Therefore, to adequately preview the madness that is the baseball playoffs, we've invited some of our favorite writers for each of the eight playoff teams to write about their teams. These will be running all day today and tomorrow, and we very much hope you enjoy them.

Up right now: The Philadelphia Phillies. Your writer is A.J. Daulerio.

A.J. Daulerio is a staff writer for Philadelphia magazine and is sometimes refered to as a testicular euphemism on this site.

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Oh, hello! It's great to be here. Thanks for having me.

Let us begin.

Here is a Phillies team that a good portion of the city (myself included) gave up on thanks to the slow start, the untimely slumps, the injuries, the rickety pitching staff and a manager who appeared to have the baseball IQ of a drugged ape.

This is a team that spent 99 percent of the season in second place.

Even though confidence was at an equally odd, disorienting high last Sunday at Citizens Bank Park, there was still that pesky loser's nag of doubt. This was the fourth week of football season on a Sunday afternoon, and watching baseball this time of the year — at the ballpark, no less — was already strange. But as I pranced into CBP (Yes. A big, queer prance.) with a brown bag of Coors Light (Yes. A big, queer bag of Coors Light), I was still acutely aware that this could blow up. Even though the Marlins were up 5-0 before Jamie Moyer tossed his first pitch, there was still doubt. Tiny doubt, at that point, but it was still there. There could be a one game playoff on Monday and that, although exciting, would be a faith-suck. So it was best to enjoy this moment — this gay-Coors Light-prancing moment — because history suggested this could very well be the best part of the day.

But as the ninth inning rolled around and that big "F" flashed on the scoreboard relaying the news that the Mets had unbelievably, miraculously lost AGAIN, I finally let it go. Somehow, the Phillies didn't miss the Wild Card this year. Somehow, they were division champions. Somehow, for once, everything just got all Johnny Nash-clear and bright.

This is a different kind of joy, mind you. This is one that has always eluded most Philadelphia sports fans and one that is, admittedly, tough to process. This isn't the same joy felt when the Eagles won the NFC Championship in 2004 (they were supposed to, finally), or the Sixers in 2000-01(not highly improbable) or the Flyers regular-season dominance during the Bobby Clarke GM-era (again, familiar, predictable.) This joy isn't even the 1993 Phillies, who held onto the division lead the whole entire year and wrapped it up pretty easily in September. No, this is different. This is a gift. Two and half days after that 6-1 victory (convincing, no less) over the Nationals I am still stunned, trapped in T. Hill-pose, still grasping for logic and familiarity to return: No, that didn't happen. That didn't. No way that just happened.

It did. This city had one ping-pong ball then somehow came away with the number one pick.

So, here they are. The 2007 Philadelphia Phillies, the team to beat waaay back in January, now has home field advantage in the National League Division Series.

Of course, the Padres would have been the opponent of choice, but it's the Rockies. The surging Rockies, with their powerful bats, their devout Christianity and their furious momentum. No, you don't want to play the Rockies, they say, not right now, you don't. They're too tough and they have too much power in that lineup...

Sure. Let's play 'em. Todd Helton can hold as many prayer circles as he wants because , to paraphrase the great Inquirer columnist Bill Lyon, who was also dusted off for the occasion, "Neither God, Jesus Christ, nor a fire-shitting demon from hell wants to fuck with the Phillies right now. "

Okay, maybe he didn't say that. Ever. Close enough.

Oh, happy day.

There's something about guys dressing in drag that, for whatever reason, is frowned upon. Oscar De La Hoya could've easily played his kinky fishnet outfit off as a mere lark: he's just a puppy-faced fellow, who after a flight of tequila shots, has no problem dressing up in a giant hairnet and heels. No big deal, really. Everyone's done it before. Sometimes, even the most virile of men cannot resist the temptation to squeeze into something spicy.

The difference between Oscar De La Hoya and most other recreational transsexuals is that they don't deny it. If it's an isolated incident, it's something that's laughed about later and forgotten about quickly. But, De La Hoya's staunch denial about the incident, plus all of those rumored intimidating phone calls to the dim-witted Scores dancer who gave the photos up and the legal threats, suggest that he's hiding a very, very dark secret.

This is where it gets interesting. We all know athletes become much more appealing if they have a little stink on them. Beneath all of that skill, money, fame, it's nice to know there runs a current of torment, a greasy underbelly that has to be concealed for presentation purposes.

There are so many who fit the profile.

So this week, I'm polishing up my ben-wah balls, purchasing a one way ticket to Taiwan and the Mets fucking suck.

Line drive hit to left field...here comes Iguchi!

Peyton Manning, Into Animal Fisting: 2/1

He had his Wayne Brady moment on "Saturday Night Live" and showed the world he's not just a cannon-armed bumpkin with a corporate price tag on his back. No, he's a self-deprecating regular guy. He can make fun of himself and mock his altar boy image. That's what makes him human. But what keeps him sane is the drop-to-your-knees adrenaline rush one gets inserting a clenched fist inside the wanting anal cavity of a four-legged friend. Be it a bucking horse, a baby calf, a small housecat, or, one time, an unsuspecting howler monkey, Peyton does not discriminate. If there's an opening, he's going in. Cut that meat, indeed.

Derek Jeter, Huge Partial Unbirthing Enthusiast: 3/1

Derek Jeter, for all his potato-faced handsomeness, has always had an odd head of hair. What happens if it ever grows out? Is it Hebrew nap, or brother fro? Or is it worse, like a raging case of the dreaded noggin pube? However, the reason Derek keeps his hair so awkwardly trimmed is not out of vanity, but sexual proclivity. You see, DJ is part of a small minority of men who can only reach climax if his head his completely inserted into a woman's vagina. (Partial unbirthing, for those who have yet to Google.) This is also why it's tough for Jeter to keep a girlfriend for more than a few months. Even though he's courted many a starlet, most have quickly ended the relationship after the Yankee shortstop came to bed wearing an oily swim cap. The only one he was successfully "unbirthed" has been Mariah Carey, who was very enthusiastic about it — she even invited conjoined twins into the bedroom with them. Derek wasn't into that, so he quickly split. Needless to say, Mariah's eventual vaginal rejuvenation surgery will cost millions.

Matt Holiday, Red Wing Commander: 2/1

The Rockies' torrid playoff run right now is bringing a lot of attention to a team that's lived in relative obscurity since its inception. But after next week, the whole world could be introduced to the Triple Crown-potential of outfielder Matt Holiday. And if there are any ladies lucky enough to be menstruating during that time, well, they could meet Mr. Holiday in a whole new way. Although he's married, it's told that Matt takes out some of his player aggression in the bedroom, executing a myriad of period-friendly sexcapades to placate his constant yearning for the calming warmth of a blood-caked lady flower. And, If some gals play their cards right, they could even get a chance to have Matt execute his patented "Snoopy Snow Cone Machine" on them. Their odds will increase if they already have a mouthful of crushed ice to greet him.

Annika Sorenstam, Eproctophiliac: 1/1

Though she's a darling on the golf course, she's a demon in the bedroom — especially when she gets a face full of flatulence. Sorenstam realized her fetish at a young age, being deflowered by an older man with untreatable digestive problems. Never able to repeat the orgasms she had with her wind-blasting lover, Otto, she quickly realized that she can manufacture them by having her male partner spread his cheeks and beef in her mouth during foreplay. Sorenstam was almost exposed during a the 2003 Master's when her caddie found some of her Fart Hammer pornography collection in her golf bag. The caddie was substantially paid off to keep quiet, but there's more money for him elsewhere if he gives up the details.