9:58 p.m.
It was at that moment that the torch was passed. And the curse was broken.
Twenty-eight years ago it was Tug McGraw throwing his famous “Peggy Lee” fastball (Is That All There Is?) past Willie Wilson.
Last night it was a mirror image, with a similar swing and a miss from the Tampa Bay Rays’ Eric Hinske on an offering from Brad Lidge.
Carlos Ruiz squeezed the ball, and a city and region erupted.
What followed was a little like popping the cork on a bottle of champagne. And there was plenty of that going on as well.
The Phillies were World Champions. The curse was broken. .The drought is over. We’re winners.
Phinally!
You can make a legitimate argument that we pay entire too much attention to these silly games designed for little boys but played by millionaire men.
But that would ignore the fiber that unites us as a community. At 9:58 last night we were not a city or suburbs, black or white, rich or poor, blue collar or white collar, Republican or Democrat.
We were sports fans. Slightly crazed sports fans, but ones whose hearts were beating as one.
For 25 years we had waited, sometimes patiently and at times not so patiently, to be led out of the wilderness.
More than once we were led to the edge, only to get another dagger in the heart.
We heard about Billy Penn and his displeasure of seeing skyscrapers rise above the brim of his hat from his perch atop City Hall.
We looked inside ourselves to some character fault, for some reason to explain 25 years of losing.
The truth is there was no real reason, other than the fact that more times than not we simply lost to better teams.
Our frustrations grew, matched only by the bile in our stomachs. We manifested this yearning for something other than a kick in the gut in our own traditional way.
We booed.
Yes, we once even let Santa Claus know he did not exactly come up to our standards.
We watched a parade of athletes come and go, lining their pockets but failing to deliver us from our pain.
We tore down one stadium, built several others.
But still we did not win a title.
Until last night.
At 9:58 p.m., a quarter century of angst, 100 seasons of losing dissipated. The drought is over. We drank from the cup of victory. Liberally.
Anyone ready for a parade?
It was at that moment that the torch was passed. And the curse was broken.
Twenty-eight years ago it was Tug McGraw throwing his famous “Peggy Lee” fastball (Is That All There Is?) past Willie Wilson.
Last night it was a mirror image, with a similar swing and a miss from the Tampa Bay Rays’ Eric Hinske on an offering from Brad Lidge.
Carlos Ruiz squeezed the ball, and a city and region erupted.
What followed was a little like popping the cork on a bottle of champagne. And there was plenty of that going on as well.
The Phillies were World Champions. The curse was broken. .The drought is over. We’re winners.
Phinally!
You can make a legitimate argument that we pay entire too much attention to these silly games designed for little boys but played by millionaire men.
But that would ignore the fiber that unites us as a community. At 9:58 last night we were not a city or suburbs, black or white, rich or poor, blue collar or white collar, Republican or Democrat.
We were sports fans. Slightly crazed sports fans, but ones whose hearts were beating as one.
For 25 years we had waited, sometimes patiently and at times not so patiently, to be led out of the wilderness.
More than once we were led to the edge, only to get another dagger in the heart.
We heard about Billy Penn and his displeasure of seeing skyscrapers rise above the brim of his hat from his perch atop City Hall.
We looked inside ourselves to some character fault, for some reason to explain 25 years of losing.
The truth is there was no real reason, other than the fact that more times than not we simply lost to better teams.
Our frustrations grew, matched only by the bile in our stomachs. We manifested this yearning for something other than a kick in the gut in our own traditional way.
We booed.
Yes, we once even let Santa Claus know he did not exactly come up to our standards.
We watched a parade of athletes come and go, lining their pockets but failing to deliver us from our pain.
We tore down one stadium, built several others.
But still we did not win a title.
Until last night.
At 9:58 p.m., a quarter century of angst, 100 seasons of losing dissipated. The drought is over. We drank from the cup of victory. Liberally.
Anyone ready for a parade?
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