For first time in a generation, a party years in the making

By Bill Lyon

For The Inquirer

It was one of those pristine, crystalline, sun-splashed, green-and-gold, shadow-streaked days that October, the best month of the year, favors us with from time to time, a day perfect for, oh, say, a parade.

By happy circumstance, we just happened to have one scheduled.

And, oh, was it glorious.

Well worth the wait, and no matter that the wait had felt like forever and a day.

The Phillies, you might have heard, won the World Series the other day.

The city, of course, was the very model of decorum and restraint.

Or, in the words of Ryan Howard, the Big Bopper: "This is the craziest place on Earth."

Yes. And damn proud of it, too.

A delightful delirium gripped Philadelphia yesterday. Broad Street was transformed into a Canyon of Heroes. Fathers and mothers brought sons and daughters because, well, because it represents the symbolic closing of a circle, because one day of truancy can be educational in its own way. And, oh, yes, by the way, there is too crying in baseball.

Blizzards of confetti swirled. There were horses and bicycles and foot police, flatbeds and floats and double-deckers. And a tsunami-size wake clogging the streets as the parade crawled past.

The parade ... and, oh, by the way again, it's OK to say the P-word now. The curse is no more.

And, oh, by the way one last time, the editor man is poking me in the ribs with that pointy stick again and asking, so how does this parade rank with the others?

"The others" is not a category requiring exhaustive research, there having been only three others in the last 34 years. Memory is elusive and from time to time you cannot recall what you had for lunch, let alone a previous century. Nonetheless, we shall make a determined stab at it.

On a splendid sunny day in the spring of 1974, I took a fourth-floor window-open perch to watch the Flyers parade a certain vessel of some repute. Hockey was new to Philadelphia, but Lord Stanley's Cup acquired instant popularity. At that point, the city was every bit as victory-starved as it was until this past Wednesday.

It is probably not an exaggeration to suggest that fully half of those who came to the parade had never been within shouting distance of a puck. The parade was an excuse to party, which they did with impressive and relentless determination.

Police estimated the crowd in excess of two million. Many of them, enjoying this fine May day, sat on ledges. Fortunately, none toppled over. Veterans said the assembly rivaled the end of World War II, historic indeed.

There was one serious miscalculation. The players themselves were loaded into convertibles. With the tops down. Which allowed cans of beer to be passed from the festive crowd directly into the Flyers' thirsty maws. The parade crawled along, barely a block an hour, and by its end, well, to this day, when you say to some of the players, "Some parade, eh?" they reply: "I'll take your word for it."

The Phillies, 1980. Police guessed that parade drew close to a million. I decided to walk it. Bad mistake.

The late and dearly missed Frank Edwin McGraw, a.k.a. Tug, has become the enduring image of those festivities, through three photographs.

The first is that arms-up, leaping Irish two-step he danced in joy after firing the last pitch.

The second is Tug brandishing the Daily News with its screaming headline: WE WIN!

The third is the Three Amigos, reading from left to right: Tug, Pete Rose and Larry Bowa. They celebrated as robustly as they played.

They rode on flatbeds, and every other block or so, inebriated fans would attempt to leap on and join the Three Amigos. But the police had four-legged deterrents.

"I got a whole new level of respect and appreciation for horses that day," Tug said later.

The 76ers. 1983. A bright, exquisite June day. The crowd estimate was 1.7 million. They had a flatbed for the media. Miles better than trying to walk it.

One of the flatbeds blew a tire just as the parade started. Somehow, even though listing to one side and wobbling drunkenly, it made it all the way to the finish.

Was that quintessential Philadelphia or what? Go the distance no matter what.

Those were the Sixers of Doc and Moses, Mo and Andrew, Bobby and Billy C. The parade ended just beyond second base, Julius Erving and Billy Cunningham lifting the trophy that glinted in the sun like spun gold.

The Phillies. 2008. Tried it from TV. Much preferable than trying to wade through pedestrian gridlock. My bladder also applauded the decision.

And how did we do this time around?

We are a quick study, and seem to have gotten the hang of it.

It would be a nice habit to acquire.

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