Over the Eagles storied history from 1977 through 2024, they appeared in four (IV) Super Bowls. While the organization was founded in 1933, the Pre-Ben years from 1933 to 1976 do not count because if I was not alive, it has no place in my story.
I. In 1981, in a totally forgettable game (since I was four and preferred the Smurfs to the Birds at that time), we lost to the Raiders, 10-27.
II. In 2005, with T.O. preening and McNabb puking, the guys in green fell to future hall of famer Adam Vinatieri and future annoying announcer Tom Brady, 21-24. The score was close, but we really had no chance as our head coach, Andy Reid, clearly couldn’t deliver in the biggest games.
III. The 2018 game was a magical moment, with the legend, Nick Foles, under the leadership of Doug Pederson, avenging McNabb’s and Reid’s shortcomings from thirteen years prior by beating up on old man Brady this time around, 41-33. I watched the game at a weird comedy club in Philly, going crazy with the rest of the city over our first SB win while wasted on PBR. See Porcelain Bowl Riding – Philly Super Bowl to revisit the drunken details. Tom Brady never recovered from the loss, only winning two Super Bowls after and never getting a statue in Philly like Foles did.
IV. In 2023, fellow Philly fanatic Dave (not to be confused with The Phanatic), convinced me to splurge for tickets to the big game in Arizona. Splurge meant purging my checking and savings accounts, along with a portion of the kids’ college funds for the overpriced flights, Air BnB, and nosebleed seats. Considering I wrote about the 2018 trip back to Philly to watch the game at a crappy club, you may be wondering why I didn’t report on the once-in-a-lifetime experience of going to the game in person. Could it be that I was too devastated by our inability to play defense in the fourth quarter (really the second half) in the loss to the traitor Andy Reid and his new KC family? Was it because what happens in Arizona stays there like a plagiarized Vegas commercial? Nope. I decided to spare you the short story of how I came out of quarantine to watch the game alone at home with Covid. 35-38. Hurts.
Which takes us to 2025, SB #V for the Birds, #LIX for everyone else, offering another chance to watch our defense collapse in the fourth quarter against Mahomes and the Swifties. In 2023, KC scored 9 points more than us in the final frame. This time, they outscored us by 10 in Q4. Déjà vu? Not quite. Dave again proposed going to the game, this time in New Orleans. The wife proposed something more painful than Covid if I tried that shit again. But heading back to Philly to watch…
In 2023 I was disappointed to miss the game I’d paid for, and further disappointed with its outcome. I still think that if I had been there, yelling like a drunken Philly fan at our defense to stop those mother..ckers, maybe they would have heard me and prevailed. In 2024, just a few months ago, I revisited Philly for another disappointing sporting event, when I ignominiously lost to Keith at the Philly Marathon (see 30 Years Running – Philly Marathon 2024 for the sorry details). Could I combine the disappointing most recent SB appearance (by the Birds, not me, I was home with Covid, remember) with my most recent disappointing trip to Philly, to produce an appointing outcome this time? (Double negative magic, maybe?). And what’s the opposite of disappointing, anyway? Disappointing that my life is that sad that I don’t know the proper antonym.
We (and by “we” I mean Dave, because he did all the work) reserved entry to Brauhaus Schmitz on South Street for the big game. An earlier effort to secure seats at Xfinity Live! fell flat when they sold out in minutes, so the German-themed establishment became the new destination to (hopefully) party like it was 2018.
A week before the game, I picked up where I’d left off in 2023 by picking up an illness, ending up with a sinus infection following influenza. Counting down the days to the game, I debated getting antibiotics to get better against just drinking through it. Finally on Friday (two days before), I relented and picked up my prescription. From my extensive medical research (a google search and talking to coworkers), I figured out that beer would not undo the benefits of the antibiotic but would only worsen the side effects of nausea and/or diarrhea. And it might cause short-term liver damage, but the liver is a regenerative, starfish-like miracle. Heavy drinking = frequent bathroom breaks and feeling nauseous, with or without antibiotics.
