“You should have stopped having children after Jason!” my sweet mother yelled as Mrs. Kelce’s lesser child Travis converted another fucking third down in Super Bowl 57.
In Mom’s defense had Travis Kelce not existed the Eagles almost certainly would have won that particular Super Bowl so, yeah, eat shit Travis.
But Mr Kelce didn’t pull out or at least not fast enough and when the clock read zeroes the dream was over; the Birds beautiful run would never be finished – just short, about as close as anyone could to being champions without actually becoming champions.
I have to admit a very small but very real part of me was secretly, embarrassingly, relieved. My dad had been dead less than a year and for the Eagles to win a Super Bowl so soon after almost felt cruel – theoretically. I wouldn’t have known how to celebrate. That said, if you were looking for proof that there is afterlife all you needed was to send Butch on up there and if the Birds win right away, well there’s your answer. They didn’t so I guess that one’s still open-ended.
December 26, 2021
We’re building shrines to St. Nick Foles
In the windows, in the living rooms
I’m playing “Dancing with a Ghost”
In the soft light of the afternoon
I’m alone in the house
Where your sister died
We started ripping beers and champagne somewhere around 10 in the morning, roughly 30% of my extended family – a considerable amount, being Irish and all. Despite the inherent risk of drinking in a vehicle without a bathroom – this being the one shuttling the family (plus Mary and James who aren’t actually related but might as well be) to the Eagles game – we did exactly that. The vibes were high, with one – well, two, or probably 4 – significant exceptions.
My cousin Kyle orchestrated the whole thing, putting his Giants prejudice aside and getting in touch with the Eagles front office, going out of his way to cold-call them and tell them about my dad – how he (Dad) was a season ticket holder, kind of a psychopath about The Birds, and recently diagnosed with ALS. The Eagles in turn offered a package that included fist-fulls of tickets and 5 Field Passes which meant my dad, my mom, my sister, my brother-in-law, and I would stand on Lincoln Financial Field before kickoff of the Eagles game against the Giants, during the anthem, the day after Christmas.
But because no one is allowed to have anything nice my sister’s family almost immediately tested positive for COVID, effectively sticking a fork in Christmas dinner while also throwing the entire Eagles game into question.
On some level I think we all kind of wrote the whole thing off, chalked it up as one more bummer in what felt like an endless sea of endless bummers.
My mom asked my dad what he thought.
He said, “Kath, if that kid [Kyle] put all of this together, we’re going.”
She smiled said, “Ok.”
The switch flipped; what was left was a matter of decorum: just how rude is it to still use my sister’s house as the staging ground and pee in her bushes? Probably a little bit, but not enough to stop us. Or me, anyway.
We’re building shrines to St. Nick Foles
In the churches, in the alleyways
I watched the river overflow
From the Schuylkill in the pouring rain
I remember going to games with my dad when I was a kid. Vague memories of The Vet, Kelly Green, Randall Cunningham; the Phils – mostly John Kruk, Lenny Dykstra, and Darren Daulten with rando’s like Pete Incavaglia and Robert Person (Bob Guy) and Benito Santiago and pretty much only Mike Lei-ber-thal (Harry Kalas voice) for a while; the Spectrum, my dad saying, “Watch number 88,” and BOOM the building’s shaking. I distinctly recall Dad quietly stressing the importance of taking off your hat during the anthem. He was a dirty hippie at heart, anti-authoritarian to the bone, in spite of – or most likely cultivating – a law enforcement career that culminated in retiring as Chief of Police, and showing respect was important. “Respect is earned,” he always said.
I’d like to think I’m not much for symbolic gestures, that I prefer function over fashion.
Standing alongside my mom and dad on the field in the end zone of the Philadelphia Eagles in front of the huge American flag stretched goal line to goal line, surrounded by tens of thousands of roaring humans, jets screaming overhead, Mom, Dad… that was A Moment if there ever was one and if it’s all symbolism anyway, I’ll salute that moment forever.
My family (and Mary and James) shared our very own perch at the very top of the lower level, enjoying each other’s company, firmly, purposefully, emulating my dad; intentionally having a good time.
