Anyone can be a football fan. 17 games. That’s the same as a season of “I Love Lucy”. I love football, sure, but let's face it, not a major investment of your imagination But to be a fan of baseball, you’ll live and die 162 times a year, and if you are a Phillies fan, it took every single one of them to find out if you’d see them again before spring. This year, you suffered through 52 games waiting for your best hitter’s thumb to heal while an interim manager patched together a lineup with scotch tape and post-it notes and played wheel of fortune to select which pitcher to send out in the ninth inning to pretend to be a closer. Your team is going to the World Series and they STILL don’t have a closer. It was three weeks ago that I couldn’t go to the last home game in Philly and couldn’t GIVE away my tickets on Facebook: no takers. The sudden shockwave of affection for this team is like finding an unknown relative, whose story...