On Saturday, we checked into the Philadelphia Marriott Downtown, which was a much nicer place than the Hilton Garden Inn that haunted my marathon experience in November. I was decked out in an Eagles shirt, just in case the VA license plate on Dave’s car caused people to question our loyalty. Ninety percent (approximately) of people were wearing green, like an early St. Patrick’s Day.
We met up for dinner and drinks (Dave and I did the drinking), with an old high school friend to reminisce and compare gray hair. Sucks getting old. We also surveyed the city before the chaos to be able to compare to the after game riots. But let’s get to the game!
First we had to pay homage at the Linc and buy some extra Eagles gear for the families. Then we had to pay homage to the cardiologists by buying some cheesesteaks. Quick tangent – nearby the Lincoln Financial Field (Eagles home), there used to be a Tony Lukes cheesesteak place (on Oregon Avenue). Today, there is a Tony & Nick’s. From my limited research, it appears that the original Tony Luke (Anthony Lucidonio, Sr.) had a falling out with Junior, who ended up with the naming rights and franchise, while Senior ended up incarcerated with Junior’s brother, Nicholas, for tax fraud. One son got to keep the name, while dad and bro changed the name and went to jail. Fun family drama, but more importantly, Tony & Nick’s is still open, still serving cheesesteaks, and still charging a premium for the use of credit cards because they prefer cash for some totally not illicit reason, I’m sure.
The sea of green had grown overnight to approximately 97%. Everywhere you went, people would suddenly burst into chants of E-A-G-L-E-S, in preparation for the gametime spelling bee.
Brauhaus Schmitz opened its doors at 4:45 p.m. and the line already snaked down the block when we arrived 25 minutes early. Chilly, windy weather, but the forecasted snow and rain from a few days earlier completely missed us, so at least we were dry. They guaranteed enough seats for everyone who reserved, but there were no assignments, Southwest style. Rushing in with the crowd, the front of the bar immediately filled up and people pushed on to the back room. I stopped at the first empty table I saw, halfway through the bar and camped out while Dave sought better options. We had a nice central location, but the nearest TVs were not large enough for our old guys eyes. The big screen at the front of the place was partially obstructed. We were close to the bar and not in the aisle, and Dave’s efforts to secure first class seating fell short.
The buffet food selection was adequate (wings, tenders, burgers, pretzel bites, brats, etc.), though I didn’t need much after the monster cheesesteak from the criminal enterprise earlier. The beer selection was in German and hard to see from where we were sitting, so it was a matter of playing pick a number and see what surprise they’d bring. The beer was good. No PBR to be found this time around! Despite a very crowded house, the waitstaff did a phenomenal job of getting around to keeping us half full on this optimistic occasion. Our reservation offered the aforementioned buffet as well as open bar for the evening.
Pregame festivities included more E-A-G-L-E-S practice, watching others continue to jostle for gametime positions, and working on stressing the liver. I had recently completed a dry January, so I was overdue to catch up. For the record, I gave up beer for a month in the hopes that I would lose a few pounds. It didn’t work. Given the choice between fat, sober and unhappy versus fat, drunk and happy, I’m back to the latter.
At one point in the pregame moments I heard a loud chorus of BOOS, and I thought an errant Chiefs fan had found themselves in Philly, before recognizing that it was the crowd letting the TV know that the big Chiefs fan was not a welcome sight. No, it wasn’t Tay-Tay, we were booing the Donald! Three weeks into his second administration and he was a big reason why I needed to drink like there was no tomorrow for our democracy. (I really hoped to avoid politics when discussing the game, but he started it by inserting himself into the middle of the proceedings). FU DJT! He may have won the commonwealth, but he didn’t win any hearts in Philly.
Just before kickoff, the refs used their fake KC coin to award the toss to the Chiefs, who opted to kick. Game on.
