I miss baseball season, Phillies games in particular, especially during the days where the sub-arctic winds make my face crack and my nipples hard enough to slice titanium.

Sure, the obvious reasons being I miss partaking in an activity that involves weather that does not cause physical agony and being able to bingedrink before sundown without anyone even hinting at the possibility that an AA visit might be in order. But lately, the Phillies are where I channel my entire feeling of Philadelphia homesickness.

I miss the bulldog-faced girls from Fishtown with their Pat Burrell jerseys and cut offs that proudly display their liberally bruised and dented thighs. I miss the crustache sporting man-boob afflicted greaseballs who will pluck a foul ball out of an eight year old’s hopeful hand with the same casual air that you or I would reach for a post-work cocktail. I miss the way the Phillie Phanatic would rocket hot dogs into the crowd like it was a mascot money shot.I should clarify that I do not miss the time at last year’s Phillies/Red Sox expo game while dancing on top of the Phillies’ dugout, the Phanatic decided to lift up his jersey and shake his chest in homage to “Girls Gone Wild.” That just wasn’t comfortable for anybody.
In summation, the Phillie Phanatic wielding a phallic hot dog rocket launcher into the crowd is by all accounts delightful entertainment for the entire family. The Phanatic lifting his top and shaking a set of imaginary mammaries is about as delightful as genital warts.

A Phillies Game is the only place where I can overtly question the sexual orientation of men wearing the opposing team’s jersey, drunkenly shout my displeasure at the pitcher via a litany of vulgarities within earshot of a kindergardener, and have my mom reward my behavior by buying me an ice cream sundae in a mini-batting helmet. Let’s face it, I’m clearly no more sophisticated than anyone else at the ballpark, I’m just lacking a tribal lowerback tattoo and/or stretch marks.

Baseball hasn’t been the same for me since I moved to New York. There’s the underperforming,overpaid prettyboys Yankees, but something in me just feels guilty about rooting for a team that actually has a strong tradition of winning. For some reason, I have this belief that baseball fandom should be a complex emotional tapestry ruled by overwhelming anxiety and heartbreak.

I guess the Catholics really got to me.

Then there’s the Mets who have about as much collective charisma as a band-aid floating in a pool. These teams are all right, but they don’t have any heart. And by “heart” I mean they don’t have the tendency to punish me year after year by completely flubbing the beginning of the season, gaining momentum, and finishing strong before completely shitting the bed when presented with the chance to actually secure a wild card slot in the Play Offs.

Of course, spring training is a few weeks away, and I have a really good feeling about this season. Kind of like the good feeling I had about last season. And the season before that.

Yeah.