OMG! PHILLIES WIN WORLD SERIES!

AP

YA GOTTA BELIEVE! Tug McGraw, threw winning pitch of 1980 World Series, RIP, Tug

Well yeah, 1980 and 2008 ... something karmic there.

My throat hurts from screaming, right in my own living room.

My hand hurts (my good arm) from high-fiving my husband.

My windows are rattling from fireworks and car horns and people whooping outside in the streets in joy.

We're going out there now to join the spontaneous block party that's just started.

There are better things than this, but right now, it feels as good as it gets.

PS I'd like to feel this good on November 4.

Yo, Phillies, Go For It!

Language, smanguage, we just want to WIN!

Liz Spikol and 'Mad Pride'

Shea Roggio for The New York Times

"It's not a 'mental' illness, it's a medical condition." Dale Neaman

So there she is, Liz Spikol, profiled in the New York Times and on the Huffington Post, back to back. Wow. How cool is that. Especially on a subject about which she happens to be an expert: mental illness.

The focus is on Spikol's contribution to a modern movement dedicated to bringing mental illnesses out of the dark ages and onto the Internet and YouTube. To shine light on a litany of very real medical conditions once hidden in the same kind of closet as homosexuality.

I knew Liz as a child, followed her impressive professional career, learned of her long battle with mental illness. I've celebrated her growth here but never came out, so to speak, about my own membership in her not so exclusive club.

'Mad Pride' is finally a group I can get behind 100 per cent. No, I'm not crazy (neither is Liz). But I'm not totally sane either. If you just went, HUH? that's the problem 'Mad Pride' proponents are trying to address.

Look around, hardly anybody you know is issue-free, so to speak. Or chemical-free, as a result of any number of very real mood disorders and illnesses. Usually inherited, just like heart disease or diabetes.

Yeah, I live a "normal," mentally balanced life, but only with the help of prescribed pharmaceuticals, internal fortitude and external support. So do millions of others, many, many of whom are related to me.

In our family alone we've got bi-polar disorder, manic depression, hypo-mania, clinical depression, suicidal ideation disorder, a potpourri of anxiety disorders, PTSD, obsessive-compulsive disorder, alcoholism, ADHD, Asperger's Syndrome and last but not least, body dysmorphic disorder.

Just about the only thing missing is schizophrenia. Although.... wait ... no! ... maybe ... well ... hold on! ... shut up! Oh, nevermind. Just kidding.

Mental illness isn't funny. Unless you've been through the tunnel, come out the other end and are managing your disease well. Then it can--for some, Must--be a stitch. Because that's the best way to patch yourself up.

A poster girl for 'Mad Pride,' Liz Spikol speaks with heart, humor, raw honesty, intelligence and incredible perception about her battles with bi-polar disorder. Listen to her.



Then listen some more.

I'll take my turn in print. Sometime soon.

Hillary. Clinton. PA and Beyond

"In politics, if you want anything said, ask a man. If you want anything done, ask a woman." Margaret Thatcher

It's come down to good old PA, just as I predicted it would. Please, people, pay attention: the focus has GOT to be on who can win in November. And who can get the job done after that.

Barack Obama might sound like Dr. King but he's not Dr. King. At least not yet. When is somebody going to point out that stirring oratory doesn't equal gravitas?

Certainly not the news media, who have let the public, the country and their profession down in a way that makes me want to smack them all upside their smarmy, self-important, empty heads.

My own head is going to explode if this nonsense doesn't end soon. Read. My. Lips. ... Obama. Can't. Win.

Barack Obama's smart as a whip but not seasoned or savvy. He takes things personally. He's prickly, thin-skinned, defensive. These are not qualities we want in a president. Just look at how well they've played for the current one.

As the going's gotten tougher toward the PA primary, Obama's been over-reacting, over-slamming, over-stepping, over-spending. He claims to be above Politics As Usual but his campaign is using all the old tricks, and then some.

They have to. The only way to rise above Politics As Usual is to embrace them, do what's needed to win, then change the game once you're in charge. If only Barack Obama would admit that's exactly what he's trying to do.

Instead he talks the High Road while playing the Campaign Game. Negative opposition ads. Sniping comments. Misleading personal ads. Targeted pockets of voters. Leaked polls. Phone banks and corporate dollars in the bank.

Nobody can get elected in this country without corporate money. Not even Barack Obama and his legions of loyal college kids can change the world without accepting the reality of who runs it.

Money talks. We need a president who knows how to talk back. Manage. Maneuver. Manipulate. Win.

That person is not Barack Obama. Big rallies, big promises, big dreams ... too much sizzle, not enough steak. I know he's charismatic and exciting. But. He. Won't. Win.

Nobody who runs for elected office is perfect. Nobody. The very act of putting yourself, your family and your privacy on the line takes a cast iron ego. Nobody builds that kind of ego without getting his or her hands dirty along the way.

It's all a matter of degree. And in the voting booth, it's a matter of practicality.

A vote for Barack Obama in the Pennsylvania Primary today will help elect John McCain President of the United States next November. And insure 100 more years of war.