Choosing to be happy.
The Eagles kicked the shit out of the Giants 34-10. Lane Johnson scored a Fat Guy Touchdown. I saw a Mark Simineau jersey, and if your butthole just clenched I hate to be the bearer of bad news but we’re friends now.
The next day my dad created a group chat:
Magic.
While Mom, Dad, myself and Mary and James were on the field, the rest of my family was in the perch seats.
Kyle turned to Uncle Joe during the anthem and said, “You know this this is for you, right?”
Uncle Joe said, “Yep,
“Thanks, buddy.”
September 19, 2022
I’m alone in the house where your sister died
On the block that you lived your entire life
And I take the same train I did at nineteen
We danced on the benches in an empty Market East
We were late.
My sister and I parked just outside whatever weird new casino exists where the Holiday Inn used to be and bee-lined for the cooler in the trunk. We locked eyes for half a second. Part of being late meant we were able to hide in the panic and hustle of cutting people off in traffic, but that time was up. The other part was we actually were late so we didn’t have the luxury of figuring it out in the lawn chairs we ambitiously packed, couldn’t drink a beer and see if we were blessed with some sudden understanding of what this meant, to do these things, today.
What we could do was smile grimly and hammer a Bud Light apiece with a roadie for the walk (and a joint for yours truly). We surrendered to the river flowing onward and inevitable toward the stadium.
It was the Eagles home opener; the first home game since my dad died. His tickets. Monday Night against Minnesota, the team the Eagles kicked the shit out of in this very building to reach the Super Bowl in 2018. Mom and Dad were at that game. I’ll never forget the Facetime from the seats – these seats; no one would say it, but for the first time we thought – wouldn’t say, but thought – Holy shit they might do this.
Here and now, my sister and I felt a sense of responsibility to carry on the tradition, the spirit. It was important to be there, regardless of the hopes or expectations for the team on the field; it was just about being there because he would be, if he could be.
The joint was a blessing and a curse. On one hand it probably helped me sort of keep it together until we reached the seats and my sister said, “Smile,” and pulled out my dad’s funeral card; on the other, accidentally walking through the Eagles drumline and cheerleaders didn’t feel like such a great start. Such is life.
The anthem was tough.
My sister and I had been there so many times, but only once with just each other. That was in 2005, when Randy Moss played for the Raiders that one time (Birds won; a Raiders fan mooned our row and was immediately removed by security; this is the extent of my memories). Otherwise every time in this stadium was with Dad, for myself, my sister, and my mom. His absence was a void, a black hole in our fucking hearts.
The last time I sat in those seats Victor Cruz went down in the far endzone. Since then I’d moved back to Colorado, then back to California, gotten engaged, married, divorced, and moved back to Jersey. Cruz may have danced with the stars, or never again; I don’t feel great about using his career ending injury as a point of reference in my life but I’ll be damned if that’s not where we are.
I had low expectations for the Birds overall success. I was still sad about Doug, still didn’t believe Carson was washed. I honestly thought Jalen Hurts was Just A Guy, if not the weakness holding the team back from success. I liked him as a human, as a leader, as a runner, but I didn’t see anything the year before to make me think he could succeed as a passer in this league. The last game my dad and I ever watched together was the playoff loss to Tampa the year before, which was less than inspiring. In hindsight, a great deal of that could be reasonably placed at the feet (or more accurately in the incapable hands) of Jalen Reagor and JJ Arthega-Whiteside, who are not good enough at football to exist in the National Football League. Credit Howie for turning that situation from a net-negative to a kind-of-insane-net-positive with AJ and Devonte but let’s not forget he created that situation in the first place.
I was so fucking mad at Howie for firing Doug. Big Dick Nick goes, “You want Philly Philly?” to Big Balls Doug on 4th and whatever in the Super Bowl with your backup quarterback and the BBD’s like, “Yeah let’s do it,” and those points mattered in that one-score win and you fired that guy?
