I believe in baseball. I believe in the smell of the field on a hot summer night, the lights illuminating the night from miles away, like a beacon of hope calling to those who need joy and love. I believe in the crack of the bat against a baseball, the sound silencing the deafening roar of a sold out crowd.
I believe in Phillies’ fans. I believe in the passion that runs in the fans veins, the courage that beats in their heart, and the loyalty that rules their minds. I believe in the courage it takes a Phillies fan to boo their own team when they do bad, the courage to stand up to those who call them rude and disloyal, to prove them wrong. The passion for the game exudes in every inning of a Phillies game. The fans force the team to work for the fans love, my love. I could not tell you a single detail from my first Phillies game, except that I was there. I was only eight days old, I may not recall every detail of every single game that I have been to, but I will never forget the feeling of the game. The power of baseball is overwhelming and transcends the boundary of the sport. Baseball is a metaphor for life. When it is your turn at the plate to hit at your baseball, your chance to make your mark on the scoreboard, there will always be someone waiting for the strikeout. But when the game is over and the opposing team has left the stands, and the staff is cleaning up the hotdog wrappers and popcorn spills, the fans, your fans, will still be there waiting to cheer you on no matter the outcome.
I believe that life is a homerun and every day is one more step to the screaming fans in the outfield stands, ready to make you their hero.
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