October is a fine month

First off, a big shout-out to my company for deciding to unblock Blogger so I can post from my job. Sometimes brown does work for you.

It's October, which is a sports lover's dream month--the NFL is in full swing as are the baseball playoffs, so some thoughts on each whether you like it or not.

The NFL
The Miami Dolphins have a better record than the Seattle Seahawks. As some friends can attest to I was devastated when the Jets (GAH *&$^#@( MANGINI okay I'm better now) released Chad Pennington and had my doubts when he was signed to the Dolphins, but he's proven to be a good fit. I don't think they'll set the world on fire, but don't be surprised if they go .500 this year.

Really, I didn't laugh when Tom Brady got hurt. Swear. The husband's my witness. The Patriots also have living proof that one can play in the NFL without having started a game since high school.

If you don't think offensive lines are that important, the 2007 St. Louis Rams and the 2008 Indianapolis Colts would like a word with you.

I must declare Oakland Raiders fans to be the most dedicated (or delusional) in the NFL. Seriously, your team is getting blown out 41-7 by the Broncos ... but yet the stands are still full and everyone's still cheering and yelling RAAAAIIIDDERRRRRS. Okay, there were a few yelling AL DAVIS NEEDS TO DIE but overall very into it. Respect the Black Hole, y'all.

Is anyone other than me surprised that Marvin Lewis still has a head coaching job? True, the Bengals have some of the worst ownership in the NFL but I don't think anyone expected the current 0-for the season. Can they just not play ... or do they just not care? Somehow I think it's the latter. I think there's a similar situation in St. Louis, whose ownership is also in turmoil. But hey, at least they're not 0-fer anymore.

MLB
So for the first time in thirteen years the Yankees didn't make the playoffs. That's what happens when you don't have pitching and nobody's hitting worth a damn. Being a Yankees fan as long as I have I have drawn the conclusion that the Yankees are in their off decade. They were decent in the seventies, sucked in the eighties, ruled in the nineties, faded away in the oughts. C'mon, 2010!

The Tampa Bay Rays, a team who has been in last place since their inception, is probably going to win the World Series this year. And if Joe Maddon doesn't get Manager of the Year I officially sanction a protest riot. With the exception of Carl Crawford and a couple of others this is an incredibly young team (the oldest pitcher in their rotation is James Shields, who's a doddering 26). Tampa's ownership also seems a bit more willing to cough up so they may not lose any to free agency.

The Atlanta Braves are dead. Long live the Philadelphia Phillies as the reigning NL East Dynasty. Another good young team with a great manager. I don't think they'll win the WS, but they'll make it interesting.

Boston Red Sox fans gloated when the Yankees failed to make the postseason ... only to watch in horror as their team implodes in the ALCS. Ironically, the pitcher who usually gives Sox fans fits, Daisuke Matsuzaka, has been the steady one. Josh Beckett, the notorious October stud, looked lost and uncertain on the mound (and may not be fully healthy) while Jon Lester, who is rapidly overtaking Beckett as the Sox's ace, looked like he was pitching batting practice. Add in the very cold bats and watch the bandwagoners flee.

Final WS prediction--Rays in six.

Grr. Argh. Not again, with this game.

I just posted a whole big rant about the Sox/Yanks series starting tonight, but Blogger ate it. It's a fucking shame, too, because that was some prolific and edifying motherfucking prose, and now it's gone.

Let me boil it down for you:

1) We know this rivalry is overhyped and annoying. Trust us. We're at the center of the storm, and the next time we hear 'storied,' 'historic,' 'heated' or 'rivalry' used in any combination, we're going to punch someone.

2) I am not particularly happy with this particular version of the Red Sox, since Manny Ramirez has gone douchebag, Papi's still broken, Jason Varitek couldn't hit Kate Smith in the ass with a banjo, Mike Timlin shouldn't be allowed near a bag of resin (much less a pitching mound) and Julio Lugo is trying to kill me. Factor in that Jon Lester (pitching tonight) is coming off his worst start of the season (thanks, fucker- you booted me out of first in my fantasy league) and I want to hide behind my couch while fantasizing about making out with Josh Beckett and his fastball. What?

