We changed the front page again with surprisingly little protest.**Closes eyes** We found out that putting the word "Nude Cheerleaders" in a post makes it Digg-worthy. **Cocks hammer**. Realizes phrase "cocks hammer" just brings us back to square one.

More change: The Phillies signed Raul Ibanez to a three-year deal because they really need another left handed bat. Sadly, this probably means the end of the Pat Burrell era in Philadelphia. He's truly a remarkable Philadelphia story: an underachieving Philadelphia athlete surprisingly not run out of town years ago, sticks around through the boos and the boorishness because he genuinely loved it here. Never hit enough homers for that paycheck. Couldn't run. Too streaky and overpaid through most of his career. But persevered and, remarkably, became a fan favorite and quiet leader when the team needed it most. You were classy even when you didn't need to be, Pat, and Philadelphia will always have your back.

*******

Tomorrow: Watch KOGOD and Sarah struggle through the new publishing rules and make a mess of the place. (They won't. They'll figure it out.)

Thank you for your continued support of Deadspin. Especially this week. Even these three guys.

Enjoy your weekends.

With the start of the 2007/2008 MLB season just hours away now, everyone's thoughts turn to how beautiful the game can be ... the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the green grass, the fathers and sons in the stands with their mitts, and the asshole in the Phillies dugout gesturing to opposing manager Terry Francona that he should make love to himself.

That's Pat Burrell, who just planted a Daisuke Matsuzaka pitch in the bleachers. The exchange with his former manager Francona was apparently light-hearted and friendly, which is a little disappointing, as I was hoping this would be Burrell's new homerun celebration. Sort of like Sammy Sosa's kiss thing, except simpler and more direct.

The Class Act That Is Pat Burrell [Random Thoughts?]
Dice-K Does Not Impress Burrell [Bugs and Cranks]

Well, we're less than a month away from the start of baseball, so it's time to do the same thing in the baseball world. Every weekday until the start of the season, a different writer will preview his/her team. We asked a gaggle of writers, from the Web, from print, from books, to tell us, in as many or as little words as they need, Where Their Team Stands. This is not meant to be factual, or dispassionate, or even logical: We just asked them to riff on why they love their team so much, or what their team means to them, or whatever.

Today: The Philadelphia Phillies. Your author is A.J. Daulerio.

A.J. Daulerio writes the Cultural Oddsmaker column for this fine establishment and is a staff writer at Philadelphia Magazine. His words are after the jump.

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April 2, 2007. This is not only the kickoff of baseball season in Philadelphia, but also an unofficial "sick" day for kids aged 16- 18 in the Delaware Valley. Even though it was close to, fuck, 16 years ago, this was how the Phillies existed in my mind during those dreary years of the Nick Leyva/Jim Fregosi era. Relevant only through the first two weeks of spring, most of those teams would unceremoniously vanish, and Vet Stadium would once again become a gigantic mausoleum littered with Bruce Ruffin's ashes for most of the summer.

But on opening day, hope and mayhem both sprang eternal. At the pre-North/South Council Rock High School, it was a right of passage. You'd get up at your usual time to go to school, but instead of getting picked up to go to class, you'd wait for your parents to go to work, then raid their liquor cabinet and dump it in a thermos or a flask usually with Hawaiian Punch or some other mixer that you won't find even the dirtiest of slide rails. Then you'd head to Flap Jake's for some pre-game pancakes and eat more than usual because, come 9 a.m., the rest of the day's sustenance would mostly come from Bud Light party balls and skunk weed. Pole 19 was where we met. And suburbia's spoiled trash came by the carload, stumbling out of vehicles, in various states of buzz, wandering around Vet Stadium's parking lot for a couple of hours to, essentially, car hop to find better beer — "Hey, I see Heineken coming from that Camry!" — or the Jewish kid with the nitrous tank.

By the time the third inning rolled around, Vet Stadium's upper deck levels had turned into a Larry Clark film: tin foil bowls being inconspicuously smoked, passed out girls getting felt up, lackluster fistfights, cascading vomit — just a glorious time. The game, of course, well, nobody cared. But now, for the most part, Citizen's Bank Ballpark has established itself as a family friendly environment; even the heckling has become more manicured, almost an amusement park ride as fans can hover over the opposing team's bullpen and spew invective under the close watch of a red-jacketed security guard. It's all so stale and lifeless. It's sad, really. Pretty soon there'll be a dunk tank with Santa Claus where you can throw snowballs at him.

But even without the long-gone grit of Vet Stadium, 2007 is one of the more hope-filled years in a decade. This year, there's more polish, more shine, more hope than usual, about a team that's been a giant tease for five years straight — even though their off season moves resulted in neither a Jim Thome signing or a Billy Wagner trade.

