One thing I have been struck by as I stroll through the Philly sports blogs is how proud everybody is, and I have yet to see one Negadelphia statement, even in the comments sections. It’s like the Grinch, replete with pictures of himself as a centaur on his wall, stole Christmas, and yet all of us Whos down in Whoville are still holding hands and singing. Yeah, the Yankees took our title, and good for them. But they didn’t take away the pride this team has instilled the city with, or the excitement they’ve provided us with these past three years. I think, when it was all said and done, we didn’t see this season as a few bad decisions in pitching to the King of Porn or another Brad Lidge meltdown. We didn’t see it as an “All or Nothing” scenario. It was a win-win scenario, where a team brought us way too much joy to let it come crashing down because of one or two games, and another trip to the Series was just icing on the cake.

The season had plenty of highs and lows. I’ll never forget Harry throwing out the first pitch at the ring ceremony game, nor will I forget that devastating text I received a week later with the awful news. Game 2 of the NLDS was the first Phillies game my dad and I ever watched together, and I will never forget us negotiating with scalpers outside of the stadium. I’ll remember Brad Lidge’s struggles, and I’ll remember the Wawa sandwich maker sitting next to me at a bar in Narberth, telling me about the pros and cons of making sandwiches as I watched Lidge hold on for dear life in Game 3 of the NLDS. I will never forget Victorino’s enthusiasm, Ryan Howard’s exhortation of “Get Me to the Plate”, Jimmy’s huge double against the Dodgers, or Chase Utley’s remarkable World Series performance. I will remember Chooch-tober bleed into Chooch-vember, I’ll remember Cliff Lee’s behind the back stab in Game 1, I’ll remember the postseason where Jayson Werth became a household name to baseball fans across the country.

One of my favorite memories came after that final nerve wracking out in Game 5 of the World Series. I was at a bar with 20 very good friends, and after the screaming and high-fiving concluded, we broke into a rousing rendition of Harry’s favorite song, “High Hopes.” There we were, one game away from the devastating Game 4 loss, knowing that we still needed to beat the Yankees twice more, and yet we were singing madly about ants and rubber tree plants, as if a comeback was inevitable. It was not. And with two outs in the top of the 9th of Game 6 and the Phillies trailing 7-3, Shane Victorino came to the plate. Battling a severely injured finger and the best relief pitcher in Major League baseball history, Shane refused to go down quietly. Cracking foul ball after foul ball, each one certainly causing him pain, Shane kept our dimmest of hopes alive. Someone at the bar uttered, “If Shane can get on, it’s Chase and then Howard. There’s still hope.” And that, my friends, is where Philadelphia stands today. Even in the direst of circumstances, down 7-3 in the top of the 9th with two outs and two strikes, Philadelphians no longer say, “We’re screwed.” They say, “There’s still hope.” That is no small thing. It is the legacy of both a team we’ve learned to never give up on and an announcer that we’ll never forget.