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ACROSS ENEMY LINES. | metsgrrl.com


It was bad enough that I had to be in Philadelphia, bad enough that I had to drive by Citizen’s Bank Park, bad enough that I spent almost the entire day on the other side of the complex from Citizen’s Bank Park, bad enough that every third person in a large crowd of people tailgating or waiting to get into the Wachovia Center was wearing some kind of Phillies regalia, bad enough that we had to endure watching Bruce fucking Springsteen BLESS THE PHILLIES onstage (no, seriously; he asked how they were doing and then made the sign of the cross with his microphone. I almost threw up a little bit in my mouth when he did that), and ultimately, bad enough that we shouldn’t have been at the concert because it should have conflicted with our playoff plans (because otherwise, no sane individual within 3000 miles skips Springsteen in Philadelphia for any reason whatsoever).

But the piece de resistance was after the concert, having to go over to McFadden’s, the bar in Citizens Bank Park, to watch the Phillies-Rockies game. This was not part of our plans, but I magically discovered two incredibly good friends in town for the shows. One is a from-birth Mets fan, the other a from-birth Red Sox fan. And they were going to McFadden’s, and TBF wanted to go to McFadden’s, so I acquiesced. Once we walked in the bar and were surrounded by people in red and white or baby blue and maroon, I didn’t know how I was going to get through it and was totally regretting saying that I was okay with it.

We sat outside on the patio, where they had large screen tv’s set up with the Phillies radio broadcast for audio, and quietly, very quietly, talked Mets and Red Sox and baseball, cheering in whispers. When it came down to that last out, Shane Victorino at bat, things got very, very quiet. Around us, rally caps were on, all eyes glued to the screen.
“I almost feel bad,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” said Karen.
“A little bit,” I insisted.
“No.” TBF was adamant. “Fuck them.”
And they were right, you know, but, still, I have been them, and I had to have some tiny sliver of empathy, because I’m not inhuman. Just a tiny one.

The last out, and final, stunned silence. Everyone starts filing out, quietly. Some of them are still standing there, eyes glued to the tv screen, expressionless, reminding me of TBF after Game 7 and after last Sunday.

We walked out of the bar and started towards the parking lot, and when we got far enough away, I stopped for a minute to do the happy dance.

A little empathy, to be sure, but it’s still the Phillies.

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