At home, the wife and kids were unable to watch the game because I had to cancel cable while still repaying my debts from the 2023 Super Bowl to which I didn’t go. (But I’m not bitter). I offered to text Sai with scoring updates that she could share with Catherine, since my daughter was the only one who pretended to care about the outcome. Without rehashing play by play, it went something like this:
Game On!
7-0
10-0
17-0
24-0
Halftime – More on Kendrick below.
27-0
34-0!! – Unless you’re the Falcons, this kind of lead is safe.
34-6
By this point, Sai said that it was a boring game and to stop bothering her. Catherine was already asleep.
37-6
40-6
40-14
40-22
Game Over, man!
Sorry for the lack of spoiler warning, but I trust that you already knew the outcome before coming here. If you are getting your sports updates from an obscure blog, then you are truly out of touch.
It was not a boring game if you were in the midst of a crowded bar of likeminded fans, who from the get-go cheered every yard gained by our guys and booed every sign of red. I’ll admit I may have yelled some not so nice things at Paul Rudd and Taylor Swift, but it was nothing personal. I may have even mocked Andy Reid, formerly a favorite coach. Sirianni is stealing the title, cementing his own legacy by landing the Lombardi (something Big Red could never do for us).
Can we take a minute to talk about Kendrick? I know I’ve already blown past the halftime score and missed the intermission, but I didn’t want to interrupt the flow of dominance in that whooping score card. I don’t want to sound like the GOP, though I am an old white guy (not rich, though, courtesy of SB LVII). It’s not that I’m anti-Kendrick or Team Drake or anything, but I was completely clueless during his performance. I’m just out of touch. I was not offended by any of his imagery or guests or jeans or lyrics or Serena’s weird dance. But I could not sing along because I knew none of his music. Would I have preferred a GNR reunion for the show? Absolutely. But I recognize that my musical tastes are out of date with the 21st Century. What I will point out though is that the bar was pretty tame during his set, with everyone catching their breath after the awesome first half, some taking the time to wait in line for the toilets. Until Not Like Us, at which point the place went nuts, people dancing and screaming, leaving Dave and I alone trying to figure out who this Kendall guy was and what was happening? I’m grateful that between the ass-kicking and the political imagery used by KL, Trump felt it necessary to make an early exit. He was not missed.
Before the formality of the final score, people were jumping for joy, dancing on their seats, high-fiving everyone around, and singing the Eagles fight song together, in terribly off-key melodies.
As the game clock wound down, Schmitz began to empty out, and a stream of people could be seen heading towards Broad Street. By the time the clock struck 0:00, the place was practically empty. Dave suggested we take advantage of it and continue drinking, somehow managing to have a full beer in hand when I returned from the toilet, despite even the bartenders seeming to have disappeared. Did Dave pour his own? Regardless, he converted it to a roadie, and we joined the early parade.
I hadn’t seen Broad Street that crowded since running its famous 10 miler years ago. This was a much slower moving mass of bodies. It was unclear where exactly everyone was headed, but we followed the flow in the general direction of the hotel. There were blocked off streets with riot police ready to do their thing if necessary. We quickly moved away from them. There were a few idiots climbing poles (best left to the professionals in the clubs). Some people stood atop trash trucks because they were cool or something. No thanks.
Aside from assaulting some police officers and then taking a shit on Nancy Pelosi’s desk, we refrained from any questionably pardonable activities. (Sorry, that was a different day). We squeezed past the pinch points of the crowds, careful not to get caught up in any of the violence that supposedly happened nearby. I didn’t see any looting or vandalism, just a lot of happy fans. Go Birds!
Post-Script: A couple of weeks after, I was putting Catherine to bed when she told me that she wanted to go to Disneyworld. I dreaded this ask but can’t say that I was surprised since she loves the princess movies. But she clarified that she wants to go there to see the guy from the Eagles (after seeing a Jalen Hurts “I’m going to Disneyworld!” commercial). I have trained her well! Sadly, I then had to explain to her that Disney is extremely expensive, and she had to remember that Super Bowl from two years before that I didn’t go to…
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 