I Will Stand Up in Any Church Basement and Admit I am a Philadelphia Eagles Fan.

Everyone has a war story about Philadelphia Eagles Fans. Yeah, yeah, your cousin’s husband was hit by a snowball, a bottle of beer, a pile of trash – fill in the blank- who cares? As we approach the team’s fourth try for the Vince Lombardi trophy, the muckrakers are yapping away about the allegedly worst football fans in the history of the world. The history of the world is a stretch. I saw the movie Ben Hur and have been to a bullfight.

Raised by parents from South Philadelphia and Kensington, I come by my fan loyalty honestly. In these parts of Philadelphia, our blood isn’t Quaker-blue; it’s Eagle-green.

Origins of my Eagles upbringing

The Philadelphia fan base has a long history of out-of-control behavior, and I am in no way condoning it.

Beating up a mascot and breaking his leg is abhorrent. Before the Commanders became enlightened, they had no qualms about entering the opposing stadium with a mascot in full Indian regalia, feathers and all. One may say that dressing up as an Indian warrior chief and taunting a bunch of drunk fans has a lot more to say about society, but that’s another topic. 

Punching a horse is also just cruel and incredibly stupid. I imagine the idiot who lacked the impulse control to deck Mr. Ed ended up losing that fight. 

As a loyal fan, I will share the other side of this bleed-green-loyalty-cult coin. 

Do you Believe in Santa Claus?

 I need to clarify the 1968 Santa Clause snowball-pelting story. The fans didn’t throw snowballs at the real Santa Claus. The hired Santa Clause didn’t show up for the halftime Christmas special. (In my opinion, a Christmas special halftime show at a football game is a crime in itself.) Anyway, the official Mr. Claus never showed up, so management pulled a skinny drunk already dressed as Santa from the stands to entertain the fans.  

Whenever there is an article about lousy fan behavior, someone will bring up the snowball debacle. The fans’ anger was directed at management. The Eagles started that season with the worst record in football. They were happily anticipating the number one draft pick that year when the team started winning. A fact of note is the number one draft pick that did not go to the Eagles was OJ Simpson. Talk about bad behavior.

You have to be pretty humorless or a Cowboys fan not to find most of their incredibly ridiculous antics entertaining. Who doesn’t laugh when hearing that the city of Philadelphia greased the poles? 

By the way, the whole throwing batteries incident didn’t even start with green-wearing fans. It was the ordinarily mild-manner Phillies fan tossing the Duracels.  

 Contrary to what the opposition thinks,  we are not actively picking fights. When you see fans fighting, they are usually both decked out in green.

Being Eagle Fans has bonded my family in ways that, sorry, Parents Magazine, no sharing meals or family road trips ever did. It’s heartwarming to hear curse words in stereo emanating from 3 corners of the family room. Common hatred of justifiably wrong-calling referees and Cris Collinsworth is a completely evolved way to bond.  

My Michigan-transplanted husband is a bigger fan than I am. We might not have had a second date if it wasn’t for my season tickets. Save for never painting any part of his body green; Rick is a typical fan. He has a tick-like habit of randomly screaming out “Go-Birds” for no reason other than seeing someone in a green shirt. 

Rick spent a few months in Dallas for work. It was as if he was living in Nazi-occupied Paris during World War II. 

As for my daughter, I am not sure how her arc progressed to crazed fan. I have a picture of her in an Eagles dress at age two, looking angry as hell. My son, barely a year old and dressed in Eagle gear, seems dazed and confused. I labeled the picture “Just a couple of drunk and angry fans”  Ignoring any judgment call about underage drinking, that image became a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

Not Everyone Loves a Parade

My devotion almost led to my death. I took my kids and two of their friends to the 2018 Superbowl celebration parade. We left our house at the crack of dawn, parked miles away, bought vendor-selling crappy merchandise, and found a front-row spot on the parade route, hours before the parade started. Standing in my smugness, thinking I was mom of the year, I realized that smugness wasn’t the only thing I was standing in. Our neighbors, about ten college-age fans arrived at midnight with alcohol instead of scarves and hand warmers. For whatever reason, they decided they were not leaving their spot to take care of business. At least their feet were warm.

Enter bad parenting as I left my fourteen-year-old in charge of 3 twelve-year-olds, surrounded by enough inebriation to start a fire with one sharp breath.  Heading about a block away to use the facilities, I got caught up in a mad rush for the subway and lost my balance.  Miraculously, I was not crushed or set on fire, but it did take me over an hour to return to the kids.  

 In the days of the 700 level of Veterans Stadium, long before the sedated segregated sections of Lincoln Financial Field and a land where the weak of heart cannot venture, I saw what made a Philadelphia Eagle Fan. It wasn’t uncommon to see someone tumble down five rows in a section, stand up, take a sip of beer, and not miss one play. One Sunday in our section, there was a going away party for a regular heading off to the hoosegow. Never again will I have an opportunity to ask, “Whatcha goin’ in for?” DUI because there are no taxis (pre-Uber) in the mountains. Makes some convoluted drunken sense. 

You Can Catch, but Can You Sing?

Who cannot love a team that drops music in their spare time? Three Eagles players put out a Christmas Album, and it’s good. These are not retired-has-beens but pro-bowl designated starters.

 Got Any Mustard?

Local food that has become synonymous with Philadelphia makes the perfect tailgate munchable. Soft Pretzels, hoagies, cheesesteaks, and Tastycakes are just a few wonderful delights to pack into your cooler. How many lobster rolls and clam chowders do you think are passing through the gates of Foxwood stadium? 

 It cannot be denied that Philadelphia is a sports town. There has always been a bit of boisterousness, some may use other words like thugs and barbarity in the City of Brotherly Love’s teams. As much as we love our hockey team, once called the Broad Street Bullies, and a world series baseball team with a pitcher named the Wild thing and a basketball star called a punk, it’s all football to me. I’ll watch a world series baseball game, a hockey final, but never basketball. The Sixers came on my radar a few years ago when I researched why Kendall Kardashian was hanging out at our local Top Golf. Ben Simmons who? 

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Before we even pulled a dish out of a box at our new home in Florida, my husband put up his Eagle sign. It’s 80 degrees, but I do not think he will take off his team sweatshirt until the day after the Super Bowl. The Philadelphia Eagles obsession has no bounds. Walking around our neighborhood pond we often see an Eagle perched in a tree.  According to Rick, it’s a good sign. 

Go Birds!

“For who? For what?

Ricky Watters