Bill Lyon | Never-say-die Phillies offer reason to believe

Friday night, wedding reception, Blue Bell: Six men run discreet relays from the ballroom to the TV set, returning with updates of the Phillies and Mets games. Their reports are delivered with gleeful chortling, in acerbic shorthand: "Fightin's up 3, choking New York dogs down 4." The bride dances with her father, and everyone smiles, and the good news is whispered: Phillies inching closer to first place.

Saturday, gym: The TV sets are zeroed in on the first-place Phillies. The man on the treadmill next to me squints and asks: "What's that Mets score? I can't read it." The Mets have two touchdowns and an extra point. The man yelps in anguish: "Whaaaaaat" and shoots off the back of his treadmill. He sits, ruefully, and mutters: "I knew it was too good to be true." Obviously, a lifelong Phillies fan.

Sunday, checkout line: A beefy man with the tentacles of his radio elbow-deep into his ears suddenly bellows: "Rollins is on." Grins all around. Comes another bellow: "Rollins stole second." Happy nodding of heads. Soon: "Rollins stole third." Now there is growing applause. Then: "He just scored. . . . Phillies are ahead." An impromptu chorus: M-V-P . . . M-V-P.

So went a weekend for the memory bank, three days of golden splendor and apple-cider nights, of lighted candles and frenzied helicoptering of white rally towels, all courtesy of a Major League Baseball team whose mottled history is mostly one of angst and frustration.

Ah, but not this time, my friend. Not this time. No, this time the Fightin's are truly worthy of their nickname, and none of that usual sneering derision either. This is all guts and glory.

They won their division with a trumpets-blaring stretch run that was made even sweeter because it involved an inglorious free-fall, flame-out death spiral by the New York Mets, who are to the Phillies roughly what Dallas is to the Eagles.

In the Season of the 10,000 Losses, for a franchise that has suffered more defeats than any professional team in any sport, ever, the Phillies have achieved Deliverance. For only the 10th time in their 125-year history, they will play beyond the regular schedule.

And they will do so with the full-throated accompaniment of a city whose yearning for a champion goes back generations and cuts clean to the bone.

Sport is the great common denominator.

It is the umbilical that ties us to one another. It cuts across all the mean and petty lines, transcends the unspoken boundaries, and has no regard for gender, race or age.

Being a fan requires no more than a simple emotional investment. But beware, for, over time it will grow and swell and inflame and rouse from you a passion you never knew existed.

Most of the time, the Phillies have tantalized you, seduced you, left you in gnashing rage, or weeping sorrow. But this is a team meant for this town and for this time. This is a team that does not swoon, that does not go gentle into that good night.

Of its 89 wins, 48 were achieved when they had to come from behind.

"Not a ounce of give-up in 'em," says manager Charlie Manuel, who knows a little bit about not giving up, having survived cancer and a heart attack, among other triumphs.

Says Jayson Werth, a platoon player: "We don't feel like we're out of a game. It's been crazy. Nothing can surprise us."

Crazy, yes. But a delicious lunacy. How many school-night bedtimes were fudged, or just plain ignored, during the month of September? Here is the rationalization for being allowed to stay up waiting for one more rally: The Fightin's have provided a life lesson, applicable for any and every age. Never give in, never give up. Never. Ever. Never.

They were seven games behind with 17 to play. They won 13, equaling the biggest September comeback in major-league history. And the Mets, well, in a delightful bit of irony, the Mets did a passable impersonation of the Phillies Great Collapse of 1964.

And the '07 Phillies did all of this in spite of a crippling, season-long run of injuries. Their DL was as thick as a Manhattan phone book. Asked how this team was held together, Jimmy Rollins replied: "Motrin and duct tape."

Also held together by Manuel, who gave a determined demonstration of placid, panic-free managing, and by Rollins, who played every game and scored more runs than anyone else in the National League, and in the process was without peer at his position.

In the euphoria of Sunday's win, Ryan Howard, last year's MVP, leaned into a camera and, with an appealing touch of class, said: "I gladly relinquish my title to this man. He deserves it."

Yes, he does.

It was Rollins who first uttered the words "We're the team to beat" back in January. It was not said in arrogance or cocky posing, but rather as an honest, if opinionated, assessment. In Game 162, it became reality.

This team has caught many by surprise. We have become accustomed to oh-so-close. We have come to expect being led to Lover's Leap, and then pushed. Ah, but you have heard all of this a thousand times and more, by now, about curses and negativity, hexes and terminal pessimism, the shroud that cloaks our town.

But perhaps it has never been quite as bad as we think. Listen, for example, to Pat Burrell. Pat the Bat rallied from a horrid first half of the season and ended with 30 home runs and 97 RBI, respectable numbers, indeed. But in his stay here, he has been roundly roasted. And yet . . . and yet, well, listen: "It's always been good to be a Phillie. Even the bad times have been great."

There is something to be learned from such a stalwart sentiment.

So now what? Well, now comes a thing to which we are unaccustomed: Tomorrow. The Fightin's are going to play October baseball. At home. They are in the playoffs.

And in the words of their beloved Dirt Ball, Chase Utley: "Once you're in, anything can happen."

And so it can.

And so it can.