Sometimes the greatest gift a sports team gives its fans isn’t a win

Thank God for the Phillies.

A couple of weeks ago, while staying with my father as he navigates the relentless progression of Alzheimer’s, I found myself thinking about something former Philadelphia Mayor Ed Rendell once said. I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this: You could be waiting for your car outside the old Le Bec-Fin, standing next to the valet, and if a game was on, someone would inevitably ask, “What’s the score?” Just like that, two strangers from entirely different worlds had something to talk about.

That observation has stayed with me for years because Philadelphia sports have always been one of our city’s great equalizers. We may disagree about politics, science, climate, taxes — just about everything. But ask someone about the Phillies, the Eagles, the Sixers, or the Flyers, and for a few moments we’re on the same team.

But I realized there’s a footnote to Rendell’s point. Philadelphia sports don’t just connect strangers. They reconnect family members with Alzheimer’s.

My father’s ability to stay with a conversation now lasts only a few minutes before the disease pulls him somewhere else. Time together has become a matter of fleeting moments rather than long talks.

Then the Phillies came on with a Pittsburgh Pirates series.

Instead of trying to sustain one long conversation, we simply watched the game unfold. Every pitch offered a new beginning. Every at-bat was another opening. A strikeout. A stolen base. A diving play in the gap.

“What do you think?”

“Can they get out of this inning?”

“Who’s up next?”

“How fast was that pitch?”

Unlike so much that depends on sustained attention or memory, baseball is wonderfully episodic. Each pitch stands on its own. Every inning is a reset. Even when memory fades, the present moment is enough.

The June 29 collapse against the Pirates, blowing a 5-0 lead, was painful for Phillies fans. But as much as that final score stung, it hardly mattered to me, because for nearly two hours, my father was engaged.

We talked. He reacted. He stayed with the game and, more importantly, with me in conversation. We weren’t talking about Alzheimer’s, or doctor’s appointments, or everything that’s been lost. We were just a father and daughter watching the Phillies, the way countless Philadelphia families have done for generations.

We were just a father and daughter watching the Phillies.

I left with a deeper appreciation for what sports can be. More than entertainment, they’re shared rituals. Conversation starters. Bridges across generations and time, they’re one of the few places where a disease that steals memory can’t quite steal the moment.

Sometimes the greatest gift a team gives its fans isn’t a win. It’s a reason to stay connected, one pitch at a time.

Go Phils.

Cyndi Reed Rickards is a former Jersey girl and proud Narberth resident who has remained a devoted Phillies and Eagles fan on both sides of the river. She learned from her dad at an early age that no one does heartbreak like a Philadelphia sports fan — and that Dallas will always suck.