3) I find this A-Rod/Madonna/Cynthia Rodriguez/Lenny Kravitz saga ridiculous, if only because it would make more sense if Slappy was hooking up with Lenny. But then, A-Rod is big into the stripper-looking trannies, and Madge isn't looking so hot these days, four minutes to save the world notwithstanding.

4) Really, I'm just hoping for a fight. Like this one. Come on, y'all, my birthday's coming.

He'll have plenty of time to level up his Blood Elf.

I don't even know what a Blood Elf is. You'd have to ask my husband, since our marriage has room for but one WarCraft geek. That's not my point.

My point is this: after publicly fighting the Red Sox and the team's doctors about the necessity of shoulder surgery at the beginning of the season (They thought he'd be fine with rehab. He and his doctors disagreed. We have all wasted a whole lot of time and money on this silly little rehab project.), Curt from the Car announced today that he'll be undergoing 'season ending' surgery next week.

Absolutely no one should be surprised that the...opinionated and vocal, shall we say, Schilling announced his surgery plans on his blog, 38 pitches.

Now, this particular Bitch is a Red Sox fan, through and through. I'm feeling pretty okay with this news. I mean, yes, Schill was part of the two most recent World Series Champion teams (nope. That never gets old.) but...okay, I'm going to be frank. He's also sucked. A lot. Like, since 2005, he's done a whole boatload of sucking.

Now, that's not all his fault. He was injured, for one thing, and, well, let's just say it: he's old. He hasn't had a solid fastball in more than three years, and he's had to use his famous studying patterns just to help him fool hitters with a sackful of junk pitches. It hasn't always worked, either. I went from being solidly confident in every Schilling start to mildly concerned to emulating his treatment of Mitch Williams- putting a towel over my head so I didn't have to watch the inevitable horror. Sure, he's thrown some gems in the intervening years, but not that many, and they were few and far between.

But some of it was his fault. The Red Sox were so concerned about his physique that they padded his extension with incentives for showing up to Spring Training at playing weight. He made the decision to hold this surgery off- had he had it back when it was firt suggested, he might be pitching after the All Star break this season.

Now? I'm hard pressed to see any way that this isn't career-ending surgery, rather than simply season-ending. He's a 41 year old pitcher having surgery on his shoulder. That's not something that you just bounce back from, and Curt's had a history of slow returns from injury. Hell, I was surprised that he decided to come back to pitch this season. (Not that he's actually thrown a single pitch for the Sox, but whatever.) It might be unfair, but it wouldn't be untrue to say that he's old, he's fat, and he can't pitch any more, so it's probably time to hang it up.

At this point, I have to say that I think he's done, unless he signs a short-term, Lieberthal-esque deal so he can retire as a Phillie, and I don't even think that's particularly likely- more on Curt's end than on the part of the Phillies. (The Phils are so desperate for solid pitching that I heard they tried to sign Charlie Sheen, provided he remembered to wear his glasses.)

It's the end of an era, sure, but it's just that. The end. Thanks for the rings, Curt. They're kinda pretty.

My life is a lie.

So we've been a little remiss about updating. Apologies. This bitch was on vacation in Texas.

That said, today, I blew off some steam after work by going out after work for some drinks. Unfortunately, that means that I missed a basebrawl.

I missed a basebrawl involving my own team. I should have known better- I've been angling for a Sox/Rays fight since the beginning of the season. For some inexplicable reason, these teams get into it at least once a season, and it's usually a benches-clearing, crazy-suspensions debacle.

And I missed it. THERE WAS A FUCKING FIGHT AND I MISSED IT.

WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW, COLORADO?

So my hometown Philadelphia Phillies may be eating their Wheaties, but they are apparently still hungry, as they are absolutely FEASTING on their opponent's pitching this week. In the last 23 innings, they have scored, as of this writing, FORTY TWO RUNS. 15 against Houston on Sunday, 20 against God's Team, Your National League Champion Colorado Rockies last night, and now seven in five innings against those same Rockies.

