View from the Left Coast by a Lefty: Part Deux - The Mid Life Crisis years

The following is the second in a multipart explanation of what it's like to be a Philly fan living on the West Coast. If you missed the first part, you can read it here.

Once the glory of the World Series wore off, it was quickly into Eagles time, another amazing high. Again I was 3000 miles away but beating Dallas anywhere, anytime, anyhow and any way is a plus. But then, those fucking Raiders showed up and the Birds didn't (for the first half) and another big hole in my heart opened. Only good thing about that season is this picture of my son that always makes me smile.

1983! Wowza! It started with a bang. The only NBA season worth mentioning in the 80's ran into baseball season but nobody seemed to mind. Moses, Doc, et all and they dispatched those fucking Lakers four straight. Broom City Baby! After only 4 years at that time I was already sick to death of Magic Johnson crying "I never fouled nobody ref" and we shoved it right up their asses. Ecstasy again and rolling right into baseball season. Yes *ANOTHER* World Series year and I'm 3000 miles away with no hope of scoring tix or seeing a WS game in person. Personal problems aside, the high once again was invigorating and the anticipation was suffocating. Twasn't to be though and the Phils went down 4 games to 1. All games were close except the finale. No matter, the pain practically tore me in half. And Rick Dempsey was the MVP of The Series.... I mean, seriously, WTF is wrong with that picture? That in itself was worse than either the Von Hayes or Eric Lindros 5-for-1 debacles Philly fans had to endure. I thought my life couldn't get any worse until...

1984. A personal down year, author of my first divorce. Ugh. 3000 miles from home, 3 kids under age 6, and no hope on the sports horizon. Who here understands? Can I get an AMEN? I stick it out in Cali, even after my ex leaves for Scottsdale with the kids in June of 85. I did love Santa Barbara but was not destined to be as I couldn’t stay much longer. During my Cali years, I managed to get to Dodger Stadium twice, naturally to see the Phils. But 4 games in 8 years does not make for a happy Phillie fan, I don't care who you are. I hated going to L.A. but sacrificed for them.

Then we get to 1986, after being badgered by my ex-wife with 3AM phone calls, I transfer to the Phoenix area which  I now call home. Some sanity right?  BONG... WRONG. So I no longer drive 500 miles to see my kids every 6 weeks. Instead I get them every weekend. Most would be happy right? Well after being raped for child support, I could only afford a studio apt lol. But we huddled together and made it work and had a ton of fun. Managed to take my son to a couple Suns games, he was happy. Life moves on and a few years later, I got married again. Now with step children we have a house full, and I couldn't manage to make any of them a Philly fan. Take my word for it, frustrating as hell. I added my 3rd daughter in 1991, complete cutie pie, but no sports freak. Am I doomed?

1993! Praise be to Big G, another World Series year! And this time I am only 2500 miles away and drowning in little kids lmao. No matter, they all knew not to bother me during *ANY* Philly game unless someone was bleeding. Don't fucking laugh, it happened more times than I care to admit. Anyways I was ecstatic and full of hope. Once again... DESPAIR. The entire Series was hosed. Phils should have won that 6 games to none, but Wild Thing proceeded to blow 4 straight saves. That has to be a record. Don't get me wrong, I love Mitch just like the entire city of Philadelphia still does now. Nobody felt worse than he did. Christ, he had 44 saves that year. But apparently it wasn't meant to be. So I'll end this piece by saying fuck Joe Carter, may you never enter the Hall until after Pete does. Fuck the AL, the DH, and all Canadian pro sports teams that play in "American" pro leagues, hockey notwithstanding. That World Series pretty much parallels my life and luck, but I digress. I think this part should end here, because the next one has a heavy dose of Dallas in it, and that dose deserves it's very own ripping of a new asshole. So I say goodnight Gracie to Part Deux.

                                                To Be Continued… 

Bill Scardefield, AKA netfather