COME WITH ME NOW TO THOSE THRILLING DAYS OF YESTERYEAR when the Phillies became the Fightin's for the first time by beating those same Dodgers, then from Brooklyn, to arrive at the World Series. I was barely born, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
The Phillies had been called the Philadelphia Nationals in their first World Series appearance in 1915. By then the frequent champion Boston Red Stockings of the American League had already gone hip hop by calling themselves Sox. The Sox crushed the Phils 4-1. Our only victory was a first game 3-1 triumph in Baker Bowl by Grover Cleveland Alexander who, with the game on the line, faced a Boston pinch hitter representing the tying run. A rookie named Babe Ruth. The Babe lined out to first.
Did I ever tell you that Babe Ruth ate dinner at my grandfather's house at 1532 Erie Avenue when my mother was in college. All mom remembered about the Bambino was, "Boy, could he eat." Her younger brother, my Uncle Bill, got Babe Ruth's autograph on a baseball. And he prompty went outside to play baseball with it after showing his frriends, who were, as my mother put it, "hanging from the trees."
It was a time of innocence. A time of consequences. Time it was, it was.
In some weird way, in some weird Philadelphia fuck you way, I am so proud to be alive right now to see the Phillies win this World Series. I was 30 years old when they won the first one in 1980. Before that I had actually made peace with myself that I may never live to see a Phillies world championship. But my son would. I was certain of that.
This is how fucked up my thnking was. I had actually turned over the graille in my heart. I didn't believe that I would ever live to see it. And I was as wrong as wrong could be. I know the Phillies are going to win this. I've figured out the pattern.
If I live to be 90 maybe I'll see three.
But back to the Fightin's. . . I love these guys. This is a worthy franchise. I don't want to jinx it but I must speak of names you can't forget from a team called the Whiz Kids because they were so young:
Richie Ashburn. Robin Roberts. Dick Sisler. Andy Seminick, Del Ennis, Stan Lopata, Curt Simmons, Jim Konstanty , Granny Hamner, ( I swear to God -- his name was Granny), Mike Goliat, Eddie Waitkus, Willie Jones and -- the Phillies player with arugably my favorite name -- Putsy Caballero.
Putsy Caballero is not a name, it's a destiny.
Shane Victorino? Now that's a mixed metaphor. Which part of either Shane or Victorino sounds Hawaiian? I refuse to call him anything but the Pesky Polynesian.
Chase Utley. Now that's a great baseball name. Seriously.
Chase Utley. Who can forget that?
Ryan Howard, Jimmy Rollins, Cole Hamels,
But listen to the music of Feliz and Ruiz
Dobbs, Stairs and Moyer
Myers, maybe Werth and Madson
Romero, Condrey-ko and even Brad Lidge-o
I predict that this will be a Pat Burrell week.
And if I'm wrong there will be another Phillie to make it right.
Imagine that. I actually believe they can't lose.
Leave a comment