The 20-run game is especially sweet, as we had to suffer through the Phils being swept out of the playoffs at the hands of the Rockies due to some particularly lifeless bats and inconsistent pitching on the part of Los Philadelphia Phillies of Philadelphia. Sure, we could have used some of these runs back in October, but revenge is a dish best served cold, I suppose.

The Philadelphia-based bitches could not let last night pass without pointing out that Chase Utley, he of the dreamy eyes and dreamier dimples, had six RBI all on his lonesome last night. This fact sent this bitch dancing around her basement last night, despite the fact that he's not on my fantasy team, because anytime the Good Lord gives your favorite position player a six RBI night, it's cause for celebration.

Phear the Phightin's, y'all. They're coming after you. (Florida? You should probably look out. I wouldn't want to get in the way of this juggernaut.)

Zito Follow-up: Here We Go Again...

So right after I wrote that Zito rant, he went on to lose two more games. In that second game, he gave up six runs in the first inning. The Giants finally realized that something had to be done, and they banished his sorry emo-ass to the bullpen.

That didn't last long.

I should follow this with analysis on how the rotation will look now, or worrying about Matt Cain's hamstring, but all I can do is say... oh hell, I can't say anything. I'm too busy weeping in the corner.

Here's something to amuse yourself with: Your pay vs. Zito's

And I tried to find a Zito fail macro, but this came close:

I have a confession to make.

I'm in love with another man.

Oh, it's okay. My husband knows about it. In fact, he's done nothing but encourage this whole sordid affair. It's kind of endearing.

I'm in love with contract year Pat Burrell. Oh, sure, I make jokes about his funny syphilis and his deeply questionable fashion sense, but the man is hitting like his ass is on fire. (Normally, I would say that his ass was on fire because of the clap, but this is a kinder, gentler Maggie talking.)

He's ranked second in the NL in home runs. (Behind only My Boyfriend Chase Utley, mind you.) He's ranked second in the NL in RBI, third in slugging percentage (an eye-popping .670), and fourth in both OBP and OPS. It's not just the hitting, either. He's working counts like it's his job- 24 BBs so far, and we're barely into May.

The hitting? Has been clutch, too. In other years, seeing him stroll up to the plate with two outs on the board in a tie game would have been met with the gnashing of teeth and the rending of various garments, as he would have inevitably struck out and launched us into extra innings. Not Contract Year Pat Burrell. Contract Year Pat Burrell worked the count full, and then turned and launched one into the stratosphere. Game over, Phils win, everybody goes home happy.

The whole season has been full of moments like that- big hits just when the team needed them, diving catches to get the team out of innings. Hell, the fact that he's actually hustling for the ball once in a while is a major improvement.

Which only makes me sad when I think about it too much. He's having an amazing year (and put together a solid season last year, mind you, putting the team on his back when Utley was out with a broken wrist and soldiering through) and is set to make a lot of money when his contract with the Phils expeires at the end of the season. And, let's face it, he's not making that money with the Phillies.

My husband keeps musing aloud that he wonders if the Yankees would sign Burrell. I've taken to just glaring at him and muttering darkly under my breath every time he does.

Pat's said that he wants to stay in Philadelphia when he's done. This has to be a total lie, as the poor man has taken absolute rafts of shit from the Boo Birds in the outfield.(Occasionally, I've booed him from my seat in center, but that's usually because he's been too busy staring at the ball girl to, you know, field.) I'd love to keep him around, if only because his manwhorishness makes me laugh. I'm not, however, holding my breath. He's going to make the single female population of another city very, very happy next year.


Ladies: Take care of him, and take care of his fine, fine ass. (What? I can't ogle? Bullshit. He does it all the time.)

Bury Me Not in a Pink Hat

I wrote an anti-fangirl manifesto three years ago as one of my first ever sports journalism columns. I came up with the idea while walking down International Blvd in Oakland on a warm May day, heading to an evening of enchiladas and drunkenness at a local kickass Mexican joint.

