So THAT happened.

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I don’t even know if this should be an Advent Calendar of Hotness post or what. I’m a Phillies fan and I still don’t know what just happened. All I know is that Cliff Lee turned down a whole shit-ton of money, and I know that the rotation is absolutely disgusting and I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS.

I went to my first baseball game in 1993 when the Phillies played the Rockies. Back then, the Phillies literally gave away tickets to games in packages of hot dogs. Seriously, I remember 14 year old Maggie negotiating with her dad that if we bought TWO packages of hot dogs, my siblings could come to the game, and if we bought THREE, Mom could come too.

Halladay.
Hamels.
Oswalt.

…And Lee?

I can’t even.

Look, I know the world hates the Phillies and everything because they’re the new Red Sox or Yankees or Patriots or whatever, but this is…mindblowing.

Ladies and Gentlemen…

…Roy Halladay. Do I even need to say anything else?

HI EVERYONE ROY HALLADAY THREW A NO HITTER IN HIS FIRST POSTSEASON APPEARANCE AND I HAVE LOST THE ABILITY TO USE PUNCTUATION

PS IT WAS ONLY THE SECOND ONE IN A LITTLE THING WE LIKE TO CALL HISTORY

PS NUMBAH TWO: OH AND HE THREW A PERFECT GAME THIS YEAR ALREADY.

For real, I kind of think my husband would be okay if I left him for Roy. Actually, I kind of think he might leave me for Roy. I’m not sure I blame him.

So THAT happened, which was nice.

OKAY, LOOK. It’s been a weird couple of weeks to be a Phillies fan. And by weird, I pretty much mean unutterably nerve-wracking. First Chase Utley needs surgery on his thumb and then Jimmy Rollins hurts himself and may-or-may-not have showed up in the clubhouse on crutches, so we all think the season is done and then Domonic Brown shows up all ‘Your Major League Pitching, I Laugh at You’ and THEN they go and trade for Roy Oswalt which means a Halladay-Hamels-Oswalt-and-those-other-guys rotation and THEN they go and win a game in hideously ugly extra innings BECAUSE THE BULLPEN SUCKS, even if it means the longest winning streak at Citizen’s Bank Park EVER.

I’m sorry, did you just get whiplash from that last paragraph? TRY LIVING THROUGH IT.

One of these days, baseball might actually kill me. Is the trade deadline over yet?

Five Words.

Dick. Move. Hall. Of. Fame.

Okay, look. I’ve devoted a lot of time and energy into hating the ever-loving hell out of Brett Favre for the monumental screw-job he handed Green Bay fans by first doing the ‘I MAY RETIRE OR I MAY NOT WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW’ dance and then the ‘LOLOLOLOL I AM SIGNING WITH YOUR RIVAL’ swan song. I really, really thought there couldn’t possibly be a bigger dick in organized sports than Brett Favre. I mean, the man singlehandedly held up football in Green Bay for a solid three years, and I’m pretty sure Aaron Rodgers still has Favre voodoo dolls in every room of his house.

That said? I’ve never seen an athlete so tone-deaf as to think that a nationally televised hour-long special to announce his free-agency decision smacked of anything beyond rampant egotism. That was horrifying in and of itself.

But a nationally televised hour-long special to break up with his hometown team in the most public manner possible? That’s an unprecedented level of douchebag.

Congratulations, LeBron James. You’re 2010’s entry into the Dick Move Hall of Fame. Good thing I don’t care about basketball.

This post brought to you by the letter ‘E.’

As in, Group E. Oh, yes. It’s time for another installment of ‘Seriously, there’s a reason folks the world over love the World Cup, and it ain’t all about the footwork.’

But before we start with the glorious, glorious eye candy, we just have to ask, since this is going live before the (unholy early) 7 AM EST Korea Republic v. Greece match: Does anyone feel like, you know, winning a World Cup match? Just saying. Ties are like kissing your sister. Or, well, brother, in our case.

Anyway, the hotness.

The Netherlands own Robin Van Persie.

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It’s almost here!

Torres

The rosters have been set. The teams have played their friendlies before making the trek to South Africa. Heck, we’ve even made it through Eurovision. (Congratulations, Germany.)

A week from now? It’s finally time. The group stage of the World Cup kicks off, and even America cares about soccer for at least five minutes. Me? I’ll be eating, sleeping and breathing international soccer until the very last second runs down.

Yes, I love soccer, but there’s just something about International play (and the World Cup in particular) that elevates the game. It turns the already rabid soccer fanbase into a bunch of flag-and-bunting-bedecked lunatics. I challenge anyone who doesn’t like or understand soccer to start watching the World Cup from the beginning. Trust me, you’ll come out at the other end swearing at the Abruzzi for being a bunch of diving whiners or being amazed at just how fast Portugal can move (Damn you, Ronaldo. Damn you to hell.) or harboring a secret love for the Orange.

And you know what else is great about the World Cup? International Eye candy. Above? Spain’s Fernando Torres.

More hotness after the jump.

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We interrupt this hiatus for…uh, wrestling.

Okay, we know we’re on vacation and everything, but sometimes something so unspeakably awesome happens that we just have to say something.

Today? Mick Foley happened.

Let’s catch up on Mick Foley, shall we? He’s gone by ‘Mankind’ and ‘Cactus Jack’ and ‘Dude Love’. He’s wrestled using a baseball bat covered in barbed wire and once lost two thirds of his ear in the ropes. Oh, and his finisher before he retired from the WWE was Mr. Socko: a dirty sweatsock shoved into the mouths of his opponents. We are not making that up.

But that’s Mick Foley the performer. Mick Foley the wrestler. Mick Foley the showman.

Mick Foley the person?

Is donating the ENTIRETY of his latest book’s profits to Children’s Fund International (benefiting rape victims in the Sierra Leone) and RAINN, the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network.

Oh, and he’s volunteering his time to work as an online counselor for RAINN’s support line.

We ladies may ogle, and we may joke, but in the end, we are a bunch of women writing about sports. We’re women.

We may not ever write about wrestling ever again, but we’re women. And as women, we salute Mick Foley.

And now we’re back on vacation.