Hillary. Clinton.

Our Night with the Harlem Globetrotters

"As long as families remain important in this world, the [Harlem] Globetrotters will remain a priority." Eathan O'Bryant

This year marks the 80th Anniversary of the Harlem Globetrotters, the remarkably gifted and entertaining team known as the "clown princes of basketball."

This month marks the 16th Anniversary of the night our son played basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters. When he was 8 years old. On a broken ankle.

That night at the Spectrum was beyond exciting. It's the kind of rare fantasy-come-true experience that lights up childhood memories. It was magical. Especially because he never saw it coming.

My niece worked in publicity for the Globetrotters and when they came to Philly she got us floor seats. I was thrilled since I'd been a Harlem Globetrotters fan as a kid, when "Meadowlark" Lemon was their star.

Mike had never heard of them, but it took about 30 seconds for him to become entranced with the players' skill and their antics. We cheered as they "beat" the tar out of the poor Washington Generals throughout the first half.

Then Karen led us back to the locker room where the players were nice enough to autograph Mike's bright green cast. I have that part on video. Unfortunately we were forbidden to use any cameras during the game. You'll see why that still kills me now.

Mike's broken ankle, by the way, came from a too vigorous basketball game at school. Even as a 3rd grader, he played to win.

So back to the 2nd half of the Globetrotters game. That's when they traditionally pull a little kid from the audience to "play" on their team. Karen, bless her, had arranged for them to choose Mike.

Though nobody knows it, the routine is carefully scripted. The 'Trotters bring the kid to the foul line, give him a few tries to make a basket. When he can't do it, their star center lifts him up to dunk the ball.

The other team fakes outrage, yells foul. The referees confer, shake their fingers at the 'Trotters and the kid, who's back down on the floor looking happy, if confused, while the 'Trotters claim he's a legitimate player.

At least, that's the way it's supposed to go.

So they bring Mike onto the court -- a regular sneaker on his good foot, a huge matching sneaker I'd fitted onto his neon green cast. Already a crowd-pleaser and a perfect foil for the 'Trotters.

The players ceremoniously lead him to the foul line, hand him the ball, tell him to shoot. They're all poised to begin their act. The crowd is loving the small "player" with the big cast, looking even smaller standing there on the Spectrum floor next to his over sized "team mates".

Nobody but Mike knows he's taking this totally seriously. He bounces the ball a couple times, checks the distance to the basket. The players pretend to look at their watches, start tapping their toes. The crowd is laughing, cheering, yelling, "Give him time! Let him try!" The referees quiet everyone down, tell him go ahead and shoot.

Mike's knees bend, hands cupping the ball, eyes on the basket. He lifts off, weight on his good foot, lofts the ball ... and makes the shot. Nothing. But. Net.

The place erupts. Fifteen thousand people go nuts. The players and the referees are caught flatfooted -- it's not in the script. And Mike's just standing there, proud of himself, but looking at them like, "What? You told me to make a basket, so I did."

They pick him up and carry him around the court while the crowd screams. Then they go into a huddle at center court, Mike in the middle, lost from view. When they open the circle he emerges in full Globetrotter uniform, shirt hanging to his knees, shorts almost to his ankles.

The cheering contines. And Mike continues to play. He makes one more basket on his own, another when they finally lift him for the ceremonial dunk. After the game's over they all sign an official ball and shake his hand.

That's the ball up there in the picture, ink faded now, but still legible. And that's the bright green cast he was wearing. Mementos of a night we'll never forget.

Tune in to MNT TV tonight at 8 PM Eastern, listen to the bouncing rhythm of "Sweet Georgia Brown," meet Mike's former teammates "Curly" Neal, "Sweet" Lou Dunbar and others.

And let a new generation of Harlem Globetrotters steal your hearts.

Kids Sliced and Diced

"How can you sit there day after day and watch kids be victimized?" Jack Stollsteimer, PA safe-schools advocate

Stop me if you heard this: two teenage girls walk up to a bus stop on their way home from their new high school. A car squeals to a stop, a pack of girls tumble out, more girls appear from the street ... and attack the two new girls with a sharp weapon (the police don't know exactly what yet).

Not a joke. A horror story. One girl's face was sliced to ribbons. The other girl was luckier, only a few cuts. For now. It seems somebody in the wolf-ette pack doesn't like one of the new girls.

So far the police have picked up a lone 16-year-old who they say wasn't the cutter, but was there. They think somebody's mother was driving the car. They don't have the slasher in custody yet.

=====
In an unrelated incident, an eighth grade girl was attacked by a boy who stabbed her with a broken pencil, poked her in the forehead, slapped her in the face and choked her.

He did all that during a bullying-prevention class.

I want to know who the hell was teaching that class. The girl's parents went to the police. The school district wants to know why the principal didn't file a complaint until after the boy was arrested.

He's back in school now. His 13-year-old victim is terrified he's going to hurt her again. Or worse.

