Hey, guys. Yeah, we’re the most loyal. We’re also the worst. It’s been a rollercoaster week, emotionally.
I was in line at the bank when I heard. Somebody on their blackberry behind me started telling his girlfriend about the GQ article, and it hit me like a SEPTA trolley. I was so disheartened I threw out my “EMPTY THE REGISTER” note and the mushy banana I had in my hoodie pouch and just went home. How could GQ say those things about us? They’re not true, are they? The thing about Santa Claus? I love Santa Claus.
Anways, I didn’t leave my house for a while. At one point, I thought my neighbors had come over because he was worried about me, but it turns out he was just stealing my newspaper. Who cares. Let him have it. The newspaper would just bring more mean things to my doorstep.
And the worst part was the way everyone just agreed with it. Like people have some sort of proof that Phillies fans do these alleged terrible things. I’m just a freelance writer/first time bank robber like the rest of you. I don’t want to hurt anybody, unless they, you know, are between me and the exit to a bank, or play for a baseball team other than the Phillies. But the stories cited in that GQ article sounded like they were comprised by a real sportswriter; somebody who spent months compiling endless research; somebody who really knew what the hell they were talking about. You can’t just shake that kind of professionalism off like it’s not groundbreaking and fresh.
So there I was, wondering why my ice tray full of whiskey-sicles wasn’t freezing (it had been a few days–now even science is failing me), when I got the news: Redemption had arrived.
Sure, GQ may have penned a blistering piece taking our history to task, but apparently some new survey had justified our actions by calling us the most loyal fans in baseball. I dropped the tray in shock. What a glorious turn of events.
Opening the curtains, I realized it had been daytime for quite a while. My neighbor grabbed my newspaper off my porch and waved through the window.
“Not today!” I shouted. “Today, the news was okay!”
But he couldn’t hear me through the window so most of my words were yelled at his back as he meandered back to his own house. No matter. I had friends and family to alert.
“Have you heard the news?!” I asked my sister on the phone.
“I’m at work, what’s going on?” she whispered.
“Phillies fans were voted the most loyal in baseball! Oh, joyous day! Oh, righteous gods, we adore you!”
“This is exactly why I told mom I wasn’t giving you my cell number,” she replied, and went back to not speaking to me until the next funeral.
I assumed the news of our nationally recognized loyalty would easily counteract the poison spewed by GQ. Why wouldn’t anyone else take the rest of the day off and celebrate by my side? Did they not see the gravity of the event? People would respect us now. Gone forever are the horrid tales of what happened at the Vet and who hurled what remote energy source at which former top draft pick. Deleted from history are the violence and hate that went on; the filth and occasional dismemberment that apparently writes our legacy. I cannot recall a day of more historical importance in the Delaware Valley since the Revolutionary War.
Toss aside the subscription to GQ that you definitely have and head for your nearest mountain to shout with jubilant fervor,
“WE ARE NOT THE SAME AS YOU, OTHER BASEBALL TEAMS! WE… KNOW… LOYALTY!”