Let the football season begin.
Red October has turned into Dread November.
Instead of painting the town red, we instead are seriously blue.
I’m not really sure why.
The Yankees are the world champions. It’s not the first time. It was, however, the first time a team was making a bid to win back-to-back world titles in decades.
But there will be no parade down Broad Street this year. They will convene instead on Broadway.
This will be the most un-Philadelphia thing to do. Or maybe it’s actually precisely Philadelphia.
I don’t feel all that bad this morning. Instead I choose to salute the Phils, despite failing to repeat as champions.
Do I wish maybe Charlie Manuel had given J.A. Happ a chance to start one game, preferably last night? Sure. It was clear last night after one pitch – clocked at 84 mph – that Pedro Martinez was a shell of the pitcher that once struck fear into opposing batters. I imagine Yankees hitters were falling all over themselves as they grabbed bats and lined up to take their whacks against their old nemesis.
I come not to bury the Phils, but instead salute them.
Thet gave us a great ride. It starts when we are still wearing long underwear and heavy coats. The Phillies’ arrival in South Florida means a rebirth, and the hope that spring can’t be far behind.
This year they took something else with them to Clearwater, a World Series Trophy.
Winter gives way to spring. Spring to summer. Summer to fall. Through it all there is baseball.
This year, we lost not only our bid to root home a second straight title, we also lost our “voice.”
In early April, Harry Kalas died. For many of us, he was the “voice of summer,” a trusted companion whose lilting baritone carried us through summer nights, along with the chirping of the crickets. Slowly but surely, I’m beginning to hear Scott Franzke and Larry Anderson in the same way. Just the sound of their voice warms me, reminds me of hot, muggy sweltering summer nights with my trusted radio sitting on the porch.
The Phils honored Kalas, in particular with their play on the field.
They raced to the front of the National League East and never looked back.
I see no reason why they will not do the same next year. Their nucleus is solid. Surely Cole Hamels and Brad Lidge will rebound.
It is now time for fall, and winter can’t be far behind. Red October gives way on the calendar to Gang Green.
A Philly fan can be left with only one thought: Hey, how ‘bout dem Iggles.
And a Phillie fan can be left with only this: How many days until spring training? And can summer be far behind?
Red October has turned into Dread November.
Instead of painting the town red, we instead are seriously blue.
I’m not really sure why.
The Yankees are the world champions. It’s not the first time. It was, however, the first time a team was making a bid to win back-to-back world titles in decades.
But there will be no parade down Broad Street this year. They will convene instead on Broadway.
This will be the most un-Philadelphia thing to do. Or maybe it’s actually precisely Philadelphia.
I don’t feel all that bad this morning. Instead I choose to salute the Phils, despite failing to repeat as champions.
Do I wish maybe Charlie Manuel had given J.A. Happ a chance to start one game, preferably last night? Sure. It was clear last night after one pitch – clocked at 84 mph – that Pedro Martinez was a shell of the pitcher that once struck fear into opposing batters. I imagine Yankees hitters were falling all over themselves as they grabbed bats and lined up to take their whacks against their old nemesis.
I come not to bury the Phils, but instead salute them.
Thet gave us a great ride. It starts when we are still wearing long underwear and heavy coats. The Phillies’ arrival in South Florida means a rebirth, and the hope that spring can’t be far behind.
This year they took something else with them to Clearwater, a World Series Trophy.
Winter gives way to spring. Spring to summer. Summer to fall. Through it all there is baseball.
This year, we lost not only our bid to root home a second straight title, we also lost our “voice.”
In early April, Harry Kalas died. For many of us, he was the “voice of summer,” a trusted companion whose lilting baritone carried us through summer nights, along with the chirping of the crickets. Slowly but surely, I’m beginning to hear Scott Franzke and Larry Anderson in the same way. Just the sound of their voice warms me, reminds me of hot, muggy sweltering summer nights with my trusted radio sitting on the porch.
The Phils honored Kalas, in particular with their play on the field.
They raced to the front of the National League East and never looked back.
I see no reason why they will not do the same next year. Their nucleus is solid. Surely Cole Hamels and Brad Lidge will rebound.
It is now time for fall, and winter can’t be far behind. Red October gives way on the calendar to Gang Green.
A Philly fan can be left with only one thought: Hey, how ‘bout dem Iggles.
And a Phillie fan can be left with only this: How many days until spring training? And can summer be far behind?
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