This is the week, Phillies fans. This is what it all boils down to. Will they do what we expect, leave us brokenhearted yet again, repeating the well-worn pattern? Or will they shock our very innards and rise to the occasion, like the Merry Kruksters of ’93?
This morning’s paper verified the unbelievable: Despite an endless string of crippling injuries, despite the early immolation of their entire starting pitching staff, despite a relief corps that was sadly threadbare when the season started, the Phillies, our Phillies, are tied for first place in the wild card race with the San Diego Padres. Clean slate! Reset to zero! Gentlemen start your engines: It’s anybody’s ballgame.
Six games left, and no room to screw up. It’s almost too much to bear!
My instinct as a Phillies fan is to protect myself, button down my hopes, get ready to fail. But there’s a part of me, a tender winking spark, that says this team is different.
And it is. With the adversity it has faced, there is no way this team should even be in the running. I can’t count the number of times I have left them for dead. Each time, they have clawed their way back. Each time, worming their way a little deeper into my heart.
Can the rim-running pitching hold up? Will the booming bats go silent? Will the role-players, stop-gappers—every damn one of them finding a way to contribute—cease to step up? Or will this gutty bunch somehow prevail?
It’s crazy to hope. But I’m hoping.
Whatever happens, it has been one hell of a ride. And pain is definitely a part of it.
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