That Old Time Philadelphia Feeling

While the debate rages on as to whether today is "the most depressing day of the year", it certainly feels like it. I'm probably as bummed and irritable as those old dudes that pregamed Saturday's Eagles loss in a hot tub with a bottle of Wild Turkey - you know, the season finale that made Nick Foles and an entire city yelp, "I'm hurting inside right now in my heart".

That Philadelphia feeling. It's so familiar.

If I'm lucky, I won't have to drain a hot tub full of tears and broken dreams later tonight. Hell, on the other hand, is set to freeze over as tomorrow's low temperatures may break some records. This is Philadelphia though, so why not root, root, root for the cold and bank on the opposite happening?

Bill Veeck once said that, "There are only two seasons - winter and baseball." Maybe that's a good thing in light of 2013 for the Phillies. Everyone needs time to recover and get back on track, next season's team of grumpy old men included. As for me, I've been looking to baseball past and trying not to take things too seriously in the new year.

Enter Curt Schilling of the 1989 Orioles/the Christmas gift that keeps on giving:

Let's look at the line: 9.82 ERA, 15 IP, 16 ER, 10 BB, 4 K, 1 CS (Curt Stache)

Things didn't turn out so bad for Schill. He eventually traded in the stache for a mullet and a place in Philadelphia's hearts. He led the Phillies to upset the Braves in the '93 NLCS, earned himself Most Valuable Player honors, and prevented heartbreak for one more day by tossing a five-hit shutout in Game 5 of the World Series against Toronto. He even won three World Series on some other teams as an old man years later.

A lot of us may be hurting inside right now in our hearts because we'll be forced to contemplate the future of the Phillies soon. Perhaps the best way to pregame the 2014 season is drunk in a hot tub. I'm sure that's how the '93 Phillies would do it. Plus, it's not actually sad until the game's over.

The Old Main Drag

What do you call it when your heart gets broken three times in one night? In this town, usually May or October.

Philadelphia sports radio sounds like a crisis hotline right now with hints of Delilah After Dark. It's heartbroken caller after caller trying to piece together what went wrong. If only WIP could play Mr. Mister's "Broken Wings" for Gerry from Mount Laurel who's still not over Bryz scoring on himself or for poor Joe Blanton. :(=

Who's on your heart today? The Flyers? The Phillies? The 10 points in a quarter-9-8-76ers?

I still can't believe how ugly and well staggered the upsets were. There was no way out of not getting kicked repeatedly mob-style after the Flyers came up short. Change the channel. The Phillies are up 4-1 against the Mets and blow the lead after throwing the ball around the entire field like a bunch of Little Leaguers. Change the channel. The Sixers don't seal the deal in a game that's best summed up by some dude over at the 700 level as one in which "it seems like it's actually both teams that are losing but your team's losing the most."

While the Flyers have been asleep for weeks and hopes weren't high for the Sixers to begin with, the Phillies have been taking a toll on my heart since the beginning of April. Outside of their general lack of consistent offense and defense, the Phillies even managed to taint some of this season's best moments. They couldn't come through for Cliff Lee after he tossed ten shutout innings or for Chooch after he heard Doc calling in the air tonight and responded with seven RBIs.

I know I'm not the only one sad enough to dial Delilah on account of bad baseball. Nadine's been too bummed to blog since Ryan Howard fell over. Still, the same thoughts are relevant now: Did we do this to ourselves? Did we break our own hearts? And why are we going to do it again next year?

I don't know, but listening to songs about love, especially love lost, helps.

Everybody plays the fool sometimes, and more often than not in Philadelphia. I guess it just comes with the territory.

Harry, Whitey, and the Pizza Twins

Someone once told me that if you are born in Philadelphia, you will most likely die here. While I'm not sure if statistics can actually prove this, the thought of dying in Philadelphia led me to compile a list of things to do here before I die, a "Fuck it!" list. While I was actually born in Waterbury, CT, my visiting friends that were born in and will most likely die in Waterbury have described Philly as "Waterbury South" and "just a better Waterbury". Plus, I don't feel like I'm leaving any time soon.

So far, I've checked off a number of things on the list, none of which involve running up the Rocky steps or braving the lines at Pat's or Geno's - although, I've accidentally (drunkenly) done the latter in the past year. Twice.

