When Jimmy Rollins, upon hearing word of Ryan Howard's infection, surmised rather candidly that the slugger may miss an extended portion of the coming season spirits understandably dipped. In Philadelphia, amongst the global fan base of the National League's benchmark franchise, and- it seems- in the locker room.
Shortly after the team's 6-4 win over the Atlanta Braves, an inconsolably somber Howard gathered his teammates around a lone chair in the center of the clubhouse. He then mounted it, towering above the others literally as he once did symbolically, and recited with words heavy and dampened by sadness the following:
SO, we'll go no more popo-ing
So late into the night,
Though the bell be still as glowing,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sprint outwears its burst,
And the wounds wear out the Phillies,
And batters spring toward first,
And asplode their poor achilles.
Though the game was made for loving,
As the summer skies turn dark,
Yet we'll go no more popo-ing
By Citizens Bank Park.
Howard's leg then slipped and he fell off the chair and everybody laughed. He got up, felt fine, and said, "Bro I'm back in April don't worry." Catharsis achieved, moving-on commenced.