The Phillies in the playoffs resembled the month of March: They came in like lions and went out like lambs. Students of the game, which include undoubtedly some of Philadelphia’s most faithful fans, know that power hitters get hot – and then they cool off. In the case of the Phils, who boast a lineup rife with power, they got hot in unison and then chilled together – regrettably, uncharacteristically, but in a way predictably, in their home ballpark. Fifty thousand screaming fans cannot force a bat to make contact with a slider. Last night in the first inning Bryce Harper, the multi-million-dollar first baseman who was supposedly going to carry his team to a world championship, struck out swinging at two unhittable pitches. Previously in the first inning, on the first pitch, he had hit a towering home run, and trotted around the bases like a pinstriped superhero, a man in total control of his destiny. Last night he looked like a flailing mortal. In the city of Rocky, he became Casey.
