This is the end

The time has come – The Pattison Pundit is announcing his retirement from the blogging world.

There, there…take a minute to gather yourself.

The truth is, my inspiration and motivation for writing this blog has simply waned. When I started doing this, it was because of my passion for sports, but it was also a medium to try new styles, enter my voice into the Philly Sports Lexicon, and to learn what drew people’s attention or attracted various crowds.

I’ve learned a lot.

But in terms of blogging, I’ve gone as far as I care to go. That being said, I really like this whole sportswriting thing. So much, in fact, that I am going to grad school for journalism, in the hopes of one day appearing in Philadelphia’s Daily News or Inquirer. (Though in this marketplace, I’d settle for the Bismarck Tribune, at least to get started).

The Pattison Pundit will return.

So dry your tears, I say. This isn’t “goodbye,” it’s “seeya later.” Hopefully, I will be moving on to bigger and better things. Hopefully, the Phillies will trade for Roy Halladay. I’ll be working my ass off to make sure that the first one happens, and I’ll be crossing the hell out of my fingers, praying that the second one does. I really want to do that whole WFC thing all over again.

To those who supported the site, my deepest thanks. It’s been a blast.

This Pun’s in the books.

A Werthwhile selection?

Quick post tonight (yes, I’m moved in, I’m back), so let’s play a quick game. Which of these three players most deserved to make the all-star team?

Player A – .319 AVG, 10 HR, 46 RBI, 19 SB, 46 runs, .386 OBP, .489 SLG, 2 errors, 9 assists

Player B – .268 AVG, 20 HR, 54 RBI, 12 SB, 59 runs, .373 OBP, .522 SLG, 2 errors, 6 assists

Player C – .323 AVG, 13 HR, 50 RBI, 3 SB, 39 runs, .380 OBP, .561 SLG, 7 errors (split between two positions)

June Swoon to ensure doom? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

It’s been raining a whole lot in Philadelphia lately, and I don’t think it’s only Mother Nature’s doing. Had you looked very carefully toward the sky throughout the week, you would have seen the sun blotted out by arrows of discontent shot heavenly from the Delaware Valley. That pitter-patter of rain was actually quite nice, as it drowned out the harrowing sounds of grown men shrieking, women groaning and children crying well into the night.

So why the dire tone, oh despairing Pundit?

Elementary, my dear friends – the Phillies are slumping.

The Pundit returns, puts Donovan on notice

The wait is over – the Pundit has returned. And there it is, the roaring clap of six hands, as the three people who actually visit this site stand up and raise their voices in jubilation. Your “lazy” Pundit was in fact quite busy attempting to find a new apartment and wrapping up the details as he heads off to grad school in the fall, all while attempting to watch every single Phillies game. But now he has returned, and  has a few things to say to Mr. McNabb.

As most of you know, Donovan McNabb had the final two years of his contract reworked, earning him an additional $5 million or so. Yippie. And as many in the blogosphere/media market are privy to, the deal offers the Eagles a lot of flexibility, in that the biggest chunk of his guaranteed money doesn’t kick in for the second year of the contract until May 5th of next year, meaning that if he sucks it up this year, he can be released or traded without them taking a major hit. And if he lights it up, or at least stays at the level we’re accustomed to, they can extend him and try to move Kolb if they so desire.

And, more importantly, if anybody wants him.

Call it what you want – a monetary make-up kiss, a sound business decision, a way to spend all of that money that they can’t possibly spend. We can argue about the implications of this move by the Eagles and McNabb until the cows return to their residences, going from green to blue in the face trying to predict the future.

Where have all the sportswriters gone?

Can we play the Nationals every day? That would be nice. Stealing home was Werth it this week. I love it when bunts lead to two runs, including the go-ahead late. Be sure to check out a Philadelphia Union soccer game this year – I expect them to have a striker-heavy attack. Why does Roger Clemens continue the charade? W.C. Heinz, Red Smith, Granny, where have you gone?