=====
Last but hardly least, there's the 13-year-old boy who showed up at his school armed with knives, a propane torch, a can of gasoline, a bottle of torch fluid, firecrackers and gas masks.

He tore up classrooms, terrorized students and teachers, holding them at bay with the blow torch while managing to stab a 16-year-old girl and a couple other students who were helping to subdue him.

As you might expect, he was the proverbial nice kid, perceived as just another regular student. Nobody saw it coming.

Nobody ever seems to see any of these attacks coming. And as always, I have to ask: Where are their parents???

On the other hand, all these attacks involved knives. No one was killed.

Imagine the carnage if any of these disturbed, enraged, out-of-control kids had guns.

Righteous Anger Over Sean Taylor

"We have buried 200 Sean Taylors in this city this year... They deserve our tears, too, for they may have been anonymous to you, but they weren't to their mothers and fathers, their best friends and lovers, their teachers and mentors." David Aldridge, Phila Inquirer

I was all set to rant about the shooting death of Washington Redskin's safety Sean Taylor in a more global--and local--context. David Aldridge beat me to it.

Let's face it, he's got far more creds. He's a black man. I'm a white woman. Yet he expressed everything I've been feeling and wanting to say. If you live in Philly--or anywhere else drowning in violence--and have a conscience, he spoke for you too.

Time to stop all the dying

If you want to debate which quarterback is best for the Eagles, please, go read somebody else. This morning, I don't give a damn. My concern today is not whether Donovan starts Sunday but whether Dontae down the block is going to be alive in a year. Black men, I need your attention.

This means you, Jimmy Rollins.

Mr. Cosby, give me a minute.

I'm talking both to Beasley Reece and the guy who drives the downtown bus. Will Smith and the electrician fixing the wiring at City Hall. The pastor at the Baptist church. The waiter at the Capital Grille.

The pilot behind the stick of the USAirways flight this morning.

The teacher in West Philly.

The barber in the first chair.

Mayor-elect Nutter.

The 14-year-old who thinks no one believes in him.

The painter.

The convict.

The gay guy.

The sergeant just back from Iraq. The lieutenant who is going next week.

All of you. Listen up.

I'm tired of seeing young black men go into the ground.

Tired of seeing lives ruined by guns, and by drugs, and by bad choices, and by people like me who sit idly by while it happens, because it isn't happening to us.

Rich men, poor men, athletes, beggars, journalists, L.A., D.C., Detroit, Chicago, it doesn't matter. We are dying.

I've just spent two days with the Redskins, who are trying to deal with the fact that one of their best players and team leaders, a young, complicated black man named Sean Taylor, is dead at 24, because someone broke into his home at 1:30 in the morning Monday and murdered him.

There are those, including colleagues I respect, who say they're not surprised, and infer that Taylor had it coming, because he had had a beef with some bad people two years ago that led to brandished guns and cars shot full of holes. And, thus, it was inevitable that he had to die, like life is a Shakespearean play or something. A Montague is dead; a Capulet must follow. It's in the script.

No, no, no. That is wrong.

As black men, we cannot allow ourselves to be defined by anyone - by the media or by ourselves - and accept the premise that one beginning means only one possible ending.

Sean Taylor, while no saint, was not a "thug." He didn't grow up in the 'hood. He went to private schools before college. And even if he was a thug - whatever that is - or embraced that culture during one part of his life, that doesn't mean he deserved to die in front of his child and fiancée, in his home, bothering no one.

I'm angry that people cry about Sean Taylor's death because he was an outstanding football player, as if his death has extra meaning because he had great closing speed. This is not about sports.

We have buried 200 Sean Taylors in this city this year. We don't know what would have come of their dreams and hopes. They deserve our tears, too, for they may have been anonymous to you, but they weren't to their mothers and fathers, their best friends and lovers, their teachers and mentors.

I'm angry that, as of 2004, according to the Centers for Disease Control, homicide is the No. 1 cause of death among black men ages of 15 to 34. I'm angry that the Justice Policy Institute found more black men in prison than in college.

I'm angry that young brothers who like school and want to learn are accused of "acting white," and have to make the awful choice of sticking with their education or sticking with their boys. It happened to me when I was 5. I've never gotten over it. How does one mend a heart broken by those who look most like him?

I'm tired of nodding in agreement as I did yesterday when Brian Westbrook talked about how he has to be extra careful these days, because he knows that, all-pro or not, he's a target when he steps off the field, and his celebrity provides no shield.

"I feel as though everybody's vulnerable, to a certain extent," he said. "You have to watch the company that you keep. You have to watch the situations that you put yourself in. . . . You can't put yourself in a situation where your friends are doing dirt or bad things, and then you hang around those people. 'Cause at some point, karma catches up with you."

We can continue to throw our hands up and blame others or we can stop this genocide and deal with the recriminations later.

In an otherwise demagogic campaign advertisement in 1964, Lyndon Johnson said, "These are the stakes. To make a world in which all of God's children can live or to go into the dark. We must either love each other or we must die."

What's it gonna be?

