It’s coming. The thing I’ve feared. The event that so many like me were hoping against hope would never take place — despite knowing it was undoubtedly around the corner. The New York Yankees and Philadelphia Phillies are on a collision course to meet in the Fall Classic. The very notion of such an event causes me to throw up in my mouth – just a little bit. It’s a straight up gag reflex, and I’m honesty struggling as to what to do when the moment arrives.
Yankees. Phillies. For a diehard Mets fan, there is no other match up that could raise such ire…tap into such deep-seeded disdain…elicit such raw emotion. I’ve grown up hating the Bronx Bombers. It’s in my DNA. The Phillies are a more recent phenomenon. Yet, they have still managed to hit that nerve. The same one the Braves occupied for what seemed like decades.
Don’t get me wrong, I still harbor strong feelings of animosity toward the Tomahawk choppers in Hotlanta. However, Victorino, Lidge and crew have overtaken them for the NL top spot on my most-hated list. Success breeds this, I know. Truth be told, I don’t mind Utley, Howard or Cliff Lee. I even have somewhat of a soft spot for Charlie Manuel. Still, they’re the Phils now. They are the nemesis. Public enemy numero uno.
So people, what the mother-eff am I supposed to do? I love baseball. It’s the World Series. And I’m quite seriously contemplating not watching a single minute of the action as my best course of action. Right now, it feels as if there is actually no other viable option. Might I need to throw my support behind Filthadelphia and go against every natural fiber in my body? Put aside my ill-tempered feelings toward the franchise for the purpose of uniting against a greater pinstriped evil?
I’m not ready to face this, yet. Calling for an LA miracle of any kind. Please.
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About the Author: Cecilio's Scribe is the founder of The Legend of Cecilio Guante and a generally pessimistic fan of the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. A fine NYC-based gentlemen who hones his marketing skills as his primary trade by day. Husband, chef, father of a newborn and after-hours blogger by night. Proud alum of the mighty Big Red of Cornell. University. Hot sauce devotee. Staunch protester of the continued wussifcation of American sports. Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick.