Look, I’m the first to admit (actually, “admission” used this way is rhetorically reserved for first party declaimers) I’ve been obsessive about the Phillies this post-season.  What I want you to grasp is, (a) I’m absolutely typical of most Philadelphians who filled their Citizens Bank park to 103% of capacity this season (how’s that taste, Marlins asshats?), and (2) I earned it because I WAS THERE in 1964.

So were bloggers Cousin Glenn and CLJ, across the river and down by the beach.  So were commenters Ya’Gotta’Guess’It, Guido, and Sharpshooter.  And Lu Senz and Duck Diamonds from the Liquor and Rubber Balls Sports Bar and Fresh-Sushi-to-Go.  I could go on.  (And I will, dammit!  I will!)

The Phillies were in first place at the All-Star Break.  Richie Allen — he later became “Dick Allen” but Phillies fans remember– was destined for Rookie of the Year, beating out Jim Ray Hart of the Giants, and Rico Carty of the Braves.  The future Senator Jim Bunning pitched a perfect game on Fathers Day in Shea Stadium, the first Perfect Game in NL history since 1880 — 84 freaking years! — and Johnny Callison (#6, same as Ryan Howard today) blasted a dramatic 3-run HR to win the All-Star game.  Oh, it was a lock.

Mid-September they were 61/2 games up.  The City of Bodily Harm was humming: World Series tickets were printed, and the futuristic IBM vacuum-tube computer in the basement of the Franklin Institute calculated that the odds of taking the pennant were 95%.  Holy rancid cheese whiz, even science was on their side!  “Go Phillies GO!”

In the first game against the Cincinnati Redlegs, on a freak play in the late innings, Chico Ruiz stole home.  Phillies fans remember this like it happened Sunday night.  Art Mahaffey, on the mound, unfurled a wild pitch, inexplicably delaminating the entire season.

Why?  Because Manager Gene Mauch panicked.  Gene F. Mauch.  I won’t tell you what the F stands for, but here’s a hint: his unmarried mutant parents didn’t name him that.  I did.  Mauch irrationally decided he’d start nobody else but his best two arms, Bunning and Chris Short.  That was the rotation: Bunning Short Bunning Short Bunning Short…..  Behind those two overworked, overused, tired arms, the Phillies dropped 3 straight to the Reds, 3 to the Milwaukee Braves, and then 3 to the Cardinals.  It was the Cardinals who ultimately prevailed, and advanced to the Series.

It was the greatest collapse of a professional sports team of all time.  The Phillies didn’t get to the  World Series again until 1980, when they beat Kansas City — their first WS title in their (then) 90+ year history.  My great-uncle Sam Green, sports enthusiast, just about survived from the 19^th century to witness it.

So that’s why we Fluffya Fullies fans get a little obsessive/compulsive about the game and the Series.

Gene F. Mauch is responsible for 3 generations of bitter, nasty, cynical, pessimistic sports fans for which the city is notorious.  Read Joe Queenan’s insightful book, True Believers, for the inside story.  A good number of us are dead now — as is Mauch — and the current crop of fans is blissfully innocent of the scarring that rat bastard inflicted.  Here’s just one story:

Mauch saunters over to pitcher Art Mahaffey, warming up.  “Art,” he says, “this team is going all the way.  We’re heading for our first title.  I’m gonna need everybody on this team to pull together, give it a little extra, put us over the top.”  Mahaffey nods, caught up in the pep talk.

“Except you, Art,” Mauch goes on.  “I don’t want any part of you any more.  You’re never gonna pitch for me or this team again.  You’re done.”

Way to go, right?  And look how well it worked out.  He might as well have been speaking to the legions of fans, across the ages, who sank into the hole of his negativity and profound ignorance, which, not coincidentally, he spread in subsequent years around the league.  I refer you to his tenure as manager of the Angels, especially his move in 1986 in the ALCS against Boston when he pulled pitcher Donnie Moore, who went on to commit suicide.

Yes, we Phillies fans still bleed on our crosses.  But we can party.  Join us after Game 7 when we bury the Yanks.