I don’t follow college football but every year at the draft there’s always a QB debate and statistically none of them amount to anything at all because there’s so many of them and so few NFL starters yet Mel Kiper is paid to exist, hyping quarterbacks from powerhouse schools who beat up on communications majors all year and 99% of them are not starters in the NFL, whereas Patrick Mahomes goes to Texas Tech and slips to #10 and Aaron Rogers to #23 and Brady to the 6th round and Prescott to the 4th and Hurts to the second round and then Zack Wilson goes 2nd overall and that’s like 25% of the starting quarterbacks from the past season and the only one taken in the top 5 sucks at football and is universally hated by his teammates, probably.
The point is I didn’t give a shit about the college hype for Jalen Hurts just like I don’t give a shit about the college hype of anyone; Wentz included; if any single one of those draft analysts knew what they were talking about they’d have been hired by any team in the NFL long ago, and since the NFL doesn’t know what the fuck it’s doing either, that’s saying something.
About halfway through the Vikings game I thought, Yo, Jalens’s throwing the shit outta the ball.
The Birds dominated Kurt Kissin’ Cousins and as pleased as I was I chalked it up to having an entire summer to plan for the first game; let’s see if they can do it again next week.
October 30, 2022
Throw me into the Delaware
And leave me down at the bottom there
The black lung of the East Coast
The Paris of nowhere
My mom was picking me up at 10 AM; it was 9:50 and I had just walked in my front door. I had ten minutes to brush my teeth, shit, and change clothes, the order of which would be determined by biological need. Some hours ago the Phillies won a game in the World Series, or they lost, and it might have been the Championship round. My personal YPI (Yeunglings Per Inning) was a solid 1.00 for the night and I went home with a mostly nice lady; as such, at 9:50, time was a factor. So it was that I wore the same pants, socks, and underwear for something uncomfortably close to 48 hours, with the exception of a couple hours sometime after midnight but before 9:50.
The Eagles were on a roll, undefeated after six games. Hurts was quietly building a case for MVP, but I wasn’t sold; this season he was passing the eye test with flying colors but I’d been hurt before, so to speak.
Whatever gate takes tickets when you walk over from the Phillies stadium was all jammed up so Mom and I were a little late getting into the Linc. We stopped at the first concession stand that sold alcohol. Mom rarely drinks but we had to cheers Dude, as my family now refers to Dad. When my sister had her first kid he wanted to be called GrandDude, which was shortened to Dude for the new humans learning to speak.
This was Mom’s first game without Dad. We reached our seats, turned our eyes to the field and AJ Brown caught a fuckin’ bomb down our end and the world erupted, triumph among the triumphant, driving out the uncertainty – the sadness, the pit I felt – but I had a game under my belt; I don’t know what Mom felt without Dad. Eyes and smiles brimming we hugged and sang and high-fived and the Eagles won 35-13. I think Hurts made one bad throw; I couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a bad throw which was notable in itself.
In the mulch, under a tree outside the west exit, we put a bit of my dad’s ashes.
December 11, 2022
Desperate
Kind
And cut-throat
The Paris of Nowhere
I like to think I’m a good sport; I also know myself enough to know that nothing on earth would make me happier than walking out of the Giants* stadium under a parade of boo’s and hate. Based on how the Birds and Giants’ seaspons had gone to this point I expected a win, but I craved a bloodbath.
This was my first professional football game at an opposing stadium and I might have been concerned for my safety – given my propensity for talking shit – had I been anywhere but the Meadowlands because I’ll tell you who I’m not afraid of and that’s a Giants season ticket holder. Milquetoast.
I knew what Philly brought, knew the ‘burbs weren’t bringing it, and wanted some.
Ever have that self-loathing friend that no one really likes but you feel obligated to include out of a combination of pity and also fear that they might respond poorly to the exile societal decency demands? That person owns a Daniel Jones jersey. They’re due for a check-in, you should give ’em a call.
Technically Chris Christie is a Cowboys fan — because he’s a front-running loser — but spiritually the man embodies Giants’ fandom more than anyone who’s ever thought about voting for him will ever be comfortable with.
