My Cliff Lee Quandary: All My Ex's Live in Texas

I drive a Honda CRV.

It might be the first of its kind; it could be the prototype. There is nothing modern about it. The only gauge I have measures gas; mileage stacks up via flipping digits, and mechanical failures are indicated when the appropriate circle lights up red.

Some people call them idiot lights. That’s because when they glow, idiots wait a few weeks to see if they’ll go out—all by themselves.

I think Ruben Amaro Jr. has a few on. The problem is there’s one that won’t go out all by itself.

Admittedly he’s concerned about pitching. And admittedly he has what it takes to get what he wants.

That can only mean two things: Jayson Werth should keep the beard to accent his sex appeal for a trade and the love affair with Cliff Lee continues to be the quintessential story.

Where do I begin to tell the story of how great a team can be a great love story about the man they call Cliff Lee.

Another year with a World Series victory.

The way I understand it, Cliffy’s “Dear John” letter traded him to a soggy AL port so Ruben could restock a farm system with guys a lot like the ones he traded for a Cy Young winner he hoped could pitch as well as the Cy Young winner that earned him the only two wins of the last Series.

Did I get that right?

Well, anyway you say it, it broke my heart.

It was like missing a blue light sale by an aisle.

It was like watching any movie by Nicholas Sparks.

And it was like fumbling for your ID at the liquor store and hearing the clerk say, “I won’t be needing that.”

Now the media is teasing Cliffy because he got flustered when someone whispered the name of his ex World Series partner upon his arrival in Texas. That caused him to commit the faux pas of saying he was a Mariner when he was actually obligated to the Rangers.

Cliff, that’s why you never specifically speak a name when you’re in bed together.

I know I’m not alone in wanting him back, and as a devoted fan I’d like something more concrete than reports that Philly is missed by Cliff.

Even a cheesy commitment will do. Something with no legal basis like a promise ring—or a clanky oversized class ring with a tacky stretch of yarn encircling the bottom.

My point is, I don’t care how you do it, just get the job done.

I miss his behind the back defense, the way he quick pitches cocky batters, and his ability to yawn while fielding a ball.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Roy Halladay. He throws with surgical precision, he’s devoted and proven, and he tossed the perfect game. But in my book there are two perfect number thirty-fours: Cliff and Roy. Call them 34a and 34b if you like, just don’t call them by the wrong name.

Obviously with all the recent whining Ruben’s been doing about his desire for pitching, he knows this too. So when he considers improving his rotation, he should remember one thing: It takes two.

The Phillies and Cliff Lee were meant for each other.

That’s the only way to make that idiot light go out.

See you at the ballpark.

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