Here's a copy of my print column from this week. My timing remains impeccable, writing about baseball and the sheer joy the Phillies provided by winning the N.L. East just a day after they disappeared from the playoffs by losing three straight to the Rockies. but that's not really what the column is about. See for yourself.
4:37 p.m. last Sunday. Citizens Bank Park. Brett Myers. Wily Mo Pena.
Oct. 23, 1993. The Toronto Skydome. Mitch Williams. Joe Carter.
Oct. 21, 1980. Veterans Stadium. Tug McGraw. Willie Wilson.
Three Phillies moments. Three different decades.
I have a tendency to view my life through sports. Specifically Philadelphia sports. Many people, including no shortage of readers of this newspaper, probably would tell you that I place too much significance on these grown men playing games designed for little boys.
They are, of course, entirely correct. They likely would remind me that I spent this same space just last week regaling readers with what I consider the greatest moment in Philadelphia sports history.
That pretty much sums up my sense of timing. The entire Delaware Valley is coming down with a serious case of Phillies Fever, having just witnessed the Phillies put away the Nationals to claim the National League crown, and I choose that time to inform them of an Eagles moment that I believe stands as the single greatest moment in Philadelphia sports history.
Last Sunday that list grew by one.
Funny thing about these moments: I can tell you exactly what I was doing during each of them.
But I suppose I can tell you that I also know what I was doing during one other stretch of time indelibly marked on those of a certain age who happen to be, as I am, Phillies fans.
It was the last two weeks of September 1964. And like my favorite team, I was slowly dying.
That was the span, with a six-and-a-half game lead with 12 to play, that the Phillies went belly up, coughing up the lead and creating the shroud that has covered the area’s sports fans for more than four decades.
Right up until last Sunday. That’s because not only did the Phillies win the NL East, we also bathed in the glow of watching our ignominy in one of the greatest collapses in sports history supplanted by the New York Mets.
The Ghost of 1964 took the short drive up the New Jersey Turnpike.
I got my love of Philly sports, and the Phillies, from my father. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who would rather listen to a game on the radio that watch it on TV. He bequeathed that to me as well.
I have in turn passed on that love of sports to my son. He is a huge fan. Of the Eagles. And the Flyers. And the Sixers.
But for whatever reason, I could never get him to embrace his father’s love of baseball.
Baseball was in fact my first love. It was the sport I spent hours playing as a kid. Yes, my passion for the Eagles runs deep, but the Phillies will always be closest to my heart.
I thought maybe it was a generational thing. These kids grew up on video games and the Internet. Baseball, the only major sport conducted without a clock, moves at its own pace. Slowly, languidly, like a steamy summer night.
Like my own father, there is nothing I enjoy more than sitting on the porch on a thick, humid summer night listening to the Phils on the radio.
My son never particularly liked to play baseball; he considered watching it on TV a form of punishment. Listen on the radio? He was sure that a sign of my mental instability.
I had to convince him to give Little League a shot. He lasted only a few years.
He’d snidely snort at me when I told him baseball was a thinking man’s game. Too slow. Too boring. Not enough action, he would inform me.
Oh, he’d still follow the game. He’d know the stats and the standings, even if he did get them from ESPN or the Internet instead of the newspaper or the back of a baseball card.
And that’s the way it went each year. Until this summer. Then something magical happened. The boy who wanted nothing more than to be different than his old man, who was irked every time a family member commented that his countenance and even his mannerisms reminded them of his father, now shared one other trait with his dad.
He became a baseball fan. And a Phillies-phile.
Times change. Some other things don’t. Last Sunday, I spent much of the day with my son, capping a week that will be long remembered by many fathers and sons.
I told him that when he gets older, he likely will remember exactly what he was doing at times like these. Just as his dad does.
Oh, and he likely will remember the day for one other reason. The boy who never liked baseball will always remember that the Phillies won the National League East crown on his 18th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Sean.
Philip E. Heron is editor of the Daily Times. Call him at (610) 622-8818. E-mail him at editor@delcotimes.com. To visit his daily blog, the Heron’s Nest, go to www3.allaroundphilly.com/blogs/delcotimes/philh/blog.html.