The quickest way to piss off anyone in New York is to bring up Eli Manning. All they do is talk shit about the dude who won two (two!) fucking Super Bowls against the fucking cheating cheater Patriots at the last goddamn minute like Rocky Balboa if Rocky Balboa was a stepdad from Terra Haute who worked at Lowe’s. And they hate this guy! Tell me you’re a loser fanbase without telling me you’re a loser fanbase.
I’ve only ever made two sports bets in my life and both times were those stupid number square things, the box chart whatever. Both times, if Eli hadn’t pulled off the impossible, I would have won the whole thing because the squares pushed so the whole pot – twelve dollars in Today Money – would have been mine but for The Dopey Messiah. Both times. Fuck him. Before both of those Super Bowls, if asked who I was rooting for I said, “The terrorists.” No one ever laughed.
Philly built a fucking statue for Nick Foles and he only (“only!”) won one (The Bestâ„¢) Super Bowl(!). If BDN pulled it off in 2018 I swear to god we would have found a way to elect him New Jesus, or at least put him in the White House, and Foles is objectively is worse than Eli you fucking ungrateful sad sacks. Eat shit.
Anyway, one Saturday night my cousin John offered me a ticket if I was free.
Was I! The Birds were rolling and I was starting to get some strange, true-believer, unspeakable 2017 vibes; attempting to verbalize these vibes would deny the very existence I desperately desired so I kept my fucking mouth shut.
It was me, John, and his brothers Patrick and Chris (Irish af). We spent our childhoods surfing and playing video games so it can be sort of dangerous when we all four of us get together in real life these days in that we’re a self-perpetuating shit-talking machine. We were a little late getting to our seats because it was cold and rainy and pretty hard to leave the fire pit and the beers that were right there.
Approaching the stadium I heard a roar from the crowd and my heart sank. I’m on their turf; that can’t bode well. On the big screens outside the stadium I saw Brandon Graham celebrating; the scoreboard said 4th down; the Eagles had forced a 3-and-out and the Giants were punting; the roar I heard, from outside Giants stadium, was from Birds’ fans.
Conservatively I’d put the crowd at 75-25 in the Giants favor, but it felt closer to 60-40. That’s what happens when you build a stadium in the middle of nowhere; you get the suburbs, and the ‘burbs are soft. So much for home field advantage. But hey, have a free medium soft drink.
The bloodbath I craved materialized.
My favorite part was the 41-yard Devonte Smith touchdown on 4th and long, which happened pretty much right in front of us. When the ball was in the air I legitimately thought Devonte was a dead person, that the safety coming across would take his fucking head off. Instead, he somehow caught the ball and pretty much skipped into the endzone.
Patrick fucking lost it.
YOU NEED TO BE PREPARED TO TAKE A MANS LIFE YOU DON’T DESERVE TO EXIST ON THIS EARTH LET ALONE THIS LEAGUE
If I could go back in time – for anything – I think it would be to record his exact words because I would frame them and display them as art and never work again.
Just after halftime the outcome was a formality. Patrick stood to leave; I looked at John, who was my ride.
“If you wanna roll – “
Patrick had to hold Chris back from fighting all the Eagles fans talking prodigious amounts shit to all the Giants fans shuffling for the exits which was – and is – absolutely fucking delightful in its own right. I joined in as much as I dared, as I did need that ride; ’twas a delicate balance.
We’re planting gardens in the potholes
When no one comes to fill them in
I’ll love you when nobody else will
All shoulder chips and paper skin
You’re a kid swinging off of a traffic light
You’re a block party outside a junkyard fire
In December 2017 The Birds kicked the absolute shit out of the Broncos, putting up 56 points against the defending Super Bowl champs and their star-studded defense.
My parents were visiting out in San Diego; we rolled from bar to bar down Mission Boulevard after Dad and I had a morning surf and beer in the hot tub, after which I shared with him edibles and buried fears.
“I don’t want to jinx it but I’ve only felt – this – twice; in 2008 with the Phillies and 2010 with the Flyers, until the finals anyway – I think this Eagles team can hang with anyone in the league.”
