I can’t say when my love for the Phils began, just as I can’t say when I started to talk, walk, and all of the other important things that are basic in life. They have always been there, as essential as breathing. I could say I love them because I was born in Philly, but then I should feel the same for the Eagles, Sixers, and Flyers, but I don’t. Baseball appeals to me in an almost spiritual way, which is probably why I have a Sunday ticket plan.
Listening to the game on the radio in the backyard is a special memory that I hold of the Fightin’s and my dad. Dad was one of the few optimistic Philly fans. He never booed the pinstipes, and rarely the opponent. “You can’t blame the other guy for winning because that’s his job too. We’ll get them next time.” Even at their worst, he taught me, “They may be bums, but they’re our bums.” I can’t spend those times with Dad anymore. He passed away in 1989. He never got to watch the 93 Phils or the 08 World Series, but I felt him with me as I sha