David Aldridge Time to stop all the dying Philadelphia Inquirer 11/29/2007

Mr. Aldridge, you can speak for me any time. I hope lots and lots of people listen.

Eagles Flew It, Andy Blew It

Yong Kim, Phila Daily News

"Three points. The Patriots and three points. It's killing me." Andy Reid

Tell me about it.

Were you screaming in joyous disbelief at the Eagles-Patriots game most of last night?

Jumping, pumping, high-fiving. Yelling, YES! Cheering the passing, the blocking, the defense, the tricks, the kicks, the sacks, the TD's. By. The. Eagles.

The Heart and Soul and Spirit of our team was in full view last night. The Eagles were galvanized as we haven't seen them, really seen them, since they pounded the stuffing out of Dallas last year at the Linc.

Did you groan in agonized disbelief at the end of the first half as Andy Reid let Jabar Gaffney's touchdown catch stand without a fight?

Madden and Michaels were stunned. Replay after replay showed Gaffney clearly out-of-bounds. Yet Andy Reid never challenged the call. Why not? What did he have to lose?

After all, that was the Eagles game plan: play like you've got nothing to lose. The strategy was winning. So why didn't Reid take it all the way?

I'll give you one reason: Andy Reid is timeout-challenged. He burns them, he blows them, he squanders them. And when he can actually afford to use one, he pulls his punches.

Yes, the Pats are a great team. Yes, AJ threw three too many interceptions. But he also threw three touchdown passes. The Eagles might have won anyway. They were playing like a great team. And AJ Feeley was playing like a real quarterback.

The 11-0 Pats have beaten every other team by more than 24 points -- the point spread on the Eagles. Yet in the end, the Eagles held the mighty Patriots to a measly three point win. Deja vu all over again.

A bogus Patriot touchdown might have made the difference. Would Donovan McNabb have made another difference? No. Not today's McNabb. A younger, stronger McNabb didn't make a difference in Super Bowl XXXIX.

I've made it clear I'm not a McNabb fan. Yes, he's got some of the most impressive stats in NFL ... on paper. Yes, he's an elite franchise QB with moves and skill to spare ... when he's on his game. Yes, he's taken the Eagles to Division titles, playoffs and to one Super Bowl.

But not all the way. Never all the way. "Almost" doesn't count.

Donovan McNabb is not a closer. Put pressure on him and he caves. Physically. Mentally. As a player and a leader. Plus, he's fragile. If you drop him, he breaks.

Stats and skills and leadership don't matter if the quarterback's not on the field. Or is playing hurt. Or has lost his wind and his will. Or is getting too old.

AJ Feeley's come in from back-up and won in the past. Will he get a chance to do it again? Coach Reid says McNabb won't practice but will play next week. The fans aren't sure that's wise.

Last night's Eagles-Patriots game was a flashback. Let's hope it's not back to the future.

******
Update: Well, it seems sometimes I actually make sense during my sports rants.

Playback Philadelphia Inquirer 11/27/2007

Why no review?

Referee Gene Steratore's crew got the call right when Jabar Gaffney scored just before halftime on a 19-yard touchdown pass from Brady, but the play was close enough that it should have at least been reviewed. There was no way the officials could be 100 percent certain of their call without seeing it on replay.

Two other mysteries on that play: Why did Eagles cornerback Sheldon Brown stop running with Gaffney and why did back judge Tony Steratore throw a penalty flag?

- Bob Brookover

Andy Reid's Bad Seeds

"I liked being the rich kid in that area and having my own high-status life. I could go anywhere in the 'hood. They all knew who I was. I enjoyed it. I liked being a drug dealer." Garrett Reid

"This is a family in crisis. There isn't any structure there that this court can depend upon." Judge Steven O'Neill

When Andy Reid's two older sons imploded and exploded on the same day last January, it seemed like they'd just recently discovered drugs. In fact, they were already hard-core addicts, so why hadn't we heard about it sooner?

According to Britt Reid, 22, he's been a drug addict since age 14. He and his older brother Garrett, 24, have been using and dealing legal and illegal drugs for years, in a broad range of neighborhoods.

Yet they never got caught. We haven't heard much since January. Stone-faced Andy doesn't share anything, certainly not about his self-destructive sons.

He has no choice now. Both boys are in jail. And no, the "hidden" stash incident isn't funny, it was a sad act of sick desperation.

Which begs the question: Where were Andy and Tammy Reid all those years? And don't say "at a football game." Although Andy Reid's got a tough job, Tammy's the self-proclaimed full time mom who keeps him in the loop. Or not.

Is it possible local authorities have been cutting the Reid boys slack all these years? Did local doctors prescribe meds to curry favor with their father? Did teachers, clergy and other parents fail to come forward out of awe or fear of Coach Reid?

Oh come on, like that doesn't happen in celebrity drug situations. There has to be some explanation for these kids getting away with so much drug use, abuse and sales for so much time.

No matter who shared in the enabling, it starts --or stops-- at home.

