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!

Super Bowl Mom

Donald Miralle, Getty Images

"I mean, look, they played well. They made some plays. We made some plays. In the end, they made a couple more than we did." Bill Belichick

Oh please. The New England Patriots have set awesome records and made it to many Super Bowls, but as far as sportsmanship goes, their coach is a big baby, a damn sore loser and should be spanked.

The Eagles weren't in the Super Bowl so I wasn't going to watch. Plus, my son hates the Giants. I don't know why, but that's good enough for me. As it happens, I hate the Patriots. Because they cheated. And that's bad enough for me.

Ever since the Pats and head coach Bill Belichick were caught, fined and sanctioned for stealing signals, I've been pissed. That's no way to inspire the youth of America! Belichick's boorish behavior last night put the icing on the cake.

Now there's word the Pats also may have taped the St. Louis Rams' final walk through before the 2002 Super Bowl. Makes you wonder, did they steal signals and the Super Bowl from the Eagles too? Jeez, that would add a cherry on top.

In the end we watched the game because, well, it's the Super Bowl. I yelled at Belichick -- let's face it, he's fun to hate. And I have to admit I cheered for the Giants ... well, not so much for the team as for Eli Manning.

I wanted both Manning brothers to be MVPs and win Super Bowl rings. Not exactly scientific sports logic but what can I say, I'm a mom. I know the Manning family is proud of their baby boys.

As a football fan, I can say the Patriots played like they already had it; the Giants played like they desperately wanted it.

That's a good lesson for anybody. Confidence is great but arrogance can turn around and bite you in the butt. Best to do what Mom always said: play hard, play fair, play to win.

And remind your coach to act like a grown up and lead the way in sincere tribute to the winning team.

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.

Steroids - Kiss My Asterisk

"Records achieved while a player was relying on chemical assistance, should be prominently marked with an asterisk — to signify that the achievement was less praiseworthy than it seems." New York Times Editorial

In a surprisingly puerile editorial on the "shocking" Steroids in Baseball Report, the New York Times hit an absurd low with that last sentence. An asterisk to note players kinda sorta cheated? And are therefore "less praiseworthy"? Oh, please.

Athletes who used steroids to break records, become MVPs, make an All Star team or be named to the Hall of Fame didn't get there honorably. They cheated. Period. Forget the lame asterisk. Throw the bums out.

Hey, it's not like there's no precedent. Cheat in the Olympics, lose your medal. Cheat in the Tour de France, lose your title. Cheat in boxing, lose your belt. Cheat in a beauty contest, lose your crown. Cheat in a presidential election ... oh, wait, you don't get punished for that one.

Yes, baseball is the All American game, supposed to be above reproach, up there with Mom and Apple Pie. Pie my eye. Baseball's become an international multi-billion dollar business. Fans want to see stars hit the tar out of the ball.

It should surprise no one that during the past 20 years elite baseball players with multi-million dollar contracts very likely use something in the steroid family to get there. And to stay there. In a perfect world, they'd be there on merit alone. Hank Aaron was. Babe Ruth was.

Mitchell's list of steroid users is making a lot of noise. Let's not forget there's a much longer list of baseball players who made the grade honorably as good athletes, legitimate stars and genuine role models without chemical assistance.

Players who were and are clean and sober should be praised, rewarded and touted as the real All-American Heroes. The cheaters should be booted out on their asterisks.

When will the League and the owners figure out that baseball doesn't need steroids? Yeah, in football you need more size and strength. (Although take a look at the magical Brian Westbrook.) In basketball, height and speed. Hockey, balance and brawn.

In baseball, you've gotta have heart. Bottom line, it's every man for himself. It's a team game, but at the plate, on the mound or in the field, you're alone. If you don't go for your own personal best, you let down your team. If you can't do it on your own, you let down yourself.

Think I'm naive? Think about this: for every Barry Bonds, there's a Jimmy Rollins. I'll take the latter every time. And no asterisk will ever signify the enormous difference between a cheater and a winner.

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.

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.

Aaron Still The Hero, Not Bonds

"I would prefer even to fail with honor than to win by cheating." Sophocles

No matter how many juiced up sluggers like Barry Bonds come along, the man to beat is, was and always will be Hank Aaron. Period.

Hank Aaron is a hero's hero. Dignified. Decent. Honorable. Hard working. True to himself and his sport.

He's a man who showed up and did his job--brilliantly--even in the face of ugly racism on and off the field. A man who relied on hard work and his own god-given talent--not drugs, Never drugs--to reach the pinnacle of his profession.

So how in god's name can he be compared to or bested by the likes of Barry Bonds? He can't. And he never will be in the eyes of many.

