Chris Satullo: A silent cheer for the Phils

In the Perkins living room in Malvern hangs a Chase Utley jersey, signed by the slim second baseman himself.

The pinstripe shirt with the red "26" is a quiet presence, one that speaks of an absence as big as the whole world. But it also speaks to the lasting good that simple acts of kindness can do.

That jersey was precious to Allison Perkins, a Phillies fan as loyal as any who now hold their breath at every Hamels change-up or Howard swing.

Every game night during this magical fall, the Perkins family - Teresa, Ron, 16-year-old Melissa, 12-year-old Drew - gathers around the jersey to cheer on the Fightin's, and to remember.

Last fall, you may recall, the Phils made another gallant charge, one that 17-year-old Ally Perkins was sure would end in a parade - even as her pain-wracked body let her know she would not be alive to see it.

On Sept. 22, 2007, Ally died a good death at home, ending a stout battle with a rare and ravenous form of cancer.

The muscle-cell cancer announced itself in 2005 as an eye that wouldn't stop watering. What followed was the familiar, painful path of disease: the MRIs, the sledgehammer news, the chemo, the vomiting, the knit cap atop the balding head, the trips in and out of Children's Hospital of Philadelphia.

Through it all, Ally remained the same shy, sweet, uncomplaining girl. "I'm OK," she'd say as morphine dripped. "I'm fine." (My wife was Ally's social worker at the hospital's King of Prussia clinic.)

"Ally was easy-going; nothing rattled her chains," Teresa says. "She never had that mean-girl phase."

Sick as she was, Ally didn't ask for a lot - maybe the sports page, so she could fill out her March Madness bracket from her hospital bed. Most of all, she wanted to meet her idol, Chase Utley. (Chase Ugly, Drew would tease his big sister.)

When Make-a-Wish Foundation asked Ally what dream of hers it could fulfill, she said, "Box seats for the Phillies."

"We were like, 'C'mon, Ally, couldn't you ask for someplace warm?' " Teresa jokes. In the end, the family did travel to Hawaii. But they got those box seats, too, a glowing memory. (Getting tickets was no problem; Utley quietly donated a ton to the hospital last year.)

That day, Ally and her family, dazed and delighted, were led onto the field during batting practice. A Phillies PR worker asked Utley if he'd have a moment after he hit in the cage to talk to the girl wearing his jersey.

"Ally had her beanie on," Teresa recalls. Utley "said, 'Let's do it right now.' He was fabulous, truly wonderful. He spent so much time with us, posed for pictures. He said to Ally, 'Do you want me to sign your shirt?' He had to ask. She never would have gotten the words out. She was awestruck. I never saw her face beaming as it was that day."

"Chase doesn't know how much he did for that girl," Ron Perkins says. "There was never a better day in her life."

The athlete's graciousness was matched by the kindness of Ally's neighbors. Some glib critics sniff that the suburbs are soulless, the geography of nowhere. They should see how places like Malvern rally around when good people like the Perkinses need help.

Teresa took a leave from work to care for Ally. Money was tight: "I'd go to the mailbox and there'd be a check slipped in there, or movie tickets, or a restaurant card so I didn't have to cook."

"They held a beef-and-beer for Ally," Ron recalls. "It snowed a foot that day. I figured no one could come. The place was packed."

That's why the Perkins family now has set up the Ally Perkins Memorial Fund, to give something back, to redeem the pain that never makes sense, never wanes.

"We remember how much it used to mean to us to get a gift card to go to the movies," Teresa says. "We want other families to get that kind of break. So we're buying cards to places Ally loved, like the movies, Barnes & Noble, T.G.I. Friday's. Call it Ally's Fun Fund. She's worth it."

Tonight, the family members will gather around the jersey to watch Jamie Moyer baffle those Rays. They'll fret and they'll cheer, but it will be "bittersweet," Ron says.

"Ally grew up with this team," Teresa says. "You just want her to be here to see all this. But she's not. Or maybe she is."