Or, in the words of Ryan Howard, the Big Bopper: "This is the craziest place on Earth."
Yes. And damn proud of it, too.
A delightful delirium gripped Philadelphia yesterday. Broad Street was transformed into a Canyon of Heroes. Fathers and mothers brought sons and daughters because, well, because it represents the symbolic closing of a circle, because one day of truancy can be educational in its own way. And, oh, yes, by the way, there is too crying in baseball.
Blizzards of confetti swirled. There were horses and bicycles and foot police, flatbeds and floats and double-deckers. And a tsunami-size wake clogging the streets as the parade crawled past.
The parade ... and, oh, by the way again, it's OK to say the P-word now. The curse is no more.
And, oh, by the way one last time, the editor man is poking me in the ribs with that pointy stick again and asking, so how does this parade rank with the others?
"The others" is not a category requiring exhaustive research, there having been only three others in the last 34 years. Memory is elusive and from time to time you cannot recall what you had for lunch, let alone a previous century. Nonetheless, we shall make a determined stab at it.
On a splendid sunny day in the spring of 1974, I took a fourth-floor window-open perch to watch the Flyers parade a certain vessel of some repute. Hockey was new to Philadelphia, but Lord Stanley's Cup acquired instant popularity. At that point, the city was every bit as victory-starved as it was until this past Wednesday.
It is probably not an exaggeration to suggest that fully half of those who came to the parade had never been within shouting distance of a puck. The parade was an excuse to party, which they did with impressive and relentless determination.
Police estimated the crowd in excess of two million. Many of them, enjoying this fine May day, sat on ledges. Fortunately, none toppled over. Veterans said the assembly rivaled the end of World War II, historic indeed.