A few weeks later Carson limped into the locker room, his stupid ginger face flushed redder than normal and the vibes were crushed. The Birds won the game, but who cared; it was over. I told my girlfriend-at-the-time that I needed to be alone, rolled a blunt, turned off the lights and watched PJ20 under the covers; while neither helped at the time that season turned out pretty ok – if by, “Pretty OK,” I mean, “The Coolest Shit That’s Ever Happened.”
So, I was butthurt when Howie traded Wentz; I thought Wentz was The Truth.
The last argument I had with my dad was about the Eagles. It was February, or March, a couple months before he was diagnosed. We were at my sister’s, Howie had just traded Carson and I was raging. Howie hired Doug Pederson, drafted and signed Carson Wentz to a 4 year, 98 million dollar contract extension, drafted Jalen Hurts. This entire situation was his creation.
There’s only 3 factors of a successful NFL franchise: GM, Coach, QB. If we’re conceding that Howie fucked up in the drafting, signing and then trading of Wentz, the hiring and firing of Doug, how is he not also culpable? Am I supposed to trust him to right the ship when he’s sending his hand-picked mates down the plank? Doug is the only Super Bowl winning coach in team history, and Wentz was in the MVP hunt before he got hurt; Howie got shoved in a broom closet by Chip Fucking Kelly.
My dad was being his usual optimistic, the-kelly-green-grass-is-always-greener-self which is infuriating when I’m just a shit kicker. He’s like, “Well they’ll still be good, they’ve got…” and starts ticking off names.
I said, “Dad, you’re talking about backup offensive lineman drafted in 2016; they need guys who can catch the fucking ball. If those guys are who the Eagles are relying on to compete, they are beyond fucked, and they are fucked as long as Howie is making decisions.”
He actually got mad. He rarely got mad about anything. It’s probably because I was so persuasive.
“Then stop rooting for them! If you hate them so much, just stop rooting for them!”
It was a, “Shit or get off the pot,” moment.
I like to think I’ve come to terms with my fandom. As a kid I was The Worst, my day to day happiness dependent upon games of which I had no control. That’s fucking crazy. When I lived in Colorado I worked Sundays, and the same when I was bartending in San Diego. I missed The Miracle At The New Meadowlands, which is imminently regrettable, but besides that I didn’t miss football as much as I thought I would. Then as CTE stuff came to light in a broader, public sense, I found it harder to rationalize this game that these dudes brutalized themselves over – for my entertainment. It was – and is! – easy to criticize the NFL’s hypocrisy for pretty much everything ever, and I drifted away from football, slowly, but inexorably. At least 50% was Chip Kelly’s fault.
I’m a big fan of how Chuck Klosterman analyzes things, breaks down subjective subjects – sports, pop music; simple, culturally universal spaces – into their component parts. In 2013’s I Wear The Black Hat (I think) he talks about how he loves the Boston Celtics but objectively isn’t sure why. Chuck was a kid when this love developed; those players he loved, that birthed this obsession, are long gone. Today’s players are rotatable throughout the league, and with fantasy sports and gambling rooting for a team is almost obsolete; fandom has been decentralized.
So why does Chuck still love the Boston Celtics, decades after those players are gone?
Is it the uniforms?
The hardwood floors?
What is it that draws his love to this team?
I thought about this a lot. What do I actually love about this game? How can I justify putting so much energy into a sport I’m not even playing, with absolutely zero tangible benefit? The Birds were never going to win anything so the whole thing was an exercise in frustration and none of it ultimately mattered ever or at all.
Then 2017 happened.
I was bartending in San Diego at the time and Sunday was my set day off so my then-girlfriend and I could have at least one day off together.
It just so happened that The Birds had their most magical season in all of their seasons of existence right when I had a day off to watch the whole thing unfold, which was awfully cool of them.
I watched every game of the 2017 season, with the exception of – ironically enough – the game right up the road against the San Diego Chargers which happened to fall on the day of a college friends wedding, thus negating the one and only chance I’ll ever have to watch the Eagles play in a 28,000 capacity stadium. Alli, if you ever get divorced we’re gonna fight.