The sentencing judge noted how very many prescription drugs were in the Reid house, calling it "more or less like a drug emporium." He wondered, as do I, how it was possible the Reid parents didn't know.

Of course they knew, they described in court the many times they'd put the boys in rehab without long term success. Maybe that lack of success was abetted by those same over-indulgent parents?

When your kids get out of rehab, you don't put them in a car and give them money ... you put them in an outpatient program and make them get a job. You watch them like a hawk. Or hire somebody to do it.

I know, especially in this town, it can't be easy to be the son of the Eagle's coach. Yes, you've got privilege and prestige, but you've also got a PR monkey on your back.

It seems Garret and Britt Reid abused their privilege and wound up with another kind of monkey on their backs. Now they're finding out jail isn't such a prestigious address.

Here's my last, and most important question: Why did Andy and Tammy Reid keep guns in the same house with their drug addict sons and their other three children?

It's downright amazing nobody in the Reid house got shot. Yet.

Ugly Philly

"It is better to be beautiful than to be good, but it is better to be good than to be ugly." Oscar Wilde

Yo! Who youse callin ugly? You dissin da city of Brudderly Love? Faggedaboudit.

So maybe we talk ugly and maybe our teams play ugly, but most of us aren't that bad looking. Well, wait. We were named one of the Fattest Cities in the country again this year.

But still, where does Travel and Leisure get off calling us the least attractive city in the country?

No surprise, they figured it out on the Internet. Um. Let me get this straight. A bunch of fat, ugly people with little to do but take online surveys made this decision? Oookay. Not what I'd call a reliable source group.

T & L claim 60,000 people voted randomly over a couple of months. They didn't bother checking duplicate votes. Spammers. Or the versimilitude of voter credentials.

All of which means T & L has come up with a really, really statistically accurate survey. NOT.

In one area, Philly got a bum rap. Sort of. At least when it comes to tourists. We're ranked third from last for Safety, behind such crime-free meccas as Las Vegas, Chicago, New York, DC and Miami.

Hey, tourists aren't in danger in Philly. Our residents are.

We move higher up on the T & L list when it comes to Peace and Quiet. There you go. Tourists who stay out of unsafe neighborhoods aren't bothered by the sound of gunfire. They've just read about our obscenely high murder count.

Good looks are subjective under the best of circumstances. Are Philly residents some of the least attractive in the country? I don't think so.

On the other hand ...

There's nothing attractive about a kid killing somebody over a pair of sneakers. No beauty in an angry woman stabbing her abuser in public. It's not pretty when street gangs shoot up playgrounds. All of those things are beyond ugly.

So in the end--and much more important--what's really hideous about Philadelphia is our crime rate.

Cornbread and Me

(Click the pic and find me.)

Cornbread. Cool Earl. The two most prolific graffiti artists in Philly during the 70's. If you knew how to read back then, you knew those names, recognized their distinctive tags. Especially Cornbread's.

I'm conflicted about graffiti. Lots of real and pop psychologists explain it's a way for the disenfranchised to say, I EXIST, I'M HERE, I'M A PERSON TOO.

I don't like it but I get it. I'm lucky enough not to need such validation. I have family, friends, an education, a career, a stable home life, a home, period... all attesting to my worth as a human being.

Graffiti writers have few, if any, self-esteem safety nets. The crumbling buildings in their neighborhoods scream out poverty, hopelessness, despair.

So I also understand the urge to cover up--or brighten up--those painfully ugly walls.

Both arguments--or excuses, take your pick--lose credibility when graffiti writers spray filth, rage, hate on walls. Especially walls beyond their neighborhoods and into ours. Which is despicably hypocritical. But true.

However. Cool Earl and Cornbread were different. Their tags were unusual. Clever. Colorful. Still, I don't know if you'd call their work "art," as a recent book and documentary claim.

Last weekend somebody sprayed decidedly un-artistic graffiti all over our garage, which makes me mad as hell.

Of course the real reason might be that they didn't include my name.

Read Confetti Betty

"Yep, even The Boss gets booed. Like I said, this is Philly." Amy Z. Quinn, aka Confetti Betty

Giving up my turn today so you can read Amy's McClatchy alt.campaign column for the Philly skinny. Including Bono, Rudi, the Phillies and the Boss of Bosses.

She rocks. She rolls. She writes with wit, irreverence, knowledge and attitude ... all showing what a consummate pro she is.

Six degrees of Election '08

Phillies Turn It Off

"The key to winning baseball games is pitching, fundamentals, and three run homers." Earl Weaver

My heart is broken. Go ahead, laugh, mock, whatever. When you live in a rabid sports town whose teams come thisclose year after year and then fold, we thought we had a real chance this time.

But no. The Phillies lost.

That power failure in Coors field at the start of the second inning with the Phillies at bat. Believe in Karma or not, it was clearly a sign.

That sign made me toss and turn all last night, my dreams filled with a hodgepodge of images, frustration, disappointment, gloom. Pain.

I woke up this morning when my husband brought in coffee and the newspaper. Head still buried in my pillow, eyes still closed, I said to him, "The headline says 'Lights Out'."

