Communications Blackout During Philly Games?? Maybe L8R

I have had a long-standing rule any time I'm watching one of the Philly sports teams:  Don't talk to me and don't call me until the game ends. 

Now, unless there's an emergency or it's my wife coming in from the other room (I'm still getting used to that one), I've done well at maintaining this mandate. However, I've recently abandoned my paranoia and superstition of communicating during games in one form, and one form only: texting.

Now, I used to hate, loathe, Dallas Cowboy/New York Met-level depise texting.  You want to talk to me with your cell phone? Hit the send button next to my number, don't start conversations with, "Sup, u goin 2 the bar l8r?" or something to that effect. 

Well, a much better cell phone and a company discount on the plan can change one's attitude on this matter, as well as an actual keyboard on the phone instead of the phone trying to guess what word I'm trying to spell!

So, reflect back to Game one of the NLCS last night with me.  I'm at home fighting a cold, the wife's in bed, allowing me to be alone in my misery of a clogged sinus and 2-0 deficit through five innings.  Hamels gets through the top the sixth, but hasn't been quite like he was against Milwaukee.  So, I reach for the phone and send the first of a volley of texts to my brother watching in Tennessee.

"He's behind in the count a lot tonight." 

"True, but if we don't hit it won't matter." 

"Effin Red Sox, can't keep any of their players." 

"I believe we should blame Michelle." 

"That was my next thought."

(Michelle, our beloved sister, was brainwashed by Samuel Adams and New England Clam Chowder back in 1994 when she left Philly to attend Boston College.  Ever since then, she has claimed Boston her sports town—well more so since the Patriots and the Sox started winning.)

As we pondered blaming our sister, Victorino reaches second on an error by Furcal, and we both sense that this the Phillies' chance.  The texting continues as Utley strolls to the plate: 

"There we go." 

"Si."  (Yes, we're bilingual too.)

Now, he doesn't do this often, but you want to talk about timing on my brother's part:

"He is due."  I had barely finished the line in time to look up at the 46 inches of HD glory in front of me to see Chase Utley smack the first pitch into right field to tie the game at two apiece.

Hysteria, excitement, tissues flying, cat running for cover as I clap, scream, and try to catch a breath through one nostril as I frantically text back:

"Thank you Nostradamus!!!  I should have texted you last inning when Rollins was up!!"

And so, the texts continued back and forth, as I almost repeated the Utley prognostication on Burrell's home run later that inning, but held back.  Whatever works right?

Now if I could just get over my paranoia of not wearing anything Phillies during the game.  I did wear red under my Eagles jersey to work.

What, is that bad??