2013 Phillies Report Card: Steven Susdorf

Once upon a BP dreary, while I scouted weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious swinger of Philadelphian org,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a cracking,
As of someone harshly smacking, smacking at lobbed balls galore.
`’Tis a five o’clock hitter,’ I muttered, `smacking lobbed balls galore –
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, but he continued slaying, pitch by pitch which he was spraying,
The pure stick he was displaying on the balls twas waging war.
Eagerly I started noting; – here’s a bat I would be doting
Someone’s OFP is bloating – bloating for the Hit Tool Whore –
For the rare and radiant weapon that the angels name Susdorf –
Tool-less here for evermore.

And the heavy, wise commotion of the seat behind me’s motion
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors often felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some scout I’d be entreating, who I’m seated just before.
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my scouting door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, while turning, ‘truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and this hitter began rapping,
Reputation he is lacking, might you tell me something more?’
Silence there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I sat there wondering, fearing,
Doubting hit tool dreams I’d never dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Susdorf.’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Susdorf.’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back to the ballfield turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard that rapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something there in batting practice;
Tell me, sir, what that is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.’
Just wind and nothing more.

His coldness did cause me to shutter, when, with a look my heart did flutter,
Finally, this scouting maven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; for this BP stopped and stayed he;
And all the hitters did grade he, perched behind my scouting door –
Perched here in this soft-drink palace just behind my scouting door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ivory man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though your face is quite unshaven,’ he said, `your persistence isn’t craven,’
Said to me the scouting maven who I prayed would tell me more-
‘Tell me what this man can do beside smack lobbed balls galore’
Quoth the maven, `Nothingmore.’

Much I marveled this ungainly owl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For the bat is most important, without the power will lay dormant
So I peered at my informant perched behind my scouting door –
Right or wrong I seek to learn from the wise one at my scouting door,
With such comment as `Nothingmore.’

But the maven, unimpressed by the tools he’d just addressed,
That hit tool, as if my soul in that one tool I did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – no opinion would he flutter –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `I’ve not seen bats like this galore –
Tis a rare thing to be seeing, just a few times heretofore.’
Then the scout said, `Nothingmore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what holes you’ve poken are of secondary bore,
Yes, I’d like him to run faster and his power’s a disaster
Centerfield he hasn’t mastered so a corner he’ll explore –
But the bat is there and tis was has an impact on the score.
Silliness, this – nothingmore.’

But the maven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Next to him at first pitch filing hoping I could still implore;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous scout of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous scout of yore
Meant in croaking `Nothingmore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the man whose fiery eyes now burned into fat catcher’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
And my lousy stopwatch timing things it’s often timed before,
With its crimson rubber lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
It too does nothingmore.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Susdorf who can track balls thrown from chest to floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried at the maven, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe to deter the Hit Tool Whore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and let be the Hit Tool Whore!’
Quoth the maven, `Nothingmore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if scout or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this cheesesteak land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there bat speed in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the maven, ` Nothingmore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if Special Assistant to the General Manager or devil!
By that League that bends above us – by The Show we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Susdorf –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Susdorf?’
Quoth the maven, `Nothingmore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, evaluator or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no business card as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my radar gun unbroken! – quit this ballpark I adore!
Take thy pen from out my heart, apply it to thy sheet of score!’
Quoth the maven, `Nothingmore.’

And the maven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In this Coca-Cola palace while I try to scout some more;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the stadium light streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that immerses Hit Tool Whore-
Shall be lifted – nevermore.


My Grade: D

Michael Paul Bill Ryan

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  1. nahmean

    October 31, 2013 08:53 AM

    WOW bravo, this is amazing

  2. Machonorris

    October 31, 2013 08:31 AM

    This is awesome.

  3. Matt

    October 31, 2013 09:07 AM

    Definite improvement over the Steven Lerud post. At first I was irritated that I had to translate Poe-ish into English in order to get an idea who this Susdorf guy is, but then I realized, who cares…

  4. Andrew Cleveland Alexander

    October 31, 2013 09:36 AM

    This is fantastic. Can’t wait for Sebastian Valle in the Mask of the Red Death.

  5. jerome

    October 31, 2013 10:15 AM


  6. Jon Cheddar

    October 31, 2013 01:21 PM

    Miguel Cabrera and the Cask of Amontillado plz

  7. Bob

    October 31, 2013 02:51 PM

    Why didn’t the Phils give Susdorf more ABs or opportunity this year? His ML numbers look ok. Does he project as anything at this point?

  8. Eric Longenhagen

    October 31, 2013 05:41 PM

    Maybe he’s a bench bat though you have to wonder how irregular ABs will impact his effectiveness.

  9. Ryan

    October 31, 2013 08:51 PM

    It’s a boring point in the offseason, eh?

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