One down, one to go.

Philadelphia professional sports teams have played 100 seasons since the last time we won a championship — which means we have lost 100 times in a row.

Is it any wonder this town can be a little negative? A little cynical? A little “wait till next year … when we louse it up again”?

And to be honest, as I watched the Rays’ Dioner Navarro get a hit in the ninth inning last night and then suddenly saw the tying run standing on second base, what I found myself praying for was not so much that the Phillies would win, but simply that they wouldn’t lose … yet again. I wasn’t craving the high of a victory, but a reprieve from the crushing, blood-flowing-out-of-your-body feeling of coming up short. And so the first emotion I felt when strike three was called and Brad Lidge fell to his knees and the championship was finally ours was the same one I imagine a battered kid feels when the old man decides to lay off him for a night.

After being smacked in the head 100 times in a row, tonight we were being given a pass. There would be no pain.

But then something wonderful happened. As I jumped around from channel to channel, I noticed that one of the stations had put a simple sentence on the screen: PHILLIES WIN THE WORLD SERIES.

Did I get a chill? Maybe that overstates it. But I kept looking back at it, again and again and again. There was something epic in that line — the franchise with 10,000 losses taking what is the oldest, most storied, most American sports title of all.

That it happened an hour and a half after the 30-minute Obamathon had, at least for me, a certain sweetness. After decades of picking presidents based on which one might cause us less pain, he seems to offer us an opportunity to be a better version of ourselves, to be as decent as we used to be — to be not just not bad, but good.

Go Phils.

A confession: I was rooting for the Rays last night.

Not for most of the game. But in the top of the sixth, while the cats and dogs and heaven knows what else were falling out of the sky, I was sitting in my cozy living room wishing to myself that the Rays would score a run and tie up one of the strangest World Series games in the history of World Series games.

What brought out my treasonous tendencies? Two scenarios that would have taken most of the thrill out of the greatest Phillies season in a quarter-century. Scenario one: They continued to slog through the rain and mud (and puppies and kittens) all the way to the ninth inning, and we had to endure Joe Buck and Tim McCarver whining about how unfair this is to the Rays (as if somehow the Phils had been playing in bright, 70-degree sunshine). In that scenario the Phils’ championship would forever have had an asterisk next to it: Sure, the Phillies won, but everybody knows the Rays got screwed by Bud Selig.

Scenario two was even worse: That the game would have been called with the Phillies leading 2-1, and then the Fightin’s would have been declared champions — sort of the way the Supreme Court declared Bush beat Al Gore.

After 25 years of misery, did we really want to win a championship that way?

So tonight (or tomorrow, or Thanksgiving, or whenever) the Rays and Phils will head out there and battle it out on the field for 3.5 more innings. The bad mojo I talked about yesterday has been exorcised. I have never been more confident that the Phillies will win, and then the drought will really be over.

Call me a Philadelphian, but I think something’s up. Something maybe not so good.

Twice yesterday the sports gods looked down on Philadelphia teams and decided that the City of Losing Sports Franchises should actually get a break from the officials. The Eagles got one late in their victory against the Falcons, when a ref blew a muffed punt call and allowed the Eagles to ice the game. Then, somehow, the third-base umpire in last night’s Series game ruled that Evan Longoria hadn’t tagged Jimmy Rollins when he dived back into third base — though the replay clearly showed that Longoria tagged him on the ass (as my friend Zahn put it, it looked Rollins had been sexually assaulted).

So if you’re a Philadelphia sports rooter, you just say thanks for the gift, then pick out which outfit you’re going to wear to the victory parade, right? Maybe. But I can’t help thinking there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and no such thing as a gift call in sports. Which means somewhere we’re going to pay the price for all this unearned good will. A blown Game 5 tonight? A dreary tip to that hole Tampa calls a stadium tomorrow? A stunning Obama loss?

I realize this is a dark dark way to look at things on what should be a bright bright morning. But maybe that’s what happens when you’ve gone 25 years without winning a championship. It’s the sports equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome, in which hostages start to side with their captors. Philly sports fans have been on the losing side for so long that we now actually identify with the forces that have kept us from winning all these years. If something’s going right, then something must be wrong.

Maybe only a parade can undo the brainwashing.

OK, I feel better now.

Yes, I did watch the team formerly known as the Fightin’ Phils surrender meekly to the Rays last night. I did see them leave 54 dozen men on base. I did hear Jimmy Rollins (0-9 in the series, but who’s counting, other than Mets fans?) admit that he’s been tight at the plate, which is the closest a pro athlete may ever have come to admitting he’s choking.

But I also saw Mr. September — a.k.a Ryan Howard — launch two hits, including a double to center field. Here is what we know about Ryan: when he hits the ball to left or center, he’s swinging well. And the Phillies have no legitimate chance of winning if he’s not swinging well.

So the Phils are limping home and the rain is coming — hard — on Saturday. But there’s hope. The big man, I think, has been awakened.

Failure. Baseball is wonderful because it’s about failure, immediate and abject.

Color man Tim McCarver on last night’s Fox telecast of the first World Series game said something like: “There’s nothing worse than being caught in between. And nobody gets caught in between more than Ryan Howard.” He meant in between anticipating fastballs and breaking balls, fast stuff and slow stuff.

But it’s different, and bigger, than that. Ryan Howard is caught between knowing exactly what he’s doing and doing it better than anyone ever has, and looking totally lost, suddenly the worst hitter in baseball. Between supreme confidence and sitting in the dugout, post strikeout, mouthing “fuck” so that millions of Americans can get the cathartic thrill of our beautiful national metaphor.

There’s a lot of celebrating going on around Philadelphia today — high fives, chest bumps, a woman at Starbucks even trying to give an Obama-like fist pound. (She didn’t look like a terrorist, but how can one ever tell?)

Me, I’ve never been more nervous. And I’m pretty convinced the Phils are on the verge of a painful tank that’s going to make ’64 and ’93 feel like tiny little paper cuts.

Four reasons I’m freaking out:

1. Zero-for-13. That’s what the Phils hit with runners in scoring position last night as they left 11 runners on base. Face it, Game One should have been one of those laffers that was over by the fifth inning. Instead, the Phils lack of clutch hitting — a problem all year long for this team — kept the Rays in it till Brad Lidge’s final pitch. If the Phillies continue to come up this small in big spots, this Series will be over in five games.

2. Zero-for-9. Speaking of sucking when things really count, that was the combined line for Jimmy Rollins and Ryan Howard last night. Simply put, the Phils have no shot if two of their three best players are worse than invisible at the plate. This team only made the playoffs because Howard went on a hot streak for the ages in September. But being Mr. September clearly doesn’t mean squat in October. As for J-Roll, well, let’s say we wipe this whole season off the memory banks and start over again next year, huh?

3. 50 in a Row. That’s how many Brad Lidge has saved, which means a guy going this good for this long has to go bad at some point. Why does a growing part of me think it happens somewhere in this Series?

4. Obama + 7.6. Speaking of things being too good, it is not possible, my Philadelphia heart tells me, that the guy I want to win the election and the team I want to win the World Series will both pull this off in the same year. Something goes haywire here, and I can’t decide which one I want it to be.

Well, Philadelphia, it’s finally here. The moment we have all been waiting for. Forever. The only thing left to do is have the unnecessarily long conversation with your friends about where to watch the game. We hope this guide will expedite the debate …

The Best Places to Watch the Game If …

You’re the kind of fan who’ll try to sneeze with your eyes open so you don’t miss a pitch
The Field House, 150 Filbert Street, 215-629-1520
TVs: 60 HDs and an 8-foot projection screen
It’s nearly impossible to miss a second of the action in this mammoth sports bar, which covers more ground than Shane Victorino. Despite the large crowd, multiple screens are always in sight, and parties of six or fewer looking to munch on some American pub fare can call to reserve a table. Beg for one of the booths with a built-in TV for an element of privacy among the red sea of raucous aficionados.

Get the rest of our picks in our Arts and Events section.

As the Phillies (and the city) gear up for Game 1 on October 22nd, it’s a perfect time to look back at our recent coverage of the team. Robert Huber’s April 2007 profile “Ryan Howard Is Not a Creep, a Cheat, a Liar or a Fraud” proved to be a prescient look at the first baseman’s ups and downs with the bat since his 2006 MVP year:

“I think that hitting is so simple it’s complicated” is how Howard puts it. He doesn’t try to hit home runs when he practices; he hits the ball straight, on a clothesline, working his technique. You build your body’s knowledge, let that take over, shut the mind down at the right moment. His teammate Jimmy Rollins mentored him when Howard came up to the Phillies two years ago. Ryan believed he had to be perfect, so he was trying too hard — he was thinking out there. Rollins took him aside: “If you show that you’re good for one month, who cares? If you show that you’re bad for one month, who cares?” Well, of course everybody, especially Howard, cared. But Rollins was trying to get Howard’s mind off good and bad. He was snowing him, teaching him that the way to do really well was to talk himself into how inconsequential it all is, as if baseball — who’s he kidding? — is just a game. (Read the full piece here.)

In April 2008’s “Inside the Mind of a … Genius?,” Matthew Teague looked past manager Charlie Manuel’s bumbling exterior to discover his true gift — connecting with his players:

The most important part of managing baseball is the same as managing anything — dealing with people, in this case ridiculously well-paid entertainers who perform feats of athletic derring-do before millions of people. Derring-do that requires great focus and confidence. When Larry Bowa exploded in the dugout, which he frequently did, he spooked his players.

Bowa wasn’t unique. When some major-league baseball managers walk through their clubhouses, players visibly stiffen. But when Manuel walks through the Phillies clubhouse, the players do the opposite. They relax. He’s got two children of his own — a son and daughter — but Manuel serves as a father figure to his whole roster of players. Among them, he almost looks like a bobble-head of himself, endlessly nodding and smiling. (Read the full piece here.)

The premise of June’s “The Phantom Five” — that the team’s intensely private ownership is the reason we have the losingest franchise in sports — may look a tad off under current circumstances, but as they say in baseball, the fundamentals of Richard Rys’s piece are sound:

The Phantom Five meet four times a year, beginning in March during spring training. That session is known as the annual meeting, and it’s a chance for the Phillies vice presidents and [team president David] Montgomery to deliver state-of-the-team reports to the bigwigs. Bill Webb, the attorney who helped [Bill] Giles buy the team more than a quarter-century ago, is still there, handling the minutes. The meeting leads off with Montgomery’s baseball report, recapping the past season, laying out an improvement plan for the one ahead, and answering the sorts of questions the average fan might ask. (How’s our top 2006 draft pick doing after Tommy John surgery? Is there another Kyle Kendrick in the farm system?) The other executive reports — like the economic breakdown from Jerry Clothier, the team’s finance guru since 1982 — rarely generate further discussion. There’s another meeting after the draft in June, and a light December session that doubles as a holiday party. The season-end recap is scheduled each year for September, as if to presume the Phillies’ campaign will never extend into October. (Read the full piece here.)

And our August Best of Philly issue brought “The Couple That Loves Us Back,” Larry Platt’s look at a star pair — second baseman Chase Utley and his wife, Jen — who, unlike so many other sports personalities, have become part of the fabric of the city:

Now it’s three All-Star games and one ­seven-year, $85 million contract later, and Jen and Chase Utley are — unlike so many sports icons — still resolute about, as Jen puts it, “having a life where you are.” The 99-cent shrimp cocktails have been replaced by meals at Osteria and Amada, and they’ve bought a luxury condo in Center City. Most importantly, struck by the fact that Philadelphia is one of the worst cities in America when it comes to animal cruelty, they’ve launched a crusade to raise money and awareness to save Philly animals from torture and abuse. Unlike so many athletes, Chase Utley is no hired-gun mercenary, here to hit baseballs and live his real life elsewhere. “You can’t shut down your life for six months a year,” Jen says. (Read the full piece here.)

Credits: Manuel/Bob Croslin; Phillies illustration/Roberto Parada; Utleys/Peter Yang

Esquire magazine isn’t shy about lavishing the love on Philadelphia food. In the past, we’ve won mentions for our roast pork sandwiches (John’s Roast Pork) and corner dive bars (Friend Lounge), but this year, the mag’s list of the 50 Best New Restaurants (on newsstands now) lavishes even more love on our fair city than usual.

We’ve managed to score not one, but two, places of honor on the list. Zahav, our pick for Best New Restaurant, is no surprise. But I am impressed that Distrito also snagged a place, not because it doesn’t deserve it, but because the restaurant registered on Esquire’s radar so quickly after opening. Congratulations to chefs Michael Solomonov and Jose Garces (of Zahav and Distrito, respectively)! It just goes to show that our city’s reputation as a culinary destination grows every year.

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Electric Factory, October 7th

Ten words or less … Imagine if Leonard Cohen were a prolific, shameless showman.

Strengths … Nick Cave is both high priest and card shark, the sort of reverend who finishes the Sunday benediction then deals a round of five-card stud in the shed out back. He and the Bad Seeds came on stage looking like proper gentlemen. But a couple of songs in, the suit jackets came off, the shirts untucked. One song more and they started undoing their buttons.

Cave is about 50 years old now, but twentysomethings comprised the majority of his audience at the Electric Factory. All you can say is, he did it: He got older and retained his cool. Even the kids understand. And his set at the Electric Factory galvanized the faithful. He resurrected “Tupelo,” from 1985’s The First Born Is Dead, as a kind of tell-it-like-it-is gospel song — the people pray for salvation, but God keeps watching, you know, from a distance. “Weeping Song” swung like jazz and “Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry,” seemed somehow elemental, like the sheet music and lyrics had been found, cracked and yellowed, author unknown, just floating in the breeze. The new songs from Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! had their teeth sharpened in the trip from the studio to the stage.

And Cave is still volatile enough that when his keyboard didn’t work the first time he laid his hands on it, he sneered and kicked the thing off its stand. He pissed off his right-hand man, Mick Harvey, by telling him where to stand one too many times. And he looked ready to gut a tech who had trouble unwrapping an electrical cord from around his mike stand. But Cave was downright warm toward the audience, singling out individual people to sing to throughout the night. When he delivered the pretty, I’ve-found-Jesus ballad “Into My Arms,” he appeared to soothe his own savage breast — and set the audience swooning. All night long he was a tender menace, and could have had any girl in the room.

Weaknesses … The set list was short for an artist of Cave’s longevity: just 90 minutes, including encores. He could have played another hour without wearing out his welcome. Oh, and then there’s the mustache. Cave is overcompensating for his balding pate with a porn-star special of thick black hair across his upper lip. It “works” for him only because the caterpillar lip fits his eccentric persona.

Verdict … Cave is the most hyper-literate songwriter currently working in rock. And after performing for roughly 35 years now, he seems to grow right up out of the stage. I wish you could have been there.