"The past is a ghost, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now." --Bill Cosby
For weeks we suspended reality, ignoring the stock market and 401K crash and nearly forgetting the most important presidential race of our lifetime.
Instead, it was all Phils, all the time.
Would J-Roll snap to in time for the Series?
Would the Big Man come out of his slump?
Would our aging starter find his stuff again?
Our water-cooler chatter wasn't about economic policies or even Tina Fey's latest bit of SNL comedic genius; it was about the price of Phillies tickets on StubHub and how we just might justify paying the freight.
It was deciding where we were going to watch the game that night and if the TV was big enough to warrant going there.
It was sports radio, and callers, old and young, talking about the possibility of a championship in Philadelphia with a passion that bordered on madness--if only my father were alive to see this, they'd say, or my mother, or my grandparents.
It was hearing about Connie Mack Stadium, and the Vet, and Johnny Callison, and Richie Ashburn, and Steve Carlton and Michael Jack Schmidt.
At the ballpark we cherished all the moments, big and small--like Donovan McNabb viewing the game from a corporate box and dancing between innings for fans watching below. And Philadelphia native and hoop star Rasheed Wallace wearing a Tug McGraw shirt and shooing away cell-phone photo-takers in the men's room with, "Not in the pisser, boys! Not in the pisser!"
It was the long tense nights we spent--an endless string, it sometimes seemed--snacking and drinking beer, shouting ourselves hoarse, going to bed late still high from the game, unable to sleep, wondering if all this was just a dream and we'd wake up to discover the Phillies season had actually ended weeks ago.
It's been some trip.