"How did you know that?!?" he was amazed.

What else could it have said? The Rockies punched our lights out. Almost literally. Certainly metaphorically.

Our spirited, come-from-behind winning baseball team couldn't light up the scoreboard or each other. They tanked. Failed. Came undone. They were flat, floundering, decidedly UNspirited.

And I don't know why. Do you?

Yeah, baseball's about pitching. If a pitcher's good, and the Rockies' pitcher sure was, it's hard to score runs. But baseball's also about hitting, and the Phillies have more than their share of towering talent in that area.

None of our hitters showed up Saturday night, at least not in spirit. Though most of them are young, resilient and hot ... they just plain went cold.

Phillie veteran Jamie Moyer, almost 45 years old, showed up. He pitched to win. He cooled the hot Rockies hitters. They scored only 2 runs.

Score one for the Baby Boomer generation.

If only Moyer's teammates had followed his lead, fought back as they've done so many times. That was the story of the Phillies this year -- tremendous comebacks from humongous deficits.

But one by one, the best of them failed to light up. Jimmie Rollins, the Phillie's brilliant sparkplug, who more often than not has electrified the team, was dim, almost lifeless at bat.

Ryan Howard (my new friend), Pat Burrel, Chase Utley, Aaron Roward, all power hitters, were powerless. Shane Victorino flared briefly for a solo home run, but that was it.

And that was it.

Typically at the end of a frustrating Eagles season, we all say hopefully, "Okay, the Phillies."

When the Phillies let us down, we say, "Okay, the Eagles." Right. Their record is 1 and 4.

Sixers? Flyers?

It looks like this town's gonna be dark for a long, long time.



Update: As Inquirer metro columnist and blogger extraordinaire Dan Rubin reminds us on Blinq ... well, see for yourself.

Ryan Howard, Regular Guy

"Why is it there are so many nice guys interested in baseball? Not me, I was a real bastard when I played." Burleigh Grimes

It was just another shopping trip to Target. But what started as a quest for ordinary household items ended with possession of a holy grail.

You'll like this story. Especially if you live in Philly. Love baseball. And the Phillies. Have a kid who loves the Phillies.

There I was at Target, moving along the aisles, grabbing things on my list, trying to get in, get out.

Then I remembered they sell sports team gear. Perfect! The Phillies just won the National League East division championship. I wanted something for my son. And me.

I headed for the T-shirts. Strike one. Lots of Eagles stuff, but nobody, including me, was buying. At least for now.

I thought to myself, Automotive. They'll have magnets, car flags, mugs, something. Strike two.

Automotive is across the aisle from Toys, don't ask me why. Okay, there was a toy on my shopping list. And, I thought a bit desperately, maybe I'd find a Phillies toy too. Strike three.

My Target's a friendly neighborhood place. I'd been asking other shoppers if they noticed Phillies stuff. Nobody had.

As I headed away from Toys, a guy in baggy jeans and a gray T-shirt asked me if I knew where the Transformers were. I'd just passed some, so I showed him.

Then I asked him if he'd seen any Phillies stuff. He kind of ducked his head and said no.

As I checked out I noticed some Target managers gathered around the security monitors. Uh oh. Trouble? I was still on my quest, so I approached them anyway.

"Excuse me, but is there anything Phillies in the store?" I asked plaintively.

Wait for it...

One guy said, "Does Ryan Howard count?"

What?? What??

"He's in the store now. Shopping."

Where?? Where??

The money pitch...

"He's in Toys."

Oh yeah. You got it. The Transformers guy. And I'd asked him if he "saw any Phillies stuff." Oy.

Don't start. He wasn't wearing a Phillies uniform. He wasn't surrounded by an entourage or a crowd of fans. Would you expect to see Ryan Howard shopping in "Tar-jay"?

Happy ending: my son is now the proud owner of an autographed toy baseball. Hey, it's only fitting. And it was that or my Target receipt.

Phillies - WE WON!

JOHN COSTELLO / Inquirer

"If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?" Vince Lombardi

Life is hard. Job, family, bills, school, taxes, bosses, teachers, doctors, parents, kids, commutes, mortgages, crime... managing to keep your head above water, inside and out.

Then one magical autumn afternoon it all fades away. Nothing matters but this:

WE WON!!!

If only briefly, all our cares and woes seem a little less burdensome. There's a bounce in the step. A smile on the face. A cheer deep in the belly:

WE WON!!!

Philadelphia is Electric. Ecstatic. United. Filled with joy and walking on air. If only for the next few weeks, we're on top of the world. And life seems a little easier to handle.

If only it were that simple. One poignant reminder of the world outside Philly almost "harshed my mellow" as we used to say. A message board comment on this AP story Phils Complete Comeback to Claim NL East.

"All the way from IRAQ!!! YOU GO PHIL'S! YA GOTTA BELIEVE!!! i LOVE YOU GUYS! BRING IT HOME!" SPC HILL, UNITED STATES ARMY

Suddenly I was reminded life's not as simple as baseball. There's war. And suffering. And death.