Very interesting post over at Iggles Blog yesterday, all stemming from a Gary Cartwright piece in Texas Monthly about the decline of sportswriting in the Big state. Pretty good conversation in the comments, the gist of which I will paraphrase now.

Most people agree with the sentiment that the form has lost its creative luster…we have so many forms of media with which to get our information that the newspapers simply carry less water now…the good ol’ days of sportswriting are dead because society as a whole is faster and 3000-word profiles make Generation ADD’ers go cross-eyed…we already know so much about the event and the athletes and the behind-the-scenes that we aren’t all that taken by it anymore…blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Seems to me as though we’re not having this conversation if sportswriting hasn’t in fact gotten stale.

As a means for raw data, that isn’t the case. You want stats, you can get stats friggin’ everywhere. Ever been to titforstat.com? Probably not, because it doesn’t exist. But it should. The newspapers are chock full of analysis and meaning; problem is, the Internet has that, too. Your grandma likely has a blog analyzing her favorite sport, and your grandpa is surely breaking down YouTube film. Might be less intelligent then what the sportswriters offer, but it is out there, and it is certainly taking some of the focus off of the beat guys. You can get the man-behind-the-player info from the newspaper, but not exclusively. Sportscenter is slowly turning into Access Hollywood, PFT.com dabbles in National Enquirer fare on occasion, and athletes NitTwitter about their feelings during games.

It’s information blitzkrieg, and there is a laser dot between your eyes. Take cover.

April showers bring May Brett Favre rumors; Manny being Manny just ain’t true

Sixers need a new coach – give me Avery Johnson. Samuel Dalembert and Willie Green for Andrei Kirilenko? I’d do that yesterday. Ray Emery to the Flyers? Only if he keeps his gloves on. Jamie got rocked by the Mets again. Still, the Fightins are hitting. Last year, pitching came early, hitting late. Hopefully, this season is just a bizarro version of the last. Little drama for the Eagles this week. Rare. But such is not the case all over the NFL…

Despite the fact that Favre is sticking to the “I’m actually retired this time” story, reports linking him to the Vikings have been running rampantly across my television and computer screens, embedding themselves into the rather large section of my brain that thaws again every Spring. Will he or won’t he? Should he or shouldn’t he?

Should we care, or shouldn’t we?

How to deal with a Mets fan you encounter at breakfast on the morning the Phillies-Mets game gets cancelled

After journeying into the savage heart of Bluebell and surviving one of its plastic country clubs – all in the name of Phillies-Mets tickets – I was quite peeved on Sunday when the game was rained out. Why, God? As were my three comrades. We decided that the best way to channel our negative energy would be to go and eat at one of South Philly’s fine establishments, the Black and Brew, a solid coffee shop with excellent food. And all was just honky-dory until an absolute atrocity entered the shop.

A Mets fan.

What madness was afoot here? Who dares to not only enter South Philadelphia donning the Devil’s colors, but decides to patronize one of its businesses? You might as well piss on a cheese steak, pull the plug at Boathouse row and call Rocky a sissy – you’ve already committed the most heinous of acts.

May God take pity upon your soul.

Very quickly, our table became ornery. Eyes slit. Fingers menacingly rolling over the glass-covering of the table. Eggs bitten into with the added emphasis of force and rage. Wisps of steam from hot coffee blown away in measured bursts, an obvious strain of self-control forming upon the face.

“What is he doing here?”

When being a diehard fan is the wrong plan

Sports, and it’s passionate fans, are normally a beautiful thing. They offer camaraderie, entertainment, something to look forward to as we run around this globe like starving rats, ensuring our next meal/premium cable subscription. But from time to time, sports can rear its ugly head, causing an otherwise innocent fan to commit the most heinous and devastating of sins.

And I am guilty as charged.

Here’s the background. Currently, I pick up some supplementary hours working a few nights a week at a pharmacy in the city. This unfortunate predicament causes me to miss the broadcast of several Phillies games, often leaving me with the shakes on the corner after work, begging bewildered strangers for some loose “Phillies.”

