I think that the Daily News had more reporters in the bars around town than at the ballpark watching the Phillies game. Here is another story based in Philadelphia bars during the game and in the streets afterwards.
|From the October 22, 1980
edition of The Philadelphia Daily News:
Sites and Sounds…
By Kitty Caparella
“You’ll know by the first batter if Steve’s got it,” predicted bartender Eddie Gavin at the Philadium, a sports bar within sprinting distance of Veteran’s Stadium on Packer Avenue near 17th Street.
Gavin was right.
The game ended as it began. In the first play of the first inning, Phillies pitcher Steve Carlton struck out Royals leftfielder Willie Wilson and, then, Tug McGraw did the same to Wilson for the last play in the ninth.
And, in between, nothing went unnoticed by the up-out-of-their-seats screaming fans eying two color TV sets at either end of the bar. Not even the toothpick in Royal shortstop U.L. Washington’s mouth.
“That’s a disgrace,” said a disgusted fan, beer in hand.
“We’ve been tagged the City of Losers too long,” said cook and bartender Frankie Masters, 39, just as the game was getting under way. “If we win tonight, they might party until Sunday.”
In the bottom of the sixth, third baseman Larry Bowa slid home on catcher Bob Boone’s double, and the patrons were off their barstools screaming. Suddenly they burst into song, in a deep bass chorus: “Goodbye Royals, goodbye Royals, we hate to see you go.”
They started the countdown of the number of outs to go. “Shake and Bake got that one,” came a cry. The chanting started, “Seven, seven, seven.” Then it was, “two, two, two” outs to go, a guy in a red and white Phillies shirt leaned over and waved “Goodbye K.C....”
Soon Paul Owens was crying on the screen. Dallas Green was hugging him and the bar was in an uproar. The patrons jumped up and down, hugging and kissing each other and one placed a kiss on Tug McGraw on the screen.
“Unbelievable… We did it… I hope we don’t have to wait until 2033 until the next World Series.”
The party that could last until Sunday had gotten its spontaneous start.
When the Phillies did it, the TV floodlights flashed on at Broad Street and Snyder Avenue and a sea of index fingers shot up in the air with a roar, “We’re number one.”
Pennants waved, fireworks exploded, beer bottles crashed. Screams, whistles, hoots.
It was pandemonium as thousands of raucous celebrants flooded South Philadelphia as far up and down Broad Street as the eye could see. In their exuberance to appear on NBC network television, some fans climbed on top of a Toyota and jumped up and down until the roof crashed in.
Police on horseback blocked Broad Street at Porter, and a flashing police car blocked Broad Street at Passyunk Avenue. It was there that more than 4,000 fans converged. “Hey, cop,” said one youth, patting the cop’s back, who then shook hands.
There were kids as young as eight and as old as their grandfathers drinking quarts of beer or pouring them on each others’ heads. A young Mummer in a red lame cape weaved in and out of the crowd. The broken bottles crunched underfoot. Two young men sought the privacy of a corner of Bell Telephone and relieved themselves.
Kids hopped on each others’ backs and waved pennants. They shook the street signs. And they passed out drunk.