From San Francisco to Philadelphia, the weather was beautiful on October 18th, the entire nation ready for a simple game to unfold physically in West Philadelphia, but in the cosmic sense to be played out in the hearts and minds of freedom-lovers everywhere.

There were two epic collisions about to take place.  The first was between two sports.  The national pastime was about to have its boring part—the waiting around while nothing happens—smashed out and replaced by the only good part of Europe’s pathetic excuse for football, that is, the kicking things really hard part.  Baseball and soccer coalesced into a superior sport suitable for the magnitude of the occasion.

The second collision promised to be smaller and friendlier, but no less deadly.  A meeting was about to take place, an anachronistic clash of otherwise invincible titans displaced from time.  Stouffer warriors both, the past and the present, divided along graduation lines into two “teams,” a description of armies quaint enough to befit the grassy Hill Field.

The entire world held its breath, privy to every moment thanks to the magic of coaxial cables, at least the few that carry ESPN IX, the Nueve.

The younger team, the Fighting Residents, were up to kick first, having magnanimously conceded the position of “home team” to those had lived in Stouffer for four—and in the case of the dimmer alums, five or six—whole years.  Said one Resident, speaking on condition of anonymity, “Actually, it wasn’t magnanimity so much as we wanted to bittersweetly rub it in that they don’t actually live in Stouffer anymore, that unless they win the Super Bowl or go to grad school and become a GA, they’ve no hope of ever being as happy as they once were.”

As the literate and alliterative Corey Conyers sauntered to the plate (which was stolen from the 1920 Commons in retribution for the food), the crowd began to realize that the Fighting Residents should be heavily favored.  The opposing team, the Fighting Alumni, was grossly undermanned.  The grueling 290-game kickball season had taken its toll, and many of the star players were on the DL (disabled list, not down-low; there’s nothing down or low about the Fighting Alumni…except their portfolios).  Notable Alumni absences included starting first baseman Matthew Bowen, who, suffering from a broken ankle and temporary loss of sanity, sat at home watching the game with power sluggers Matt Crespi, who suffered a sprained pylorus in the 19-inning victory against the Dallas Cowboys (the other Dallas Cowboys), and Sathvik Tantry, who was gently nursing back to health a badly bruised ego.  Furthermore, Team Captain Wendy Berg was a no-show, offering nothing but some lame excuse about saving babies’ lives (this paper did some digging, and it turns out she only saved three that day…pathetic).

The beleaguered Alumni team played tough defense against a youthful, predominantly freshman, team, and they managed to escape the first inning without giving up a run.  Up to kick, they wondered how long old people, even old heroes, could hold out against such youth and vigor.  But wait!  Off in the distance a silhouette formed on the horizon.  A hero among heroes, a king among men, a superstar written off, emerged and stepped onto the field.  Better than Mighty Casey, who was traded for a sandwich and a player to be named later; better than the third coming of Babe Ruth; even better than that squirrel who can water-ski.  Thought to be in a standoff with management, golden-footed Daniel Berger stomped gracefully to the Alumni bench, having settled his contract dispute only minutes before the game had started.  Making a quick calculation, they let the man whose last name sounds delicious kick third in the lineup, at which point he belted a 6-run homer.  It seemed like it was all over but the hugging.

The Fighting Residents remained scoreless through three boring innings, and then at 8-0, the fourth packed a wallop.  Back-to-back-to-back-to-back home runs by freshmen Doug Haefele, John Gee, Andrew Gepty, and Shannon Kim brought the scrappy young contenders surging to within a pair of runs.  Duly impressed, the Fighting Alumni retired the side and knew they had to rely on their experience.  The first two kickers struck out, a kickball record set by pitcher Alyssa Rosenzweig.  Two outs against them, two runs ahead, with no momentum and a rapidly gaining Resident team put the Fighting Alumni in a tough spot.  Then a miracle happened.  Another kickball record.  This reporter would love to give credit, but what happened next was so confusing no one is really sure.  A walk-off 9-run homer.  Nine runs.  One kick.  That’s as many thumbs up as Homer Simpson gave a slice of pizza; it’s the maximum number of candles that get lit on any night of Hanukah; it’s the number of the cloud on which the Fighting Alumni perched themselves as they saw the score soar to give them a comfortable, and ultimately decisive, 11 point lead.  Call it athleticism; call it heroism; call it a miracle.  Or call it the inevitable result of hiring Arthur Andersen to do the scorekeeping.  Whatever it was, everyone knew they had seen something special, a miraculous achievement that rivaled Boise State’s Fiesta Bowl victory, and an accomplishment that would not be surpassed for days, maybe even weeks.

Though history will relate that the 2008 miracle of Philadelphia sports was the Phillies breaking the curse of Billy Penn—and it was a miracle, an incredible accomplishment and boon for a city thirsting for a championship around which to rally and come together—those who were at Hill Field and watching ESPN IX that day know that the real miracle of triumph and community resides not in a World Series celebration, but in Stouffer College House.

Final Score: Fighting Alumni 23, Fighting Residents 15.  MVP awarded to Wendy’s “The Baconator” sandwich.

Photos from the event are available on our Gallery.

Box Score:

Fighting Residents
Corey Conyers
Doug Haefele
John Gee
Andrew Gepty
Shannon Kim
Brian Lee
Matt MacMillan
Alyssa Rosenweig

Fighting Alumni
Dan Berger
Chris De Simone
Jen Light
William Wames
Ryan Weicker