I am a tortured soul.

However, I have found one way to, at least partially, resolve this situation. The radio. Doesn’t hurt that Scott Franzke and Larry Anderson are now the best Phillies announcers going. Good interplay, they get out of the way, and they seem to really care about this team and city.

But I digress.

Anyhow, last night I managed to convince my coworkers to let me put the game on, and kept one ear listening while I went about my pharmaceutical duties. And all was peachy keen until the top of the third inning, when disaster struck.

Bases loaded. Myers pressing. Adam Dunn walking to the plate. Two outs, and though its early in the game, tension is nonetheless high. Meanwhile, a young African-American woman, maybe 19, approached the counter. I noticed her, and walked over to offer my assistance, still keeping my ears on the game.

“Hi, how may I help you?”

“This one is pretty well-struck…”

“Do you guys have Plan B?”

“Ibanez is heading toward the wall…”

“Yeah, we keep it behind the counter.”

“…Ibanez goes back to the warning track…”

“Okay, I’ll buy one, please.”

“…And he makes the catch at the wall, and the Phillies survive without any damage done.”

“Well thank God for that.”

Off at the Ballpark

Get home from work. Long day. Hot. Stinking hot. Head to roof to unwind, take in view of city. Still hot. Come back inside, catch up on the Philly sports reading for the day. Seriously considering nap. Thought interrupted by knock on door.

“What’s up?”

“You want to go to the Phillies game tonight?”

Well, this was a brilliant and marvelous idea and I was out of my chair and on the subway in the blink of an eye. I mean, it was absolutely the perfect evening for a ballgame. Plus, Cole Hamels was pitching, and I had the inkling that this was the night he was going to really get back into form. Double plus, it was Charlie Manuel Bobble-Head Night.

Even though Charlie Manuel Bobble-Belly Night would have been much, much funnier.

So, $19 tickets in hand, my two comrades and I ventured first to acquire some Schmitters and beer, perhaps the quintessential pairing for a Phillies game. Delicious. Plus, the World Series Trophy, aka The Holy Grail, was located right next to the food line. It’s gold shimmered in the eyes of the Phillies Faithfuls like a beacon of truth, hope, and happiness. I wanted to hold it, to cradle it in my arms and serenade it with lullabies before putting it to rest on my mantle, but the thought of being madly chased by 1,000 screaming Philadelphians quickly brought me to my senses.

Supplies in hand, it was off to the heights of the 400 level, nestled in the peaks of Citizens Bank Park. Now, the problem with the 400 level is simple – you never know who will be sitting up there.

Diary of a Sports Lunatic

Stardate 042609. Feeling quite pleased with the Phillies three-game sweep of the Marlins. Truly filleted their bullpen. Opportunistic bats storm to the forefront. Jamie Moyer doesn’t drink cocktails, he sips from the fountain of youth. Cameron Maybin looks like a lost puppy at the plate. Raul Ibanez is the only man on the planet who has my full-fledged support to sport the soul patch. Need – desperately – to get tickets for next weekend’s series against the Mets.

And so our journey begins. Surely, there was no way to get tickets directly through the Phillies. Other mediums had to be explored, and thus, my roommate Lucy and I were forced into the most despicable of predicaments – dealing with online scalpers.

What a depraved, dishonest and dispassionate man the online scalper is. Hording away tickets that otherwise well-intentioned fans might purchase in order to make himself a buck. It’s bad enough that the Phillies have begun to attract teeny-boppers and frat boys who experiment with steroids, all attending in the name of “making the scene”; now, an honest fan can’t even buy a damn ticket at face value. Where were you during the Gregg Jeffries’ years, you bandwagon barbarians? Playing twister with all of the pink-jersey’d Eagles groupies, I’d imagine.

Ridiculous.

Though I will suffer them so long as they yell loudly when the real fans yell, and don’t make a complete mockery of the True Philadelphia Fan by stooping to the level of mindless marauder, feeding into the Exploitative National Media’s stock definition of our people.

That I cannot tolerate.