It's been more than a year since I've posted anything on this blog. Sometimes life gets in the way of unpaid scribblings written for the sake of your own amusement and maybe a few of your friends. I felt like I just had to write something today though. I feel vindicated. I feel almost at peace.

Fourteen years ago I was a sophomore in college when the scrappy, scruffy '93 Phils won the National League and went to the World Series only to have their hearts broken by that guy in Toronto. You know the one. I won't say his name. I remember the utter euphoria I felt when they beat the Braves. I remember the intensity. But that was only for a week. I didn't know I would have to wait 14 years to see it again. Essentially, during my adulthood, I have never seen playoff baseball. That all ended yesterday, and not even the thumping of our Eagles a few hours later could ruin it.

I have Mondays off. I have been on this computer for 4 hours now. I have read every article. I have watched every highlight available on this medium. I have watched the celebration over and over. I watched Brett Myers heave his glove into the air like a child. I watched Chris Coste get cut off by a streaking Pat Burrell to hug Myers on the mound. He hasn't run that fast since the Reagan administration. I watched this team celebrate as if they had won it all and I thought briefly, "is this a little too much?" I quickly answered myself. No. In fact, no amount of celebration could be enough for what happened in September.

I won't even start on the Mets. I'll touch base on them when I share a letter I wrote later in this blog. Their collapse was historical. They were the first team to blow a 7 game lead with 17 or less to play, taking the 1,000 lb. gorilla off the back of, ironically enough, the 1964 Phillies as the biggest choke of all-time. But lets get something straight, the Phils of '07 went 13-4 in that stretch to get this done. In a season that saw Jon Lieber, Freddy Garcia, Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, Shane Victorino, Brett Myers, Ryan Madson, Tom Gordon, Michael Bourn and others all take painful trips to the DL, this team somehow found the fortitude to not give up.

For years, as slow starts have left them mere games from the postseason, the Phils preached that we play 162, but they had forgotten about the first 20. They did it again this year. But this year, as they felt the playoffs creeping closer, it was as if they refused to do it to us again. They refused to do it to themselves again. They willed themselves to this title. We willed to it. I have never been to a sporting event like I attended Thursday night when they dispatched of John Smoltz and the old evil empire from the south as the Mets continued to be beaten into submission by the Washington Nationals. There are really no words to describe it. Palpable? Intense? Somehow they just don't seem to do the job. I can't even imagine the scene yesterday. I had chills just watching it from a barstool.

No one could have foreseen the emotional rollercoaster this month would be for this team. As the sea of towel-waving, crazed fans whipped their square, white cloths in a frenzy pieces of cotton splayed off and made the entire stadium looking as if it were immersed in an early dusting of snow. It was hard to see through. It was hard to breathe around. It reminded me of this season. No one could have seen it, and it left you breathless.

I'll be there on Wednesday for Game One. It will be my first postseason sporting event in Philadelphia. Most of my friends are surprised at that but I grew up in Roslyn. We didn't get a lot of corporate tickets in my neighborhood growing up, and we sure as hell couldn't afford them.

When I'm at the game, besides taking in every minute of what I'm watching and truly enjoying it, I'll be thinking of Kevin Kernan, a New York Post columnist who wrote on August 26 that the NL East was over, and that it wasn't very much of a race. He started his article like this: MEMO to Jimmy Rollins: The best team won.

He goes on to talk about the great disparity of talent between the two teams. I will be thinking of him fondly from my Game One seats. And I'll be thinking about the e-mail I sent him that hopefully by then he'll receive because his e-mail box is full with kind words from Phils fans that are concerned for his well being. But just in case, I'll print the letter here so I can share with you all what I shared with him. Enjoy the playoffs Phils fans. Win or lose, it's already been one hell of a ride.

Dear Kevin,

I'd like to take a minute to thank you for the article you wrote on August 26 announcing to the already ignorant Met fans that they had no worries till October. I'd like to thank you because apparently your heartless group of chest-thumping, secret hand shake sharing, profiling punks in blue and white read the piece and took it to heart. In fact, they must have taped up copies and put them in each one of the players lockers so they couldn't help but know that they didn't have to show up the last month of the season. That it was over. That they could rest.

See Kev, the thing about sports, and I'm sure you won't understand because you've probably never put a uniform on that wasn't sponsored by Joe's Garage, is that there is something more than talent on paper at work when men conspire to play out a long season as a team. The reason the Mets aren't going to the Post Season is because their attitude matches exactly the condescending, self-lauding temperment set forth in your piece. It's an attitude that reeks of New York about as much as most of New York reeks.

"It's not over till it's over." Ring a bell, Kev? Or have you been too busy coming up with your theories on "talent disparity" to remember that? And speaking of your unfounded final 2nd grade reading level statement, lets look at the talent disparity of the Mets and Phils.

Starting pitching there is no argument, although our #1 is better than anyone you have, and our #2 and #3 pitched were better down the stretch than anyone you have, but we'll just give you that.

Our first baseman. Better.
Our second baseman. Better.
Our leftfielder. More productive.
Our rightfield platoon. (You could throw a circus clown out there and it would be better than Milledge. Anyone have an over/under on when he's out of baseball selling heroine on a street corner?)
Our catcher. Better. Why? Well, yours throws like an amputee, the only thing that runs fast on him is his mouth, and over the last month, his definition of clutch had something to do with a CDL license.
Our bullpen. Can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth. Better. Romero, Gordon and Myers have been lights out. Your gaggle of ineptitude out there couldn't find the lightswitch with a map.
And our shortstop. You remember him don't you. You had a MEMO for him at the beginning of your article. Let me refresh: TO JIMMY ROLLINS: The best team won.

He's better as well. He'll be better to the tune of an MVP, because that's what players do. They back up their talk. They don't whine everyday like your shortstop does. They don't go 2 weeks without a stolen base down the stretch. They don't hit .130 in September. He's a joke. Our guy's better.

So there's your disparity. Feed it to the wife beater wearing, Iroc-driving, fake gold chain adorning, pants around your ass fan base that thinks they have a clue in New York.

As for you, Jimmy Rollins handed me a MEMO to pass along. He said "don't be rough on him, Pete. Afterall, he does write for the NY Post." It read. To Kevin Kiernan: I know.

Sincerely,

Pete Lieber