What I remember best was the parking lot. This was the night of Oct. 29, 2008, maybe two hours after Brad Lidge had thrown one last perfect pitch of a pitch-perfect baseball season, twisting Tampa Bay’s Eric Hinske like a corkscrew.
The Philadelphia Phillies had finally beaten the Rays on a Wednesday night in a Game 5 that had begun Monday and then been interrupted for two days by rain. The wait had seemed interminable but, then, the city had waited a combined 100 seasons to see either the Phillies, 76ers, Flyers or Eagles win a title, so it could wait another 48 hours for this.
The trip from the exit to the parking lot at Citizens Bank Park had been prefaced with a warning:
“I hope you have Jersey plates,” someone told me.
“I do,” I replied.
“Good,” the helping voice said. “You’ll be OK. Just tell ’em you’re from Cherry Hill.”
The implication being, of course: if I had New York plates, then I might be trying to get home driving a bonfire with wheels. Whatever you want to say about the reputation of Philly sports fans, fair or not, it has become a reputation for a reason. It hasn’t occurred in a vacuum.
But there was no malice in the air that night, simply an unrelenting joy. There was no getting out of the parking lot that night, either, because it was still full, still packed with revelers, hugging each other, hugging strangers, offering up beers and well wishes, and none of them planned on leaving for a good, long while.
I’ve been in plenty of cities on the night their teams won a championship: St. Louis and San Antonio, Denver and Miami and Phoenix and five times in New York (four with the Yankees, one with the Rangers) and those were all filled with their own loud, colorful and spontaneous explosions of joy.
None of them compared to Philadelphia.
And yet as I approached my car, I passed a small group of revelers who were quieter than the others. They were wearing the requisite Phillies caps and jerseys paying tribute to Chase Utley and Ryan Howard and Mike Schmidt. But one of them was wearing a green Starter jacket over the Phillies gear.
“You think this is something,” he said, “just wait until the Eagles win a Super Bowl.”
He pronounced the word “Iggles,” of course.
His friends drowned him out, one laughing and saying, “Our grandchildren’s grandchildren will all be dead before that happens!” but the guy in the green jacket just smiled and shook his head.
“Some day,” he said. “You’ll want to see that parade.”
Look, it’s pretty clear that as much as it pains much of New York to ponder the possibility of another Patriots title — and another damned duckboat parade for Boston — it is, quite literally, physically impossible for most New Yorkers to even consider the notion of the Eagles adding a Lombardi Trophy to their almost-barren trophy case.
Rangers fans can still simmer at the memory of being run over by the Broad Street Bullies in 1974, and the similar way many of them have been treated in the 44 years since if they happened to visit the Spectrum or the Wells Fargo Center. Mets fans have often had the rule of the roost at Citizens Bank or back at the Vet, but will forever be haunted by 2007 and 2008, when the Phillies caught, passed, drew and quartered them.
And, well, almost every Giants fan, living or dead, would prefer to have their eyes gouged out than to ever bear witness to green-and-gray confetti falling like snow in the aftermath of a triumphant Super Bowl for the Eagles.
That’s just the way it is.
But if you have ever cared about a team that seems to almost never return the favor, there has to be — has to be — a microscopic part of your heart that really will feel good for Eagles fans if … well, if. There were some Rangers fans who waited 54 years to see a Cup. Mets fans have been waiting for 32 years (and counting), Knicks fans 45 years (and counting), Jets fans 49 years (and counting).
The oldest of those streaks is four years younger than the wait of Eagles fans. Maybe for most of us 58 years isn’t nearly long enough. Me? I’m pretty agnostic about it, in truth. But I also wouldn’t mind seeing what that parade would look like, to be perfectly honest with you.