Oh crap…

By Michael Rushton
The Phanatic Magazine

Having just returned from a pleasure trip to Las Vegas – a trek that did not include any out-of-city ranching – I’m still trying to shake free some of the emotions obtained while in Sin City.

If you have ever been, you know the ones I am talking about. The building of hope, the anticipation of possible victory, the stomach-twisting downfall of said hope, and the final agony of defeat; all products of putting your emotions into one basket.

Uh-oh, sounds like a woe-is-Philly rant.

You see there isn’t much difference between putting your faith in the roll of the dice, a suited card or a spinning wheel, and rooting for a Philadelphia sports team. Both build you up and knock you down time and time again, with the house always enjoying the last laugh.

Sure, every once in a while a blue-collar Joe Smith hits a big jackpot and keeps that fading glimmer of promise alive for the rest of us. But it’s never you that wins big, is it? It’s always the other guy.

This whole rant came to premonition during a simple game of craps. While wondering around the casino floor, my attention was drawn to a table that was producing a steady stream of cheers, an unusual sound given my current location.

Anyway, apparently there was a hot roller that was producing a steady stream of winning dice from his hand. I tried to muscle my way onto the table to get in on the action, but the boat was full. By the time I secured a spot, our flame-thrower was long gone.

This hit home for me in regards to Philadelphia. Born in 1982, I had just missed the Phillies lone title, nor was I around when the Flyers were kicking tail up and down Broad Street and hoisting Cups at the same time. And since I wasn’t even a year old when the 76ers captured the cities’ last real championship, I can’t really say I was aware enough to enjoy that one.

Once I finally did hit the table, my optimism rose. Perhaps I would enjoy another streaky thrower and put together a nice run that would pad my pockets and bring me some short-lived pleasure. I didn’t think twice when I threw my chips down, and only took a small emotional hit when the first thrower crapped out. However, when the second roller did the same thing I began to get that familiar feeling that usually cloaks the city of Philadelphia. When the third roller busted out with little results, I felt right at home.

Oh sure, the table kept me interested when the fourth better went on a small, exciting run – think ’93 Phillies – but ultimately didn’t yield the results I had hoped and I was right back to the norm with roller number five.

My long-winded point? The more emotion you vest into something, the harder it hits when it fails. We know this in Philadelphia. Very few cities exert the kind of energy we do into their sports franchises and don’t understand our behavior and passion. Hence, when our clubs fail, we take it harder than most. It is both our trademark and our vice.

My revelation while losing cash and dignity has made me rethink my approach to the upcoming Phillies season. I’m going to try to hold back the emotion, try not to bankroll too much hope and expect that seven to come up at anytime.

But let’s be honest, I don’t know how long I can hold out. And I’m sure, come May, all my chips will be down on the table.