The fulfilled Phils have nothing to play for and have played 25 games in 23 days. And it shows.
Signs of the times: four-staight home losses, B-game lineup cards, errors, wasted outs, cortisone shots, precautionary MRIs, 'I felt a pop,' double-header losses to the Nationals. It's the three-day hangover from hell. You've woken up in bizarro world, where John Bowker plays first and Michael Schwimer blows a three-run lead on a pitch, you suspect, that could be the worst you've seen in your entire life. Little did you know that the face of success - 98 wins - would be the sobering mug of Ben Francisco, who wandered back from the hills and snapped away your fat-and-happy haze. "Hey. Where'd Hunter Pence go? Knee tendinitus? Let's eat."