COLUMN: You Gotta Believe

From Kenneth Baer's "Wired for Cable," Fall '93 I'm not ill. I'm a Phillies fan. For the first time in 10 years, the usually hapless Phils have outplayed the ex-cons of New York and the over-paid free agents of Pittsburgh to win the National League Eastern Division. I am ecstatic, and Philadelphia is going crazy. But it's an anxious happiness rooted in a combination of Philly's inferiority complex and the fact that we've been burned before. In recent memory, being a Philly sports fan is a lot like pulling out at the last second: you're so close and yet so frustrated. Despite the Phils' late-inning heroics and the accompanying trips to the Maalox bottle, the city loves this team. Even Billy Penn donned a gigantic Phillies hat to show his support. But why are we – those of us who either live in the area or venture off campus more than to go to a J. Crew sale – so taken by this unshaven, loud, out-of-shape rag-tag group of ballplayers? Because they are truly Philadelphian. Just look at our opponents, the Atlanta Braves. Atlanta is a booming, clean, new Southern city. Philadelphia is an old, pleasantly dirty, Northeastern industrial city. In Atlanta, their hero is Ted Turner, they drink Coke, and they eat peaches. In Philly, our hero is Frank Rizzo, we drink Frank's black cherry soda, and we eat cheesesteaks. The Braves' superstar is David Justice, a lithe, fit and ultra-cool fielder who is married to Halle Berry. Our superstar is Darren "Dutch" Daulton, who has a permanent shiner under his right eye. He's a huge, linebacker-esque catcher and is married to the national spokeswoman for Hooters. Philly loves these players because if they didn't play, they would fit perfectly into section 746. Through a stroke of luck, I ended up with two tickets to Game Two of the National League Championship Series last Thursday. My cherished seats with a street value upwards of $100 were in dead center field, last row, between the Phanavision and the scoreboard underneath the Marlboro sign. My seat back was the two feet of concrete that is the Veterans Stadium wall. Up in section 746, you see what baseball, or at least Philly baseball, is all about. No frills, no pretensions, lots of food, lots of camaraderie, and lots of mustard. Yes, mustard. During the third inning, my father and I – in section 746, fathers still take their sons, not business contacts, to games – saw that the guy two rows in front of us had his lower back covered with mustard. Hearing our laughter, the two burly men sitting in front of us leaned back and told us that one of them stood up to cheer and accidentally stomped down on a mustard pack. How do they fit so much condiment in that little package? We didn't know, we just watched and laughed. Since Atlanta kept sending the ball over the fence, we had to laugh at something. When you're not laughing, you eat. The souls banished to the far recesses of center field brought more than enough food for the journey up to the seats and a double header with extra innings. Hot chocolate, iced tea, sunflower seeds, pretzels, popcorn and peanuts abounded. And if the game lasted too long, between the programs and both editions of the Daily News we were set with plenty of reading material. 746-ers are real Phillies fans. A little girl in front me held up a sign praising the Phillies and CBS in a vain attempt to get on T.V. I didn't have the heart to break it to her that the blimp's camera was the nearest one, and we were too close for its lens to focus. Two older, distinguished, but not stuffy gentlemen sat next to us. They probably have been going to games together since the Phils played at Connie Mack Stadium. Next to them was the West Chester Marching Band's horn section. Decked out in old Phillies uniforms, they entertained the people who were too far away to hear the stadium's organ. Even when the game was clearly over (the Phillies were in a nine-run hole), section 746 still had fun. At one point, I looked over to see the sixtysomething man next to me standing on his seat, back to the game, looking out of the Vet. Soon, his friend, my Dad, me, and half the row was on their feet taking in the South Philly scenery. I even think I saw my car. Sure, it was disrespectful, but it wasn't booing. That happened much earlier in the game when Atlanta started to run up the score. For me, I joined this time-honored Philadelphia tradition when Bobby Thigpen took the mound to stop the Phils' hemmorhaging. Now, a good boo starts deep in your gut and is long, loud, and is usually followed by some clever statement like: "Bobby, you wuss. Go back to Chicago!" Mind you, this is what we yell at our own players. Even though our team and our city were losing, one teenage girl would not give up hope. Every time a Phillie was up, she screamed his name in a form of long-distance encouragement. "Gooooooo, Lennnny!" "Kill it Krukker," she pleaded as people in the lower sections filed out of the Vet in disgust. Like the working-class, rough-and-tumble group on the field, she wanted to win. But for her, the victory wouldn't mean a big bonus and national fame. She wanted them to win for her and for her maligned city. No matter what her head said, or what Mitch Williams threw, she believed. She had to. As I sit ready for Game Six shocked that it is even happening, I realize I should have stuck around in section 746 with that girl. You gotta believe. Kenneth Baer is a senior History major from Cherry Hill, New Jersey and the Editorial Page Editor of the Daily Pennsylvanian. Wired for Cable appears alternate Wednesdays.