At 4:15 a.m. on Thursday morning, after a night of partying and celebration following the Phils World Series win, I finally climbed into the back of a cab, left alone with my thoughts. I thought of the countless hours I had spent with friends watching this team for the last several years. The cheering, the yelling, the frustration and the excitement. The pounds on the back and the stares of disbelief. I thought of Frank, still one of my best friends, pitching against us on a cold opening day of Little League in 1987 with a coat on. I remembered my Senior League team, trying to rush through our championship game so we could get to the movies. I thought of the friends I had been gathering to watch the playoffs with, friends I don’t really discuss feelings with, but whom I love and who love me. I thought of the joy that these Phillies had played with for the last couple of years, of the constant fists pumping or hands clapping after every single double. I thought about how much this must mean to Jamie Moyer, in the league for so long and finally winning a title. I thought of ants and rubber tree plants. I thought of how I moved here almost exactly 7 years ago, and how good this city’s been to me since. I thought of my friends who had talked earlier in the night about recently losing their fathers, the men they had listened to Harry the K on the porch with, and how this World Series victory brought those memories alive. I thought of my father, whom I had excitedly called at around 11:30 earlier in the night. And even though I woke him up on a work night, he told me how glad he was to hear from me. I thought of the catch we had played in backyard so many years ago. I thought of Steve, the volunteer coach in my neighborhood who is on the baseball field down the street from myself seemingly every minute of every day, trying to help young kids learn the game of baseball. I thought of my Little League coach, Mr. Turner, who had turned us around in three years from an 0-15 band of misfits to champions of the league (Incidentally, that’s me, 3rd from right, top row. And I can still name every kid on that team and what position they played.). I thought of all of the strangers I had hugged and high-fived over the previous years at the ballpark, people whose names I never got, but with whom I shared a brief but wonderful slice of joy with. I thought of all these things as I rode in that cab in the wee hours of the morning. And I cried like a baby.

Makes Buck and McCarver look like Sarah Palin and Miss Teen South Carolina. And oh by the way, you gotta check out Wheels’ reaction to Strike 3. Priceless.

I ran into a friend of mine on Broad last night who said, “This is the best night of my life. And I’ve been married and had a daughter.” I cried shortly before I went to bed at 5 a.m. and I cried a little again a few minutes ago reading about Charlie, and I’ll probably cry again during the parade. I know I’m not from here originally, but I have been a sports fan since I was 5 years old, and have never gotten to be a part of anything like this either. This is exalting. The raging hangover I have will go away. The night I had last night will not. And the parade is going to be magnificent. More to come.