Home Sweet Home Plate

A fleeting taste of Philly flavor in London

The Phillie Phanatic made me homesick. 

It was a clear evening in London stadium when the Philadelphia Phillies’ mascot jiggled onto the field between innings, dressed like a member of the King’s Guard. In classic Phanatic style, he nailed the stoic stance of British sentinels. He could not, would not, be enticed to move . . . until the music started. We all know the Phanatic can’t resist dancing. 

The crowd roared. I felt a pang - just a tiny twinge - of melancholy. 

Photo by Kirsty Wigglesworth, Press of Atlantic City  

Here I was, in a British stadium overflowing with boisterous Phillies fans, watching our team crush the New York Mets in the first of a two-game series. Although Don and I were sitting next to two devoted Mets fans (who, in spite of that glaring fault, are cherished friends who flew over from North Jersey to join us), we were otherwise surrounded by screaming, chanting, booing Philadelphians.

Don, David and Betsy at the game

A flight from Brittany that lasted less than an hour dropped us right into South Philly.

It felt amazing to be among my people, in a country filled with other English speakers. (Well, kind of English speakers, if you discount the Brit who asked his Happy Hour pals, “Is anyone else peckish for some snacks?”). It felt even better to be watching an all-American sport and singing, “Take me out to the Ballgame,” during the seventh inning stretch. 

The crowd inside the Philly-themed Passyunk Avenue bar all looked familiar, even though I saw no one I actually knew. Cheesesteaks, hoagies and PBR were on the menu. Everybody who passed Don in his Eagles cap yelled, “Go Birds!” And, of course, so much Phillie Phanatic headgear. I’d never leave France just to be closer to a team mascot, but, damn, I missed sharing the same air space with him. 

The scene at Passyunk Avenue bar

While the language break from this short trip was a relief, I realized being among the British that I don’t necessarily miss speaking English - especially with people who use words like “whilst” and “peckish.” What I miss is speaking Philadelphian. No one in France ever says, Yo, Jawn, Jeet, Youse, Dafuq, or, Where’s the MAC at? *

There’s also a certain confident, maybe even misguided, ease about my native people that I don’t see in France. It’s wearing an old Shane Victorino jersey, a beer bong Eagles hat, cargo shorts and socks with cats on them. It’s not caring how loud you get or whether the cheesesteak grease is dripping onto your t-shirt. It’s cheering your lungs out for a Bryce Harper home run, booing the visiting team, throwing snowballs at Santa, but still being sensitive enough to give a standing ovation to Trea Turner during an abysmal slump. 

Philadelphians may be unapologetic boo-birds, but they are also a bunch of softies. Like big snarly dogs with overgrown paws who get spooked by a kitten. They may not be nice, but they are kind. They will mercilessly make fun of your team, but if you blow a tire on the Schuylkill Expressway on the way home from the game, they will pull over to help you change it.

As I try to integrate into French society, it sometimes feels like I’m wearing shoes that are one size too small. What I felt in that London stadium last weekend, surrounded by Philadelphians, were shoes expertly crafted by my personal cobbler. Being a Philadelphian is in my bones. It was a blast to be in a stadium filled with them, but I no longer have to live with youse guys to carry that feeling with me. I’ll always laugh at the Phillie Phanatic’s antics and say “What dafuq.” That’s my DNA. But these tight French shoes are starting to stretch out a little. Eventually, they’ll feel like they were made just for me.

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* For our non-Philadelphian readers, a glossary:

Yo: Used as a greeting or a warning 

Jawn: refers to a thing, person, place or event that you won’t or can’t call by its specific name. (ex: If you don’t want that jawn, I’ll take it.)

Jeet: colloquial form of “Did you eat?”

Youse: Plural of you

Dafuq? or, What Dafuq? (You know this. Just sound it out.)

MAC: Philly term for an ATM. Stands for Money Access Center.