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There is an October fire in the sky. Cars bustle along Interstate-95. The leaves in Marconi Plaza are turning into a colorful palette that signals autumn. The zest for living is all cinnamon spice and crisp apples. Yet there is a sadness that has come upon this nutmeg scene.
It’s a feeling that there is something missing in South Philly on the twilight of early October. Traffic passes by Citizens Bank Park on the way to a myriad of destinations. The ballpark is deserted. There are no crowds gathering here; no baseball chatter among fans standing in line; no vendors hawking their wares; and no red, white and blue bunting draped around the park. The night descends on this now-forgotten ballpark.
In sports, victory is fleeting. Fame and fortune can abandon you like lady luck at a craps table. Was it only last year at this time that hopes ran so high when Halladay was pure magic, fortune looked to be our handmaiden and a return trip to the World Series seemed so certain? Wasn’t it on just such an October night when we went to the field of our own dreams with hopes so high? The word “dynasty” tripped so easily off our tongues, fueled by 102 wins during the season. All worldly concerns were dissipated, suspended for a brief stretch of fall when we basked, yes, reveled in the wonder of playoff baseball.
Our hopes were dashed by a maelstrom called the St. Louis Cardinals on their own magic carpet ride, and we thought, what could be worse than this bitter taste of ashes and the season’s abrupt ending that left Ryan Howard wincing in pain and struggling to get up to run out a weak ground ball? And yet we have found what is worse in the world of sports is not being there at all, not being part of the elite teams participating in the annual autumnal battle for glory, ignored by the very lords of the baseball media, as forgotten as yesterday’s newspaper.
While football is appropriately celebrated as fall’s king, there is nothing like the daily tension of the baseball playoffs. No waiting a week, as in football, while during the interim period talk shows pick over every minute detail of Sunday’s effort. Baseball grips you like no other because it is part of the daily life of each fan. The tension builds from game to game, nay, even pitch to pitch to pitch. Each moment of the game, innocuous in and of itself, is part of a layered building toward a climax the postseason brings, culminating in the World Series. Defeat or victory hang in the balance. The memory of the rare moment of victory lives from generation to generation and, much more often the hard acrid bite of defeat.
Each season of playoff baseball is ingrained in the memory of the fan. Each of those years is clearly marked by the success or failure of our team as clearly as it is marked by deaths and births and weddings. To the non-fan, this fact is more than silly — it is blasphemous. They show impatience with fans and admonish them to stop this obsession with well-paid athletes who seem to forget defeat so much more easily and move on. The fan never forgives an athlete who is able to forget failure sooner than he, the fan.
On a personal note — as an old Brooklyn Dodgers fan, I cringed when Ralph Branca began touring with Bobby Thomson and doing the buddy bit. For me, Thomson was and is forever the man that broke my heart with his “miracle” home run off of a Branca fastball. 1951 is a year when I can remember nothing else but despair for the rest of my life.
Frank Sinatra sings a song called “There Used To Be a Ballpark.” It is, even today, one of the saddest songs I know. Imagine, among all of the songs of heartbreak and loss sung by Sinatra, this all but forgotten tune remains so deeply ingrained in the part of my heart reserved for tragedy. As I write this, I can still hear this song for it could serve as the theme for Phillies fans in this October time. The ballpark is still there in bricks and mortar, but yet is not. For what is a ballpark without the noise of people and the crack of a bat on the ball. Indeed, does it really exist in a vacuum, like the tree that falls in the forest with no one around to hear the sound?
And so this October, when baseball is still being played in other lucky cities, where the glare of TV cameras showcase their proud communities, where the blimp flies over the brightly lit stadium, fireworks explode in the evening sky and anticipation hangs breathlessly in the air — our ballpark is dark and empty.
The team has scattered until next February. In South Philly, there is a hush around the ballpark. Even the eternal cry of “wait until next year” lies muted in the throat. Sure we know, like “Brigadoon,” it will awake once again in spring, but that is not consolation, not right now. The beauty that is autumn cannot rescue us from the sadness of our empty ballpark.
Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyreview.com.
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