While that first Sixers game I went to ended in over 100 points for Philly and free Big Macs for all, it will never beat my bike ride from my apartment in West Philly to Harry Kalas's grave site in Laurel Hill Cemetery. It wasn't the anniversary of HK's call of Matt Stairs' moon shot or the day the Phillies won the World Series. It was just a perfect kind of Sunday morning and the Phillies would be on later.

My favorite thing in the Harry Kalas Museum Exhibit, which is just one tiny room in a rickety house at the cemetery's entrance, was a Celebre's pizza box. Next to it was its story which is best summed up here in the speech HK gave when he was inducted into the Hall of Fame:

This is the ultimate honor in a game that I have loved since I was 10 years old thanks to Mickey Vernon. It’s very special to be inducted with the most acrobatic shortstop I ever saw play this beautiful game, Ozzie Smith, and the legendary Joe Falls from the Motor City. I now join my two partners with whom I worked when I first came to Philadelphia in 1971, By Saam and Richie Ashburn.

People ask me what it was like working with Richie. His Whiteness and I were together for 27 years, and it was such a joy. He not only brought to the booth baseball expertise, but also laughter. Whitey had a marvelous sense of humor. I remember doing games with him, and it would be getting late in the game, late in the evening, and Whitey would say on the air, “I wonder if the people at Celebre's Pizza are listening tonight?” Well, within 15 minutes, bang, pizzas are delivered to the radio booth.

This went on for a little while, and pretty soon Phillies management called him in, and they said, “Richie, Celebre's Pizza is not one of our sponsors. We can’t be giving them free plugs.” Now, we do do birthday and anniversary announcements on the air. So shortly after his meeting with the Philadelphia brass, it’s getting late again in the evening, and he’s getting hungry, he said. “Well, I have very special birthday wishes to send out tonight to the Celebre's twins, plain and pepperoni.”

I want to thank the Phillies for their undying support for the last 32 years. Especially to Bill Giles, who brought me to Philadelphia in 1971, the best professional move I ever made. To the players, coaches and managers over the years, one of the many beauties of this game is no matter how long you’ve been in it, you learn more about it every year, every day. Every year I see things on the field that I’ve never seen before. A feel for the game was learned from so many men in uniform I could not possibly name them all. But you know who you are, and I love you.

To the members of the media who have been so supportive over the years — my colleagues, the beat writers and columnists, the radio/TV productions staff and crews across the USA. To the scouts and general managers over the years who have shared their baseball knowledge and experience in hundreds of press rooms across America.

The love of my life, my wife, Eileen. My sons Todd, Brad and Kane. My stepdaughter, Kiki, my stepson, Travis, my stepgrandson, Cole. My brother, Jim, and his wife, Mary, and my nieces and nephews. Families sacrifice when their man is a baseball man. For seven months a year, we spend more time with our team than we do with our families. I thank you for being so understanding and supportive.

We come here to Cooperstown to laud our baseball heroes each year. But all of us laud America’s heroes from all walks of life whose selflessness is on display daily. Those that lay their lives on the line for our safety, you are in our hearts. There are some loved ones in heaven looking down on us today. Mom, Dad, Celia, Byrum, Whitey, Ray Shore, Art Perkins, Mike Capredo, I thank you. And to the most passionate sports fans in America, the Philadelphia fans. I have written a brief poem to you beautiful fans.

This is to the Philadelphia fan.
To laud your passion as best I can.

Your loyalty is unsurpassed.Be the Fightins in first or last. 

We come to the park each day,looking forward to another fray. 

Because we know you’ll be there,we know you really care. 

You give the opposing pitcher fitsbecause as one loyalist shouts, everybody hits.

To be sure in Philly, there might be some boos.Because you passionate fans, like the manager, hate to lose. 

Your reaction to the action on the field that you impart,spurs as broadcasters to call the game with enthusiasm and heart.

We feel your passion through and through.
Philadelphia fans, I love you.

And thank you all for sharing in a day that I will never forget. I love you. Thank you.

What a class act. Even though Harry Kalas passed away three years ago today, it's the retold stories, like that one about the pizza twins or where you heard that final out of the World Series called, that will keep this city thinking about him until the end. Thanks for all of the memories, HK.

Keep On, Keep On

It's Valentine's Day. Unfortunately, not everyone's going to be receiving a Chooch valentine this year. But, hey, that's okay. Philadelphia's a land of underdogs that have been known to come back approximately two out of every three times according to the movies.

