It happened fast. So fast. The way great things often do. The way the great ones do them. One moment, it was cold and gray and wet and the spaces between the roars were getting longer and more distinct as the anxious murmur of impending defeat settled over Citizens Bank Park. The Phillies were six outs away from another cross-country flight and another 24 hours of the worst sort of waiting, six outs away from this National League Championship series heading back to San Diego at three-games-to-two, six outs away away from a party delayed.
And then it happened. Bryce Harper stepped to the plate.
What he did almost does not need to be told, because he has done it for two straight weeks, for nine playoff wins, for 11 games of some of the most brilliant baseball that the month of October has ever seen. But he did it, and everyone saw it the moment happened, maybe even before. All 45,000. They did not need to hear the crack. They saw that beautiful left-handed swing uncoiling through the zone. They saw the flash of the barrel as it cut a frictionless pass toward a sinker that clocked 98 on the gun. They saw the ball jump into the red-gray dusk.
