It isn’t quite what it would have been if they’d done it when I was attending every single Phillies home game, like maybe 1993. Oh if they’d won the World Series that year I’d have ended up in intensive care.
But here I am, in my frigid living room (kept cold so I could share in the atmosphere of the Cit without having to shell out $900 for the right to stand there) drinking a flute of asti spumante. Yes, there have been cheers, whoops, shouts, curling up in a ball of anxiety, and tears of pure joy.
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