Bill Lyon: The Phillies are fine despite their injuries

The 3:10 to Panicsville . . .

 And so once again the rush is on, that great migration of front-runners, and with each new Phillie going down with injury the crush to board the 3:10 to Panicsville, alias the Phillies Express, has become a contagion.

But then this is what we do best, isn't it? Expect the worst. Light candles. Count prayer beads. Fret and pace; pace and fret. Our glass is not only half empty there are cigarette butts floating in it, and lipstick smearing on the rim.

The Fightin's are entering the last week of games that don't matter, and they do so limping homeward, fleeing from what has probably been the most destructive and costliest spring training in their mottled history.

As their body count has risen, it has become fashionable in other precincts to suggest that the injury-riddled Phillies have fallen so far so fast that they are no longer a threat to even win their division. They are wrong, Fungo Breath. Granted, this isn't going to be easy, and they're not going to win 102 games again, and the Braves, Marlins, and Nationals all appear improved. But despite all of this, it says here, inhale and take a handful of chill pills because they are going to repeat as NL East champions. Yes, even with the guts of their engine room torn out.

Their bench is better. Their bullpen, too. They will get a full season from Ichabod Crane, a.k.a. Hunter Pence. Their rotation is set.

And it is that rotation that is the key. Pitching is the great eraser, and they are still awash in an embarrassment of riches. Without Chase Utley, without Ryan Howard, the Fightin's have morphed by necessity from wham-bam into 90-feet-at-a-time. (Actually, 180 feet would be preferable.)

They will, manager Charlie Manuel pledges, score those runs they are supposed to. Of course he has also vowed that each time they step into the batter's box they will seriously entertain the notion to actually take a pitch. Or two. Or three.

Believe it when you see it.

But even that can be overcome. Because of pitching. It trumps all.

And it always comes back to that.

All aboard, then, non-believers. The 3:10 to Panicsville leaving on Track 9.

Sticks and stones . . .

 Ever catch a rock? On the third ricochet? That'll keep a man alert.

So is that what explains the surehanded nimbleness of this Freddy Galvis, who is 22, and who, for better or worse, is going to play second base for the Fightin's? They hope.

His is a story already worth the telling. Grew up in a small, dusty village in Venezuela. Started playing baseball at 4. In the streets. Rocks for balls, sticks for bats. He was a natural. Had the hands of a pianist. Or safe-cracker.

Actually, it turns out, the rocks were used for the bases. Oh. Make a note. There will be ample time for corrections and straightening as we go along because this kid has the look and feel of a prodigy.

He is cobra-quick to the ball, with the right instincts and anticipation.

But alas, the rules of the game mandate that a man cannot stand out there in the field forever. At appointed moments he is required to bat. This part, he is working on, and he puts you in mind of a Phillies middle infielder of another career who was so overmatched that it was written he couldn't hit Little League pitching.

He channeled his fury, and his 1,798 career hits are No. 5 in Phillies history. And whatever became of that Larry Bowa fella, anyway?

But other than that, Freddy, no pressure. No pressure at all.

For Furman, R.I.P. . . .

I won't say that he was old, though he did play golf with the sainted Bobby Jones. But old? No, no. Older, yes. Because, as he was forever lecturing me, you can't help growing older, but you can help growing old.

Furman Bisher, a Southern gentleman, finally stopped growing older last week. At the age of 93.

He was a writer, in Atlanta, a sportswriter, whose prose sparkled like the dew on Dixie, so pristine, so elegant, it would make you weep. I passed many pleasant hours in his company at Eden, better known as Augusta National.

Of all the thousands upon thousands of words he wrote, the most poignant appeared on April 19, 2000. He began:

"The subject of Roger comes up today because I have lost him."

Roger was Furman's son, and this was a father's moving eulogy: "A beautiful, handsome, loving man no finer son has any parent ever had, and I grieve. Old men like me should be going first, not one who had so much to give the world as he. Roger Chisholm Bisher passed away Monday afternoon.

"I watched him take his first breath in life and I saw him take his last. He was just 44, but in my heart he shall always be that smiling child. Thanks for giving me your time."

And thanks, old friend, for giving us yours. Rest easy.