Big additions this year? Freddy Garcia, Adam Eaton and, uh, Wes Helms, who's essentially a less expensive David Bell. However, they kept Aaron Rowand, whose face-plant into the center field wall has secured him a place in Philadelphia hearts, regardless if he hits .260 for the rest of the season and has a pool noodle for an arm. Jimmy Rollins has suddenly established himself as the team's cocksure mouthpiece and, of course, Ryan Howard is here to save the city and baseball with each mighty swat. These "moves," along with fact that they have six starting pitchers and a six-fingered reliever, has almost made the Phillies on the precipice of trumping the Eagles in popularity, which hasn't been the case ever since Buddy Ryan first waddled to the press conference assuring us that we've "got a winner in town."

The biggest jolt to the Phillies lineup this year, however, has to be Pat Burrell's engagement. The stories of Burrell's swordsmanship are legendary in the Philadelphia area. You can't bump into somebody within a 50-mile radius of Philadelphia who doesn't have a story. They all start the same: At a club, usually involving a 20-something stunner sidling up at the bar, then, enter ... the Bat. Next thing you know, she's got herself box seats behind home plate and is hanging out with Burrell and Jason Michaels 'til 4 a.m. doing kamikaze shots down the Jersey Shore. One friend-of-a-friend story included Pat leaving her a present the next day after one drunken libidinous night with The Bat — his Valtrex. But an even more vintage Bat story is this second-hand gem:

The story goes: A few guys were on a business trip in Pittsburgh. A couple of the guys knew the Phils were in town, so when they all spotted Burrell at a club there one night, it wasn't a total surprise. Pat ended up taking a liking to one of the girls in their group. She thought he was hot but didn't follow baseball. He took her back to his hotel room, and a make-out session ensued until she alerted Pat that she would NOT do him. Not fazed by this, Burrell seemed to respect her chastity, and rather than force himself on her or fly into a blueball rage, he asked a simple question, glancing down at his engorged pants: "Mind if I take care of business?"

The horrified woman didn't stay the night, letting Pat, take care of his business on his own.

Without these weekly distractions, there has to be a boost in confidence and plate discipline, no? We'll be able to tell as soon as Burrell sees his first low outside slider. But congratulations on the engagement!

And to make this 2007 Phillies season even better, the fine folks at Mastero's on the Avenue, at 2216 West Pasayunk in South Philly, are offering a new special that starts Opening Day and is available every home game. The "Mamula" sandwich, consisting of pork, sharp provolone, on a soft roll, with a soda and a pickle, for $5.

All you have to do is enter the store (or call: 215-465-2701) and ask "Where's Mamula?" for the deal. Yep.

It's good to be home...

"Hey, Deadspin,

For the record, the capsule says that 'Pat Burrell was a junior quarterback for Bellarmine Prep in San Jose in 1995, the same year that their West Catholic Athletic League rival, Serra High of San Mateo (Calif.), was starting a senior quarterback named Tom Brady.' According to my records, Burrell and Brady both graduated in 1995. Burrell's last season of football was in the fall of 1993, when he was a junior. He played only baseball his senior year, in the spring of 1995. Brady obviously played both sports as a senior, football in the fall of 1994 and baseball the spring of 1995. In fact, I was at the Bellarmine-Serra baseball game in San Mateo their senior year. I watched the sold-out showdown peering through the chain-link fence down the right-field line. Standing next to me was Royce Clayton and his dog.

"In 1993, I watched Bellarmine at Serra in football. The starting QBs that Saturday were Tom Brady and Pat Burrell. Put that in your seismograph and smoke it! Combined gross annual income these days: $12.75 million. Burrell was also the Bells' punter, and the Bellarmine long-snapper was so brutal he got Pat The Bat pummeled two times in the second half. It was great watching Burrell scurrying and groveling for those two misguided snaps ("Follow it around ... see what it eats!" is what I screamed from the sideline the second time), then try to allude seemingly the entire Serra special teams unit as he attempted to get the punt off on the run at the same time. Pure slapstick. Of course, after the second botched punt, Burrell screamed at everyone, from head coach Mike Janda to the poor long-snapper to WCAL commish Ed Fennelly sitting in the stands. Burrell was bitter. Probably bitter, more than anything, because I was mocking him." — John Allen.

(ADDENDUM: The accompanying photo is from a Philadelphia Weekly gossip column item circa 2004, purportedly of Burrell, "drunk off his ass, doing his Usher impersonation," at Bar Noir in Philadelphia.)

Pressler's Miscellany [Philadelphia Weekly]
Four Tiny Tidbits On: The Phillies [Deadspin]

Anyway, other fun pictures include shots of a woman whose breasts have been signed by Cardinals bullpenners Al Reyes and Ray King, Mets non-midget Pedro Martinez sipping what appears to be sangria and A's shortstop Bobby Crosby taking open auditions for a potential future missus. Grand fun, as always.

Not So Blind Items, Part III [On the DL]