The names might be dated, but the concept remains the same:

Being a fan means something different to the billions of followers of sports around the globe. When it comes to fans of Major League Baseball, twenty-six World Series titles may have more significance than a decades-long curse finally being broken, and not everyone understands why the Los Angeles Dodgers and San Francisco Giants hate each other so. Ask any fan and you will get a unique and beautiful response to what they think being a fan is all about.

Being a fan is about skimming the box scores from the previous night’s game as you scoot to work. It’s about tacking up your team’s schedule so it’s in plain view. Fans know their team’s telecasters well enough to expect the jokes and references that come up during broadcasts. It’s the smile that comes to your face when you hear a familiar voice calling the games, it’s the aggravation of a losing streak, it’s the jubilation of high-fiving random strangers in the bleachers in celebration of a timely hit.

Fans go to the ballpark for a variety of reasons. There are the hardcore fans who attend every game they can. There are those who go for work outings, or just to get out in the sunshine. Then there are families, Little League teams and Scout troops who take in a day at the yard. But there’s an increasing number of fans out there who don’t belong with any of those groups.

Fangirls are out there, and if you don’t think they’re a problem, you may be unaware of who they are, and where they go wrong. A fangirl is a female sports fan who doesn’t know much about the team or teams she claims to support. Rather than pay attention to stats and trends and team happenings, she can rattle off a player’s height, eye color and favorite band. She could be the lone female in your fantasy league. The one who dropped Randy Johnson to pick up Noah Lowry because she likes the way he looks in those white baseball pants. She may hang around a ballpark just to get an autograph or picture, or she might double as a sports groupie, the true dark side of the fangirl realm. If you need a definition of what a sports groupie is, I regret to inform you that you must be at least this informed to read the column.

They come to the ballpark wearing team attire. Just like the boys, right? Think again. Major League Baseball found a serious cash cow in “feminine” apparel. When the definition of feminine team apparel became discolored cropped jerseys and baseball caps in grotesque shades is beyond the comprehension of many. We’re talking jerseys that don’t look a thing like the jerseys they imitate, from the lettering across the front to the ghastly lime, banana yellow or pink and white fabrics, and the equally confusing pink and baby blue ball caps. The growing appeal of these items can be summarized by a simple assessment of, “it’s cute.” Cute. There’s no cute in baseball. For the record MLB shops do offer replica team jerseys for ladies, just smaller and cut to fit a woman’s body, so at least a woman can wear one of those and not look like a walking marshmallow Peep.

A fangirl shows at the ballpark to get drunk, be loud and obnoxious and show off for horny drunk college males, because watching Suzuki Ichiro go 4 for 4, is like, so boring. Sometimes she wastes time in the bleachers planning the winter formal for her sorority with a few of her sisters while Kerry Wood crafts a gem on the mound. They descend upon the McAfee Coliseum to gawk at the concentration of male pulchritude but can’t tell you how many Gold Glovers are on the field at any time.

A mildly offensive fangirl is one who exhibits knowledge of her team of choice, at least enough to name the members of her starting rotation, but can’t provide fact one about a team or player outside her city. The idea that twenty-nine other teams exist in the league is lost on her. Everyone knows the sun rises and sets behind the Green Monster. Duh.

Alone, or in small groups, these women are harmless. But in the inevitable boys club of sports fandom, narrow-minded perceptions rule. A common assumption among male sports fans is that girls don’t know sports. Or, equally myopic, if she does, she only got into it because of her boyfriend or father. So when a knowledgeable lady comes along who can explain the pitcher of record as well as offer you her thoughts on why American League hitters may have figured out Barry Zito’s curveball, it’s always a shock. Lowered expectations from the aforementioned factors aside, the chick feels a certain satisfaction when she proves she can hold her own. The fact that she has to go to such lengths to gain the respect that’s almost automatic for male sports fans is, in a word, bullshit.

When fangirl behavior is either tolerated or looked down upon, depending on who you encounter, and when surrounded by sherbet-toned jerseys, what does a smart female baseball fan have? She has Barry Bonds, Albert Pujols, Roger Clemens, Carlos Delgado, Carl Crawford and Vladimir Guerrero, and she knows just how great it is to be a baseball fan.

