It's just that...

We don't remember the game, per se, nor do will really remember the last pitch, live. But we do remember picking up a hitchhicker in our ol' man's ol' van as we all drove up and down the main "highway" in Newtown, Pa., honking the horn and screaming, "WE WON! WE'RE THE CHAMPS!"

We also remember believing, when we were 5, that teams we root for can, and will, win. We remember thinking it was OK the Eagles lost to the Raiders in the Super Bowl just months later because, well, the Phillies were still champs.

We remember the Sixers winning in 1983 and lots of cigars and champagne and large black men with moustaches. Moses Malone was our hero.

We remember watching the last game of the 1983 World Series against the Orioles in our living room, alone for some reason. We liked the Orioles uniforms and thought, oh well, at least the Sixers are still champs.

Then something happened.

We remember betting Russell Davis in fourth grade that there was no way in hell the Hoyas would lose to Villanova in the NCAA hoops championship. We lost a dollar. (Which is why, to this day, we have betting issues -- as in, we don't like to bet, not OH MY GOD *TWITCH* WHAT'S THE GODDAMN SPREAD *LINE OF COKE*).

No one's won since. It's our fault, really. See, we bet against the Villanova Wildcats in 1985 and they won. We guarantee if we rooted *for* them, they would have tanked.

In 1993, we remember going to the club, bottle full o' bub and laughing that all the dudes were glued to the TVs while their chicks were on the dance floor. No one wanted to do anything but watch Lenny Dykstra and his merry band o' juicers take it to the Blue Jays.

Then, well, Mitch Williams. We rooted for them. And they lost.

The Eagles made a living destroying the hopes and dreams of the fans in the early 2000s, and even now to this day. Get hyped up. Believe. And then watch your QB vomit in the Super Bowl, in the huddle. We rooted for them, and they lost.

So today, we'll do this the only way we know how. We won't watch or discuss anything Phillies. We'll be happy that we live in a New York market. We might watch the Mets, in hopes our bad karma effs with them and their 18 alternate uniforms. Then we'll check the scores about 12 hours from now, sigh, and get ready to watch the Eagles lose to the Giants.

Then we'll go to bed, crying on the inside. We will not believe. We will not get our hopes up. We will stay logical and emotionally removed.

And we will still, way deep down inside, love everything about our favorite team except Adam Eaton and the old crusty white people who own and operate it.

Just don't tell anybody.