Wednesday, November 29, 2006
For What?
As I prepare a full extension lean back in my chair I'm cut short because I'm glued to the seat with MLB.com burned into my monitor. I question what the hell I'm doing with my life. I just voted Ryan Howard as baseballs best hitter and Aaron Rowands face shattering catch as the play of the year. Why? What is the deal with us Philadelphians celebrating individual feats? The Phillies savior Ryan Howard is the National League MVP. Congradulations. Now what? The Mayor whose as dirty as the street he walks on welcomed Ry- Ry at city hall just after the announcement. As much as I love Howard, I would have loved even more the chance to crisen The Cit with it's first playoff game. ANd maybe see him at city hall with a championship trophy in his right arm and the MVP in the other. Where do these accomplishments get us? The MVP hits the go ahead grandslam with 2 out and an 0-2 count late down the final stretch of the season and the Phils blow it. He overcomes food poisoning (prolly a jalepeno) to hit the tying and go ahead pinch hit diggers for what? Rowand saves another dogshit Madison performance for what? FREDex delivers the package but the goods are still dented. A.I. drops 30 a game and watches the playoffs at home. I have a jalepeno pepper burning in my stomach. This ones bad.
uno
Dogshit.
There I said it. It's over. It's done. My first word as a blogger. When I sit down and think about it dogshit is the most appropriate word that I can think of to start my new career. At 21 my life has been full of disappointments. Don't get me wrong. I grew up as one of 9 kids in the perfect Catholic family. I love them and I love being Catholic, thats not the point to this entry. This entry goes deeper, into the deepest, darkest and most volunerable point in the pit of a man, I'm talking about sports. And if your anything like me I've endured trials and tribulations of succesful continuous an anticipated failure. I, the squirrelBANDIT, am a Philadelphian phan.
I know we're all over. And I know the world is sick of hearing about us, but Boston had it's moment so now it's our turn in the spotlight. Chicago don't think that I don't woe for you. Your team has busted it's trust more times than Roosevelt and I cringe to say that woeful name; Steve Bartmen. Yet I say another DITKA and JORDAN. So talk to ya. We hear in Philadelphia, our pain burns deeper than a jalependo pepper on an overflowing, juicy and voluptious Pat's cheesestake. But unlike Pat, Philadelphia sports don't satisfy our hunger. No wait our starvation. This famine must end. As a Philadelphian I see to brands of fans. The first is the ones who God bestowed his blessings upon by granting them a pre-1983 birth, for these proud fans have something to cherish, something to talk about, something to remember. Although seemingly centuries ago my generations dreams were once realities. There really were parades hosting gods such as a Doctor named J. and the original airman the late Tug McGraw. These fabels, these legends were once real. They breathed this cities discusting air just like everyone else ,but then back in the ol' daze there was the smell, the pride and the satifaction of victory. I, me, this, don't see things so clearly. They're foggy, blurrly yet nevertheless part of me. My memories start with a dark abyss suddenly lit by explosiving balls of fire as I sat next to my pops, a stack of assorted Phillies cards worn and wrapped in a rubber band tightly clenched in my fist, at my very first sporting event. And what better way than at the Vet on the 4th of July in the foggy so distant summer of 1993. And here I stop. No need to further explain the 1993.... I can't say it... failure. Yet as a fan I must except that season as part of a Philadephia tradition, a tradtion in an era in which the Dear Lord chose to give Frank and Diana there first child. But I still remeber that first night. Not knowing why or what these feelings of anticipation and excitement were about as a snuck downstairs and asked the man who enstilled the flame if I could watch the baseball game. Sure I was the fattest kid in second grade, I wasn't fast and I had the worst 1957 combover since 1957 but I had this fire within me. There was something about this game that was special. I heard the fifth graders talking about it on the bus right before they smashed Justin Morgans head into the window. I heard our principal Mr. Kreiger mummering about it as he looked over the fifth graders bus referals. I even saw the physical prof of this game significance, although I didn't know what the significance was, as a trudged under the banner strung across the hallway leading to the cafeteria. As Frank starred at me sitting on the edge of the couch not 3 foot from the television in his classic atire, which included his underwear and nothing else but the tape on his mauled and mangled fingers from laying block all day, he gave me the nod of approval. How could he not? Diana was at a sorority meeting and I was his scapegoat from Paul Harvey. I still remeber sitting there watching the game, mezmorized and enchanded by the excitement caught up in something I didn't understand, that i didnt know would be just as much a part of this cities history as an championship; for this dawned the begiining of my era. John Kruck, Pete Incaviglia Nails and Dutch became my first idols. I was amazed, facisnated and completely in tune with the same game millions before me had come to cherish. As sat on the floor with the same assortment of baseball cards anxiously clutched in my fist, with of course the addition of a Phillies game stub, that I held ever so anxiously the first time I stepped into the Shrine of Philadelphia, I still remember the Wild Thing deliver that pitch and Joe Carter lauching it deep into that skyless Toranto night and I remember hanging my head for the first time.