From Zito Fangirl to Zito Hater

When Barry Zito burst onto the scene several years ago, I instantly became a fan. It didn’t matter to me that he was a member of the Oakland Athletics, and that I was a hardcore San Francisco Giants fan. He was hot and possessed an even hotter curveball.

My fangirl feelings had substantially decreased by the time he signed with the Giants. I was very surprised at the size of the contract. Did I think it was too much money? Well, not really, considering mediocre pitchers were getting ridiculous contracts that off-season. I was pretty skeptical about the length, though. Giving a pitcher seven years is very risky.

I happen to be a pessimist, but I tried to remain optimistic about this deal. Zito did not have a good first season with the Giants. He’s prone to slow starts, but his second-half performance didn’t help too much. His final line: 11-13, 4.53 ERA. Those are not stats that you want to see out of your overpaid “ace” of the staff.

Some people gave him the benefit of the doubt, saying that last year was one of adjusting to a new league on a bad team with no offense. That excuse became invalid with this year’s atrocious play. He had an awful spring- before his final spring start, he was 1-3 with an ERA of almost 15. I know spring stats aren’t supposed to count, but you can’t ignore numbers like that. As for the current season, he’s currently 0-4 with a 4.5 ERA. He got booed when he was introduced at the home opener. Granted, he’s gotten no run support this season: three runs total in all four starts. That’s because the Giants save whatever pop they have for Tim Lincecum, Jonathan Sanchez, and even Kevin Correia. (Matt Cain’s lack of support is for a separate post). The worst part about this is all the excuses he spouts every start: he’s getting better, he’s getting a better feel for his pitches, whatever. All he has to say is “I did my job” and he’ll make himself just as hated as Armando Benitez was, if he’s not there already.

Don’t even get me started about who he dates.

I’m sorry, Barry. I know you do good work in the community with Strikeouts for Troops and other things. However, I hate you. You’re not supposed to let Kevin Correia, the fifth starter, outpitch you. Maybe your shitty start is why the Giants are considering a six-man rotation once Noah Lowry (another fangirl favorite) comes back.

As for the fangirl aspect, he shouldn’t be allowed to grow a beard… or wear a wig like this:

The evolution of a rivalry

A few days ago on a cool drizzly Boston evening, a friend and I headed up to Fenway Park to take in that most holy of spring rituals, the first game of the year between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. The rivalry between these two teams and their fans is possibly the most well-documented in sports. When I was a kid in the late 1970s, going to a Yankees/Sox game always carried an exciting undercurrent of possible violence which often erupted into actual violence. If you went to a game at Yankees Stadium, announcer Bob Sheppard’s stentorian tones would be drowned out by fifty thousand people chanting BOSTON SUCKS. Anyone unfortunate enough to be caught wearing Sox gear usually got bathed in thrown beer and some other fluids. People would bet on how many fistfights would erupt during the game. One would hear some of the filthiest, most inventive and therefore hilarious heckling ever. When I went to my first game at Fenway, I found much the same atmosphere, only this time I was on the receiving end of the “Yankees suck” chants and the Budweiser baptisms. Each side genuinely enjoyed abusing the other, and since we liked to be creative in our abuse each team knew the other well. My finest moment was wearing a Bucky Dent jersey into Fenway, back when he was still referred to as Bucky Fucking Dent. It is a testament to the knowledge of Sox fans that all that was on the back of my jersey was a number … but the cries of shock and outrage were the same as if his picture had been there.

For a long time, we Yankees fans had the upper hand. Any time Sox fans started giving us shit, a simple chant of “19-18” or “Buck-ner” would shut up even the most obnoxious taunter. In the 1990s when the Yankees were racking up the World Series, the Sox fans started getting quieter and quieter.

