Before the game began, we all stood around joking and saying to each other, "This is a story that we'll be telling to our grandchildren one day." Well, I don't know if I'll be doing all that, since I don't think that I could spin the tale without cursing roundly. I'm speaking of my attempt to be present when the city went mad; our first World Series championship in twenty eight years was suposed to come Monday night. It didn't happen that way, though, much to the dismay of a hungry city of sodden fans. The plan started out simply enough. Go to south Philly, hang in the stadium lots, scream ourselves hoarse when our Fightins carried the day. Easy. Yeah, not so much. Nature and Bud Selig conspired to postpone the inevitable, and make us all miserable in the process.
The night started off pretty much as it ended: badly. It was utter chaos around the stadium. There were cops galore, low flying helicopters, crowds to surpass wildest imagination, and, of course, the Goodyear blimp. I was separated from the rest of the group, having driven in alone, and was totally stressing. I must have called KV about fitty times before I actually figured out where they were parked and how to get there. It sucked, even though I found them with pretty much no problem.
Once I got there, though, things started to suck a lot less. Everyone was gathered around a minivan that housed a TV hooked to a rented generator (now that's dedication!), and everyone looked very cold. It was cold, too; a windy night with a temp of around thirty. We didn't even have to put the beer in coolers to keep it cold, and I think that was the first time I saw coozies being used to keep wine room temp and fingers warm. Anyway, there were about fifteen people huddled in the lee of the van, avidly watching each play and calling out a countdown of the number of outs we still needed to become world champs. It was one of those nights that shouldn't be fun on any account. I mean, I was cold, hungry, and I couldn't see the screen real well, how fun is that? Apparently, a lot; I was having a blast. We screamed at every good play, groaned at every bad one and high fived anyone who passed by. You could almost feel the uphoria building moment by moment.
The conditions were rough, but our group and many others were braving the hardships with exuberance and beer. After I had had quite a few, nature took over, and I felt like I was going to burst. I thought that I knew all there was to know about peeing outside, but this was worse than any boatshacks pop-a-squat. The parking lot was surprisingly well lit, and you never knew when a miscellaneous gaggle of people was going to pass by. Luckily, one of the van's owners had placed a table strategically in front of the vehicle to cut down on the chances of providing some rando with a free peep show. All the spot needed was a blanket holder to cut off all sight lines. It sounds easy, but was completely complicated. As I took my turn, it occured to me that the generator was right next to me, and wouldn't it be unfortunate if I somehow hit it and electrocuted myself from the crotch up? Worse yet, that would probably short the damn thing out and render me the most unpopular girl at the party, not to mention that it would have deprived me of the game along with everyone else. The picture in my mind was very clear. That didn't happen, though I did have to contend with a blanket eager to flirt with my bare ass, and the fact that the spot was slanted towards my left foot, encased in one of my new suede clogs. I think I managed to do all right, after all, I didn't electrocute myself and ruin the party, I didn't pee on a friend's blanket, and I managed to at least keep my jeans urine free. I can't say my shoe fared so well, but you can't expect perfection under those conditions, especially while you're shrieking with laughter.
There were all kinds of shenanegins like that going on. I definitely caught some guy peeing on a car (which I fervently hope was his, but doubt that it was), and left him calling after me, "It's really cold out, that's all!!" Another rabid fan was car surfing in the distance, going way too fast, unfazed and shouting "GO PHILS!!!" Yelling fans could be heard constntly, and some of them even stopped and joined our group. People had their hair dyed red, red clothes on, red, red, red, it was a sea of red people hopped up on booze and hope. Red October. It was mass hysteria of the best kind, and just exactly everything that I wanted to be a part of. It was great.
Then it started to rain. Hard. People quickly yanked out ponchos, slickers, umbrellas, and even garbage bags to keep the rain at bay. While they were still playing, we weren't leaving. Even people who had nothing were hunkered down and ready to stick it out to the bitter end. I should have been better prepared. I wasn't one of the ones with nothing, but a comforter and a golf umbrella were not doing the trick, or even coming close. My Grimace raincoat was hanging safely in my closet at home, its existance forgotten until the time of need, too late. Grrr. I was valiantly trying to shelter as much of my bod as possible, but the slanting rain was driving up under my meager shelter with ruthless efficeincy. A couple of us got in my car to take cover, but that proved to be a bad idea, as N had to keep getting out to pee, so I had to keep jumping out into the rain without blanket. I also couldn't get the damn thing back on the same way, so some of the drier patches got soaked immediately after I stepped out of the car to keep watching the game. Slowly, slowly, slowly I got more and more damp until sopping wet would have been a better way to describe me.
Still, there was the game, growing steadily more ridiculous as the weather worsened. Nobody wanted it to get called, the fans, the umps, or the commisioner; probably nobody but the undoubtedly freezing players. It was the top of the sixth, an official game, Phils up 2-1, and still they played on. Jimmy Rollins fell victim of the terrible conditions and made a rare error, eventually leading to a tie score. THEN they called it. Once it was a tie. Lookit - nobody, no real Phillies fan, would have wanted the series to end like that. A win in that manner, without a complete game, would be a false victory, one besmirched by doubts and smutty innuendo. But, the way it was handled was piss poor. The forecast should have been enough to postpone the game, it should have been stopped earlier, Bud Selig should have followed the rules and (since the inning wasn't finished) had the game revert back to the fith inning score to be continued when the weather permits. I'm terrified that this will be the thing that breaks them, this absolutely bizarre situation, and that we'll come out of this series with nothing but heartbreak, again.
We left as the game was suspended, with heavy hearts and severely chilled bodies. I can pretend to be philosophical about the whole thing and say that I had a marvelous time, no matter what happens. And, really, I did have an insane amount of fun, even with the rain and cold. It is all for nothing, however, if the Phils don't come out of this victorious. Period. If I believed in God, I would pray for a win. Since I don't, I'm going to have to rely on nine men and a little luck to bring me and everyone in this city what they've hungered for for so long - a championship.
