Now that I've had a day to reflect on the weekend without the influence of Sauvignon Blanc and Captain Morgan, I can safely say without any reservation that IT TOTALLY KICKED ASS. No, I wasn't just tipsy and delirious, we really DID win three in a row against the division leading Milwaukee Brewers. Two of these were even taken in dramatic late inning comebacks that would have certainly inspired me to make out with strangers if I'd witnessed them in person. I don't even know what to say. You know the feeling when out of no where someone surprises you with an extremely thoughtful and unexpected gift? That's how awesome it is in my head space right now. I'm all aflutter with affection, adoration and utter disbelief that I can possibly be so fortunate. I'm so numb with joy I don't even care that Carlos "Big Z" Zambrano won his major league leading 14th game yesterday. And THAT'S saying something considering I usually can't even think his name without wanting to slam my hand in a door.
The euphoria that comes with realizing we aren't completely hopeless is as welcome as it is unanticipated. Directly responsible for this glorious resurgence are the guys in our bullpen. Randy Flores, Ryan Franklin, Russ Springer and Jason Isringhausen combined for 13 shutout innings and gave up only 4 hits in those three games. With our starting rotation being questionable at best, it's comforting to know that our relief corp can come in and be untouchable in the late innings. I mean, we're still giving up 5, 6, 7 runs a game, but at least the hemorrhaging stops when Wells, Maroth and Company get yanked. That's gotta count for something, right? Especially when the eight inning turns Scott Rolen into a clutch RBI addict and makes Albert Pujols a bullpen devouring monster. I don't even know why we bother playing the first six frames anymore.
So now that we've effectively eliminated Milwaukee's lead over the Cubs in the NL Central, (double edged sword if I ever saw one,) I'm going to Wrigley tonight to cheer on the Phillies and encourage the late season collapse I know the Cubs to be capable of. If ever there were a more perfect time to hope for a rabid squirrel attack at the Friendly Confines, I've never heard it. Would Alfonso Soriano cry like a sissy and run screaming into the clubhouse? Frankly, I think believing anything else is unpatriotic.