Kyle Schwarber tells John Middleton he’s sorry, but the Phillies have no reason to apologize. They just got beat.

A long time ago, in an era that was both different and the same, an old ballplayer said something to me that I’ve never quite forgotten.

“Hardest thing to do in sports,” he said, “hitting a big league pitcher.”

The sentiment wasn’t all that novel. Borderline cliché. For whatever reason, it stuck with me. Here was a guy who’d hit plenty of big league pitchers in his life and would go on to hit plenty more. And, yeah. He was right.

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The immediate aftermath is no time for rash decisions or definitive judgments. Find me a statement that did not stand the test of time, and I’ll find you someone who wishes he’d taken a lot more time before stating it. October is too long a month, the Phillies too special a team, to wad up all they accomplished because of all that they didn’t.

An epic choke? A historic collapse? A monumental disappointment whose aftereffects will reverberate through the years?

It’s possible that this National League Championship Series qualifies as all of those things. But I’m not ready to go there just yet.

Baseball is hard. That’s the primary reason the Phillies finished their Tuesday night with a 4-2 loss to the Diamondbacks instead of second straight berth in the World Series. It’s why Bryce Harper went hitless in his last seven at-bats of the series, and Trea Turner in his last 12, and Nick Castellanos in his last 23. It’s why three guys who are paid a combined $75 million went a combined 0-for-12 in Game 7.

“It’s terrible, man,” said Castellanos, who had 10 hits and five home runs in his first 24 at-bats of the playoffs. “It’s a terrible feeling, just to feel like you’re locked in and be in a zone and then have it fade away at the wrong time.”

There is nothing deeper than that. Hitting is weird that way. There are no decisions to critique. There is no effort to question. The whole process happens in an instant. The pitcher releases the ball and the hitter either recognizes what he sees or he doesn’t. If he does, he either recognizes its location or he doesn’t. If he does, he has a split second to swing. And even after all of that happens, and he gets everything right, he still needs needs to make perfect contact.

Look at Harper. For most of the month, the guy couldn’t go two at-bats without doing something special. Almost literally. He reached base in 24 of his first 47 plate appearances with five home runs in his first 11 playoff games. Then came Tuesday, and a fastball over the plate, and what could have been a three-run go-ahead homer in the seventh inning.

“He threw me the pitch I wanted,” Harper said.

This time, he missed. Barely. But enough.

“I was up 2-1 and he threw me a heater,” Harper said. “I just, man, not being able to come through in that moment, just devastating for me. I feel like I let my team down and I let the city of Philadelphia down as well. It’s a moment I feel like I need to come through.”

It’s great that he feels that way. Also, it isn’t feasible. The last two Octobers have shown us that. The environment takes its toll. So do the odds.

With all due respect to Mr. October, the most games that Reggie Jackson ever played in a single postseason was 12. Harper hit five home runs in his first 11 playoff games this year. The Phillies won eight of their first 11 games. In Reggie’s day, you only needed seven wins to win a title.

That’s not an excuse. It’s not even a critique. It’s just reality.

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It ended as it should have. Champions are decided in seven-game samples. This one belonged to the Diamondbacks.

The Phillies deserved to lose. They deserved it in Games 3 and 4 in Arizona. They deserved it in Game 6 at Citizens Bank Park. And they absolutely deserved it in Game 7. The Diamondbacks played their game; the Phillies played theirs. Arizona’s was superior. The difference was slight, but enough.

The Phillies got their runs in electrifying fashion: a solo home run from Alec Bohm in the second inning, a go-ahead RBI double from Bryson Stott after Bohm’s one-out walk in the fourth. They are a team that does not apologize for its power. Multiple bases are always better than increments of one. But games are often won in the at-bats between the big hits. Especially games like this.

The Diamondbacks scored a run in the first inning on two singles and a fielder’s choice. They scored a run in the fifth with a single, a sacrifice bunt, and single that drove the runner home. Corbin Carroll, who drove in the tying run, stole second and scored another run on a single.

Sac flies count the same as solo home runs. The Diamondbacks took advantage of their opportunity in the seventh. The Phillies failed their chance in the fourth. The Phillies went 1-for-10 with runners in scoring position in Game 7. The Diamondbacks went 2-for-11. Slight, but enough.

That was the difference, mathematically speaking.

They tried. Give them that. They acquitted themselves of the most serious charge, right up until the end. Zack Wheeler was out there pitching on two days rest. Castellanos was out there chasing down an eighth-inning line drive in the right-field corner. Turner was there making a backward-bending bucket catch, folding awkwardly into the turf.

They don’t give trophies for trying, of course. When the final out left Jake Cave’s bat and traced a long but nonthreatening arc toward foul territory in right field, it marked one of the most disappointing ends this city has ever seen.

Nobody will question that. Not the players, not the manager, certainly not me. As the Diamondbacks streamed out of the visitors’ dugout and made a beeline for the pitcher’s mound, you couldn’t help but flash back to a week ago when they walked out of Citizens Bank Park. A 10-0 loss in Game 2. A 2-0 series deficit. Two more if-necessary games in Philly. It was over.

Was that really only a week ago? By the end of Game 7, it felt like a year. Poetry is agony, and vice versa.

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A half hour after it was over, they were still in their uniform pants, still slumped in their chairs. They thought of the pitches they did not hit, and the stories they did not write. Mostly, they thought of the former.

Eventually, the beers were cracked, the rounds were made, the hugs and handshakes exchanged. The managing partner went locker to locker, thanking each of his players. At one point, John Middleton found Kyle Schwarber sitting alone amidst the swarm, staring into the middle distance.

Middleton patted the slugger on the back.

Schwarber looked up and said, “I’m sorry.”