That's good news for J-Roll's pal and new Phillies reliever, Dontrelle Willis. 2003's Rookie of the Year is coming off a 1-6 season with the Reds and a 5.00 ERA. Still, D-Train was pretty good against southpaw hitters in 2011, and is another pitcher that can hit! Let's just hope that he's feeling strong now. Word is he's been down in Clearwater for weeks.

Don't be another "bum from the neighborhood" this year. When life gets you down, be like Dontrelle Willis and the city of Philadelphia.... start a soul train.

The sky is the limit and I know that you can have what you want, be what you want

Happy Valentine's Day from the ladies of Scoring Position!

Update: The D-Train has left the station.

Lights Out Lidge

Wednesday, October 29th, 2008. Was it all a dream? Now that Brad Lidge has officially signed a one-year deal with the Washington Nationals, that final knees-to-the-ground, hands-to-the-sky World Series win against the Rays seems like a distant memory.

In his four seasons with the Phillies, Lidge racked up 100 saves, mostly thanks to that perfect 48-for-48 2008. While Lidge is "disappointed" that the Phillies are not keeping him around for another season, it's almost fitting that out of all of Game 5's strange heroes, he's the last to fade from the sandlot, Citizen's Bank Park, after giving Eric Hinske the slider.

Lidge's fate with Jayson Werth on the Phillies South doesn't seem so bad when you look at who else was partially responsible for that Game 5 win. When the game resumed that Wednesday, tied in the bottom of the sixth, Geoff Jenkins set the tone for paradin' with a lead off double, his only hit of the post-season, and was later scored by Werth. The Rays then quickly retied the game in the top of the seventh only to have Pat Burrell lead off the bottom of the seventh with another double. Eric Bruntlett, pinch-running for Pat the Bat, was then scored on a game-winning single by Pedro Feliz.

Where are they now? Pat Burrell went on to play the role of "The Machine" for Brian Wilson. Eric Bruntlett, whose batting average was often announced on a local radio show whenever it was, give or take 10 minutes, around 2:15 P.M. BST (Bruntlett Standard Time), is now kickin' it as a stay-at-home dad. And Pedro Feliz spent last summer across the bridge playing ball for the Camden Riversharks, a team not affiliated with the MLB, but affiliated with a mascot known as Mr. Trash.

As for Lidge, he's earned himself a certain level of respect/free-drinks-until-you-die in Philadelphia because of 2008 - he and the anxiety that so easily forced another round of drinks on an entire city whenever he put runners on base in the ninth only to strike out the last batter with his slider. Even in Game 5, he quickly gave up a single and a stolen base only to "lights out" Hinske. It makes you wonder if Philly losing Lidge will offset the revenue that's expected to be generated from the proposed plan of keeping bars open one hour later to fund the city's schools. No one gave the city agita like Brad Lidge. He kept us nervous, and it made everything more exciting. On that note, I'd like to end with something I jotted down in an old notebook on "October 16, 2009":

I had my first “Lights Out” Lidge shot last night. A glass of Jim Beam slid down the bar and unexpectedly slowed to a stop in front of me. The guy to my right, covered in Phillies red from head to toe, looked deep into my eyes and shouted, “Lights Out Lidge! C’mon, lady!” We hit our glasses on the bar, cheersed, and Brad Lidge successfully closed out Game 1 of the NLCS against the Dodgers.

Brad Lidge, I will think of you every time that nervous knot forms in the pit of my stomach, the one that's only quieted by one more beer or an end of the night shot with some random stranger who works at the airport.

Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.

I Leave My Heart To Ben Francisco

It's bound to go by the end of this series if you keep this up, Fightins. Thank you, Ben, for coming through with RISP and for not being Ross Gload in the top of the seventh. Thank you, Cole, for bringing your game face. Thank you, Mad Dog, for finally getting Ryan Theriot to ground out to end the ninth. I'm halfway to a heart condition and it's only round one. This tune probably best describes the strange trip the Phillies took me on in the last three innings of their nail biting 3-2 victory over the Cards:

What a game! What a birthday present for Tony LaRussa. Let's just hope that it won't be Charlie's turn to cry anytime soon. Some dude in a bar probably said it best when he said, "October? That's when the whole city will start inhaling and exhaling together."

