Moyer, eyes red from champagne and tears, took a breath.
"Wow," he said. "World championship. That's the first time I've ever used those words. It sounds great."
Moyer and a million friends will attend another parade tomorrow. It won't be in Boston. It won't be in New York City. It won't be in Los Angeles or Chicago and it sure as heck won't be in St. Petersburg, Fla.
It will be right down Broad Street, right under the approving gaze of Mr. William Penn, right through the still-racing heart of Philadelphia.
"We play in a tough-ass town to play in," Pat Burrell, the longest-tenured Phillie, said. "I'm proud of that. I don't think anybody in here knows this city and the way they think the way that I do. To be able to hand this over to them, this is as good as it gets."
So remember Brad Lidge, completing his personal perfect season by striking out pinch-hitter Eric Hinske for the final out. Lidge dropped to his knees as the sellout crowd at Citizens Bank Park roared, fireworks filled the sky, the Who blared on the PA system and the Phillies rushed to the mound to celebrate.
Remember Cole Hamels, seven months younger than our title drought, delivering five stellar postseason starts to earn the World Series MVP award.
Remember Charlie Manuel, awash in chants of his name, standing on the makeshift stage behind second base and holding up his index finger: No. 1. Manuel, who buried his mother during the playoff run, promised Philadelphia a "grand parade," and he delivered.
"I know she'd be happy," Manuel told the crowd. "She'd be laughing and giggling."
Remember the Phillie Phanatic rushing across the field with the 2008 championship banner fluttering behind him on a pole.
