Durbin, my husband says, “Ba humbug. Let ‘em go.” The Phil’s poor pitching performance is a bug up my husband’s ass. Maybe he should try wearing a thong? It’d not only block all those pesky intruders, it’d give him a reason to tug as this butt instead of just at his balls.
Even though Joe Blanton took “Player of the Game” honors last night and a place among the naked pages of my imaginary calendar, the flyin’ Hawaiian soared to new heights.
He went 4-for-5 with a run and an RBI, and pushed his average up 14 points to 284. I wish a good outing would do that to my bust-line. Shane’s proved he’s a contributing force even after he entered the season cold from his bench sitting stint at the World Baseball Classic.
I’m glad that only happens every four years. That’s as often as I can handle that aggravation.
I’m only 5’ 3” tall. From down here, Shane’s only six more inches of pure power. But I like the view.
Who says size matters?
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