NYC’s sporting envy now turns to Philadelphia

You know, the worm had finally turned. Tom Brady became a Buccaneer, and then an ex-player, and Bill Belichick hit the pause button on his relentless genius-ing. The Red Sox’s burst of baseball magic finally seemed to run out of steam. The Bruins got humiliated in the playoffs. The Celtics had their hearts broken. 

Finally, it seemed, our neighborly sporting envy had come to an end. 

It was like your noisy obnoxious neighbor had finally pulled up stakes and moved out of town, just in time for your other neighbor to start mowing the grass at 7 in the morning every Saturday and blasting his music at all hours of the night. 

We’d finally rid ourselves of Boston. 

And now Philadelphia is starting up the lawnmower. 

Perfect. Just perfect. 

It’s bad enough that we continue to be in a morass of the worst kind in New York. Jeez, so far even the poor Liberty aren’t immune to the dark clouds that hover. Every now and again, a reader will ask, “Don’t you ever grow tired of writing about lousy teams all the time?” And the answer, of course, is that I get very tired of that, but what’s the alternative? 

Move to Philly? 

I mean, is that an alternative at all? 

But it is clear that our neighbors to the south have happily taken the baton from our neighbors to the east. Boston had a nice run, and they added to their fun knowing that after a while they were living rent-free inside most of our heads. 

Now it’s Philly’s turn. 

And look, at the top — it isn’t easy to say this but it’s right to try and maintain some small measure of dignity here, so here goes: Good for Philly. Good for Philly’s fans, however occasionally maniacal they may act, however annoying they may get as their swollen ranks fill our TV screens (and, Sunday, our local football stadium) with smiles and laughter and good tidings. 

If you are a true believer, you know how fleeting the good times are, and you want to savor them. And Philly fans are leading the league in savoring right now. Yes. Good for them. 

And that said … 

My gosh, this is brutal. It’s brutal to watch. It’s brutal to listen to. How brutal is it? Mets fans hate the Braves — hate, hate, hate them. And yet there isn’t a Mets fan I heard from last week who wasn’t rooting for the Braves to take out the Phillies, and to make it painful. 

(And at this point, it’s hard not to feel at least a little bit like the New York sporting stink might’ve rubbed off on the Braves, who mostly looked like they were playing the sport for the first time all week.) 

How brutal is it? There is nothing a Giants fan likes more than to watch the Jets lose and see Jets fans suffer. And yet there isn’t a Giants fan I know who isn’t hoping for the football gods to grant MetLife a miracle and see something on the order of Jets 42, Eagles 3 on Sunday. 

That’s how brutal it is. It’s wrecking our equilibrium. It’s playing games with our reason, and rationality. You’ve heard the old chestnut: The more things change, the more they stay the same? 

The past few years with Philly it’s more like this: The more Philadelphia teams win, the more you want to drive down the turnpike and put a bonus crack in the Liberty Bell. 

(Oops. Did I say that out loud?) 

And here’s the worst part of this: The anger, all of it, is mixed with envy. And it’s a different kind of jealousy than the one that lived among us when Boston’s teams were dominant. The Sox, the Pats, the Celtics — it was easy to dislike them because they were easily dislikeable. 

But Philly? Look, I don’t expect even one of you to admit as much on the record, and I understand. But it’s hard not to like the grit the Phillies bring to the game. It’s hard not to admire the way the Eagles are built. And hell, the Sixers are led by a player we’d all send a stretch limo to bring here if he were ever available in Joel Embiid. 

So we sit, and we suffer, and we wait, and they stand and they cheer and they celebrate. Why couldn’t this happen somewhere in Montana where it’d be easier to ignore?

Vac’s Whacks

I know everyone believes their dog is the best dog ever. In the case of our Westy, Fiona, that just happened to be true. Farewell, my furry pal.