It's time to exhale. Have a beer. Put on some Hall and Oates. Whatever works. We've got an important game to win tomorrow.

The Sound and Soul of Philadelphia

On this day in 1974, "TSOP (The Sound of Philadelphia)" by MFSB featuring the Three Degrees hit No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100—brought to my attention by this A.V. Club article written by my good friend Kate. You know, the theme song from the television show Soul Train that's also played at CBP before the start of every home game? Yeah, this jam:


After reading Kate's description of the tune, it's hard not to draw parallels between Philly soul and our current team of Fightin' Phils:

Though vocals appear on the track twice—The Three Degrees sing “People all over the world!” a few times near the beginning, echoing “Love Train,” and then chorus “Let’s get it on/It’s time to get down” during the fadeout—the focus is clearly on the instruments, which is exactly what made Philly soul special. The lack of a standard frontman crooning in the spotlight was a microcosm of the scene at the time—its strength was cooperation and collaboration.

While mathematics predicts that we will have one of the best four-man pitching rotations in MLB history :(=, recent history suggests that "Chooooooooch is clutch," and my memory tells me that Ryan Howard looks awesome in these goggles, it's difficult to come up with a "standard frontman" for the Phillies. Pretty much everyone has been important so far. The focus is clearly on the instruments, which is exactly what makes our current Phillies team so special.

That's not to discount the role of the city in helping produce a groove that works - like what the Funkadelic talk about in their One Nation Under a Groove album, which even ends with a song called "Cholly (Funk Getting Ready To Roll!)." (It's like George Clinton foresaw the makeup of Uncle Cholly's present day Phillies!) While sitting outside a coffee shop in my neighborhood the other day, I overheard an interesting conversation about just this point—cities, like people and Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, have soul too. This is all secondhand coffee talk, but I couldn't help but be intrigued by this dude's theory that how much soul a city has depends on two things: how many people from a city still live there to have memories about the city and how neurotically-obsessed people are with their city.

The fact that the Sound of Philadelphia is still honored on CBP's speakers taken with the current paranoia brewing among Phillies fans about when it's okay and not okay to boo can't help but make me think that Philadelphia has the most soul of all.

Philadelphia Fillies

Happy Opening Day to the Phillies from Del Reeves and the ladies of Scoring Position:

While this song is really about Philly babes Del Reeves "batted a thousand with" and not the beloved Phils, I'd like to think that what Del's trying to articulate in his comparison of "Fillies" to hot twins from Minnesota and "cuddly cubbies" from Chicago is that there's truly something special about Philadelphia. So maybe I've been drinking too much of that Schuylkill punch, but I love that opening day's a holiday here. I love that the window displays of South Philly are decorated with bobbleheads and that I've been awake since 4:30 this morning in anticipation of the arrival of Uncle Charlie and the boys. Let's just hope that it's a happy Halladay for Fillies everywhere as Doc kicks off this much-anticipated season against Brett Myers and the Astros at 1:05 ET. Check out today's lineup here. Go Phils! Go baseball!

The Best Fans in America

For those who haven't heard the "news," GQ named Philadelphia fans "the worst fans in America." Eagles fans placed #2 to Phillies fans who took the cake... or ate the cake, had a couple beers, and threw it up all over April's issue of GQ while whipping a persistent stream of batteries at it. I know, I know. What do a bunch of pretty boys at GQ know about sports? Probably nothing. It still makes me angry when "journalists" don't do their research and churn out the same old stereotypes about Philadelphia. Here's their superficial and flawed logic about what constitutes a fan (and don't forget click the issue with Derek Jeter on the cover in the upper left corner if you want to start your subscription):

Over the years, Philadelphia fans have booed Santa Claus as well as their own star players. They've even booed a guy who just helped the city win a friggin' World Series title—while he was getting his ring. Boooo! Admittedly, there are some things fans have cheered. Like Michael Irvin's career-ending neck injury and a fan being tased on the outfield grass. Things reached their nadir last season, when Citizens Bank Park played host to arguably the most heinous incident in the history of sports: A drunken fan intentionally vomited on an 11-year-old girl. The truth is this: All told, Philadelphia stadiums house the most monstrous collection of humanity outside of the federal penal system. "Some of these people would boo the crack in the Liberty Bell," baseball legend Pete Rose once said. More likely, these savages would have thrown the battery that cracked it.

