Five Halloweens ago, we awoke as champions, and headed out to celebrate. It was a perfect Fall day (even if it wasn’t, I’d remember it that way), and the streets were filled with joy, confetti, and Phillies red. Some of us were drunk, some of us were sober… but none of us were sober.
The celebration made its way from City Hall to Citizens Bank Park. Unable to predict that a parade of tens of thousands of fans would involve tens of thousands of fans, SEPTA basically shut down. So, if you were like me and countless others, you made the walk down Broad Street, cheering all the way. It was an epic journey where everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.
We arrived at the ballpark to take part in history, as decades of disappointment and indifference melted away to pure jubilation. We didn't know if this would be the beginning of something, or the end of something-- it ended up being somewhere in between, I guess, but on that day none of those questions mattered. The convertibles drove in, each carrying one of our heroes.
Pat Burrell brought Elvis (remember Elvis??). Jayson Werth brought that beer fist thing. Chase Utley brought the house down by cursing on live TV. From that moment forward, we weren’t just fans—we were “World Fucking Champions!” It didn’t matter what brought us there (it sure wasn’t SEPTA, but I’ll get over it in another 5 years), because we were together and this was ours. (Also ours-- Shane Victorino, 5 years before he would do it again for Boston. And don’t let them forget it.)