NOTE: Promoted from FanPosts. What better way to wallow in our collective anxiety about this team than with a parody of a literary masterpiece from a disgraced Fascist sympathizer? - WC
The Phillies have finished April with more wins than losses. This is remarkable, given their recent spring struggles. Nevertheless, while hope springs eternal, Spring also means that the collective age of this team has increased further. Poor conditioning? Repetitive stress injuries? Bad luck? Taunting by chairs? Regardless of the cause, the Phillies have suffered the following injuries and still kept their heads above water:
- Starting pitcher (Blanton)
- Starting pitcher (Happ)
- Proven Closer (tm) (Lidge)
- Shortstop and erstwhile "MVP" (Rollins)
- Setup Man and Placekicker (Madson)
- LOOGY and/or setup man and Proclaimer of Readiness (Romero)
This excludes the nagging and short-term injuries, such as Polanco's post HBP day off, Ibanez' continuing recovery from his hernia or his telomere sprain, Hamels' BABIP karma, and Victorino's taste.
Enjoy the following summary -- a late night stab at an eventful April. For the record, Ezra Pound help TSE out. Feel free to chime in with your editorialisms for this one.
| APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding | |
| Cherry blossoms in river basins | |
| Hope spings in Foggy Bottoms, fastballs | |
| Coming down river after spring rain. | |
| Winter kept us warm, covering | 5 |
| Joints in whirlpools and Ben Gay burning | |
| A trebuchet with old player skills. | |
| Summer surprised us, but that was last year before the knife | |
| With a shower of hits, and opposite field power, | |
| And clubhouse chemistry, but he throws like a girl. | 10 |
| I drank coffee, and talked for an hour. | |
| Bin gar keine Russin, aber ich tret ein Stuhl. | |
| And when we were children, staying at the Iron Pigs, | |
| My coaches, they took me out on a field, | |
| And I was frightened. They said, Kyle, | 15 |
| Kyle, throw cutters. And then I did. | |
| In Florida, there you feel free. | |
| I tried, much of the spring, but went south after winter. | |
| What hitters are so clutch, what stoppers close | |
| Out of this ruined rubbish? Son of man, | 20 |
| You cannot say, or guess, for you know only | |
| A heap of broken images, where T-Mac bleats, | |
| And the home field gives no shelter, the bullpen no relief, | |
| And Rollins' calf no milk of kindness. Only | |
| There is shadow under Red Hulk Fist, | 25 |
| (Come in under the shadow of this red fist), | |
| And I will show you lots of pitches this at-bat | |
| before I seek pinstriped lucre in New York | |
| Or by the harbor and Bay of the Green Monster; | |
| I will show you fear in a six year contract. | 30 |
| Frisch weht der Wind | |
| Der Heimat zu. | |
| Mein schwarz Kind, | |
| Wo ist das Geld? | |
| 'You gave me a Camaro two years ago; | 35 |
| 'Now you call me California.' | |
| —Yet when we came back, late, thanks to Mr. Positive, | |
| My arm hurt, and my hair wet, I could not | |
| Pitch, and my BABIP stunk. | |
| Unlucky, dazed, and I knew nothing, | 40 |
| Looking into the heart of light, the silence. | |
| Not Johnny Vandermeer. | |