Then came the twenty-first century—2004 to be exact. It was the American League Championship Series. The Yankees had laid their customary whaling upon the hapless Red Sox, were leading the series 3-0, up 4-3 in the ninth inning of Game 4, waiting for Mariano Rivera to do what he did so well—shut the game down. But … it didn’t happen. To the horror of Yankees fans and the delirious joy of Sox fans, the Sox came back and won that game. And the next one. And the next one. AND THE NEXT ONE. They went on to win their first World Series in eighty-six years as Yankees fans reeled in disbelief. How the hell did this happen?

Four years later, the Red Sox have another World Series under their belts, and when a Yankees fan enters Fenway Park now it seems that having “the Curse” off has mellowed Sox fans out quite a bit. Seriously, I was in Fenway for nearly an hour before I heard my first “Yankees suck.” In previous trips I would have heard it within two seconds of me getting out of the car. Oh, sure, A-Rod got booed like Osama bin Laden showing up at a revival and there were scattered “Yankees suck” chants as well as “BAL-CO” whenever Jason Giambi came up to hit and for some reason Jorge Posada got “Posada smells like pee” yelled at him a lot but other than that? It was just people cheering on the Red Sox. No fights. No calling a player’s mother names you wouldn’t call your worst enemy in a drunken bar fight. I actually had to explain to a Sox fan sitting next to me why wearing a Bucky Dent jersey would cause trouble (with success comes bandwagoners). Of course, it’s nice to go to a baseball game in your rival’s stadium wearing your team’s swag without worrying about possible bodily harm, but hearing Yankees fans chatting pleasantly with Sox fans, the Sox fan saying that Robinson Cano looks like the real deal and the Yankees fan acknowledging the lights-out home run swing of Manny Ramirez … that would have never happened twenty years ago or even ten. The Sox fan would have said the best part of Cano dripped down his father’s leg and the Yankees fan would have retorted that Ramirez’s mother was a disease-ridden whore.

But let me offer the most disturbing example of this new-found complacency—the day after the game I walked around Harvard Square on a bright sunny afternoon. On my head was my customary Yankees cap … but I wore the uniform t-shirt of Sox pitcher Josh Beckett. I walked around for a couple hours in this ensemble which in the eighties would have had gotten me beaten by both sides. Only one person out of the thousands I encountered said something. And what was said was “I like Beckett too.” And he was wearing a Yankees cap. I think in the Bible this was followed by a plague of locusts. It doesn’t help that … well, right now the Yankees are kind of boring. There’s no real personalities on the team, no Lou Piniella, no Reggie Jackson. The Sox, however, are loaded with personalities which makes them hard to dislike. I still yell “motherfucker” at Manny Ramirez when he takes one deep off Mike Mussina, but it’s an affectionate “motherfucker” now. The Yankees have never been about having fun. Winning is serious business. Maybe if they man-hugged in the dugout or took the piss out of each other in front of cameras—or even pretended they like each other—it would do them some good. I have hope.

To cement Meghan’s theory that Jonathan Papelbon is indeed insane, I present a video from last summer in which Papelbon gives Josh Beckett shit for “using words you can’t spell.” Dammit, it’s getting really hard to hate these guys …

Objectifying pitchers is the reason New England started the Revolution

Or at least that's what I'm choosing to believe.

It's Patriot's Day up in Massachusetts, which means that thousands of schoolchildren are learning that the only reason for a day off school in April is a ridiculously early Red Sox game. Oh, and there's some marathon or something, too.


Anyway, the Sox are on the mound, Manny's inexplicably out of the lineup again (which is going to MURDER my fantasy team, for the record) and apparently there's some killer death flu going on in the clubhouse and Kason Gabbard is currently no hitting the Sox (man, I hope that works).

So here. Have a little evidence as to why you should always, always objectify the pitcher.

Chicks Dig the Long Ball

First off, in the interest of full disclosure, I only understood about three words in The Queen E's post below, and two of them were 'the' and 'Philly.' In my defense, I'm borderline retarded when it comes to basketball. I can tell you that it's probably pretty awesome that the Celtics are doing so well, but I'm not sure I'd be able to name more than three guys on the team. Seriously, she starts talking to me about jump shots and point guards and my eyes glaze over and I have to tell some dick jokes just to keep myself awake. I'm all class.

