English Composition 1
On our way to the World Series
As I drive slowly, heading west over the Walt Whitman bridge, I smell the stench of the what used to be an old brewery, but now I am not sure what factory is belching that awful smell that causes my throat to tighten and my memory to race. The smell takes me back to all the games and concerts I have attended in Philly through the years. Today, the one I remember is the car accident we had coming home from a Queen rock concert in 1978, when I was in the back of my brother Richâ€™s blue Pinto, back in the seventies. I recall waiting for it to explode when he missed the car in front of him, escaping tragedy for sure, only to be rear-ended. It never did explode. Rich is my brother that invited me to go to this game, one of seven brothers. I was psyched when he asked me to go. It was just Rich and I going to game six of the 1993 National League Conference Series.
The exuberance I felt ...view middle of the document...
As we drive down Patterson Avenue toward Veteranâ€™s Stadium, you could feel the emotion of sixty five thousand fans, who have been waiting for this moment for thirteen long years, desperately wanting to see the â€œFightinâ€™ Philsâ€ crush the Atlanta Braves.
We park close to an exit and start our journey toward the stadium. We walk along Broad Street into a sea of red and white shirts, hats, banners and people yelling and cheering, â€œGo Phils.â€ There are Phillies fans everywhere. Itâ€™s loud and the sidewalks are mobbed with vendors selling t-shirts hats, noise makers and all kinds of MLB playoff memorabilia.
Itâ€™s a cool breezy, October night, perfect for playoff baseball. I hear the clicking of the turnstiles, the yelling of the hotdog and beer vendors, people pushing their way toward the gate as we enter the weather beaten, rusty old cookie cutter stadium. As the Phillies team announcer talks distinctively on the public address system, I see wild-eyed, optimistic fans hand there tickets to the gate attendant, looking like young boys, with a smile and twinkle in their eye. Someone yells out, â€œWhoâ€™s pitching for the Braves?â€ Rich tells him halfheartedly â€œGreg Maddux.â€ Then before the next person asks the next obvious question, Rich boisterously yells, â€œTommy Greene,â€ for the Phils, everyone laughs and cheers.
We climb the concrete ramps seven levels up to our seats. We are in the infamous seven hundred section, where no Dallas Cowboys, Redskins or Giants football fan has ever gone or lived to tell about. This was it, sanctuary for all the working stiffs, no place for the faint hearted. This is where they gather, to kick back and let off some steam from the weeks toil.
It was the most exciting game in the last decade. The Phillies had put together a string of losing, heartbreaking seasons and now had chance at redemption. Would it happen? Could it happen? We were going to find out tonight and quickly.
By the time we got to our seats the National Anthem was coming to an end and the crowd was in a roaring frenzy. This was to be the game that would end the World Series drought for Philadelphia Phillies.
On October 14, 1993, the headline read â€œPhillies beat Braves 6-3,â€ We were on our way to the World Series!