As you know, it’s early. There’s a lot of baseball left to play.

But as of this writing, the Phillies have lost three in a row and face a sweep at the hands of the division rival New York Mets. (EDIT – they have now been swept)

Do you feel the Negadelphia gnawing at you, pulling at every fiber of your being? Or are you keeping it calm and pragmatic? We asked ChatGPT to write us a story about a conflicted Phillies fan and this is what it spit out:

“Somewhere Between Hope and WIP”

Mike DelVecchio wasn’t spiraling. He wanted to make that very clear.

He wasn’t overreacting. He wasn’t calling for anyone to be traded, released, or “sent to Lehigh Valley to think about what they’ve done.” He wasn’t even yelling—well, not out loud.

But he was… concerned.

The Phillies had just dropped their third game in five days, another one where they looked more like the spring training squad than a team with playoff expectations. Sloppy defense, wasted scoring chances, bullpen roulette—it was the same déjà vu that had haunted April in Philly for years.

Mike stared at the TV, remote in hand, caught between flipping to something peaceful (maybe a cooking show?) or doomscrolling Phillies Twitter until he hated baseball and the concept of optimism.

“They’re 14 and 10,” he muttered. “That’s fine. That’s a playoff pace.”

But the words tasted like saltwater—technically true, but not comforting.

He opened his phone and saw both ends of the fan spectrum. One guy posted an advanced stat breakdown proving the team was unlucky. Another was already constructing a mock 2026 lineup. A third had Photoshopped the Phanatic crying into a cheesesteak.

“Negadelphia is undefeated,” Mike said with a sigh, tossing the phone onto the couch.

He didn’t want to be that guy. The sky-is-falling guy. The mid-April caller to WIP demanding someone “blow it up” before May flowers had even bloomed. But he also didn’t want to be the guy clapping politely while the bullpen lit matches under a one-run lead.

So instead, he hovered in limbo—the weird space where rational thought and raw frustration do a little dance.

He thought of that old saying: “It’s early.”

God, he hated that. It felt like a cop-out, like giving up a fight before it started. But what was the alternative? Rage-tweeting every blown save? Putting together a list of “fireable offenses” like it was fantasy football?

Mike leaned back on the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

“I just want them to play clean baseball,” he whispered to no one in particular. “Not perfect. Not 162-0. Just… clean. Competent. Like they know they’re good.”

The frustrating thing was—they were good. That’s what made it worse. This team had real talent. A legitimate rotation. Sluggers. Depth. A manager who didn’t seem actively allergic to analytics. And yet, the little things still tripped them up.

And every time it did, Negadelphia crept closer.

He took a breath. “Not gonna do it,” he said, like a guy refusing to text his ex. “Not falling into the trap.”

There was another game tomorrow. Maybe a win. Maybe another chaotic, soul-draining loss that had him refreshing Fangraphs and looking up which relievers had minor league options.

But no matter what, Mike would be right back here—yelling at the TV, preaching patience to himself, and trying to stay tethered to hope without getting dragged into despair.

Because being a Phillies fan wasn’t about choosing joy or pain.

It was about learning to live with both, every single night.

What’s funny is that WIP wasn’t even mentioned in the prompt. It would seem as though artificial intelligence is well aware of the stereotypical sports talk radio caller in Philadelphia. Good story, though. Accurate. Really paints an accurate picture of the Phillies fan stuck in April purgatory.