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Bill Plaschke• E-mail
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PHILADELPHIA -- Like casualties of a brilliantly soured romance, the Dodgers trudged into the horizon Friday night surrounded by baleful foghorn tones and old fireworks smoke.
His right wrist had been jammed, his body had been tackled, his signs had been changed, his shortstop had uncorked a Hail Mary and his sinker had gone flatter than a church pew.
PHILADELPHIA -- He has had more nationally televised face time in three days of baseball than in his previous 25 years of life.
Of all the numbers floating atop the sudsy Dodger Stadium joy Saturday night -- 20 years, three-game sweep, eight more wins -- the most important one was never mentioned.
White towels fluttering. Jacketed fans screaming. A chilly sky pierced by chilling screams.
It is a day off, but the lights are on, the cramped Dodgers clubhouse filled with players, reporters, destiny, sweep, Manny, Manny, Manny.
CHICAGO -- We interrupt the whiny bleatings of sorrowful soused bleacher bums today to inject a bit of sober truth.
CHICAGO -- October arrived Wednesday on the back of a chilly lake wind and a nasty neighborhood roar.
The distance is only 30.92 miles.
His dreadlocks glistening in champagne, his ears ringing with love, Manny Ramirez grabbed a microphone in front of the Dodgers dugout.