IF THERE is one thing that Philadelphians hate more than the Rangers, it would be the Giants. Unless, of course, it had become the Mets, who finally had shared a brief era of mutual power with the Phillies, only to be chopped, fried, smothered in enough processed cheese in 2009 to give New York fans heart attacks not enjoyed 95 miles south since Herman Edwards said thank you very much and ran it in untouched.
As high as is the City of Cheesesteak’s cholesterol, it’s still below its animus for the larger, more cosmopolitan, stinkin’ city to its north. Behold the other culinary item for which the Cradle of Liberty, Mike Piazza and Mike Richter — but nothing much else ever worthwhile to New Yorkers — is well known: the soft pretzel.
Twisted like Philadelphia’s sensibilities at the sight of blood pouring from Dale Rolfe’s face, these delicacies need only a few hours out of the oven to turn more hardened than Delaware Valley memories of Bobby Nystrom or, worse, Leon Stickle. Really, it takes no longer than it did for Billy Wagner to sell out.
See, if it’s not one thing to carry to the grave, then it’s another, only natural for cities the distance from each other of a Sean Landetta punt. Perhaps only a punter or a personality as magnetic as Tug McGraw could be remembered equally well in both New York and Philadelphia but Tug won it all both places. In that case, all bets and rockings of the visitors’ bus are off.
Not so tomorrow night, when the Phillies, after so many miles of bad Turnpike, and with the Mets left crushed as Frank Gifford by Concrete Charlie Bednarik, now have the Yankees standing in the way of a dynasty.
We mean, everybody in sports hates the Yankees for how much they spend, especially in Philadelphia, where the fans think their teams never spend enough. But the last time these teams played for a title was 1950. Not even Pedro Martinez is old enough to remain bitter about that.
Doesn’t matter. Just when a Philadelphia fan, feeling frisky from Flyer beatdowns of the Rangers in the last three of their 10 playoff meetings, or enjoying the fear in Antonio Pierce’s eyes as Brian Westbrook comes out of the backfield, or having lived to see the day the Eagles eliminate the Super Bowl champs in Giants Stadium, the Yankees will bring out old loathings.
I worked 14 years down there, arriving just after the Flyers killed the last real chance of those excellent teams of the Emile Francis era, seeing The Fumble with my own two eyes, leaving just after Clyde Simmons for all intents and purposes did it again, even if no one still believed it happened the first time.
Really, when the 2008 Phillies brought the city its first title since the 1983 Sixers won with — airsickness bags, please, for Nets fans — Julius Erving, Philadelphia enjoyed its first truly last laugh since the Jets scooped up Rick Kotite hours after the Eagles let him go.
So let’s just say that in Philly it is well understood that, at some point, being dethroned is inevitable. But there is no point where losing to New York is tolerable.
