dayton is not in ohio

If you are one of the blog visitors that hates my sports posts, you might want to read this one, because it’s not about sports. Well, it is, and it isn’t. I’m aware just now that I sound a lot like the sportswriters who write the occasional introspective piece as an attempt to assert that they do actually care about something other than sports.

Today at 8pm Eastern time, the Philadelphia Eagles will play the New Orleans Saints in the NFL playoffs. The winner goes on to the NFC championship game to play for a trip to Superbowl XLI. The loser goes on vacation. For Philadelphia, it is a chance to end it’s quarter-century championship drought, and break the curse of Billy Penn. I won’t for a second, however, compare this to New Orleans’ situation, where the success of the historically impotent Saints has come to capture the spirit and symbolize the rebirth of a city literally rising from the ruins of hurricane Katrina. The Superdome, which became the principle symbol of the anarchy and hellish reality of a destroyed city, has become the unifying arena of a community’s rebirth. I’ve never approached a sports event with more personal melancholy than this particular contest. This game, for me as a sports fan, is like being asked to choose between loving my mother or loving my wife.

I was born in New Orleans. The house I grew up in was under water for a week. I love the city of my birth, and when its heart is breaking my heart aches as well. I didn’t choose the Big Easy, just like I didn’t choose my mom, but there is a love between a mother and her child that can’t be broken. In spite of the fact that, in terms of football, the city gave me no love for 31 years, I retain a loyalty to the Saints. In a sense, now more than ever, the city needs the Saints to win. It reminds me of a sermon illustration that my dad once used (I think…) about a sick person that was given hope for recovery by a vine growing on a fence visible from their sickbed. After recovering, the person paid a visit to the vine, only to discover that even after the real vine had died over the winter, a loved one had painted the vine on the fence to give them hope. I’m afraid, in a sense, for a city that has placed it’s heart and its hope in the success of a football team, because there’s no pretending that you won the Superbowl.

Then there’s Philadelphia, the city that I chose. I chose to become an Eagles fan. Philadelphia is where my daughter was born, and where I came of age as an artist. The Eagles have been good to me. I greatly admire the spirit of Philadelphia, and the spirit of Philadelphia’s fans. They demand performance, and they will let you know if you are not performing to their expectations. But if the team fails, they’ll faithfully come back next year to give it another go. There are no “friendly confines” in Philly like you’ll find at Wrigley field, here in Chicago. I was almost offended at the indifference I was greeted with when I showed up at Wrigley to see the Phillies in a Philadelphia jersey. Philadelphia has a blue-collar spunk and intensity that is infectious, even if you’re not a blue-collar guy. Vince Papale’s dad has a line in the movie Invincible where he says of a past success of the Eagles: “That touchdown got me through thirty years at the factory.”

I think these types of hopes are ultimately misplaced, don’t get me wrong, but a sense of hope is a sense of hope and I hate to see one of these teams lose. In a sense, the loser gets the gift of reality. They are forced to come to grip with the reality that it’s just a football game. I guess I wish they could both win this one.

But one has to lose, and I have to choose who to cheer for. So, I’m choosing the one that I chose. It is just a game, after all…

FLY EAGLES FLY!!!