My loyalties have divided pretty neatly since moving here in 1988, though one never forgets a first love. My wife seems less conflicted, showing up Tuesday night in a Phillies jersey bearing that rogue Jayson Werth’s name and number. Between us sat one of our sons — the one more likely to name his kids Cliff and Lee, boys or girls.
And surrounding us Tuesday night, the sea of red was squarely on the Phillies side, the hometown nine savoring their 167th straight sellout — 180th if you count post season, and why wouldn’t you?
It’s amazing, what winning does.
A lot’s been written, in these pages, too, about the wretched Boston bandwagoneers, those wicked pissa wags from Entitlement Town. So arrogant, so annoying, so winning.
One moment from the first game of this telling series stood out. Sixth inning, Cliff Lee’s no hitter ended with a Marco Scutaro liner into left, and the delegation from Red Sox Nation suddenly stirred to life.
The cheering lasted roughly a millisecond, before the Phillies fans roared their appreciation for the beloved pitcher’s mastery.
I thought I was at Wimbledon, not our savage place which Bostonians still conjure when things aren’t going their way. On WEEI’s Dennis and Callahan Show Wednesday morning, I heard Michael Barkann from Comcast SportsNet being interviewed about the Philly psyche.
The sports jocks delighted in bringing up the Usual Suspects, like Philly fans booing Santa. (He was a lousy Santa — drunk and unbearded, Barkann replied, defending municipal honor.) Or, the time Philly fans threw batteries at J.D. Drew. (Hurt and weak-hitting, he’s no more popular in Boston these days.)
I don’t feel the hate. What I saw over the past couple of days was a meeting of like tribes from different nations, fans who honor those who make the most of their talents and hoot those who don’t.