Google image search result #1: Phillies fans

It seems like the author of this article has it out for the City of Brotherly Love, for "savages" like me and Nadine. The fans I know and love are some of the best and most loyal fans on earth, and that's a "most loyal" based on science and being able to count the Phillies caps while walking around the city on any given day. I want to argue further but I haven't had any coffee yet, and this dude's reaction pretty much sums up everything I would have wanted to say:

I think the worst fans are the ones that don't boo. These are professional athletes, not kids. They are paid to do this. We should expect everything from the Phillies. We buy tickets, jerseys, and hats. We read about the Phillies year round. We get excited every March when baseball season approaches. Is it so wrong to voice our opinions? I'm glad I am part of a city that cares so much about their teams. Let's face the facts. Phillies fans aren't any more misbehaved than other passionate fans in Chicago, New York, and Boston. If GQ wants to find fans to call the worst, they should look at a city where no one shows up at the ballpark. Philadelphia Phillies fans line up every game to get the last few standing-room-only tickets. Contrary to what the media might say, we aren't buying tickets just to boo our team. We are doing it because we love the Phillies, we love the ballpark, and we love baseball. We are the best fans in America. We show up to every game, read every article, call the local stations, and watch every game on television. Yes, we are loud. That's what comes with being a passionate fan.

Feel free to get all nostalgic about your favorite fan moments in the comments.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Phillies Fan

It was on my mind this morning as my mouse hovered over the "Buy Now" button on the MLB.TV Premium subscription page. About to drop a benjamin on a season-long subscription, I wondered why there isn't another way for me to watch the Phillies play from my home in New York City—a place to gather with fellow fans, a place with seats and without judgment or fake Yankee fans or creepy waiters accusing me of being straight edge for no reason. A place to fill the hole in my life that opened up when I moved here and stopped watching every single Phillies game of the season. But so far, it's been a struggle.

The answer should be easy. There's my first favorite bar in New York, the one that felt most instantly like home, primarily because the owner is a Phillies fan from Atlantic City. Sadly, profits are more crucial to him than loyalties and—come the 2009 World Series—he instantly jumped ship to the Yanks, telling me "the best thing that could happen to me would be for this to go seven games and the Phillies to win." That way, he could show his heart at the very last minute without alienating any customers (except me) before. Understandable? From a financial point of view, yes, almost. Acceptable? Definitely not.

I did have some good times there before the Phils faced the Yankees. Like when a creepy old man told me I was emasculating him with my baseball knowledge, then asked to buy me a beer to celebrate the Phils' win in the 2009 NLCS. "I should be buying you champagne," he said, as we watched Ryan Howard pop a bottle of it. "Well," I raised my bottle of Miller High Life to him and said, "it is the Champagne of Beers."

We also have what should be an easy option in the form of Wogies, the semi-official Phillies bar here in NYC. Unfortunately, my experiences with it have generally sucked. It says a lot that the best time I've ever had there was standing outside on the sidewalk, not being let into the bar. There was the time, soon after I moved to Brooklyn in 2009, when I went there alone to watch Game 3 of the World Series. I remember hopping off the F train, running around, getting lost in the West Village like I got lost all over my new city then, running some more, finding the bar and getting turned away by the doorman. The place was full. They sent me to a non-Phillies bar across the street where the Red Hot Chili Peppers were drowning out the sound of the game that no one else was watching anyway.

Then there was the time I went to see a taping of the Daily Show, itching in my seat for the show to be over so I could check the score of NLDS Game 1. Roy Halladay was pitching. I had a broken foot. Immediately after the show ended, I hopped outside and checked the headlines on my phone. "Phillies' Roy Halladay Takes No-Hitter Into 6th Inning of NLDS." How I felt in that moment was pretty much inexpressible, so let me just say: !!!!!!!!!

I jumped into a cab and was in the West Village quicker than should've been possible. But again, Wogies was full. Rather than pay for drinks somewhere else, we decided to watch the rest of game through the window, me standing on one foot. A crowd of broke misfits gathered on the street, including a girl I went to high school with and had barely seen since. Which just goes to show that, when you're born and raised in Philadelphia, the entire world is a surreal small town populated by rapid sports fans. In the end, it was a magical night on the street in New York City and a magical night for baseball, too. But I really would've liked to sit down.

