From the Sidelines: Celebrating losing dynasties

SHAWN CHENG/YH

For far too long now, I've been living in the "Phan Zone." Having been given this unfortunate title by the starched corporate collars behind the Philadelphia Phillies, the "Phan Zone" is essentially Dante's ninth circle for the contemporary baseball aficionado. Instead of the agonies of Brutus, Judas, and Cassius, however, we Phillies phans now have thin pitching, untimely hitting, and suspect defense. But the pain is just as intense, the wait for any respite as hopeless, and the inhabitants every bit as goddamned.

Misery isn't unique to baseball, but the national pastime sure has its hand deeper in the stuff than any other sport. Only in baseball can a player fail at his chief task two-thirds of the time and be considered great. Only in baseball do the losing teams somehow outnumber the winning teams, year after year, in spite of the fact that there are just as many wins to go around as there are losses. And only in baseball do certain teams corner the market in the latter category and achieve fame and fan support for their efforts.

Indeed, when some surly, stinky New Yorker reminds me that my hometown Phillies have collected more losses than any other team in the history of organized sports, I can't help but feel a perverse pride at the distinction. Viewed alone, the franchise most noticeably attaches itself to racism, shoddy Astroturf, a nd fans mean enough to boo national anthems and weddings. But seen alongside its abysmal record, the Phillies organization joins hands with Beantown's own Red Sox and the Cubs of Sweet Home Chicago as classic losers in the pantheon of American sports teams. Let's face it: nothing is more boring or depressing than the consistent but watered-down brand of excellence that parity in other sports engenders. Did anyone notice that the NHL's Boston Bruins have made the playoffs in all but one of the last 15 years? Or that the Miami Dolphins haven't had a losing season since Dan Marino broke into the League in '81? Of course not. It's not that we overlook these quality clubs; it's that these teams have actually sucked throughout. Their mediocrity has only been hidden by the forgiving nature of the games they play.

Baseball, on the other hand, is very exclusive. The good teams are awe-inspiring, and the bad ones are tragically inept. They say it's a game of inches, but the results always fall closer to the extremes. No sport can be made to look so ugly or so pretty, so utterly simple or so maddeningly difficult. Whatever a baseball club does, win or lose, it does it with gusto.

It's because of this strange property that baseball manages to carve out two dynastic niches of equal notoriety and import. The competent and the inept garnish each other; the Red Sox play Tonto to the Yanks' Lone Ranger, while the Phillies sit back like Dr. Watson and let the Braves' Sherlock take their sorry asses to school. You cry for some teams and scorn others, but you can ignore none. Every team is permitted its own perverted sort of greatness.

For now, Red Sox fans will scoff at my analysis, drunk on their aberrant success like the Cubs fans of yesteryear. Hooked on that classic baseball narcotic called hope, BoSox boosters reject a decades-old curse and ignore history's immense pull. But we should allow them their vices, lest us Phillies, Blue Jays, and—allow me to use my crystal ball—Mets fans forget our own precipitous falls from grace. Pride should be allowed in baseball precisely because pride is always punished. If nothing else, there is something poignant about hearing a Bostonian or Chicagoan speak of a trip to the Series. They are like children, endlessly idealistic yet unwittingly beholden to forces beyond their understanding. We can forgive these smaller trespasses because we know what kinds of horrors lie ahead.

But take it from a denizen of the "Phan Zone." For all of the suffering delivered upon me simply because I was born into a dysfunctional baseball fraternity, there's no place I'd rather be. Whether it's ordering a greasy cheesesteak for eight bucks, spewing obscenities at my team's starting pitcher, or going home after a close loss and crying my eyes out, my experiences as a Phillies phan have been utterly irreplaceable. For all of us die-hard loyalists to baseball's lovable losing dynasties, our teams' failure to reward our emotional investment only brings us back each season with renewed zeal.

Besides, next year, Phillies General Manager Ed Wade will increase the payroll in order to keep the fightin' Phils in the free-agent race. Next year, the Phillies will have hot young phenoms Randy Wolf and Carlton Loewer, a punchy offense filled with budding young stars, and ace fireballer Curt Schilling back on the mound. Next year, it will all come together, and everything will change in my gloomy town. I just know it.

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