July 29, 1993: Phillies vs. St. Louis Cardinals

Life’s priorities are not always clear.

My dad had the day off from work, and it at least appeared to me that this free day was taken for the sole purpose of going to a ballgame with me. This was a rare afternoon contest during the work week. It would have been easier to just go to night game, or a day game on the weekend, but this was a special season, and I suppose the Phillies had earned more of a commitment from us.

Perhaps it was a fortunate coincidence, but 1993 was also the year I began keeping a journal. The Phillies are mentioned several times in my sporadic entries, and the one dated July 29 unearthed an interesting and telling fact about this game: my dad said we were going, but we had to talk my sister, Lindsay, out of it first.

When we were children, my sister and I constantly competed for my father’s attention, particularly since he was the more involved and less strict parent. Unfortunately for Lindsay, I was the firstborn and the only son, which meant I won that battle more often. In this instance, my dad probably succeeded in letting my sister down easy because she wasn’t into baseball.

We made a full day of it. We took the Septa Local from the Wilmington train station and arrived a few hours before the game to do some sight seeing. It was always fun riding the train to the big city (I received a big jolt of childhood nostalgia when my dad and I used the same and long-forgotten method of transportation for the World Series parade in 2008), and Philadelphia was still the biggest I had ever seen to that point. I will never consider myself a Philadelphian, but I grew up close enough to know and love cheesesteaks, soft pretzels and Tastycake products. I don’t bother with racing up the steps of the Art Museum because my name begs the belting out of Rocky’s classic line from people I’m meeting for the first time.

The Philly magic once again worked like a charm, as the hosts took a 4-0 lead over the visiting St. Louis Cardinals late in the game. The scrappy Redbirds would not go quietly, however, as they scored two in the seventh and two more in the eighth off emerging ace Curt Schilling to put a victory very much in doubt.

After the game started, I was personally disappointed to see Todd Pratt’s name in the lineup instead of starting catcher Darren “Dutch” Daulton, who was my favorite player for good reason. Daulton wasn’t your typical catcher. He hit in the middle of the lineup, instead of the bottom, and he was one of the best run producers in the league for the second straight year. It was a thrill for me to see his name on the same lists as sluggers like Barry Bonds and David Justice. Surely, a win was guaranteed with him on the field.

I got my wish in the bottom of the eighth. Daulton came in to pinch hit with the bases loaded. He seemed born for these kinds of pressure situations, and while his bat remained silent, he still drove in the go-ahead run by working a walk.

Lenny “The Dude” Dykstra followed. He was in the midst of a career year that would see him finish second to Bonds in the MVP voting, and he padded Philly’s lead with an infield single.

These kinds of rallies were almost second nature to the team by late July. The Phillies hung on for the 6-4 win, completing their sweep of the Cardinals.

My dad and I had to leave at the end of the eighth due to some important family business. The Phillies were moving up in the world, and so were we.

For most of my childhood, my family lived in my grandmother’s house on the east side of Wilmington near the Christina River because we could not afford a place of our own. Locals know the east side as one of the most impoverished and dangerous sections of the city. By 1993, it was common to hear gunshots after going to bed, but my parents were finally making enough money to get us out of there.

My dad and I left the Phillies game to meet my mom and sister in Wilmington to look at an apartment. Though it wasn’t the right one for us, we soon found the right one in Little Italy and moved there in December. It was in that neighborhood that I found friends who loved baseball and the Phillies as much as I did.

A new chapter was beginning, but another, less obvious one was ending. 1993 was the big year for baseball in my family. The Phillies’ monster season coincided with the return of minor league baseball to Wilmington after 41 years. The Wilmington Blue Rocks, a Single A affiliate of the Kansas City Royals, offered a destination of family fun in my hometown. The four of us went to several games in that first season and continued to do so over through the remainder of the decade.

When it came to major league baseball, however, those games returned to their previous incarnation as a strictly father-son activity. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but baseball games, as with any other spectator event, are simply more enjoyable when you’re watching with other baseball fans.

As I will illustrate further down the road, the few times we included other people into our special ritual yielded unsatisfying results. A major league game is an impressive sight to anyone, but those non-fans who don’t have the diaper dash and dizzy bat race to keep them entertained between innings will quickly lose interest.

And they won't be willing to skip work for an afternoon game.

PSWA dinner reveals inspiring sports heroes

note: This is another column of mine that ran in the Gettysburg Times about my experience at the PSWA dinner.

My body suddenly froze as I locked eyes on a face that looked as familiar as when the body attached to it donned a Philadelphia Phillies uniform.

His jet-black hair was well kept - likely aided by some gelling agent - with its usual part down the left side. Ruben Amaro, Jr. looked directly through my gaze without expression, the perfect poker face for any general manager.

As Amaro hung a right into the socializing area outside Ballroom C, my eyes grew wider as he was followed by Phillies manager Charlie Manuel and right fielder Hunter Pence. At that moment, I didn't know which items to shove in their faces, a baseball and pen, or my digital recorder.