Because I am seemingly incapable of learning my lesson when it comes to the place, I gave Wogies one last try at the opening of the 2010 NLCS. A pal and I got there early and snagged a booth. A waiter quickly swooped on us and said that we needed to find at least two more people to maintain occupancy of the booth and, furthermore, we couldn't sit there since we "weren't planning to drink." As he continued to ramble, it became clear he'd made the weird assumption that we were straight edge, or at the very least, that we inexplicably didn't drink beer. Haven't you ever, um, read this blog, dude? "Uh, no, we're into drinking," I told him. While that did convince him to let us sit there long enough to drink some Lager and eat some garbage bread, the judgment issued upon the two of us sitting alone in that large, comfy booth was thick in the air. And, eventually, K. told me he wasn't planning to hang out for the whole game anyway.

I don't know who my friends even are sometimes.

See, the thing I miss most about Philadelphia on the occasional days when I get deeply homesick for it is the lack of distinction between total weirdos and people who like sports. While in New York it seems people still suffer from an irrational fear that anyone who knows what ERA stands for will beat them up and break their glasses, in Philadelphia it's basically assumed that, if you have a pulse (and even if you don't), you're a raging baseball fan. That's why the Ramones may be from Queens, but my Ramones t-shirt says PHILLIES on it. METS would look lame, and not really make sense. Plus they don't have four names worth putting on it (zing!).

I don't think it's too much to ask to be able to watch baseball without being surrounded by investment banker bros eating cheesesteaks and fist-pumping to that Black Eyed Peas song that makes me want to kill myself. And maybe for a friend or two who would care to watch with me without being forced or going home before it's over (and it's not over until it's over). And, please baseball gods, maybe it could be walking distance from my building?

So here's a note to East Village bar owners: maybe you should invest in a TV and start showing some baseball. Really, you don't have to choose between playing sports and playing music that doesn't totally blow. I promise you a certain cadre of Philly ex-pats will love you for it. I mean: if you build it, we will come. Until then, I'll be sitting home with a six-pack, laptop, and my MLB.TV subscription, waving a rally towel, judgment-free.

Dream Job for Everyday People

Baseball fanatic? Check! Engaging, fun personality? It depends on the audience, but check!!! (Note the number of fun exclamation points.) Desire to spend an entire year thinking about baseball? I thought caring about baseball was ingrained into the human experience, so I guess that's a check for me and every other human being on earth.

Lucky for all us baseballfolk, MLB.com will be giving one person the opportunity to "eat, sleep, and live baseball" this season. Click here if you're interested in living the American dream. Nadine and I would apply, but we mainly work pro bono. Plus, we're holding out for an opportunity to get paid to "drink, sleep, and live baseball." Scratch that. I'm now being told that Nadine promised her mom that she'd apply, so I'm going to continue to wait for a paid opportunity to "drink, sleep, and live baseball" while routing for Team Vassallo. Go Nadine!

While the "responsibilities" listed on the website are in large part awesome—going to baseball games, developing basic thoughts, and partying in the big leagues—it does seem like taking the job would require selling your soul to Major League Baseball. That is, if you haven't done so already. The job requires living "in a location picked by MLB in New York City for the entire baseball season." Call me a skeptic, but who knows where the MLB gods would keep you? I, for one, am imagining lying awake every night in a dimly-lit room covered in portraits of A-Rod centaurs, kept up by disembodied voices telling me to build things. Other than that, I'd agree with the MLB. Total dream job.

I just hope that some deserving diehard baseball fan like me, Nadine, or you wins out over some kissass Joe Buck type with the look and the voice. You know, everyday people:



The only thing that could make this better, or at least more entertaining, is if next year the MLB decides to assign a bunch of local diehards as broadcasters for the teams they grew up with.

Different strokes for different folks and so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby.

It makes you wonder what the face of the Phillies would look like—or worse, what it would sound like. I'm thinking the owner of my favorite neighborhood bar or Sonny Forriest Jr.

The Jumboest of Trons

The Phillies recently spent $10 million to enhance the CBP viewing experience. This will include the installation one of the largest HD jumbotrons in the entire world. I'm told that it could feature 49 life-size Phanatics or 49 vomiting Phillies fans or some combination of the two. Yikes!