On the other hand... SPC Hill, all the way across the world from Iraq, in harm's way, is as pumped as we are here at home in Philly. I'm glad the Phillies brought him some much needed relief, release, happiness, a reason to cheer.

I hope the Fightin Phils "bring it home" for him and all our military men and women too. As I hope we can bring them home, alive and well.

But for a little bit longer, I'm going to savor an all-too-rare thrill in Philly:

WE WON!!!

Phillies Phever

David Maialetti/Daily News (players graphic added)

"Baseball was, is and always will be to me the best game in the world." Babe Ruth

Oh. My. God. The Phillies are tied for Phirst!

I don't know what it is about Philly and our sports teams, but together they form a palpable, living entity.

Civic pride, self-image, sometimes even friendships and relationships rise and fall with our teams. Especially the Eagles and the Phils.

They keep us on the edge. Our fists clench. Our pulses pound. We hold our breath, then let it out in howls. I watched the Eagles play in the Super Bowl with my son and his friends in 2004. Even furious at the loss, the experience was extreme. Electric.

Today's generation can't begin to imagine the Phillies in a World Series. I can.

I've been so busy whining about my age that I forgot one of the benefits of being a Baby Boomer: I saw the Phillies make it to the World Series twice. And win once.

My husband (who was just my bf then) was at The Vet for Game 6 to see Tug McGraw throw that final strike to win the 1980 World Series. I watched on TV with friends.

It's entirely possible some of us have permanent throat damage from screaming for Our Team. Nothing was like that day. Nothing.

We watched the heartbreaking loss in 1993 on TV in stunned disbelief as "Wild Thing" Mitch Williams' seemingly perfect strike became Joe Carter's series-winning 2-run homer for Toronto.

Though it was hard to lose, it was hard to love the 93 Phillies the way we loved the boys of 1980. And they way we've come to love our Fightins now.

If you think about it, today's team has more in common with that 1980 team. Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, Garry Maddox, Lonnie Smith, Steve Carlton, the Tugger. And yes, Larry Bowa too.

Veterans and rookies working together to make it happen. Scrappy. Determined. Resilient. Most of them likeable. Some heroic. All of them hungry. And, like the fans, not willing to give up.

No matter what happens, we've had the most fun since 1980 with our 2007 team. Finally.

They've brought us back to that 1980 slogan --and more important-- the feeling You Gotta Believe.

McNabb - Not All Black and White

"The community put such a premium on success. And you had no excuse to blame racism or discrimination as a reason why you couldn't succeed." Ed Smith

Has Donovan McNabb been watching too many reruns of Michael Richards' YouTube video? Having nightmares about Don Imus? What else would explain one of the NFL's most elite franchise QB's playing defense with the race card?

Maybe it's because Donovan McNabb has issues defending his own game. And lets himself off the hook by blaming sportswriters and fans. Uh, what?

No question, Philadelphia fans are passionate to a fault. We love our teams when they're winning, hate them when they're losing. We've rightfully been called a lot of things -- boorish, crude, angry, frustrated, ungrateful, unforgiving, frenzied boo-birds. But racist? No freakin way.

We're a big city with teams in all four franchise sports. Plenty of controversy raged around Alan Iverson and Charles Barclay of the Sixers, but race never came up. Of course not, basketball is dominated by black players.

Race hasn't come up about Jimmy Rollins, Ryan Howard or any black Phillies either. (On the Flyers, or any other hockey team, race is hardly a dominant issue.)

The Sixers and Flyers have been in the basement so long we fans focus our hopes and dreams mainly on the Phillies and Eagles. Who lift us up and drop us on our heads virtually every season.

McNabb has brought the Eagles to the brink of Ultimate Success over and over. When we finally got to the Super Bowl, by many lights, inlcuding mine, our $28 million hero folded in the clutch. Not because of his skin. Because of his knees, his ribs, his lungs, maybe even his heart.

Look around the stadium during any Eagles game at all the #5 jerseys. They sell out every year. See all the faces painted green. The hats, the blankets, the big green fingers, the green beer mugs. From the babies to the grannies, everybody's in some kind of Eagles regalia. Yelling their heads off in support of their hometown team.

I can't speak for other cities, but it's an insult to Eagles' fans for McNabb to claim he's subjected to higher expectations and more criticism because he's black.

We are F A N S. We want them to WIN. We don't have attitude about McNabb's race. It's his playing. Leadership. Getting our hopes up and letting us down.

Ever since McNabb brought race into the mix, people are walking around Philly going, HUH? Can McNabb really think we're pissed because he's Black? You gotta be kidding.

The only color Eagles fans care about is GREEN.

Update: I just read Phil Sheridan's column about this issue and I realized I hadn't made one important point. McNabb has faced racism in his life that I deplore and can't begin to comprehend. But I still maintain: not from Eagles fans.

Trotter Gets the Ax

"I truly believe that if you were to cut me, I'd bleed green." Jeremiah Trotter, aka the Axman

Noooooooooooooooooo. Not Jeremiah Trotter! He's OUR Eagle.

