Each day I wake, I attempt to do the same thing: be a decent mommy, be a loving wife, cook for my family, gather notes for a blog, and get my goats fed. Since I’m an old goat, I’ve made a lot of attempts at doing these things well, but sometimes I’ve fallen short.
Just ask my husband.
Two old goats fill the starting posts at position No. 1 for World Series Game Six. One’s called “Andy Pettitte” and the other goes by “Pedro Martinez.” The number that sums up their combined years of lifetime experience is 75.
I have two old goats, but from one game to the next, their names change. That’s because I reference them for the most recent Phillie killers. So this morning, one was Johnny Damon—“Demon” for short—and the other I called, “Old Leftie,” in honor of the southpaws who have haunted the Phillies' big bat, Ryan Howard, through the Halloween season.
Howard’s five-game offensive numbers aren’t impressive: .158 average, two runs, one RBI, and 12 strikeouts. But the number that sums up his combined plate performance for the 2009 World Series is 86—cancelled.
His stance is off, he’s obviously not seeing the ball, and since the MVP award in his first full season in 2006, lefties have had their way with him. And the scouts have him pegged as a breaking ball bimbo because he falls for it every time.
And he’s not even a blond.
There’s Lucky Charms, lucky socks, and lucky hats, but Howard’s just hoping to get plain lucky tonight.
The Yankees are on and off in areas too. Mark Teixeira has lost his groove even though Hideki Matsui is stuck in his like a bobsled track. But Joe Girardi hopes the last guy in his three-man rotation doesn’t throw a hip out trying to keep up with the Joneses.
Joba Chamberlain’s mom is doing time for selling “mommy’s little helpers,” Jorge Posada got TMJ in his overbite from excessive jawing on the mound on Monday, and Nick Swisher shaved off his mohawk hoping to attract a hit.
But every day ballplayers wake up and attempt to do the same thing: throw the ball, catch the ball, hit the ball.
It would seem simple, but then so is boiling potatoes. And I boiled mine dry last night. Trust me, with all my anxiety over the World Series, I wish the smoke in my home was from a different source. But when the alarm company called, I simply gave them the same old story—“It was my attempt to cook—again.”
They understood because they know when I fire up my stove, one of two things happens: we either eat or we order take-out.
One of two things will happen tonight: The Phils will either win or they’ll lose.
If Howard finds the cure to his left-handed pitching curse, he’ll go out a winner and his previous shortcomings will be forgotten like a bad hair day.
If Chase Utley bangs another dinger, he’ll set the record for home runs in a single World Series.
And if the Phils tie the series tonight, they’ll have a chance to add the first back-to-back World Series championship to the team’s accomplishments, and avenge the Whiz Kids’ series loss to the New York Yankees in 1950.
But if Andy Pettitte pitches like Cliff Lee, he’ll add a record 18th postseason win in his record 40th postseason start to add a record 27th World Series ring to the Yankee’s already record shattering stats.
If that’s the case, my goats will forge through the winter with the names Andy Pettitte and Damn Yankee.
And that doesn’t have a nice ring to it.
Let's take the goat by the horns.
Think Game Seven .
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