Last Wednesday, the Cardinals completed a historic rally to catch the Atlanta Braves and win the NL Wild Card. As a result, they would be playing the Philadelphia Phillies in the NLDS, and Games 1 and 2 would take place Saturday and Sunday at Citizens Bank Ballpark in Philadelphia.
Wait, in Philly? That's not too far away! Maybe I could... nah....
Yes! I'm going to a playoff game!! A Cardinals playoff game!
Now you may not be aware of it, but Philadelphia sports fans have sort of a reputation (that list has twelve - twelve! - items on it, and is not even considered exhaustive). It seems to have all started when they booed Santa Claus. That reputation got a pretty big boost when, within a few months of one another in 1999, Philly fans threw batteries at an opposing baseball player and then booed an opposing football player who had just suffered a serious injury. I am not even going to repeat what happened here. Perhaps the most significant aspect of this reputation as it has grown is how the people of Philadelphia seem to be OK with the behavior, and at times even embrace their violent nature.
Armed with the knowledge of this gory history, on Saturday afternoon, I put on my Cardinal red, loaded up my one-year-old daughter in the car and made the two-hour trip to Philly for Game 1 of the NLDS.
Now, I will repeat, I have never been to a playoff baseball game in my life before. Also, I will acknowledge that there were mitigating factors: it was a home game for a team that was a playoff shoo-in for most of the season, and they played against a team that found out only a few days before that they would even be making the playoffs. Even knowing all that, and knowing the fervor of fans in Philadelphia when they support their team, I was surprised at what we saw.
There was something different in the air right from the start: while the weather had been 80 degrees and sunny for months prior, on this day, the air cooled. The sky clouded. The winds whipped. It was October, it was fall, and it was the playoffs. People bundled in warm Phillies gear, covered their beers with gloves and coozies, and prepared for the game to stretch into the crisp October night. The home town fans were ready not for a contest, but for a coronation of their NL East Champions, baseball's only 100+ win team, the club of the Four Aces.
As we entered the parking lot, however, I noticed something else. There were no Cardinals fans. It at first was sort of an idle watching as we drove to our parking space: keeping an eye out for some compatriots. However, it was soon apparent that we would not be able to spot the occasional fellow Cards rooter. I saw two "Green Men" (although both had their masks off while they were fueling up for the game) but not a single Bird on the Bat. I dismissed it as simple coincidence, however, and we had a pregame snack and walked toward the imposing entrance to the game's venue:
On our walk to the game, the pattern continued. It was not a strong majority of Phillies fans. It was not mostly Phillies fans. It was not pretty much all Phillies fans. It was entirely Phillies fans. The guy who sold me a bottle of water noticed my shirt and wished me "good luck." As we passed through the gate, I was handed a "Phightin' Phils" towel to wave. When I pointed out that I would be waving it at all the wrong times, I was greeted with a scowl.
As we entered the ballpark, I heard a shout behind me. "Hey! Cardinals!" A guy wearing a Cardinals jersey gave me a high five, while his two Philly buddies looked on disapprovingly, if with some amusement. We agreed that the Cards should go surprise everyone and get a win against the dominant Roy Halladay tonight, and then we went our separate ways. I was relieved, finally, to see a fellow redbird supporter, and I assumed that we would see some more.
To my great surprise, that was the last Cardinal fan we saw all night.
My "great surprise" in this instance has been mocked by many, but I have been to plenty of road games for my favorite sports teams in hostile environments, and I have always seen a few scattered fans of the visitors. Despite my active searching, on this Saturday night, I saw none.
When Lance Berkman drilled a three-run home run into right field in the top of the first, I jumped up and down and hugged my daughter. My shouts and cheers were met by... silence. Not silence cut by a few scattered cheers. Dead. Silence.
When Ryan Howard hit a three-run home run in the bottom of the sixth to give the Phillies a lead they would never relinquish, every one of the 46,000+ voices in attendance erupted, save three: me, my daughter, and that one guy with the Cardinals jersey on.
The game was an experience unlike any I have ever had, and one that I will remember always. Even though the Phillies went on to win, the memories and the opportunity to root on the Cards were well worth the trip and the price of admission. Never, however, have I been so impressed or so awe-struck at the absolute whitewash, attendance-wise, of a sporting event, especially one where the visiting fanbase is widely thought of as among the best in the sport. Perhaps this is simply playoff baseball, or perhaps it is a result of some or all of the factors listed above. However, in any case, kudos to the fans of the Phightin' Phils for turning out to support your team. Even if it was only enough to earn a split of the first two games.
As a postscript to this visit, my daughter and I enjoyed our trip very much, and we hung on to the bitter end, when the Cards rallied in the ninth and brought pinch hitter Matt Holliday to the plate, only to go down swinging. For the most part we were treated with a lot of respect and were assailed only with some good-natured banter between opposing fans. (For the record, my daughter is adorable and probably smoothed the way for me with some otherwise hostile fans. For the thousandth time I say: Thank goodness she looks like her mother.) However, during the fourth or fifth inning, while the Cardinals were ahead, the crowd was quiet, Kyle Lohse was rolling, and tensions were high among the 46,000+ Philadelphians, my daughter and I took a snack break. She sat on a bench in front of me and we shared a ballpark pretzel. As I stood there with her, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was a Phillies fan smirking at me. And then, he gave me the finger.
Go Cardinals.
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