FanHouse Mlb

PHILADELPHIA -- They wear red for a reason. The Phillies have become the lifeblood of successive Octobers, a team with a heart bigger than Rocky Balboa, a gang with an edge like south Philly, a cause that doesn't crack like the Liberty Bell or Donovan McNabb, all managed by a country savant who sounds a bit like Ricky Bobby. Bruce Springsteen played across the street the other night, and when the folks discovered that Dodgers manager Joe Torre was watching a fellow sixty-something rock the house, they busted into a "Beat L.A.!" chant that could have drowned out Jungleland.

There is much to love in Citizens Bank Park, a warm and cozy yard in a hard, crusty town. There was much less to admire in the National League Championship Series about the Dodgers, feeding directly into why the Phillies completed a 4-games-to-1 romp Wednesday night, this while rowdies tried to climb greased lightpoles and frothed to finally resolve a lifelong inferiority complex against New York in the World Series. All you need to know about the Phillies is that every player crowded on the top step of the dugout when it mattered most, symbolizing the unity and camaraderie of the first team to win a repeat NL pennant in 13 years.

"We have one more step," said Ryan Howard, the series MVP. "Then we got action."

The best thing that ever happened to sports was television -- unless you officiate sports.

Ask the umpiring team that is handling the American League Championship Series and blew two calls in Game 4 on Tuesday night. Ask the SEC football officials who were suspended on Wednesday. The crew was punished after the conference determined the crew was mistaken on Saturday in flagging an Arkansas player for a late hit on a Florida player. The call allowed Florida to continue its final touchdown drive in a game it won 23-20.

PHILADELPHIA -- The radar-gun readings were frightening, like something from an I-95 speed chase between the cops and a fugitive. Take this 101-mile-per-hour fastball, said Jonathan Broxton. Or how about this smoke at a mere 99? Or 98, 96, a slider at 93? The man goes 6-foot-4 and 290 pounds, give or take an In-N-Out Burger, and the question seemed not how the Dodgers closer would retire the Phillies in the ninth inning but with how much heat.

Yet sometimes, Broxton loses his control. This was not the time to do so, near midnight in Game 4 of the National League Championship Series. The Phillies were down to their final two outs when the big man walked pinch-hitter Matt Stairs, then grazed the elbow of Carlos Ruiz. Greg Dobbs lined out for the second out, but the raucous Philly crowd was undaunted, knowing Jimmy Rollins was up next, knowing he produced two big hits off Huston Street in the Division Series, knowing he can get around on the meanest fastball and knowing he's the closest thing to a Hollywood hot dog in a blue-collar town.

NEW YORK -- Of course it would end this way, in such classic, expected fashion. What, you didn't have Jerry Hairston Jr. scoring the winning run for the Yankees in the bottom of the 13th inning, after the Angel infield completely lost its heads? Join the club with millions of other baseball fans who watched Saturday's American League Championship Series melt into Sunday morning, and still aren't sure how and why this astonishing Game 2 concluded as it did.

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LOS ANGELES -- What we want, of course, is the bi-coastal, large-market, grudge-wrapped passion play. We crave the Dodgers vs. the Yankees, Hollywood vs. New York, Dodger Blue vs. Pinstripes, Joe Torre vs. the Steinbrenners, a Toxic Twins clash between Alex (Primobolan) Rodriguez and Manny (Gonadotropin) Ramirez, Lousy Ratings Leno vs. Pants Down Letterman, Vinnie Chase Goes Home, a collision of our entertainment and financial epicenters. It's baseball's version of the Lakers and Celtics, and while no one in the PlayStation 3 Generation can relate, the sport never was greater and grander than when the Dodgers and Yankees were in the World Series.

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NEW YORK – This is how it ends, in the Angels' perfect little world. They steal their share of bases, acts of defiance that come so naturally, and the starting rotation hands the ball over to the bullpen, which doesn't fall apart. Mike Scioscia, the crafty former catcher who is fluent with quips and stingy when it comes to making managerial mistakes, probably allows a tear or three to leak as his players drench him with celebratory bubbly.

This is for Nick, the Angels will say, in between bursts of hugs and laughter, and they'll tell his story to anyone who asks. The Angels believe his spirit is with them, lingering, guiding them through this remarkable season. "Oh yes, he's cheering for us," Bobby Abreu, the Angel outfielder, was saying Thursday afternoon, as he took shelter in a soggy Yankee Stadium. "We keep him with us here and here."

Let's hold hands and pray. Someday soon, when Bud Selig finally is removed from the commissioner's chair like a rotting tree, we can only hope his successor realizes October is waning. Pro and college football continue to tickle the American consciousness on every demographic level -- male and female, old and young, reality and fantasy -- and reduce our national past-its-time to secondary programming. And when we do see gripping story lines develop, from a possible Yankees-vs.-Joe Torre matchup in the World Series to the Angels and the inspiration they draw from the late Nick Adenhart, what gets in the way?

Wretched umpiring.

MINNEAPOLIS -- It isn't enough, apparently, to have a $210-million payroll, a $423.5-million offseason boost, a $1.5-billion monument to recession-be-damned greed and a steroid-free (presumably) megastar who finally resembles Mr. October while his actress girlfriend coos at him in the front row beside Jay-Z. No, above and beyond all their built-in advantages in life, the Yankees have to get the friggin' baserunning and bad-umpiring breaks, too.

Which suggests that their pain and professional embarrassment of the last eight years -- the last five in particular, since their infamous choke job against the Red Sox -- is about to fade into another dominant postseason. Sorry to disappoint the legions of pinstripe-haters on our planet, but no one is beating the Yankees this fall. Not Torii Hunter's swagger. Not the inspiration of the late Nick Adenhart. Not Joe Torre, their former manager, or Manny Ramirez, their former nemesis. Not the defending World Series champions, the Phillies, and not even the snow and freezing temperatures in Denver. You might say that the only ones who can topple the Yankees are the Yankees themselves, and you know what? That's not happening, either.

I can't imagine what Stephen Krupin did to anger the baseball gods, but the Washington Nationals season-ticket holder somehow managed to have a worse year than the 103-loss Nats.

Krupin brought himself to sit through 19 home games, and on 19 occasions he left Nationals Park a loser. Yep, he was oh-for-2009. The poor guy documented his travails in an email to the Sports Bog's Dan Steinberg.

NEW YORK -- There had to be close to 50 bodies pressed together in the corner of the Yankees' clubhouse, cameras bumping heads and notebooks battling microphones. The team has a perfectly spacious interview room around the corner, a nice podium where an athlete can stretch and pontificate without a bunch of sweaty reporters pushing close enough to see his nose hairs.

But Alex Rodriguez was perfectly happy to make his way through the chaotic crush and face the media without a buffer. Someone fired a question and, from the back of the pack, all we could make out was, "Jetes ...CC ... they were the story." What about his two RBI singles that twice extended the Yankee lead? "Felt good ... team effort ... great pitching from CC." Was the postseason monkey off his back? "Not about me ... good to contribute ... hey, no need to shove each other."