Even if I did understand basketball? I probably wouldn't care, because it's baseball season, and baseball ate my life. Outside of a wacky Man City/Portsmouth match this morning in which Man City inexplicably scored twice in about thirty seconds, my firm yet ample Irish ass has been ensconced on the couch watching baseball, the real love of my life, since the time I woke up today. (It's okay. My husband knows. He's fine with the fact that the Other Man in our marriage is actually 30 teams of 25 men each, and wow, that sounds a lot more whorish than it probably should.)

I'm just warning you now, people: If we're going to get into this whole weird relationship where we talk about sports and stats and how I kind of want to put my tongue in Jonathan Papelbon's mouth solely because of his fastball (okay, that's a slight lie, as the fact that the boy is fucking off his rocker doesn't hurt - I dig on the crazy.), you need to know this about me. I'm being kinder to you than I am to most people, gentle reader. I let them find out on their own, and its inevitably terrifying for just about everyone concerned.

So since the Phillies are about to get swept by the Mets by stranding approximately seven hundred men on base and hitting nothing but double play balls and just enough home runs to not completely humiliate me on national TV, let's confront one thing here, and let's just get it out of the way.

I love Chase Utley. Go on. Start mocking me. Yeah, I know this blog is named 'Real Bitches Don't Wear Pink Hats' (and we don't) and I know that Chase Utley is sixteen kinds of dreamy (and he is) and more or less the King of the White Girls here in the old Illadelph (due, I am saddened to assume, mostly to the blue eyes and the dimples and not his willingness to sacrifice his body on any given play and the fact that he once broke his wrist in a game and continued to play, which is incredibly fucking hot if you're me and you're crazy), but I love him. Unabashedly and unashamedly. I'm one of those jackasses with an Utley jersey.

But here's the thing: It took me three years to suck it up and buy that jersey, because every pink hatter who has ever even looked at a baseball game sideways immediately rushed out and bought a pink Utley jersey about two days after he was called up. I always joked that I was going to buy an Utley jersey and cross-stitch a manifesto into it under the letters that 'I own this jersey because he's a fucking fantastic, gritty player who does what it takes to get on base and to keep the opposing team off base, including some of the more ridiculously acrobatic catches that I have ever seen, and he would have given J-Roll a serious run for his MVP money last year had he not had to spend a huge chunk of the season out with a broken damn wrist, so don't judge me, because I probably know more about baseball than you, and yes, that was an E4, so stop complaining about the call, because he has a lot of things, but a great arm isn't always one of them, and no, Pat Burrell actually does not suck, so kindly shut the fuck up.' But you know, I'm lazy and that's a lot of stitching.

So anyway, I didn't want to buy the jersey, because all it meant was that I was going to be relegated to the 'chick at the game with her man' file by any and all who looked at me. And then I woke up and decided, more or less, 'Fuck it.' I've spent the last three Opening Days explaining to morons at the ballpark that no, Jackie Robinson didn't play for the Phillies, every team retired his number, and yes, the pitcher can totally have an error. I've also had to explain that Pat Burrell isn't nearly as terrible as the boo birds continue to think he is, but that Ryan Howard is actually not so awesome of late. So fuck it. I'm a girl who knows baseball like the back of her hand, and I'm going to buy the jersey with my favorite player's name on it. All it means is that I get to shock some morons who think that girls can't know baseball when I open my mouth and rip a strip off them for cracking on Jayson Werth for striking out, like, once. (Yeah, it really sucked that we were stuck with him in center when he was batting an obscene .444, you morons.)

I'd also like to point out that while I was typing the above paragraph, Utley went yard. Again. Against the Mets. Again. So haters? Suck it.

And because I am a terrible, terrible fangirl, I have only now discovered that Chase Utley has a blog, and that it is exactly as humorless and businesslike as one would expect. I adore the man, but he's not exactly a barrel of laughs.

Whatever, have a picture of him and his by-all-accounts-lovely wife saving puppies. (No, seriously.)