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It was a butterscotch day. The huge throng was Phillies red, bathed in the molten gold of the most beautiful autumn day you ever saw. The celebration was big. Deservedly big, 28 years big.
It was not always so. In 1950, your columnist was 12 years old and he remembered the community stood outside its homes and simply banged pots and pans to celebrate a Phillies pennant. He attended the Eagles ’60 championship win over the Packers at Franklin Field, but if there was a parade that followed, he didn’t remember it. The Flyers back-to-back victory celebrations in ’74 and ’75 were joyous things, but hockey was still too new to engage the entire city. It was in ’80, the year of the first Phillies championship, the victory parade came of age in Philadelphia. His mind flashed back to the flatbed trucks passing Broad and Oregon that day. He was standing almost in the same spot he stood now, and could still see Tug McGraw waving to the crowd. So much joy, so many people since gone. A new generation here today, and a much bigger crowd.
He was here with his daughter and grandchildren. The crowd was younger, much younger than ’80, or was he just older? His feet hurt like hell and his knees creaked. Fans playfully tossed a ball back and forth across Broad Street until a cop confiscated it and the predictable jeers ensured. But this was not a day for jeers or boos or for any of the negative energy off which Philly people normally feed. Too much golden sunshine. Too much happiness. The crowd was all colors, sizes and shapes. Some climbed trees, while others drank and then drank some more. Most stood chatting and enjoying the day, waiting for a glimpse of their heroes. Everyone was a Phillies fan today.
His grandkids sneaked to the front, just in back of the yellow rope that kept the crowd from surging into the middle of Broad. He and his daughter felt that twinge of fear when the kids momentarily disappeared from sight and, for the better part of the next hour, kept watch to make sure they were safe. Police cars zoomed past. Cops patrolled the rope, occasionally forcing the crowd back. A couple of city trucks stopped in front of them and tooted their horns, encouraging the crowd to break out in the rhythmic chant — "Let’s Go Phillies."
People were everywhere. A small crowd gathered on the roof of Criniti’s. Vendors hawked World Series T-shirts. Mounted police came by to help control the crowd. The horses were turned with their huge butts toward us with tails almost caressing the faces of the kids just behind the rope. You could smell the faint odor of ammonia.
About this time, your columnist was getting nostalgic for the couch in his living room. He felt his age hanging heavily over him. His knees were beginning to sag. He thought about what it would be like to swoon in the middle of this crowd. He was hungry. His daughter’s friend offered some pumpkin seeds, which he first refused, then greedily accepted.
Helicopters buzzed overhead. A plane with a banner flew by, imploring the crowd to drink Skinny Water.
There was a buzz in the crowd. The Phillies caravan had been spotted around Stolfo Funeral Home. He shook off his tiredness and positioned himself behind his grandkids, an arm around each. The crowd let out a yell as Pat Burrell arrived with his bulldog Elvis on a horse-drawn carriage. The years faded away and he was a kid again, just a fan like all the others — one who loved this team, but most of all loved this city. The other floats came by and the players waved to the crowd and each was certain a player had waved at him or her — Chase Utley, Ryan Howard, Charlie Manuel, and some he didn’t recognize. They flashed the victory sign at one another. He clasped the kids closer to him.
All the cynicism melted away. For a moment, he forgot the greed of the game that forced the teams to play through the hellish elements during Game Five. He forgot Burrell turned down a two-year $22 million offer from the team and would be gone by next year. He forgot about the late starting time that forced a lot of working people and certainly their kids to miss the end of the games. For one blissful moment, the game was as innocent as his childhood. It had once again transcended pettiness and greed and brought generations together. He thought about Ron Vanore and Benny Moo, and how much he wished they could be alive to be part of this celebration.
He was very privileged to be here, with his daughter and grandkids on this beautiful butterscotch day.
