A Quantum of Solace Bond Can't Fuck Wit

With a world championship comes a big fat serving of euphoria, relief, disbelief, and pride. I'm still savoring this shit. Here's what I'll take with me into the golden years of old-age and flomax:

Bragging Rights Boiy!!
Last weekend I walked into a bodega in Brooklyn and bought some juice. The check-out dude, a super-nice Asian guy I see a lot, was wearing a Mets jersey. I resisted the urge to bring up baseball and settled on silently enjoying the advantage I held over him. The greatness of the moment was knowing that any conversation that would have taken place would have ended with me saying something along the lines of "yeah well we're WORLD CHAMPS!!" And there's no response to that. Believe me I know. We won it all. We're the champs. End of story. And there's nothing anybody can say to change that for a full year, which I intend to take advantage of.

Cole Hamels The Ace
Every team wants one. Every good team needs one. We have one. I complained about Cole from time to time, mostly about his perceived softness and inability to pitch on short rest. I complain no more. He stepped up more than any other single guy on the team and if not for some unfortunate weather would have pitched us to victory in Game 5. Speaking of which...

The Low-Point
When Game 5 was postponed I was distraught. I truly believed it was an omen, an evil portent of defeat, a fitting reminder to us all that we are allowed only so much victory. I felt cheated in so many ways and resigned myself to watching the rest of the series in a yoga pose of my own creation: the slumping shoulders of doom. When Geoff Jenkins led of the bottom of the 6th with a resounding double I perked up and felt that strange yet dangerous sensation called hope, which flowed through me like taco bell through a vegan. The clouds, both literal and figurative, of Game 5 lifted instantly and I was alive again.

The Team
Baseball, maybe more than any other sport, requires that everybody contribute in a major way at some point. We had that. The clinching game was a perfect example. Geoff Jenkins delivered a huge hit. Pedro Feliz had the game winning rbi. Eric Bruntlett scored the winning run. Carlos Ruiz caught the last out. Everybody played a part. It has to be.

Broad Street
As the old saying goes, if you remember it you weren't there. I remember bits and pieces, mostly hugging friends, yelling with strangers, and high-fiving as many cuzzes as possible. I woke up sore, stiff, with no voice, a terrible head-ache, no phone, and felt absolutely great. Then I, along with everybody else, went out and did it again the next day at the parade.

Fox
Joe Buck and Tim McCarver, aside from being pompous know-it-alls, were prejudiced partisans. If the world series was the presidential election then the Phillies were Barack and the Rays were McCain and Buck and McCarver were Sean Hannity and Brit Hume. I could give examples of the ridiculousness of the coverage but I'll save us all the time. In the end the good guys won and the bad guys(Fox) had to act like they liked us all along, sorta like the election. Also, Fox Track sucks donkey balls. Worst waste of space and money since Fox's other brilliant contribution to sports coverage, the glowing hockey puck and the robot football player who stretches and jumps around during promos on Sunday.

Pat The Bat Leading the Parade
Who could imagine a party animal, his toothpick trophy wife, their huge bulldog, and two weirdos in green suits could combine to form such a perfect beginning to the parade? Somehow it worked.

Charlie's Suit
Was it just me or did Charlie's fly-ass black pinstripe suit look like the the first suit the man had ever bought? And didn't that make it even cooler? I love that man.

I can go on and on. Honestly I should have started writing this as soon as it happened, but I was too busy going crazy in the streets. We did it ya'll. We've gotten our quantum of solace at last.