4:37 p.m. last Sunday. Citizens Bank Park. Brett Myers. Wily Mo Pena.
Oct. 23, 1993. The Toronto Skydome. Mitch Williams. Joe Carter.
Oct. 21, 1980. Veterans Stadium. Tug McGraw. Willie Wilson.
Three Phillies moments. Three different decades.
I have a tendency to view my life through sports. Specifically Philadelphia sports. Many people, including no shortage of readers of this newspaper, probably would tell you that I place too much significance on these grown men playing games designed for little boys.
They are, of course, entirely correct. They likely would remind me that I spent this same space just last week regaling readers with what I consider the greatest moment in Philadelphia sports history.
That pretty much sums up my sense of timing. The entire Delaware Valley is coming down with a serious case of Phillies Fever, having just witnessed the Phillies put away the Nationals to claim the National League crown, and I choose that time to inform them of an Eagles moment that I believe stands as the single greatest moment in Philadelphia sports history.
Last Sunday that list grew by one.
Funny thing about these moments: I can tell you exactly what I was doing during each of them.
But I suppose I can tell you that I also know what I was doing during one other stretch of time indelibly marked on those of a certain age who happen to be, as I am, Phillies fans.
It was the last two weeks of September 1964. And like my favorite team, I was slowly dying.
That was the span, with a six-and-a-half game lead with 12 to play, that the Phillies went belly up, coughing up the lead and creating the shroud that has covered the area’s sports fans for more than four decades.
Right up until last Sunday. That’s because not only did the Phillies win the NL East, we also bathed in the glow of watching our ignominy in one of the greatest collapses in sports history supplanted by the New York Mets.
The Ghost of 1964 took the short drive up the New Jersey Turnpike.
I got my love of Philly sports, and the Phillies, from my father. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who would rather listen to a game on the radio that watch it on TV. He bequeathed that to me as well.
I have in turn passed on that love of sports to my son. He is a huge fan. Of the Eagles. And the Flyers. And the Sixers.
But for whatever reason, I could never get him to embrace his father’s love of baseball.
Baseball was in fact my first love. It was the sport I spent hours playing as a kid. Yes, my passion for the Eagles runs deep, but the Phillies will always be closest to my heart.
I thought maybe it was a generational thing. These kids grew up on video games and the Internet. Baseball, the only major sport conducted without a clock, moves at its own pace. Slowly, languidly, like a steamy summer night.
Like my own father, there is nothing I enjoy more than sitting on the porch on a thick, humid summer night listening to the Phils on the radio.
My son never particularly liked to play baseball; he considered watching it on TV a form of punishment. Listen on the radio? He was sure that a sign of my mental instability.
I had to convince him to give Little League a shot. He lasted only a few years.
He’d snidely snort at me when I told him baseball was a thinking man’s game. Too slow. Too boring. Not enough action, he would inform me.
Oh, he’d still follow the game. He’d know the stats and the standings, even if he did get them from ESPN or the Internet instead of the newspaper or the back of a baseball card.
And that’s the way it went each year. Until this summer. Then something magical happened. The boy who wanted nothing more than to be different than his old man, who was irked every time a family member commented that his countenance and even his mannerisms reminded them of his father, now shared one other trait with his dad.
He became a baseball fan. And a Phillies-phile.
Times change. Some other things don’t. Last Sunday, I spent much of the day with my son, capping a week that will be long remembered by many fathers and sons.
I told him that when he gets older, he likely will remember exactly what he was doing at times like these. Just as his dad does.
Oh, and he likely will remember the day for one other reason. The boy who never liked baseball will always remember that the Phillies won the National League East crown on his 18th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Sean.
Philip E. Heron is editor of the Daily Times. Call him at (610) 622-8818. E-mail him at editor@delcotimes.com. To visit his daily blog, the Heron’s Nest, go to www3.allaroundphilly.com/blogs/delcotimes/philh/blog.html.
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