Philadelphia Phillies: Wind, Wins and Other Things That Pass in the Night
by Cindy Falteich Crickets and crows. That’s what we’re reduced to. The songbirds that tweeted their 140 character posts from dawn till dusk have exploited the north and closed their accounts. The weeds that grew like beanstalks have begun to grey, a reminder that their exoskeletons will haunt me until our first big snow. And today it took only a breeze to rain leaves. It all means just one thing: the postseason has rushed in like a brisk wind. Or I’m just feeling the effects of tacos. Growing up in the Midwest made me appreciate how short a 162 game season can be. Summers were abbreviated by camping trips, fish flies and fears of flood. By this time each year my little brother would empty the yard of crab apples by smacking them one-by-one with his plastic bat into the lawn across the street, dreaming that each one that pitted the siding cleared the wall at a major league stadium almost 200 miles away. At County Stadium. That’s where Robin Yount and Pau