You know what that means, Philthadelphia, City of Uggos. Our ugly's going to broadcast in HD this year! Who knows if you'll be forced to smooch that old dude that smells like provolone on the Kiss Cam again? Or how much uglier things could get if the Jumbotron catches you alone in the bleachers crying with a faceful of crab fries to "All By Myself"?

Keep it classy, Philadelphia.

Funner

Lest we forget the Great Doctor and Cy Young Collector Harry Leroy "Roy" Halladay III. What better day to raise a glass to Doc than on a day for baseball heroes everywhere?

Last week, the Daily News named Doc Sportsperson of 2010, just shortly after he was named runner up for "the man" by Sports Illustrated. But, hey. There's always next year. From the Daily News article:

"Here's what I never realized about Philly," Halladay said. "You always hear that they're tough fans and they boo everybody and this and that. But you really don't realize what good sports fans they are. It's not like every other city where certain people show up just to boo. There are people all over the city who are really drawn to the sports teams there. It's unlike any place I've ever been in before."

Halladay loved Toronto. To this day, Toronto still loves him. But that town, like most others, is a place of diverse interests, a melting pot of cultures from around the globe. "There are certain parts of New York where you'll hit some Yankee fans," Halladay said. "But it's not everybody.

"In Philly, it always feels as if it's everybody."

Thanks, Doc. For everything.

Hearts On Fire, Strong Desire

I miss you, Philadelphia. Since I moved in with you just five short years ago, my childhood bedroom in Connecticut has slowly morphed into a storage room for old perfume bottles, partially rewound VHS tapes, and terrible CDs from the mid to late 90s. It's kind of like the box of stuff you'd return to an ex if you hadn't taken a baseball bat to it first. Someone even tacked up a 1999 World Series pennant in here. The Yanks walloped the Braves in four games that year, while '99 for the Phils went from "promising to disastrous in the blink of an eye" (probably explains why it was also the year those batteries were thrown).

So as I sit here, in the room of my former self, awaiting this week's return to the land of late night pretzels, mummers, and these guys, I'm forced to reconcile with the fact that I once rooted for the team that won the pennant in 1999, the same team that beat the Phils in the 2009 World Series and that Cliff Lee didn't want to play for next season. But, hey. I had no choice. I was born into a Yankees family from central Connecticut, a no mans land for professional sports. (That is, since the Whalers left in 1997, and despite how much Connecticut folks still talk about missing the Whale and their sweet logo, I was always under the impression that they considered UCONN more of a pro team.)

I stopped caring about the Yankees and baseball at some point in the early 2000s when everyone got really into drinking steroid cocktails and bathing themselves in money (here's to you, Jason Giambi). Before that, I saw the Yanks as any kid saw the team they grew up with, as a bunch of good dudes that enjoyed the game - dudes like young Andy Pettitte, acoustic guitarist Bernie Williams, and old man Paul O'Neill that always got up to bat with the biggest smile on to "Baba O'Riley" by the Who. When I moved to Philadelphia in 2005, most of the good dudes were gone and I found myself without a team and no longer able to relate to the Yankees or New York. That's where Philadelphia came in, and shortly after my move, I officially dumped the pretty boy Yanks for the working class Phils, Steff from Pretty in Pink for Rocky.

That's not to say that I grew up not caring about the Phillies or hating the Mets. My family was a bigger fan of baseball than they were of the Yankees, and in '99 we payed close attention to the Phillies because of one player that grew up close to my hometown named Rico Brogna. Check out Rico as a baby.

Rico mysteriously disappeared from baseball two years after what was a pretty good year with the Phils and inexplicably ended up at my high school coaching football. I really want to make a Gerardo joke here, probably because "Rico Suave" would play in my head whenever Brogna and I crossed paths. I imagine that this happens to every girl that crosses paths with a dude lucky enough to be a Rico after 1990. Ah, "the price you pay for being a gigolo", but I digress.

I guess the point in all of this girl talk about dudes that play baseball, the good, the bad, and the suave, is that Rico was the first player that turned me on to Philadelphia. He was kind of like that dude that made you a great mix tape when you were fifteen and too stupid to know good music yet. When I moved to Philadelphia without a team in 2005, the rest was history. I found myself quickly falling in love with another team of good dudes that enjoyed the game. Jimmy and Chase and Ryan and Shane.

