Agony and Ecstasy: The Plight and Pleasure of The 2010 Phillies and Their Fans

It was déjà vu all over again.

In Philadelphia, on October 23, 2010, it was 2003 once more.

Sure.  Crisp fall air is a far cry from the biting, icy drifts of January.

Yes.  The Mecca that is Citizens Bank Park is worlds away from the concrete jungle that was once known as Veterans Stadium.

Absolutely.  The slow, mounting crescendo of baseball stands in contrast to the all-out sprint that is four quarters in the National Football League.

But close your eyes, Philadelphia, and you can hear it.  You can smell it.  You can very nearly taste it.  Saturday's elimination of the Philadelphia Phillies in the 2010 National League Championship Series is eerily similar to another elimination of another team in another sport that haunts the city still.  It’s heartbreakingly, eerily similar.

Eagles, 10.  Buccaneers, 27.

Just think of the build-up.

In the early part of head coach Andy Reid’s tenure, the Eagles took all the right building-block steps.  In 2001-2002, they made the playoffs and came within a breath of upsetting the heavily favored St. Louis Rams.  McNabb stayed on the field to watch the Rams’ celebration.  He wanted to know that disappointment. 

He wanted to taste that bitterness so as to never taste it again.  At the time, it seemed like a promise to himself, to the team – but mostly to the fans – that the Eagles would be back.  And next time, they would win.

And then there’s Cole Hamels.  In October 2008, basking in the afterglow of an all-time parade and the Phillies’ first World Series in 28 years, the World Series MVP took the podium at Citizens Bank Park and told an adoring crowd that he couldn’t wait to take that trip down Broad Street, “again, and again, and again.”

Didn’t you believe him?  Didn’t you want to?  It was pure karmic justice.  After years of suffering through near-misses and close-calls and almost-theres, didn’t the fans in Philadelphia earn a break?  Why can’t us, asked Marty in Delaware.   And thousands around the Delaware Valley heard Marty and understood him.

So the Eagles would go on to win a Super Bowl to make amends.  And the Phillies would take a second (third? fourth?) lap around Broad Street.  Sure things, both.  Right?  Right?

Sure things, both, gone poof in the night.

Just think how these can’t-misses became can’t-believe-my-eyes. 

Brian Mitchell is returning the opening kickoff 70 yards and Duce Staley is putting the cherry on top with a 20-yard scamper into the endzone.  Before most fans have even taken their seat, the Eagles have taken a 7-0 lead.  The Eagles fans just know it’s a win.  They feel it in their bones like they feel the cold in their bones.

Chase Utley is rediscovering his swing just in time to knock in crucial Game 6’s first RBI and Jayson Werth is putting the cherry on top with a sac-fly to offer the Phillies and its fans a first-inning two-run lead.  Ah yes, there they are.  The Phillies have remembered they are in the NLCS, after all.  The sleeping giant awoke and now Game 7 is a mere inevitably.

But.

The Eagles had eight drives inside Tampa territory.  They left with one field goal.  Total.  So many points left on the board.  So many missed opportunities.

The Phillies left man after man after man in scoring position.  So many runners left on base.  So many missed opportunities.

But.

There’s Ronde Barber and he has intercepted McNabb’s pass, leaving in his wake the dashed hopes of an Eagles comeback.

And there’s Ryan Howard.  Get me to the plate boys, and we hoped once again.  But there he is, striking out looking, leaving in his wake the dashed hopes of a Phillies comeback – for Game 6 and Game 7, both.

There was talk of dynasty in this town.  There was dominance that was more than talk.  And now there is unfulfilled promise, most of all.

The burden is more than just Ryan Howard’s to bear, of course.  Was it Cody Ross, who suddenly couldn’t meet an inside fastball he didn’t love or crush into the stands?  Was it Juan Uribe, who pulled an opposite field, go-ahead home run out of nowhere?  Was it the suddenly-silenced Phillies’ bats?  Was it the baseball gods, who gave the Phillies fans two scorched balls – first from Ross Gload and then from Carlos Ruiz a day later – that were somehow turned into double plays?

But.

Stunned silence.  Broken hearts.  In 2003 and then again in 2010, fans streaming toward Septa.  Toward 1-76.  Toward the South Philadelphia night.  Toward off-seasons with too many should-haves and could-haves and would-haves.

Who is to say, if the Phillies had won last night, they would have won Game 7?  Who is to say that the Phillies would have vanquished their old friend, Cliff Lee?  We don’t know.  We’ll never know.  It’s our agony to own.

So where is the ecstasy, you want to know?

In the aftermath of that last called strike, all we are left with disbelief and disappointment and distress.  But when that sting lessens, when that broken heart slowly mends, remember this…

The birth of H20.  The slow death of the Atlanta Braves.  Jayson Werth’s beard.  Domonic Brown running back to the dugout after hitting a ground-rule double, only to draw the playful jeers of his teammates.  Jimmy imploring the fans to give it to them.  The best record in baseball.  Children hexing opposing pitchers.  Storming back from a 9-2 deficit.  Cole Hamels’ redemption.  Brad Lidge’s redemption.  Charlie letting us know that champions can play anywhere.  Injuries, oh so many injuries.  Wilson Valdez.  Ryan Howard becoming the fastest player to reach 200 home runs.  Mike Sweeney, Brian Schneider and Roy Halladay getting their first taste of champions’ champagne.

And then, there was that man named Doc.  The perfect game.  The division clincher.  The no-hitter.  Red Doctober.  The hope: “it’s only gonna get funner.”

In time, you’ll remember these things, too.  They fell just short on their road to dynasty.  But they are still dynasty-caliber players.  Philadelphia Sports Radio Host Glen Macnow said, “This is the team we’ve been waiting for our whole lives.”  They are still that team.  They are still the Fightins’.  They are still our beloved Fightin’ Phils.

And so we will carry on.  We’ll wait for our pitchers and catchers to report, all the while bleeding green, orange and black, red and blue.  We’ll carry on and then we will come back to them.  Because we don’t know any other way.  Because they gave us a great ride.  Because we’ll always believe in more great rides to come.  And because there’s one, singular hope that binds teammates and fans and Philadelphians forever and for always: that from here, it will only get funner.