Yet on paper Bonds broke Aaron's home run record.

A different kind of person would have cried FOUL. Refused to acknowledge a drug-fueled "accomplishment" by someone so widely and openly believed to have cheated.

The Commissioner of Baseball has been ducking the whole Bonds issue from the beginning, for cryin out loud.

But not a stand up guy like Hank Aaron. Here's what he said in a video shown at Giants Stadium after Bonds hit his 756th home run:

I would like to offer my congratulations to Barry Bonds on becoming baseball's career home run leader. It is a great accomplishment which required skill, longevity and determination.

Throughout the past century, the home run has held a special place in baseball, and I have been privileged to hold this record for 33 of those years. I move over now and offer my best wishes to Barry and his family on this historic achievement.

My hope today, as it was on that April evening in 1974, is that the achievement of this record will inspire others to chase their own dreams.

Mr. Aaron is a true gentleman and a credit to baseball. My hope today, and always, is that others will continue to be inspired by Hank Aaron, not Barry Bonds.

Barry Bonds - No Super Hero

"As far as Hank Aaron is concerned, if a certain player breaks his home run record, it's not a question of an asterisk. There probably ought to be an 'Rx' next to it." George Allen

In all the hoopla over Barry Bonds tying Hank Aaron's home run record, the real elephant in the room is being ignored. Bonds' almost certain use of performance-enhancing steroids makes him the poster boy for our country's moral decline.

From the President to the Supreme Court to Congress to the Catholic Church to Scooter Libby to Lance Armstrong to college athletes to crazed Little League dads ... the message has become loud and clear:

Cheating is the American Way. Only Cheaters Win.

When big money's involved, cheating--and the excuses for it--multiply exponentially. In government, business, schools and especially in amateur and professional sports.

Barry Bonds is a great athlete who used steroids to become even greater. That's cheating. Period.

Yet the rationale goes like this: everybody uses steroids today and Bonds still stands out. Therefore he's obviously the best, no matter what.

As a Hall of Fame member? Maybe. If not for the cheating.

As a legitimate competitor for Hank Aaron's record? No. No. No.

In this day and age there's a financial reason to overlook widespread steroid use. If all juicers were benched, virtually every major league baseball team would be decimated.

Who wants to see a bunch of non-juiced regular guys play real baseball on prime time TV? No spectacular catches, no 97 MPH pitches, no monster home runs.

Fans pay to see those big home runs. To see fast balls screaming over the plate. To see heroes in super human action all over the field.

Team owners pay those so-called heroes millions to give the people what they want. And turn a blind eye to the blatant cheating that's become necessary to make it all happen.

Baseball used to be a scandal-lite sport. Think about it. The Chicago Black Sox and Pete Rose. Two scandals spanning one century. About gambling, not doping.

Okay, I'll throw in the McGwire-Sosa reportedly steroid-fueled and definitely PR-generated home run contest.

A drop in the bucket compared to the honest accomplishments of the great ones. Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Mike Schmidt, Mickey Mantle, you can probably name more than I can. Real heroes for kids to admire.

They--and many others like them--were great athletes. They understood their roles and played the sport in all its decent, All-American glory.

Some might have been jerks off the field (not Aaron, from all accounts the best kind of gentleman). But on the field they played fair. Displayed the essence of sportsmanship.

Yes, it's just a game. But it's the National Pastime. A recognized symbol of our country, our culture, our moral compass.

Kids play it. On fields and streets. On teams and on their own. And if we can't teach them fair play and the importance of reaching with all their honest might for the brass ring, we might as well give up.

My kid's all grown up. I'm glad he never had Barry Bonds--or George Bush--as a role model.

Barry Bonds may be Superman on the field. But off the field he doesn't come close to standing for Truth, Justice and the American Way.

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.

Snickering to the Bank

"We want to make sure we have a 360-degree approach to reach our target audience at every touch point. We know the Super Bowl ads are the most talked-about ads of the year, and to provide people who are watching with some exclusive content, something interesting and unique, we think is just a great way to help us as a brand." Gillian Smith, Senior Director, Media and Interactive, Burger King Corp

Time to weigh in on the Snickers ad. Here goes...

It wasn't anti-gay. (If anything, it was metrosexually suggestive.) Bottom line, it was anti straight men -- another in a series of recent commercials depicting men as hapless idiots.

The people at Snickers knew exactly what they were doing.

Madison Avenue has relocked and reloaded on the shopworn--but apparently successful--advertising theme that men are stupid dolts who can't tie their shoes without help. And the buying public is being inundated with ads supporting that concept.

