There's a very good chance that I will be killed for what I'm about to say. My family may need to go into hiding.
After all, at an Eagles game in 1968, fans booed and pelted snowballs at Santa Claus. Never mind that Franklin Field's St. Nick, while certainly not our jolly friend from the North Pole, was one of their own. He was a serious fan, a 20-year-old kid who had worn a Santa suit to the last Eagles' home game for years, and who just happened to be asked to fill in for a hired Santa Claus who unfortunately got stuck in a snowstorm.
As the poor guy ran out onto the field to strains of "Here Comes Santa Claus," courtesy of the team's 50-musician brass band, the crowd of nearly 55,000 Philadelphians greeted him with jeers and frozen spheres.
Just think, all he wanted to do was bring a little holiday cheer, to put smiles on the faces of the fans of a team that was about to finish its season with a 2-12 record.
My intentions are not that pure. Though it is said that the job of a journalist is to "afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted," the last thing I aim to do is offer any comfort to the pitiful, suffering Eagles fans. I'm all about tough love.
The Philadelphia Eagles lost Super Bowl XXXIX. They were outplayed by the New England Patriots, a burgeoning NFL dynasty. Lofty dreams and fantasies aside, did anyone honestly think that the Eagles were going to pull out the championship?
My message to Eagles fans is this: Get over it.
Cliché as it sounds, it is just a game. Did the big loss infect a convent of Catholic nuns with HIV? Did anyone's dog get hit by a car because Terrell Owens was only playing up to his self-proclaimed 81 percent? Did Donovan McNabb's fourth-quarter vomit (figuratively, as well as the supposed literal sickness that kept him from playing to his full potential) start the war in Iraq or genocide in Sudan?
Besides breaking a few hearts, I'm fairly sure that the loss did little to no serious damage to anything.
Hey, at least they made it to the Super Bowl this year. After three consecutive conference championship failures, making it to Jacksonville was certainly a relief, though not too impressive either.
Don't get me wrong, I love Philadelphia. I'm a South Jersey native with roots in Port Richmond. My neighbors proudly display those enormous, hideous blow-up Eagles players on their front lawns from August until February. There's nothing I adore more than a greasy cheese steak at 2:00 AM. I've visited Betsy Ross's house. I know which letter is tilted in Robert Indiana's famous "Philadelphia Love" statue. I'd rather throw myself in the middle of I-95 in the midst of rush-hour traffic than call a hoagie a "sub." And while we're on the subject, the name is "water ice," not "Italian ice." Got it?
Sure, I would have liked to see my "home team" bring home the Vince Lombardi Trophy. I'd have been thrilled to see my dad celebrate the first Eagles' Super Bowl win that he can remember. But they lost. And you know what? No one's life is any worse than it was prior to February sixth.
It's time to dry your tears, pack up the Eagles gear until the fall, and maybe see a psychologist. To save your sanity, you must move on. And aren't the Sixers like second in the Atlantic division?
In any case, Eagles fans, there's always next year.
Nicole Levins is a sophomore Professional Writing/Journalism major with a minor
in Women's and Gender Studies. She is Features editor of unbound. She has written
for local publications since high school and is a member of the Progressive
Student Alliance at The College of New Jersey.