I don't remembered if I cried but i do remeber being numb, not the first kiss at a dance numb, not the first time your arrested numb, not even the first time your at a funeral numb, I mean numb, that sickening feeling of defeat, the feeling that so many other fans have overcome, the feeling I still have in my stomach right at this very moment.... Theres no pride in a 2000- 2001 Western Confernece Championship, or in back to back to back to back NFC title games with only one victory to show, or in a playoff hunt the sends me down the broadstreet line to Patterson avenue to return the tickets that less than 24 hours earlier seemed as ligit as the first game in Veterns stadium. There's no satifcation. MVP's, Homerun Derbys, All -Stars, broken noses and 4th and 26's don't mean anything without a happy ending. These accomplishments by our real players, are the disappointments and irrelenvent feats that define my era. Because without that pride, without that Pat's cheesesteak wit' wiz to satisfy my hunger, that jalependo pepper will sit in the pit of my stomach, the very pit that defines a man; that defines me and continue to burn.
Thanks DR
http://blogs.philly.com/blinq/
There I said it. It's over. It's done. My first word as a blogger. When I sit down and think about it dogshit is the most appropriate word that I can think of to start my new career. At 21 my life has been full of disappointments. Don't get me wrong. I grew up as one of 9 kids in the perfect Catholic family. I love them and I love being Catholic, thats not the point to this entry. This entry goes deeper, into the deepest, darkest and most volunerable point in the pit of a man, I'm talking about sports. And if your anything like me I've endured trials and tribulations of succesful continuous an anticipated failure. I, the squirrelBANDIT, am a Philadelphian phan.
I know we're all over. And I know the world is sick of hearing about us, but Boston had it's moment so now it's our turn in the spotlight. Chicago don't think that I don't woe for you. Your team has busted it's trust more times than Roosevelt and I cringe to say that woeful name; Steve Bartmen. Yet I say another DITKA and JORDAN. So talk to ya. We hear in Philadelphia, our pain burns deeper than a jalependo pepper on an overflowing, juicy and voluptious Pat's cheesestake. But unlike Pat, Philadelphia sports don't satisfy our hunger. No wait our starvation. This famine must end. As a Philadelphian I see to brands of fans. The first is the ones who God bestowed his blessings upon by granting them a pre-1983 birth, for these proud fans have something to cherish, something to talk about, something to remember. Although seemingly centuries ago my generations dreams were once realities. There really were parades hosting gods such as a Doctor named J. and the original airman the late Tug McGraw. These fabels, these legends were once real. They breathed this cities discusting air just like everyone else ,but then back in the ol' daze there was the smell, the pride and the satifaction of victory. I, me, this, don't see things so clearly. They're foggy, blurrly yet nevertheless part of me. My memories start with a dark abyss suddenly lit by explosiving balls of fire as I sat next to my pops, a stack of assorted Phillies cards worn and wrapped in a rubber band tightly clenched in my fist, at my very first sporting event. And what better way than at the Vet on the 4th of July in the foggy so distant summer of 1993. And here I stop. No need to further explain the 1993.... I can't say it... failure. Yet as a fan I must except that season as part of a Philadephia tradition, a tradtion in an era in which the Dear Lord chose to give Frank and Diana there first child. But I still remeber that first night. Not knowing why or what these feelings of anticipation and excitement were about as a snuck downstairs and asked the man who enstilled the flame if I could watch the baseball game. Sure I was the fattest kid in second grade, I wasn't fast and I had the worst 1957 combover since 1957 but I had this fire within me. There was something about this game that was special. I heard the fifth graders talking about it on the bus right before they smashed Justin Morgans head into the window. I heard our principal Mr. Kreiger mummering about it as he looked over the fifth graders bus referals. I even saw the physical prof of this game significance, although I didn't know what the significance was, as a trudged under the banner strung across the hallway leading to the cafeteria. As Frank starred at me sitting on the edge of the couch not 3 foot from the television in his classic atire, which included his underwear and nothing else but the tape on his mauled and mangled fingers from laying block all day, he gave me the nod of approval. How could he not? Diana was at a sorority meeting and I was his scapegoat from Paul Harvey. I still remeber sitting there watching the game, mezmorized and enchanded by the excitement caught up in something I didn't understand, that i didnt know would be just as much a part of this cities history as an championship; for this dawned the begiining of my era. John Kruck, Pete Incaviglia Nails and Dutch became my first idols. I was amazed, facisnated and completely in tune with the same game millions before me had come to cherish. As sat on the floor with the same assortment of baseball cards anxiously clutched in my fist, with of course the addition of a Phillies game stub, that I held ever so anxiously the first time I stepped into the Shrine of Philadelphia, I still remember the Wild Thing deliver that pitch and Joe Carter lauching it deep into that skyless Toranto night and I remember hanging my head for the first time.
I don't remembered if I cried but i do remeber being numb, not the first kiss at a dance numb, not the first time your arrested numb, not even the first time your at a funeral numb, I mean numb, that sickening feeling of defeat, the feeling that so many other fans have overcome, the feeling I still have in my stomach right at this very moment.... Theres no pride in a 2000- 2001 Western Confernece Championship, or in back to back to back to back NFC title games with only one victory to show, or in a playoff hunt the sends me down the broadstreet line to Patterson avenue to return the tickets that less than 24 hours earlier seemed as ligit as the first game in Veterns stadium. There's no satifcation. MVP's, Homerun Derbys, All -Stars, broken noses and 4th and 26's don't mean anything without a happy ending. These accomplishments by our real players, are the disappointments and irrelenvent feats that define my era. Because without that pride, without that Pat's cheesesteak wit' wiz to satisfy my hunger, that jalependo pepper will sit in the pit of my stomach, the very pit that defines a man; that defines me and continue to burn.
Thanks DR
http://blogs.philly.com/blinq/
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