Was anybody left in Philly?

. . . or were they all in Beantown with me?

It did my heart glad to see nearly equal numbers of Phillies and Red Sox paraphenalia on the streets of Boston this weekend. It also answered the question of which team holds the key to my heart. I saw a lady wearing a shirt that said, “I love two teams. The Red Sox and whoever beats the Yankees.” I’d have to make that three teams but when it comes down to it I’m still a Philly loyalist.

I finally got to go out on the water again Saturday. The fog was so thick the boat put out lookouts and eventually gave up on the harbor tour. We had to settle for Charlestown but since representatives of the British and Canadian Navies were docked near the U.S.S. Constitution that wasn’t a disappointment – especially when your ninety minute tour is accompanied with bottles of Sammy and a ridiculously precocious ten year old alternately telling John Kerry jokes and preaching against the evils of alcohol.

Naturally, since the game was into the third inning by the time we got off the boat we adjourned to the Bell in Hand for pints and baseball. In Stimpy’s immortal words, “Joy!” Sunshine, a good breeze, a very happy little baby who kept grinning at me, good company, good beer, good food, good ballgame, Phillies overwhelming victory! Hooray.

Then, oddly enough, I ended my decades long injunction against bowling. I swallowed hard, tied on the ridiculous shoes and rolled two games in a joint that looked like the ideal set for the Swingers/Big Lebowski cross-over sequel. I think I did well. At least I didn’t do much worse than the folks in the other lanes.

The next day was time for the highlight of the trip. By noon on Sunday I had a pint in my hand and was listening to a surprisingly good brass band on Yawkey Way within steps of baseball Mecca. I nearly cried with pure, unfiltered happiness. There was a warm sun shining but a stiff breeze to keep you cool, Schilling was on the mound – albeit for the wrong team – and the Phils were coming off a delightful romp the day before. Three innings in and Philadelphia’s on the board with a couple of homers and a defensive shutdown of the Sox – and then it all fell apart. Schilling found his rhythym, the Sox found their bats and the Phills collapsed. It would have been aggravating if, like any other self-respecting Philly fan, I wasn’t constantly prepared for soul shattering disappointment any time a Philadelphia sports club starts a game.

It was a baseball weekend. Man, I love Boston.