January 21, 2023
Two feet of snow on the ground and it’s still coming down
It must get lonely without Colleen and Cheryl around
Still got the flowers we found taped to the door of our house
(I’m gonna dig you out)
You were always looking out
The Eagles won the division and the first round bye; the Giants beat the frauds from Minnesota. Birds versus Giants, in Philly.
My mom and I were wearing a bunch of my dad’s old Eagles gear; jackets, hats, sweatshirts; one of a kind, Butch-certified lucky charms. Every layer against the January cold was an extra layer of meaning, and hopefully, just enough luck to make a difference.
I had an immediate concern. Kickoff was 45 minutes away and call me old fashioned but how am I supposed to smoke the joint tucked into the fold of my beanie with my mom right here?
The answer, kids, is to drink 3 Bud Light tall boys and then remove and light said joint and blurt, “It was awkward the first time I did this with Dad, too. Do, uh…you want some?”
“No thanks.”
“I figured but wanted to offer.”
The Birds kicked the shit out of the Giants, 38-7. The same score of the Vikings game in 2017. The whole thing was a party.
It was impossible to be part of The Birds run and not be acutely aware of my dad’s absence at every turn, every twist, every story arc.
My friends and I talk hockey and baseball, but the only one I really talk football with was dad, who I could say half a word to and he’d have already sent, “THAT WAS HORSESHIT”. The Birds’ season being the magic it was, there was a black hole pulling the whole thing down, a lack, a Great Big Coulda Shoulda Woulda. We would have had a lot to talk about.
February 12, 2023
Super Bowl Sunday rained. I drove past my mom’s house, parked at the corner of Borough Hall. Walked down the sidewalk to the bench. My dad’s bench. Someone had hung an Eagles ornament from it. His ashes were in my pocket. I touched the bench; didn’t sit because it was wet but I put my hand the bench and stood there and just wished he was here. Blinking away the rain – definitely the rain – I returned to my truck – his truck – and went to my mom’s. The Eagles lost. It mattered, but it didn’t. It did, kind of.
What better place to attach unsorted emotions than to a football team your recently deceased father loved? Inadvertently, as the stakes grew I doubled down, doubled down again and again. The bargain I apparently struck with myself had both sides agreeing to ride this wave where it took us and we’d bury the sadness, stuff each round of the playoffs deep inside the hole in my heart, fill the whole thing in with winning so the sadness would never be seen – not gone, just hidden underneath a parade – and then just push; push everything down the road a little further and god forbid the Eagles win the last game of the season – god forbid but if they do – if they do – there will be a grand significance, a value, given to the inherently insignificant and against better judgement I fucking fell for it, head over heels I fucking fell for it.
The clock hit zero and my so-called tempered expectations were crushed; not expecting resurrections, not expecting revelations, but secretly expecting some insight, some payoff, instead wondering why I thought this time would be any different. I remember standing in my mom’s kitchen, palms braced on the counter, head down, for a long time.
The run was over. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I could. I kinda had to; I just didn’t want to. Nothing mattered and everything was dogshit.
The dumbest part was, “Wait til next year.”
Hello, welcome; this must be your first time in Philadelphia because you clearly don’t remember the sit-ups. Do you remember the sit-ups? Do you remember TO’s sit-ups, when he and McNabb were breaking Jerry Rice and Steve Young’s records after losing a Super Bowl by 3 points and then it turns out the other team cheated for like 12 years and they won 3 Super Bowls by 9 collective points and one was against the Birds and the NFL knew about it and we all just kinda shrugged it away? DO YOU REMEMBER THE SITUPS?
The next day I went to work. I wasn’t feeling great – a dozen Bud Lights will do that to a man – but driving a delivery van is a fucking joke. One of my last stops was to a gated community, one that seemed to have a strict professional policy of pissing me off for no good goddamn reason.
The child manning the gate – wearing a badge his mother finished knitting that very morning – refused to life the gate on account of the recipients of my deliverable goods not answering their landline. I could not have given less of a shit had I been glued to a toilet for month and force-fed diarrhea pills.
After a considerable back and forth the boy with mittens pinned to his coat lifted the gate.
I was wearing my Birds hat.
“Go Gian-“
“Fuck off.“
February 8, 2025
Go Birds.