It’s Rocky versus Drago. It’s David and Goliath. This is so much more than just a “game.” This isn’t about the game. It never was. It’s about a city, a collective people, searching for hydration in a barren desert and just ahead is a cold stream of spring water flowing down a snowcapped mountain. If you listen closely you can hear the anxious, rapidly beating hearts as you walk down Broad Street. This story can only end in love or heartbreak, the hero either lives or dies. As the days draw nearer, hearts beat faster… and faster and faster, until the clock hits 00:00 and our fate is sealed.
No one thought we could make it here. No one believed. But here we are with Nickfolian Dynamite at the helm and only one thing left to do: WIN. We’re playing in the Super Bowl because we belong there. Every player on that team belongs in the Super Bowl. This city belongs in the Super Bowl. There is no mistake. Every living fan and ghosts of fans who’ve passed away are currently lingering in suspense, as silence fills the air between the question “Will they win?” and the answer yet to be revealed.
A Super Bowl victory of this magnitude will instantaneously cure every last condition of resting bitch-face in Philly from this point until a meteor demolishes Earth or aliens harvest our planet and everyone on it. 2018 will be the happiest year in Philadelphia’s rich history. Even happier than the day we signed the Declaration of Independence, thus birthing a country known as the land of the free and the home of the brave. I don’t even want to talk about the joy that will literally create waves of happiness visible from space during the parade.
If we win, February 4th will date the second coming of another baby boomer generation. An army of Super Bowl babies will be ejected nine months from now, free to roam the world with the confidence that a future Super Bowl winning Eagles fan will possess. Conversations with those children years from Sunday night will go something like this, “Son, did I ever tell you about the night you were conceived…” There will be a TV show created similar to How I Met Your Mother entitled, How the Eagles Won The Super Bowl, and each episode will feature various serendipitous circumstances boiling down to how the Eagles won the Super Bowl. There will be emergency rooms filled to the brim with broken wrists after suffering the world’s most atomic high-fives. Cowboys fans will finally stop saying “But where’s your ring?” in arguments as they wear their championship jackets with their Superbowl rings on the back of it. If we lose, none of that will happen and we’ll go back to throwing snowballs at Santa in December.
So you see, it was never about the game for us. It never will be. It’s about the memories. It’s about family. It’s about faith; because who in their right mind would live and die an Eagles fan, consciously knowing they’ll be buried having never experienced a Super Bowl win? We would. We have. And if I was a Patriots fan reading this letter I’d comment, “But the fans can’t play for you,” and to that, I’d say, “Fuck off” and throw “wooder” at them. Everybody together now—“No one likes us! No one likes us! No one likes us we don’t care! We’re from Philly, fuckin’ Philly, no one likes us we don’t care!” From the City of Brotherly Love (or potentially the city known for the most brutally murdered Patriots fans in one night), I proudly yell, E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!
David A. Volpe
P.S. This letter was written exclusively to the sound of this season’s anthem: Dreams & Nightmares by Meek Mill.