Sure, there are other great moments worth mentioning here that made me love the Phillies. Like that time an entire bar erupted into "High Hopes" after the Phillies beat the Reds in Game 2 of the NL Series this year. Or that time I was hanging out of a car on Broad Street screaming my lungs out about baseball and Tastykakes. We all have these moments, but ultimately the strong desire for the Phils that raged within, to paraphrase a song from Rocky IV, stemmed from my love for a bunch of good dudes like Rico.

Like blogging partner and fellow babe, Nadine, I'm a person that does not have any inside information on the Phillies. I'm a transplant to the city for Pete's sake. I'm just glad I didn't get kicked out yet. However, I do find myself constantly reading, posting, and sharing information about the Phillies, and until I figure out how to use my college degree in cognitive neuroscience to better understand why people love baseball as much as I do, I'll be doing this.

I originally wanted to make a Phillies blog titled "My Boyfriend, Charlie Manuel" in which I'd write about the Phillies from the perspective of Charlie Manuel's girlfriend - making him sleep on the couch during losing streaks and cooking him the juiciest of steaks after climbing space mountain to beat the Yankees. This just seemed a lot easier.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Until I see you later this week, Philadelphia, remember to keep checking the mail:

DEAR PHILADELPHIA,

YOU ARE... THIS IS...
I PROMISED MYSELF I WOULDN'T GET CHOKED UP.
I LOVE YOU.

XOXO,

LAUREN

Philly's More Fun When You Don't Sleep Over Every Night

Since moving to New York last year (after 25 years in our nation's former capital), I've said this line so many times I couldn't begin to count: "the only thing I miss about Philadelphia is the Phillies." And, like, my family, I guess. Or whatever. As far as I'm concerned, the city is otherwise a hateful place I can barely stand to spend a weekend in.

So naturally, it's mad weird to see Cliff Lee's decision to re-sign with the Phils as not just awesome for the team that now has four aces and for its fans and, y'know, me (as Cliff Lee's girlfriend) but also as the giant advertising campaign for the city itself that it's rapidly becoming. CLIFF LEE IS THE COOLEST MAN ON THE PLANET. AND A TOTAL BABE. DUH. OK YEA, I OBVIOUSLY GET IT. But does Philadelphia really deserve the great press it's trying to give itself on the basis of Cliff & Kristen Lee's desire to live there? (See: this billboard from the city's lame Tourism Marketing Corporation, going up on I-95, or Phil Sheridan's piece in today's Daily News, arguing that the Lees' attraction to the city "proves" that—in the immortal words of SEPTA—we're getting there. In fact, as of yesterday's 3pm press conference, we've officially arrived.) So the Lees are multi-millionaires who enjoy the view from a Rittenhouse Square penthouse. Doesn't really change the fact that the Philadelphia I know and sometimes almost sort of love (or at least will defend when someone else shit-talks it) is best represented by the creepily-accurate portrayal on It's Always Sunny or maybe the chorus to Kanye West's "Runaway." LET'S HAVE A TOAST FOR THE DOUCHEBAGS!

Nevertheless, it was rad to see some appreciation come the way of Philly sports fans that doesn't have anything to do with our ability to accurately aim D batteries at Santa Claus. Lee did a great job of explaining what I love about being a Phillies fan and going to games at CBP:

Every game has got an elevated feel to it compared to everywhere else. It’s completely different. I don’t know what the fans do to create that much more volume and excitement in the stadium, but it’s definitely something extra here... They’re passionate fans. They understand what’s going on. They don’t need a teleprompter to tell them to get up and cheer... I don’t know how to explain it other than you can feel the volume that’s created by the fans and their intensity.

I wouldn't wanna live there, but it's a great place to visit. And then run away from as soon as possible.

Before I conclude this introductory blog post, I'd like to spend a little more time actually introducing it. I am a person who is bored at work and started this blog mainly to kill some time, up the Phillies punx, and maybe make jokes and post animated Cliff Lee gifs. I don't have access to any breaking news that hasn't already broke and, for the most part, I lack the attention span to look through a lot of statistics.

I will be joined in this adventure by Lauren, a transplant to Philadelphia who truly digs the city and its baseball team and would totally date Charlie Manuel. We hope you'll enjoy our alternative viewpoints on the Philadelphia Phillies.

You know you love us. Xoxo.