A poem, for your hot-stove recollection and enjoyment

2008: ONE MORE

by Eric Scott Campbell

If nothing else this season,

I'd hoped the Phillies might

win one game in the playoffs.

(Progress, however slight.)

Indeed, they took the first one,

a sloppy error-fest,

then faced C.C. Sabathia,

the ace, Milwaukee's best.

He somehow walked Brett Myers

to set up Shane to slam,

then stalked into the locker room

and swallowed whole a ham.

A droopy loss preceded

Game 4's home-run barrage.

The pounded Brew now yielded to

a team from out of Dodge.

Lowe's sinkers squashed the Phillies

until the pitch to Chase.

The sequel to Pat Burrell

would only sink Lowe's face.

Game 2, again, saw Myers

a stalwart at the plate!

It's all the crowd could talk about

as we poured from the gate.

That pitch behind Ramirez

brought payback in L.A.

A would-be brawl, a blowout,

and not much else to say.

A deficit the next night

required an attempt

to come back off their bullpen,

which rarely gets verklempt.

Down two, our Big Man singled.

A dumb mound move was made.

The Phils once more could ruin

a gentleman named Wade.

A slashing swing from Victorino

made it neck and neck,

then Chooch squeezed off a single

as the hero stood on deck.

Replacement hurler Broxton

sacrificed his aim for might.

Matt Stairs had trained his cannon

on the cheap seats, center-right.

(The outcome taught Joe Torre

when to nibble, not to bite.)

The clincher was a cakewalk

as Cole went seven strong.

Poor Raffy made three errors,

then penned a children's song.

Six off-days made reporters

inquire about our rust.

The Rays stayed fresh in Fenway

letting leads collapse to dust.

The league and Fox wept fiercely

as, to the Series fold,

came mediocre legacies.

(Though one's ten times as old.)

Game 1. An Utley dinger

backed Hamels, who was crisp.

Which helped, because the Phillies

refused to hit with RISP.

That theme continued into

a punchless Game 2 loss.

J-Roll and Burrell competed

to be top albatross.

The Series moved to Philly

for domeless cold and rain.

The home team turned to Moyer,

who twirled with Spahn and Sain.

Two rollers made the difference.

The first, a rightful out.

But umps ruled for the speedster

no rally starts without.

The Phils rebounded, loading

the sacks in bottom nine.

The lead man broke when Chooch knocked

his roller down the line.

Longoria corralled it

and made a desperate heave,

but Bruntlett wiped the plate clean

and I started to believe.

The bats awoke for Blanton.

(Not least of all, his own!)

The rout meant one more station

'til paradise unknown.

Game 5. Dear God. A travesty,

as history was made.

No Series game had taken

three evenings to be played.

But thanks to Mother Nature,

the agony was stretched.

We hurriedly paid bar bills,

flagged cabs, dried off, and kvetched.

By Wednesday night, forgotten,

the weather and the wait.

We sat for three more innings

and hoped to celebrate.

Geoff Jenkins knocked a double,

and J-Dub flared him in.

The Rays retied, then Burrell tried

to walk off with a grin.

So close! Another double

for Pat's last Phillies swing.

And Petey RBI'd him,

the sole important thing.

Chase Utley snared a grounder,

and then I rubbed my eyes.

He'd pump-faked Jason Bartlett,

who raced to his demise.

Our perfect closer entered,

went popup, single, steal,

then J-Dub snagged a liner

and I fell to a kneel.

I hazily remembered

my standard of success.

"Just win one more than last year..."

But still, I caved to stress.

One out, one more! I pleaded

as Hinske took his stance.

I had no clue when we'd accrue

another title chance.

Some sliders slide a little.

Some dive, explode, contort.

Brad Lidge's makes the hitters wish

they played a different sport.

So to his bread and butter

our final pitcher went.

He fooled him twice, then took time-out,

his concentration spent.

The runner danced off second.

The closer stared at home.

The batter hoped to foul him off.

The rabid fans spat foam.

A bullet fires. A flailing swing.

A mob scene at the mound.

A city spills into the streets.

An overwhelming sound.

A truly great 2008.

Those memories will keep.

But next time, in the World Series,

I'd like to see us sweep.