I wrote this about the Phillies win on Sunday. It's entitled 'Alone'. I feel it's one of the strongest pieces I have ever written. Enjoy.
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Alone.
Alone is how I found myself on this past Sunday, a day that could have broken my heart or sent me to the highest levels of jubilation. I really didn't know which, although I couldn't wait to find out.
I've been a Phillies fan my whole life. In the moments leading up to first pitch, my mind is flooded with memories of the Fightin' Phils. I vividly remember banging pots and pans - literally - outside in my front yard when I was eight years old on that glorious day of October 21, 1980. I was there on that cool autumn night in 1993 with my dad and brothers when that lovable team of misfits went to the World Series. My mind is racing, and although my confidence and emotions are usually guarded when it comes to this team, I'm nearly bursting at the seams.
My eyes glance over to the wall where hangs a picture of me and the late John Vukovich, awarding me the 1980 cherry-red championship commemorative bat after he pulled my name out of a big spinning drum at a gas station opening. John's bright, genuine smile matches the eight-year-old's. Twenty-seven years later, I smile right back at him.
The Phillies seem to mirror my life in so many ways. Some failed last-week-of-the-season playoff runs, a failed marriage. Getting oh-so-close again, another oh-so-close relationship. Some bad free agent choices, some bad life choices.
No significant other, some friends I can count on one hand, and I'm still getting adjusted to a new, strangely bizarre town. My reason for being here, my beautiful 4 year-old daughter Julia, is spending the weekend with her mom. I'm countless miles away from home, away from my dad and my two brothers - one sick and one a soldier.
In other words, alone.
The Mets game starts and the overwhelming nervousness already begins to gnaw away at my insides. But then the Marlins start scoring run after run, and my hopes began to rise.
Moyer delivers for strike one and the Bank is electric. There's a seven written in beaming light bulbs on the scoreboard next to the letters 'FLA'. Moments later, Rollins steals two bases with the swiftness of a cheetah, and all of a sudden, the Phils are up 1-0.
Every pitch, every hit, and every run puts us closer to that elusive championship. I call my dad and state "I can feel it! I can FEEL it! Today is our day!"
And as he has done countless times before throughout my life, he quickly puts me in my place.
"Calm down," he says quietly. "You know this team. It's not even close to being over, and they can still blow it. I'm not even thinking of celebrating until that last strike." He knows from experience, and so should I. Usually my armor is up.
But not today.
The game continues and the runs begin to pile up for both the Marlins and the Phils. I can barely contain myself. The joy wants to explode from my body, but yet I keep it in and wait. The soon-to-be MVP's triple nearly sends me into orbit.
9 outs away.
6 outs away.
I call my dad for the bottom of the ninth. We are a measly three outs away. My brother gets on the other extension, the one with Multiple Sclerosis ravaging his brain and slowly destroying his body. Usually his voice is raspy, soft, weak. But not today. He vibrantly tells me that 'we're gonna do it.'
I believe him.
My other brother, a National Guard soldier living in Vermont, patches into the conversation. He's not watching because he can't - no one in the area is carrying it. I offer to do play-by-play for what I hope to be the final out.
I'm talking so loud I am sure the neighbors from India next door can hear me through the paper-thin walls, thinking that some sort of crime is taking place. Meanwhile, The Bank is going berserk, and so am I. I hear the voice and feel the spirit of Harry Kalas running through me as the count goes to two strikes. I glance at that picture on the wall again.
Myers delivers a perfect deuce and the moment has finally arrived.
And with as much strength and pride I could muster, clenching my fist so tightly in the air, I scream into the phone - and to the world - that the Philadelphia Phillies are champions of the National League East.
The next few minutes are a blur. I remember a lot of screaming and hollering, and I recall jumping up and down a dozen or so times. A quick peek at my blue and yellow-tainted elbow now reminds me that I bashed it on the armoire during my jubilant, child-like festivities, which at the time, naturally, didn't register.
My heart is beating through my chest as I watch the celebration that I so desperately wanted unfold in front of me live on TV. I honestly cannot believe what I am seeing.
And then it happens.
My dad, choking back tears, tells all of his three sons how proud he is of this team, and how proud he is of us. He told us that he rooted so hard for this team, because it reminds him of his three sons. That no matter how far the Fightins got behind, how bleak the future looked, he never lost faith. Just like he never lost faith in us when we were dealt with an emotionally crippling divorce, a devastating life-threatening sickness, and the possibility of the horrors of Iraq. How that no matter what obstacles were put in their way, this team survived, just like his boys. He told us that we are the true Fightins, and that we will always be Fightins to the very end, just like the freshly-crowned champions of the National League East.
And it was at that very moment that the floodgates of emotion burst wide open. The dam of my body couldn't contain them for another second.
I cried.
And kept on crying. We all did. Sobbing, openly. I couldn't stop. Tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of pride.
So happy. So proud. Proud of my team and what they accomplished. Proud of my family. Proud of myself. Today really was our day.
Alone? Not today.
Not today.
