What we leave behind

Memories of Phillies and the World Series that wasn’t

If you’re a Phillies fan over 65, it doesn’t matter how many world championships the team has won (two), it doesn’t matter that Bryce Harper or Mike Schmidt or Jimmy Rollins or Ryan Howard were MVPs. It doesn’t even matter that you once met and chatted with your one-time idol, the greatest southpaw in MLB history. (Yes, Steve Carlton once talked to me, despite his infamous freeze-out of newspaper reporters.)

The only thing that really matters for Phillies fans of a certain age is 1964. 

I was eight years old that summer, my awakening as a baseball fan. Aunt Birdie took us to Connie Mack Stadium, and I yelled like crazy for Johnny Callison and Tony Taylor and, of course, Dick Allen. My mind’s eye can still see the white ball off the bat of Wes Covington, disappearing into the darkness over the North Philly rowhouses beyond right field. By Saam and Bill Campbell whispered to me at night on the transistor radio I kept hidden under my pillow. The Phils were in first place from Opening Day. Jim Bunning threw a perfect game.

It was a fairytale. Until The Collapse. 

The Phillies were on the brink of the National League pennant, 6.5 games in first with 12 games remaining. Then Chico Ruiz steals home and in an instant the Phils are doomed. They lose 10 straight and finish one game out of first.

It was a nightmare. I’m sure I cried.

It would be another 16 years before the Phils won the World Series, but as I say, even that could not wipe the memory of the worst failure in sports. For my generation, at least, The Collapse would define what it is to be a Phillies fan. Even in moments of pure joy, we sense doom is somewhere on the horizon.

Ten weeks after those awful October days, the Russell family gathered in the living room on Christmas. Thanks to some old film strips my brother digitized, I can accurately report that I wore Fess Parker pajamas that morning and got a cool Matchbox Racecar set from Santa.

But what I remember most from that day was the gift my mother gave my dad: A set of tickets for the 1964 World Series at Connie Mack. Pristine, never-used. Section 18, Row 14, Seat 13 for the first, second, sixth and seventh game of the series that was not to be. Completely worthless.

Everyone had a good laugh. Even me, though the pain of The Collapse was still raw. 

I never saw the tickets again, until about 30 years later, when my folks were in that mode I now find myself in, of thinning out possessions. I was surprised to learn that Dad had kept them all those years. He framed the unused tickets and gave them to me. They’ve hung on my office wall ever since.

As we begin the task of packing, I’ve gotta ask myself: Do I bring them with me or leave them behind? It’s a question we’re both asking ourselves again and again.

A lifetime of possessions – it’s impossible to bring everything as we downsize and move across the Atlantic; it’s impossible to leave everything behind.

We’ve established some criteria to help us make decisions:

• If it’s been in the attic for five years, we’re not bringing it. 

• No appliances (different electrical connections).

• No books, unless I wrote it. (Possible exception: The oversized Random House dictionary I bought in 1975 with a gift certificate I won when I was a dishwasher at Wanamaker’s.)

Those are the easy decisions. The tough ones come when the possession is irreplaceable, if it has some deep personal meaning.

My first newspaper clipping… the cherry dining room table I built in my workshop… a toy elephant from Theresa’s childhood… original watercolors from my artist friend, Jeff Tritt… a photograph of my grandmother’s old bookstore in Upper Darby… the guides I published for Philly Beer Week… the ashes of our beloved Siberian Husky, Karma.

Some things, you just know you can’t bring, but you can’t bring yourself to give them away (or, more likely, toss them out). Theresa says the process happens in stages, like the stages of grief, I suppose:

1. Trip down memory lane.

2. Denial

3. Lingering nostalgia and guilt

4. But these shoes are really nice!

5. Goodwill.

We’re told that we don’t need the possession to keep the memory, so we take photos of the special things we’re leaving and move onto the next item. 

Yet, that just doesn’t seem enough in some cases. Those worthless World Series tickets, for instance. They’re not just a memory. For me, they’re the very definition of me as a baseball fan. How do you take a picture of that?

So, up yours, Chico Ruiz. I’m bringing those tickets with me!