Think about it. Those award miles-challenged guys taking their families on outlandish vacations. The fat guy who locks himself out of the house. The loser who ends up under Jessica Simpson's boot. And dozens of dopey, helpless dads being endlessly outwitted by their clever, bemused wives and kids.

Market research must indicate the buying public likes that idea. At least the demographic important to Snickers and other advertisers does -- teenage boys, young men and exasperated women.

Who else would respond to that ridiculous Snickers Super Bowl ad?

I'm willing to bet that virtually every hetero man watching the ad squirmed with distaste as two dumb ole boys inadvertently kissed. And felt superior to them.

That hetero teenage boys laughed and jeered at those jerks. And felt superior to them.

And that their wives, mothers and girlfriends just shook their heads in disgust, already familiar with the feeling of superiority.

The current Snickers ad campaign--some guy crooning about "chocolate-covered mountaintops and waterfalls of caramel"--is clearly not targeting guys, gay or straight. It's aimed directly at the biggest segment of the Snickers-buying population: women.

I think the Super Bowl ad was too.

Barbaro - Horse, NOT Human

Joan Fairman Kanes, The Philadelphia Inquirer

"Barbaro’s death was tragic ... because of what every horse is. You would have to look a long, long time to find a dishonest or cruel horse. " New York Times editorial

Okay, that does it. When the New York Times editorial board starts anthropomorphizing horses, we're in big trouble.

The Times editorial went on, "It is no exaggeration to say that nearly every horse — Barbaro included — is pure of heart." Well yeah, it's no exaggeration -- because it can't be proven in the first place.

And as for the Times' claim that horses aren't dishonest or cruel, how does one quantify such a thing? Horses don't rob convenience stores. Or knock each other around on Saturday night after a little too much barley. It's an idiotic analogy.

I have nothing against animals. I grew up with dogs and cats. With fish, birds, turtles. And with horses. We had a horse for a time named Patches. Though my sisters were the riding enthusiasts, not me.

I admit I never felt comfortable around horses, even Patches. They're so big. And they can be trained to do only so much. Even then, just about anything can spook them and all hell can break loose. I gotta tell you, it seems to me they just don't get it.

And whether we're talking about an award winner like Barbaro or your family dog, in the end humans trump animals. Period. We emerged from the ooze with genuine intelligence, no matter whether it's used ultimately for good or evil. We have the ability to think, to invent, to create.

Humans don't simply operate within a set instinctive pattern -- we look forward, we extrapolate, we develop, we have plans and goals and dreams. We can be trained to respond to positive reinforcement or inhumane barbarity but at some critical point we inevitably rise up and say, Enough!

We possess humanity. We understand right from wrong. Sure, we have the capacity to abuse ourselves and our fellow humans ... and our animals too. But we also have the ability to advance ourselves and our civilization, which we have continued to do throughout recorded history.

This game we play pretending our animals have thoughts and souls and rights is a very slippery slope. Because elevating money-winning animals to star status is seriously close to idol worship. And it devalues the thoughts and souls and rights of humans.

Barbaro's death came during a personal tragedy within my circle of friends. It was unsettling to see a horse monopolize the news while we were mourning the death of a man, a husband, a father, Dick Doran.

And it's unsettling to see so much ink and video and news coverage reporting and encouraging outpourings of public grief over the death of one horse when so many human beings continue to die horrible deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I'm sorry Barbaro died. But frankly, I was glad to hear his owners decided to euthanize him instead of allowing his pain and suffering to continue. That's the one way our society should treat humans the same as we do animals.

Otherwise, our priorities should be focused on decreasing unnecessary death and increasing the quality of life, first and foremost for all human beings.

T.O. 's The One

Terrell Owens Official Website

"He's given us 25 million reasons to blog." -- NFL FanHouse (courtesy of Blinq)

As I head out the door to catch a plane, I just want to say thanks to Dan Rubin for introducing me to the thirty-six smart alec sports bloggers who named T.O. the year's Top Sports Figure.

I'm not a sports blogger but as a born and raised 'Fluffian I share the right--nay, the responsibility--to have the strongest sports opinions on the planet.

I've said this Phila Eagles - T.O. Win or not T.O. Win? and this PO'd About T.O. and a few other things too, some unprintable. But just to be clear, I belong to the Who Cares What He Says As Long As He Delivers club.

Jeff Garcia might be McNabb's back-up, but he's our team's leader now. And he's been a bona fide big time QB whose onetime favorite target was ... oh yeah ... T.O. The upcoming Eagles-Dallas game should really be something to see.

By the way, before you stone my house, I'll be rooting for the Eagles. I'll also be enjoying what is certain to be not only a showdown, but also a show.