Historic drought ends with reign

As a literary device, rain and water often represent cleansing, purity and an essential element of life. So perhaps it was fitting that last Saturday as the city of Philadelphia prepared for its first World Series game in 15 years, rain fell for hours. It was as if some high priest was blessing the altar that is Citizens Bank Park, home of the Philadelphia Phillies, with holy water for what the phaithful hoped would be the end of a quarter century of torment.

I, for one, was happy for the rain. Though I drove the last few hours of an eight-and-a-half-hour trip through it, the deluge lasted long enough to delay the scheduled start of the game 91 minutes so I could get from Wilmington to Philadelphia in time for the first pitch. I was able to attend the game thanks to the generosity of my cousin Mike. He had an extra ticket that could have fetched him a lot of money or even a ticket to another World Series game. Instead, he put family first, and after his brother Dan passed on a chance to go to the Series, he offered it to me. And that led to the day’s drive up I-95 to the City of Brotherly Love.

The game was classically Philadelphia. Eight innings in, it was the latest chapter in our Greek tragedy: a three-run lead thrown away just when we thought we had the game in our clutches. But in the bottom of the ninth, fate stepped in, and for once it worked in the Phillies favor. A hit batsman, a wild pitch, an errant throw, two intentional walks and a strange defensive alignment later that saw five infielders and two outfielders for the Tampa Bay Rays, and a light-hitting catcher who had been one of the biggest surprises of the postseason stepped to the plate. Mike and I stood among a group of fellow phans down the first base line. A man next to me told me he could just feel that the Phils would pull it out. “Of course,” I told him. “We have to win. This has to be that epic game that ends with the big hit at two in the morning.” To be accurate, it was 1:47 a.m. when Carlos Ruiz worked the count to 2-and-2 then hit perhaps the biggest 65-foot chopper in the history of the game. As Eric Bruntlett scored the winning run, that group of strangers around me and Mike became our closest friends, as we all high-fived and hugged each other, launching a monstrous celebration.

Game 4 later that night was an easy Phillies win, to give us a 3-1 series lead. And so as Game 5 approached Monday night, the butterflies began to flutter in our stomachs. I told my cousins it was like that feeling you get just before your wedding: A combination of excitement, nerves and relief that it’s all going to be over and the party will begin. But then Mother Nature and the bad karma that always seems to envelope Philadelphia took over. The game began with a light rain that led to another deluge that would have given Noah the itch to start measuring cubits of wood and gather up animals. When the umpires finally relented and told the groundscrew to pull the tarp onto the field, a 2-0 first inning lead for the Phillies was gone. Game 5 would pause for two days in the middle of the sixth inning tied 2-2.

Those two days were agonizing, like yet another couple pages in that tragedy we seem always to extend. And by the time the game resumed Wednesday night with a pinch-hitter replacing our best pitcher, many of us phollowers began to feel that sinking feeling we’ve felt so many times that the tide was turning, and that the two days of rain was about to drown us once again. Monday was supposed to be our night, the night the Phillies won their first World Series since 1980, the city’s first major sports championship in 100 sports seasons spanning 25 years. And by Wednesday, it seemed a 3-1 series lead may matter little.

But something strange happened. The pinch-hitter doubled. The MVP bunted him to third. The guy who hadn’t driven home a runner in scoring position in a month finally found his clutch stroke. Could it really be? The best bullpen in baseball would make it happen. But then the old feeling returned. The pitcher who hadn’t given up a home run since August and hadn’t served a dinger at home since April watched one of his pitches sail over the leftfield fence. Like so many times before, we’d begun to taste the sweetness of victory only to find the cup filled with bitterness. Then it happened again. The longest-serving Phillie, who hadn’t had a hit in the World Series, launched a ball about as far from home plate as you can go without hitting a homer for a double. Then the third baseman known more for his glove than his bat found a hole up the middle to regain the lead. Back to the amazing bullpen. And this time it held; a three-pitch strikeout from the pitcher who had been perfect all season ended it. And like the farmer finally seeing rain falling on his parched crops, the pitcher dropped to his knees and raised a yell of thanks and glory to heaven.

But he didn’t just end the game. He ended an epic drought. He wrote the final line of that Greek tragedy. Sisyphus finally pushed the boulder to the top of the hill, and it did not roll back down. Tantalus finally dipped his chin enough to sip the water that had been so close. Ah, the water. It had not been there to wash away our luck. It was there to cleanse us of our suffering. The rain had stopped, replaced by tears of joy and relief. And so the city that gave our great nation the breath of life finally had life breathed back into it. Philadelphia is the home of champions for the first time in a generation. And we will cherish it, relish in it, bask in it, scream about it, cry over it. After such a long drought, it’s nice to see the reign.