Reality has set in. Tomorrow will be Sunday. The family will do church, and he’ll put on his apron in his hot front yard and grill out for his wife and kids. It’s just a few short hours away.
After that comes Monday. Monday’s aren’t worth a fuck.
When he packed up his minivan earlier this afternoon (a minivan he traded in his slick Audi for after he had his second child) there was so much hope. He got to the park and said that *this* was going to be the night his Phillies turned it all around. Tonight had all the possibility of a fresh oyster plucked from the sea. It could have held a perfect, over-sized pearl.
And suddenly, the Braves are piling on runs. They’re hitting for power. They’re making great catches. They’re royally screwing Philly Dad’s life up. Just as he’s about to use profanity, his kid turns her hat into a rally cap while the Phillies face an 11-1 deficit to the Braves. Philly dad would like to tell his kid to ‘fix her fucking hat before I do it for you’ but realizes it’s just a game.
He deeply sighs and settles deep into his seat. It is a throne of disappointment. Another Saturday night at the ballpark. Another fucking loss (as he grits his teeth). But not all is lost.
He’s still got his dog. He’s still got that guitar he played for all the ladies his freshman year at Temple U. He was the man back then. Hell, there’s two more innings. We get to hit two more times. ‘We’ could come back and win this shit, shock the world!
You know what, fuck it. Philly dad is going to go home tonight and take a shot of Wild Turkey and throw some darts in his garage. He’s not taking this anymore! It’s July 4th weekend and he’ll be damned if he’ll let marriage and a couple snot-nosed kids take away his freedom and his youth! Philly dad is going to play Def Leppard tonight in his garage after midnight, because he’s got fuckin’ Pettibone throwing tomorrow.