For all those who grew up beneath the constant cloud cover of losing, wondering why the baseball sun seemed to shine so brightly everywhere else.
For all those who survived the horrors of both World War II and the World War II Phillies, who from 1939 through 1945 finished last six times and seventh once.
For those 166,111 brave if foolhardy fans who squandered precious Depression-era cash to watch the 1938 Phillies, a team that lost 105 of its 150 games.
For all those whose game-day experiences at Baker Bowl, when it wasn't burning down or collapsing, was as stark as a day in debtors prison.
For all those who assumed the World Series must have been banned by the blue laws because, except for five games in 97 years - four of them losses - it never came to Philadelphia.
For all those loyal fans who, for the first three decades of the 20th Century anyway, had to tolerate the smug derision of fellow Philadelphians who supported the more successful A's.
For all those who had to watch pitchers such as Boom-Boom Beck, Andy Lapihuska, Humberto Robinson, and Lowell Palmer match up with Don Newcombe, Warren Spahn, Sandy Koufax, and Bob Gibson.
For all those who had to watch lineups peopled with Jim Greengrass, Ted Lepcio, Jim Coker, Pancho Hererra, and Sparky Anderson get mashed by those that included Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Frank Robinson, and Stan Musial.
For all those who wept when star pitcher Charlie Ferguson died in his prime, when slugger Chuck Klein was traded, or when Richie Ashburn departed for Chicago and Richie Allen for St. Louis.
My grandfather was one of them.
John Y. Radcliff was born just five years after the Phillies. In nearly eight decades of support, he saw them win one (1) World Series game. In his final 65 years on earth, they finished last or next-to-last 32 times.
