October 2, 2005, was a hot day in Washington D.C. We were in the shade, but it was still uncomfortable with those small, rough seats in the upper reaches of RFK Stadium jutting into my upper back. I leaned forward in anticipation to watch Billy Wagner shut the door by blowing away Cristian Guzman—for what I didn’t know would be his final save as a Phillie—and felt the momentary satisfaction of finishing the season as winners. Four wins in a row, Jimmy Rollins riding a 36 game hitting streak, best season in twelve years…all was good in baseball land.
Only it wasn’t. With the action on the field over, my friend and I slunk down to the upper concourse and fixed our collective attention on the out-of-town scores lit up in white against RFK’s long, black lower scoreboard. HOU 6, CHC 4, ninth inning. Early in the day that Houston score had been only three, and the hope that the Phillies could tie their record, forcing a one-game tiebreaker to get into the playoffs, was electric between the not-so-small number of Phils fans who had made it out to the game.
Now, there was just the sluggish silence of the emptying stadium, the headache of battling the midday sun and the sweat caking on our foreheads. I felt a little like I was back playing the outfield in little league—everyone plays it so they can keep you in the game, but no kid hits the ball that far, so for that inning you’re helpless to control the fate of your team. All we could do was try and will that little 4 up to a 7, but it was the little 9 that turned to an F first. F for final score. F for finished, which is what the Fightin’ Phils were for six long months.
The metro ride from RFK back to Rosslyn lasts roughly 45 minutes, and for that day exactly zero words. The last day of the season is always filled with that longing for more, but not like that—not one game short, not one win away from a perpetually heartbreaking franchise finding their way back to the post-season. Sure, the last time the Phillies made the playoffs it ended in me crying—I was young enough for there still to be crying in baseball—as Joe Carter of the Blue Jays knocked the only-ever walk off home run to win the World Series. But I would take that stomach punch over and over again if it meant an end to the long, slow heartbreak of mediocrity.
This year’s season naturally began where last year left off. With one win in the team’s first six games, the Phillies’ history is obviously repeating itself. They failed to pick up any solid pitching during the winter, they continue to stand by underachieving veterans, and they still flash those moments of brilliance, like last week’s 1-0 shutout at offensive mecca Coors Field, then drop 10-3 clunkers to the lowly Nationals.
Yet that, if you ask me, is the essence of being a fan. You invest your emotions, you take the blows, and all those years later you’re still backing those loveable losers even though you know exactly what’s going to happen next season. And the people that stick with those teams are closer to the essence of fanhood than fans of perpetual winners ever will be. And that may be the only thing we ever beat them at.
You always look forward to that one season when you’re finally vindicated for all the years of suffering, but I’m slowly beginning to realize that that may never come for the Phillies. And yes, I am absolutely trying to put the reverse hex on them, the same way I did for Florida earlier this year in this column. It’s worth a shot for this Phils fan.