Phila Inquirer Reader Poll:

Did the Eagles make the right move by releasing Jeremiah Trotter?

Yes, it was time. 28.2%

No, he could still contribute. 71.8%

I don't know much about the Eagles personnel budget and I'm not so good at math, but I still have to wonder what dollar value can be put on dedication, experience and leadership?

Jeremiah Trotter is a leader. An Eagle to the core. A man among men -- and boys. More so than most of his higher paid teammates.

I didn't make a peep when the Eagles grabbed a rookie quarterback in the draft this season. It was exactly what the team needs most.

Pundits rave about McNabb's talent and his numbers are impressive. Yet as many times as he's gotten us thisclose, McNabb's never closed the deal. He folds over and over, under injury, stress, controversy.

Jeremiah Trotter comes to win. And stays. And fights. Even at 30 (which isn't exactly ancient) he's still got guts, gumption and game. He's a leader who doesn't take personality personally, especially when there's a win at stake.

Back in 2005 when everybody was ranting about T.O. ruining the Eagles team spirit, Trotter hit the nail on the right head, saying T.O.'s talent, not his mouth was more important to the team.

Andy Reid and Eagles management turned T.O. into the anti-Christ as an object lesson on the importance of sportsmanship and team spirit. If they believe so strongly in that standard, why don't they apply it to the tremendous value-add Trotter brings to the team, the fans, the game itself?

Donovan McNabb hasn't nearly earned his $28 million salary.

Jeremiah Trotter is a Pro-Bowl legend who deserves better than an abrupt cut for so-called "money saving" reasons.

Number 54, your fans are bleeding for you.

Philly Violence

Kids, Guns and a Deadly Toll - Inquirer

"He smacked her in the face three times, and she said: 'If you hit me again, I'm going to kill you.' " Tysheka Moore, witness to violence

My city is swimming in blood. Violence has become so pervasive and out of control we're beginning to resemble Iraq. Nothing and nobody seems able to stop the bloodshed.

Of course it's happening primarily in poor neighborhoods. People are killing and maiming each other every day without realizing they themselves are the ultimate victims.

Their reasons range from the tragedy of domestic abuse to the idiocy of 'you took my place in line.' But most fall under the category of no reason other than a culture overwhelmed by rage and frustration, underscored by violence.

Here's one from the tragic column.

A man and his child's mother stand in the street arguing while neighbors watch. He hits her face over and over and over.

Finally she threatens to kill him, goes inside, comes out and dares him to hit her again.

He hits her again. She slits his throat with a knife. While her children watch.

He's dead. She's gone. One child lost a father, others will lose a mother. Each by the other's hand.

According to police, it's an all too typical story. That particular night, two more people were killed, five gunned down and hospitalized, all within four hours. From the Phila Daily News:

11:38 p.m. [A] man, who already been told by the tattoo artist on several separate occasions to return when he was less busy, got angry when he again was turned away. [He] brandished a handgun and blasted ... another customer, 21 during the argument and fled.

At midnight, an 18-year-old man was shot once in the back at 40th and Market streets in University City. He remained in stable condition at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania yesterday.

At 12:56 a.m., a 19-year-old man was shot once in the right hip on Rittenhouse Street near Osceola. He remained in stable condition at Albert Einstein Medical Center yesterday.

Two minutes later, a 30-year-old was shot once in the neck on 23rd Street near Tasker in South Philadelphia. He remained in stable condition at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

At 1:34 a.m., a 55-year-old man was shot twice in the left calf on Stafford Street near Chew Avenue. He remained in stable condition at Einstein yesterday.

At 2:17 a.m., a 23-year-old man was shot once in the right foot on Louden Street near Broad in Logan. He remained in stable condition at Einstein yesterday.

Open a newspaper, turn on the news, check out the online versions, not one day goes by in Philadelphia without multiple violent crimes: shootings, stabbings, rapes, assaults, home invasions ... you name it, Philly's got it.

The latest trend is rec center violence, adults spraying bullets all over what should be urban children's ultimate save havens. In Philly, nobody's safe anywhere.

It's gotten so bad, the Phila Inquirer has dedicated a complete new section to the history, statistics, repercussions and heartbreaking stories of Philly's reign of Violence.

Btw, the Philadelphia homicide toll for 2007 is currently 259. But that will have increased before you got to this closing sentence. Because my city is drowning in blood.

10,000 Memories

"You can't win them all." Connie Mack

After watching the Phillies historic disaster Sunday night, I remembered a piece I wrote last year about my memorable personal encounter with the original Philly Phanatic.

Intending to reprise a good story, I took another look at it.

Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo.... (no, not a commenary on the Phillies, it's the Twilight Zone theme).

You won't believe the timing, or the circumstances.

See for yourself: How the Philly Phanatic Turned Green

My friend Dan Rubin, the Inquirer's Metro Columnist and still my favorite blogger would call this one of my Brushes with Greatness.

This time, Dan, it was more like Flushes with Greatness.