As I took the slow daunting walk out of “The Linc” a little over a month ago, head raised up, neck crinked back, all I could think is “I’m used to this by now.” For the past approximately 18 years of my life, I physically and mentally bled the Eagles Winter Green. And for 18 years of my life now, I have been left disappointed, wanting more.
Every season has started the same, “maybe this team can make a run, maybe this is the year, but we will have to see.” There is always that new addition to the Philadelphia locker room that excites the masses; whether its Randall Cunningham’s return from injury or Bobby Hoying or Andy Reid or Donovan McNabb or T.O. or Jevon Kearse or Michael Vick or Nnamdi Asomougha or Chip Kelly. Philly has always been blessed with offseason headlines, but lack that final front page cover reading “Phinally!”
The pain seems to hurt a little less every year, as the realization that your hopes will squander sooner or later. Philly fans have waited a lifetime to watch their team hoist the Lombardi trophy, to take a stroll down Broad Street; and they will wait another lifetime just to see it happen.
Courtesy: NY Post
The Wild Card game outcome should not have been a surprise for any that follows the franchise; a team that has never won a road playoff game, that doesn’t play well in cold weather, strolls into Lincoln Financial and celebrates in front of 70,000 plus pissed off and devastated Eagles faithful.
They started to prepare for this moment weeks in advance though; just with pipe dreams of a different result. As soon as the idea enters their heads, of a possible NFC East championship, the plans are put into place. Calls are made, tickets are bought and the excitement starts to really brew. Whether fighting the masses online to purchase tickets at the right price or justifying the up charge from a family friend or season ticket holder, Eagles fans are ready for a playoff run, which all starts at the friendly confines of the home stadium.
The week leading up to the Saturday night showdown, the anxiety starts to settle in. “What food are we bringing to tailgate?…What is the temperature like for 8pm on a January Saturday night?…What am I going to wear?” And once you realize the below-freezing kickoff, you justify it in your mind, “its the playoffs, can’t miss it.”
As the night before the game approaches, you become the ugliest fashion model in the world, trying on outfits that work with your “lucky” shirt; “How can I stay warm, while still showing off my colors?” You pack up extra gloves and hats and socks, knowing all the well its not really going to help the blistering weather.
Then next day, you can’t get on the road fast enough, whether you have to work in the morning or take care of things around the house, your mind is consumed by the game. You pick up your seat-mate, your partner-in-crime, your close friend, who has the exact same mindset. Jam-pack the back of your car with enough supplies to last a two week camping trip; you have your grill and food and firepit and games and tables and chairs and clothes and coolers and beer and anything else that will fit to block your vision through your rear-view mirror.
The drive is miserable and exciting all at once; anticipation of a half day of boozing and screaming ahead. Light conversation fills the air, predicting match ups and the discussion on how the Birds pull off a playoff victory. As you get close, the silence is more evident and concerns are more dependent on finding the right exit and reserving your spot on the lot, than following any actual driving law or regulation.
Tailgate Eagles Playoffs 2014
After finally getting situated, embracing the moment, you disrobe, while crammed in the front seat, only to re-clothe with three times the amount you initially drove in (simply because no natural human could operate a motor vehicle while layered up). Unload the over-packed trunk, set up the grill, the fire-pit, the games, the chairs and tables, all while holding back the excitement to take a jog through Lot M, across Packer Avenue and around Citizens Bank Park.
A few hours of tossing them back, whiling daunting the most uncomfortable combination of layers of cotton and wool. Your feet are jammed into an all too tight pair of boots because of the extent of three various styles of socks. Radio blaring, the cider and coffee steaming and the fresh smell of concrete and lightly seasoned steaks in the air. Passing the time, while doing nothing at all; the perfect moment of sports fandom.
As that final hour before kick off creeps, you begin to hesitantly re-load in preparation of your ensuing travels to the Linc. Filling the back door with the last of your miniature outdoor supplies store, you close the trunk and start your march.
Navigating through the black-top sea of cars, littered with broken glass, fallen burgers and wings, with slow steam pouring from the remnants of smothering charcoal. Finally, you can look up and see the lights stretching to what can only be football heaven. As the gates become visible, the massive crowd collected radiates through the night with the fight the song chants filling your eardrums.
After being felt up by a complete stranger (for no extra charge), you cross over the turnstiles and make your trek to your seat; climbing the never ending mountain of stairs. Before getting situated, you wait in line for your overpriced light beer, only to know that you will spill the first couple sips before taking one step.
Lincoln Financial Eagles playoffs 2014
Kickoff is an uproar of 70,000 men, women and children, all of which with their own journey to this same moment in time. They become your classmates for the next couple hours, like you were all attending a high school reunion. Through the first three quarters, there is only a tempered excitement, with sighs of disbelief on the possibility the Eagles have not already sealed a victory.