Neither seemed appropriate, however. These men were baseball royalty, but I was surprised how much they appeared like regular guys without any mental reminders.

I snapped myself out of the trance and gave Charlie Manuel a pat on the back and a simple greeting; as if he was a friend I had just bumped into at a party. To my relief, he briefly spun his head around and returned the greeting with a smile. Good old Uncle Cholly.

There is sometimes a fine line between reporter and fan, and I frequently danced on both sides of it during the 108th Philadelphia Sports Writers Association Dinner Monday night at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Cherry Hill, N.J. I gabbed with fellow sports writers while snagging a few John Hancocks from the head table.

The event was held to recognize Philadelphia-area athletes in all sports with achievement awards. Manuel received a special achievement honor for becoming the winningest manager in Phillies history this past season. Pence won the 2012 Good Guy Award for his immediate affinity with the team and fans when he was traded from the Houston Astros last July (further bolstered by his recent one-year, $10.4 million contract that avoided arbitration).

When Manuel began his acceptance speech, the only words I heard clearly through his West Virginia drawl was "nudist colony," which prompted the biggest laugh of the evening from the audience. His full opening line was, "I feel like a mosquito at a nudist colony," but he had to wait a good 15 seconds for the laughter to die down before he awkwardly delivered the punch line: "I don't know where to start."

Often the butt of a joke due to his 'not-so-good' diction, Manuel came across to the crowd the same way he did with me earlier, as a humble man who appreciated the job he was given as the Phillies' skipper.

As for Pence, the way he worked the crowd, you might have thought he actually grew up in Philadelphia (his speech revealed but a hint of Texas twang). His opening referred back to the acceptance speech given by Philadelphia University men's basketball coach Herb Magee, who playfully lamented that his granddaughters were more excited about getting their picture taken with the dashing Pence than seeing him receive the Living Legend Award.

In response, Pence quipped, "I just won the Good Guy Award so don't parade your granddaughters around me, please."

The Philly outfielder was also one of several honorees to mention the rousing speech given by Temple University head football coach Steve Addazio, whose rant of inspiration made every attendee in the ballroom feel like one of his players in the locker room on game day. When he was finished, no one questioned how the Owls won their first bowl game since 1979.

"Is my heart still pounding," Pence asked as he looked in Addazio's direction. "I don't know if you're still here or not, but I need you to speak to me before every game."

My recorder captured all of this humorous dialogue, but I shot an arrow through my professional credibility by yelling out Pence's name right before he approached the podium. Truth be told, he was the main reason I wanted to attend the dinner. From the moment he put on those red pinstripes, he has reminded us all of what a baseball player used to be before the stat crazes and steroids - pulling up those socks to his knees, choking up on the bat like the Mickey Morandini of old and slapping the lumber at the ball with odd precision.

My reporter sensibilities came back into focus when the PSWA honored the memories of boxer Joe Frazier and Penn State head football coach Joe Paterno.

As the chilling sounds of boxing's 10-bell salute filled the silence in the room, emotion overtook the bell's ringer, Frazier's daughter Jacqui Frazier-Lyde - a boxer in her own right, as well as a Municipal Court Judge. But like her father did so many times in his career, she finished what she started.

Paterno was honored with poignant words from former Penn State cornerback Adam Taliaferro, who played in just five games as a freshman before a spinal injury ended his career. After surgery, he was given only a three percent chance to walk again, but he defied the odds during an eight-month stay at the Magee Rehabilitation Hospital in Philadelphia. A frequent visitor kept his spirits high.

"Every week Coach Paterno came to visit me," he said. "It was a three-hour drive. He didn't have to do that. He was one of the most genuine, down-to-earth people I ever met. My career was over and he asked me every day what I wanted to do with my life. He got me internships and sent letters of recommendation. He wanted me to be successful after football."

A shining example of Paterno's Grand Experiment, Taliaferro is now a lawyer in Cherry Hill and was recently elected to the Gloucester County Board of Chosen Freeholders.

The Philly area was the site of another miracle recognized by the PSWA in its final award presentation. The association chose Anthony Robles as its 2012 Most Courageous Athlete. The Arizona State wrestler captured the NCAA Division I title at 125 pounds at the Wells Fargo Center last March, despite being born without a right leg.

"I never thought of it as a handicap," said Robles, who has become a motivational speaker since graduating and is working on a book about his life.

As Robles spoke, the real magic of this event washed over me. The association helped my realization by turning off all the lights except the one on the podium, making Pence, Manuel and Amaro disappear. Stories like Robles and Taliaferro are at the core of what it means to be a sports writer; teaching readers who are living in an increasingly cynical world about overcoming any obstacle to achieve success.

Though I returned to being a fan by the end of the dinner, Robles and Taliaferro were now the athletic giants who left me frozen in awe as they walked by.