Phillies @ Yankees. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania versus New York, New York.

The world fuckin’ champions with their backs to the wall as greedy Gotham gloats. The wisest minds in the universe of baseball expect the coronation of a new emperor tonight, a title seen as inevitable as a birthright, like a Charlamagne succeeding the occasional Pippen.

The odds are long and the venue is hostile and the smart money is on the most monied team on earth. As my Bronx born born pal Al tried to comfort me before the series even started, “There’s no shame in losing to the Yankees.” So what else can we do now, Phillies fans… except ROLL DOWN THE WINDOWS AND LET THE WIND BLOW BACK OUR HAIR! The night’s bustin’ open and these nine innings can take us anywhere. We got one last chance to make it real. . .

And after we do that, then there’s Game Seven.

We’ve never been there, you know, not as a team or as fans. The Phillies have never reached a Game Seven in the World Series. They’ve lost in four. They’ve won and lost in five. They’ve won and lost in six. But a Game Seven is an uncharted continent in the Phillies playoff cartography, a submerged Atlantis of possibilities and myth making. We must visit Game Seven. It’s only right.

I harbor no ill will towards Yankees fans, other than hating the air they breathe, and the earth beneath their feet. This puts me, I would say, in the middle of the pack in terms of Philadelphia fan animosity toward the Yankees as an idea as much as a team. Not only are they the highest paid players in baseball, one Yankees player makes more in a year than all the players on the Pittsburgh Pirates combined. If that’s not reason enough to hate the Yankees, then consider this: They’re also good. They play the game the way it’s supposed to be played and they know what it takes to win.

Take the ninth inning in Game Four… please. Take Johnny Damon’s at bat as an example of Yankees pride and resolve. Fight, fight, fight off two-strike, third-out pitches, until a soft loop single over the infield gets him on first base. Then he steals second briefly while sprinting toward third like a WalMart shopper spotting a fresh cashier with no one in line yet. Damon put on a clinic of good gritty baseball that night. He was Pete Rose-ish, a relentless competitor who wrings the most out of a solid but inelegant body. Johnny Fuckin’ Damon. I honor and pray for his soul as it burns in hell, as it should, for all eternity.

I was telling my English and Journalism students yesterday, You guys may never live to see another World Series like this, with the Phillies as defending champions and the Yankees as American League challengers. It’s been my experience that such a major league baseball coincidence takes place once ever 125 years or so. Which is not saying it couldn’t happen next year, and if it did, wouldn’t that be something?

All I’m saying is that this is special and rare and savoring it as it happens is our duty as Phillies fans. This is wonderful and scary and stupidly important to all of us in triple dog dare ways. All we need to do is walk into Yankee Stadium and win tonight. Game Seven will take care of itself. And imagine, just imagine, if the Phillies win. Beat the Yankees twice more in Yankee Stadium after which we will drive home on the Jersey Turnpike with Bruce singing our goodbye to New York — “So Mary climb in. It’s a town full of losers. We’re pulling out of here to win” — on our way to a parade on Broad Street.

A man can dream can’t he? I believe in a place called hope.

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