For those refined gentlepeople who prefer the cerebral grace of baseball to the plebian savagery of football, October is the greatest of months. Will Leitch looks at each of the eight playoff combatants. Now up: The Philadelphia Phillies.
After the Cardinals won the World Series, the scene around Busch Stadium was what it would look like after a zombie apocalypse if all the zombies were actually puppies who exhaled nitrous. It was unabashed chaos, the landscape littered with googly-eyed Midwesterners, running into walls, lying around the ground kicking their feet in the air, climbing the Stan Musial statue outside, taking off their shirts and waving them in the air, as if beckoning for a rescue they hope never actually comes. A big happy bomb had gone off. It was our Woodstock. It was a glee riot.
In March 2007, five months after that night, I wrote on this site that I didn't want the baseball season to begin. This was the opposite of the way I had been raised, the way I am wired. I am the guy who will watch a meaningless Mets-Nationals game on Sunday afternoon rather than a Browns-Bengals game. Baseball is all that I care about. And I didn't want the season to begin. I wanted that game to last forever. I knew the Cardinals were a weak team in 2007, just like, all told, they were in 2006. I knew they wouldn't win again. I wasn't ready for someone else to take their turn. (That it turned out to be the darned Red Sox made it worse, and better.)