THE TOWN FORMERLY KNOWN AS ANGRYVILLE - They handle defeat very well in Phoenix or Glendale or wherever it is the Cardinals play these days. They don't mope, freak out, or litter the field with D-sized batteries during the action. They really don't even complain, to be perfectly frank. Actually, they're used to it. They just go home. They leave early and fight traffic. They put the crippling defeats out of their minds by skipping work to play in the sun. They just forget about it as they frolic in the Bermuda grass beneath cactus trees with cool drinks and lots of pretty friends.
Loss? Nah, they don't deal with it at all in Arizona. Who has the time?
In Philadelphia we know loss all too well. It's in our DNA. It's intense... no wait, that's wrong. It's intensity.
At least it was.
Back in the old days we all woke up before the dawn just as the rage had regrouped so we could wipe the bitter-tasting bile that has encrusted the corners of our mouths with the outer black sleeve of our spittle-coated Motor Head t-shirts. Then we dragged our sorry asses off the couch where we collapsed just 45 minutes earlier and instinctively thrust a middle finger at the rest of the world.
The day had begun in Philadelphia. The fury must be unleashed. We lost again.
But there is always a fleeting moment - one that usually occurs in the time it takes to get from one knee to a standing position after unfolding oneself from the couch - when stock is taken. A moment, as fast as a flap of a hummingbird's wing, enters our twisted and angry heads:
World weary. Saddened by my years on the road. Seen a lot. Done a lot. Loss? Yeah, I know loss. I know loss with its friends sorrow, fury and death. Yes, loss and me are like this... we're partners as we walk on the dusty trail of life.
But something happened last October. Beneath that tiney, porcupine-like exterior, glimpses into our souls were exposed. There was warmth, fear, insecurity...
Victory?
Yes, victory. The Phillies won the World Series. The Eagles are going to the Super Bowl (yeah, I said it). Both of these things are happening barely three months apart. Kind of like it was 1980-81 all over again.
Is Bruce Springsteen still as popular as he was during the dawn of the Reagan Administration? Oh yeah, here in the dawn of the Obama Administration, Springsteen is playing halftime at the Super Bowl.
Coincidentally, the Eagles will go to Arizona and then Tampa to bring Philly its second parade in three months (excluding the Mummers). The Phillies went to Los Angeles and Tampa to win their World Series. During the World Series the weather wrecked havoc on the action while the beautiful west-coast and closed roofs on the road made the elements a pleasant afterthought.
For the Eagles, forecasters are predicting a frigid January cold snap this weekend. Could there be a more perfect time to go to Arizona?
In the old days during the B.C. Era[1], Tampa and Arizona were places that made it easy to look down upon with our sad, wretched lives of angry and failed dreams. In Glendale, Ariz. and Tampa, with their white, sandy beaches, gourmet restaurants, unimpeded gentrification, high-brow universities and sunshiny skies where for 364 days God gives them the gift of perfect weather and climate.
That 365th day it might get cloudy.
Those were the places Philly fans showed up en masse to watch our teams fight for our civic pride. Back in the old, B.C. Era, they saw us coming. We stuck out with that crippled walk of defeat, clenched jaws of stress and disgust, fists balled up and middle fingers erect. When we took the exit ramp off the boulevard of broken dreams to enter these happy, little towns, the local authorities were ready. They had been tipped off ahead of time and were prepared to set up a dragnet at a moment's notice.
But those condescending attitudes and the arrogance in which those people flit through life so carefree and cheery no longer sting. We don't turn them back with our jealousy and resentment. No, instead we take the hackery in stride. The mockery and stereotypes don't hurt any longer.
It's just one of those annoying things that championship cities are used to.
Hey, who knows... maybe there is a bit of respect coming our way? Oh sure, they still trot out the golden oldies:
Boo Santa. Cheer injuries. Snowballs at the Cowboys. Batteries for J.D. Drew. Cheesesteaks. Cracked bells. Anger and passion. Rocky Balboa.
But try this out... sportswriters are afraid of Philadelphians. At least that's (kind of) the contention of one mainstreamer writing for one of those new-fangled web sites.
Really? Uh... nice! So maybe this means that now that the proverbial shoe is on the proverbial other foot, the whole hacky city rip thing is finished? Instead maybe they'll write about the actual ballclubs instead of all the clichés?
Think so?
Of course not.
During the Phillies' run Charlie Manuel was often prophetic, but never more than when he said:
"Winning is hard. Nothing about winning comes easy," Charlie Manuel said. "... believe me, there's a price you pay for winning, too."
That price can sometimes mean dignity, self-respect and the ability to think clearly.
We're inside the looking glass, people. The Phillies won, the Eagles are winning and the Flyers are in first place.
All things considered, it ain't all that bad to be in Philadelphia.
[1] B.C. is "Before Championship(s)"