Journal of researches into the natural habitat of Philadelphia denizens, with observations on their attire and habits at a Tuesday night baseball match. By the Right Honorable Delegate from the Helvetic Communities, Baroness Mlle. M. Pierre Joyet of Chesaux-sur-Lausanne.Part 1. My companion, the lovely and always pleasant Lady L. Mancuso, of the Waterbury Mancusos, instructed me to acquire the proper attire before the match's start. This feat was easily accomplished as the Green Country Towne of Philadelphia is rife with tailors eager to sell their ready-to-wear cloaks. Mr. Modell accommodated me in my search for the most appropriate shirtwaist. I settled on a bright red cloth, embroidered with an exaltation to one Mr. Clifton Phifer Lee. Mr. Modell assured me that this was a most common practice and that I would indeed blend well into the crowd of more than 40,000 that evening. Donning my newly purchased attire, I was ready to descend into the bowels of the subterranean train system to the southern most tip of the county.Part 2. Emerging from the Subterranean Eastern Proletariat Train Access -- SEPTA, as the more brutish Philadelphians colorfully call it -- is always a breath-taking experience. Climbing the staircase to the top, Lady Mancuso and I were joined by what seemed like one thousand similarly dressed Philadelphians. Like some sort of ancient Inca ritual, we marched toward the behemoth brick building, which has been recently erected generously by the Citizens Trading Company, as a gift to the Great Towne. The Kind Lady and I were quickly engulfed in a sea of red-clothed sportsfans. For a moment, I was worried that two unchaperoned Ladies would meet a most unfortunate end in such rough waters, but Lady Mancuso once again assured me that we were safe as houses in this jovial crowd. Indeed! I spied many children, running through the crowd, laughing and eating Candy Floss to their hearts content.Part 3. The hole where the Spectrum Arena used to stand is oddly shocking. It reminds this traveler of the rubble of the Berlin Wall in the days following its fall in late October of the previous century. A chain-link fence surrounds the space, but the stairs to the defunct area remain, beckoning passers-by to stare into its abyss. Some of the more inebriated sports-fans attempted to climb the fence in a futile attempt to, once again, pray at the alter of their great Hockey team. Their efforts were soundly thwarted by the local constabularies, armed with whistles and pointed fingers.Part 4. Once inside the park, Lady Mancuso proclaimed a great need for Lager. As in most places in the Americas, the ale of choice is a mild, clear Lager, made locally by a Mr. Yuengling and his sons. We quickly found our well appointed seats, which only twenty-seven rows from the field of play! Settling into my chair, I greeted the young boy next to me, who shyly slinked back into the embrace of his Red-Festooned guardian. Salty, roasted peanuts are one of the common treats sold and eaten at such events. Wanting to partake in any local fare, I did not hesitate when a Nut Wench offered a generous bag of these snacks for a mere pittance. As my companion and I sipped our Lagers and degusted the peanuts, the gentlemen players took to the field.Part 5. The seats on our left were occupied by a decidedly rougher element. Two gentlemen sat down next to the Lady and I only a few minutes after our initial entry. They introduced themselves as “The Musketeer” and “Ron” -- they did not mention from where they hailed; I suspect they were sailors on shore leave. Being moderate gentlemen, they each offered the Lady and I Lager. I followed local custom and accepted the offer, though I never would have done so were my father present! After much revelry, I warmed to their jocular sense of humor and even recounted a funny tale of my own.Part 6. As far as this, admittedly naive, spectator could tell, there exists no great rivalry between the Philadelphia Phillies and the Milwaukee Brewers, the opposing team on this fine Tuesday evening. The starting pitcher for the night was the much beloved Mr. Harry Leroy "Roy" Halladay III, who hails from the Colorado Territories. His catcher, as the game requires, was the diminutive Mr. Carlos Ruiz. Normally a dramatically winning combination, Messrs. Halladay and Ruiz, and the rest of the Gentlemen Phillies, failed to gain a victory for the home team. The young boy to my right prophesied a 9-0 win for the Brewers. Me thinks this more than a hat trick and the young man should enter the circus as a brilliant deviner, even if he does have Cassandra-like qualities.
Speaking of Brian Schneider, do you think if I followed him home after the game, he'd lead me to a pot of gold? Looks like a leprechaun to me! Who else sees the leprechaun? Say yeah!!!!! |
| Apologies to Roy O, who is from Mississippi, not Alabama |
Charles Schwab and Rich Dubee getting Roy O'd—still funny after all these beers. We should probably have a Photoshop contest now of different people getting Roy O'd, if someone hasn't done that already.
Everybody's talkin' about it. With Werth on the Nats next season, who's going to take over in right field? I've read it all. Ben Francisco with hints of Ross Gload? John Mayberry Jr.? That lovable newbie Domonic Brown? The boy did receive a standing ovation from the crowd at CBP prior to his first major league at bat and his later major league strikeouts. (Plus, people really loved him as Eddie Murphy as Axel Foley, a free wheeling Detroit cop that moves to Beverly Hills to investigate his best friend's murder.)