The occasional uproar at a “bad call” or cheer for a big play are sporadic, reassuring the allegiance of everyone sitting within a high-fives reach of your seat. People you may not think to even give the occasional head nod in passing, if not for spending a Saturday night mass together, have become your only friends on a frigid winter night. As the game progresses to its final quarter, you know that no one will leave, everyone is just as dedicated as the soul that courses through your veins.
Knowing that the final 15 minutes could remotely end, what was once a promising season, is heart-wrenching enthusiasm, matched only by losing your virginity and drinking your first beer. Any moment can change the game (and your general mood) for better or worse. After the first field goal, to put the Eagles in reach of tieing the game on the next possession, only down three, the intrigue builds.
And after the defense holds the Saints to a field goal on the ensuing drive, at the 11:14 mark, the chatter in your ear (and out of your own mouth) is one key phrase, “plenty of time.” Nobody is seated, nobody can feel the cold, nobody can watch without cringing at every snap.
Then the ball sails in the air, down the sideline, towards the road-runner like legs of DeSean Jackson. The crowd goes eerily silent, with only gasps audible throughout the south Philly monument. Incompletion, as the ball falls to ground, as everyone bearing midnight green, on the sideline and in the stands, scans the grass for a yellow hanky. As the refs converse on the flag, the Philly faithful already knows; it will be first and goal and the Birds best opportunity to take the final lead. Those zebra-striped men, who you spent over 50 minutes ridiculing, will not have to buy a beer for the rest of the night.
Once the ball finally crosses the end zone, after the second straight heart-attacking embracing play, the ground begins to rumble. The crowd noise wakes the city, fans jumping, screaming and dancing. You grab complete a stranger in the seat next to you, while reverting back to your five year old self. In unison, your 70,000 new found friends sing the most awfully out of tune version of the fight song; yet it sounds glorious throw the late night gusts of wind.
But then, after the mood tempers and the teams lineup for the succeeding kickoff, there is new focus; the clock. The time ticking away can be an ally or the mortal enemy, depending on how the next few plays shake out. That fateful phrase re-enters the back of your mind (even if you don’t want to listen), “plenty of time.” The Saints high-profile offense has four minutes to get within kicking range; a occurrence becoming a realization by a good kickoff return and personal foul.
With only 20 yards between a Saints victory and a swarm of angry fans, the chances become bleek. As New Orleans marches its way into field goal range, thousands of prayers a sent to the heavens. “Please make him miss this kick,” fill the visible breathes of everyone there to bear witness. Again everyone is standing, waiting with unbridled angst to the known result of the game and the season.
Courtesy: USA Today
The kick goes through the uprights, as the frustration erupts in a giant sigh that stretches to the Delaware River. You take your seat, head towards the clouds, as the masses begin their descent towards their cars. One last deep breath, one last moment of disbelief and you join brethren in the march down the steps.
Locked hip to hip, as everyone is herded through the walkways of the football cathedral; pushing from your back, from your sides, from your front. Your head still raised, neck crinked, as the visualization of grander slowing fade from your psyche. The only words you wish to mutter are obscenities to exhale the emotion, “God F@^&ing Damnit.” After the exit through the gated community, the walk through the beer bottle graveyard is eerie.
But when you finally reach your car, you finally look around, only to see your friend, your counterpart, your partner-in-crime by your side. The game is more than a loss, it is more than another season lost; it was a bond with a special partner, a day with your father. A moment in time neither of you will forget, even if you wish not to remember.
Like the players in the locker room, you strip down from your winter uniform, to more sensible attire to return home. And the slow trek through parking lot traffic is cautiously quiet, with only small talk normally found on a blind date or first day of a new job.
As the season ending finally becomes a reality, your mind races with irrational thoughts. This team was “never really supposed to get this far.” Looking forward to the offseason, everyone becomes the GM for the next eight months, “They need to go get a Safety or Cornerback or Linebacker or Nose Tackle or etc. etc. etc.”
The next several weeks are a stinging nuisance, as you watch teams advance throughout the playoffs. Life continues for yourself as usual, working through the days as if the 2013-14 campaign did not exist. But seeing the excitement of a boisterous Cornerback, after he essentially sends the Seahawks to the promised land, is a deafening reminder of a the disappointment that was the Eagles finish.
As the final whistle blows on the season and Paul Allen holds the Lombardi in the air, there is no feelings entering your soul. As a Eagles fan, you have grown accustomed to another fanbase embracing the glory. You watch the videos of the parade through the northeastern city and only dream of that moment in near future.
For a city starved for that gridiron championship, there will be not greater expression than finally reaching the ultimate goal. Knowing that when it finally does happen, it would be far greater than ever expected. Waiting another year for a chance at a Super Bowl victory is a miserable feeling, but you want to sign up for it all over again.
