The Phillies completed a four-game sweep of the Dodgers tonight with a 5-0 shutout. What made the shutout special was Philly pitchers gave up 13 hits. Its not often you see a linescore of "0-13-0".

In fact, this is only the ninth time since 1956 that a team has pitched a 13-hit shutout. Its the most hits allowed in a nine-inning shutout.

(In case you were curious, since 1956 the most hits allowed in a 9-inning game while giving up only 1 run is 15.)

London calling: "Ni hao, it's Beijing."
"Why don't you answer the phone when we ring?
I've been trying to call you for a day."
"Oh? Did you factor in the time delay?"

Soccer clocks count down, football clocks count up.
The path to a cup is truly a race
If the end is not a time but a place.
Each field stretching out to a distant wall
Hosts another ball. No two are the same.
Such is the nature of the endless game.
We play outside of time. Work's not so kind.
We suddenly find ourselves rushed along
Unable to verbalize what feels wrong
And fearful to impose our rules upon
This stage. We'll be gone from it in "good time"
-Whatever that means. In arrogance, I'm
Imagining an unbounded cocoon
That may open soon, or remain until
Some distant date. Perhaps it never will.

I do get a scorecard, eventually,
But the shock on his face was plain to see.
"A scorecard." Writing's mimed. "For keeping score."
At last, I'm directed to the team store.
Perhaps it's then that I start tempting fate:
Detroit-Cleveland, 7/30/08
I do what many do, and few admit:
Wait for each team's first baserunner, first hit.
As always, I'm chastised by inner shame.
"What are the odds you'll see a perfect game?
You can't sustain the belief you will need
To witness that requires too much greed."
But I cannot give up, and will not yield
To the unknown players above the field.
I can, however, compromise, and my
Request's "a game worth loving". They comply.
After one and a half, neighbor fans mention
The perfect game. Of course, verbal attention
Ends that. Hit follows hit, run follows run.
"Hey, they can't start an inning after one,"
I laugh and point out as I'm idly reading.
To joke about extras when you are leading
By seven runs seems safe enough. And yet,
In baseball, it never feels safe to bet.
Hubris is part of fandom. Which is worse?
The dread determinism of a curse?
Unknowable randomness of those who
Watch from beyond the stadium? Or you-
Driven by some delusion, in control?
Of course, other fans mean you're not the sole
Influence. But after the Cleveland crowd
Goes home, and it's Tiger fans who are loud
As finals from the West Coast trickle in
And finally, Detroit pulls out the win-
Well, I won't take the blame for the defeat.
I got to witness an unsurpassed feat
2B-no: 1B/E7-no, what?
It was, indeed, a game worth loving, but
I wanted Cleveland to win. They did not.
Does the lack of the victory I sought
Mean that I'm off the hook, and that I can
Relax? Or didn't wish enough? A fan
Is rarely only that. So I'll go on,
But my delusions never will be gone.
Though I will laugh at them, they will not leave.
Part of me dreams of power-and I believe.