IV
the first three times were not the
charm.
And so it comes to this.
For the fourth time in four blessed, brilliant, brutally unsettling seasons, my beloved and bedevilled Philadelphia Eagles advance to the NFC Championship game, flirting yet again with several million fragile hearts that, already thrice broken and many more times lost, stand and teeter on the vertiginous edge of despair, hesitant, helplessly hoping, daring once more to dream the dream of flight.
Sunday. 3:00. At the Linc.
Early forecasts call for temperatures in the 20s and a few snow showers. Early prognostications call for an Eagles victory and a berth in the You-Know-What Bowl. Of course, early prognostications called for those same things last year. And the year before. But last year and the year before, like the year before them both, those Eagles and those dreams did not take wing, flapping and flailing and falling and failing instead, leaving southeastern Pennsylvania -- and those of us who hail from it -- with yet another playoff nightmare from which we would not awaken.
Until next year.
And the feeling here, mainlined from the Main Line, says that this year, when so many pundits and analysts and that idiot Merril Hoge have questioned and criticized and guessed and second-guessed and still, ever and always, save for one thrashing at the hands and feet of the Steelers, been wrong, will finally be the year. This year, when, post-T.O. and pre-resting the starters, everyone has chalked them up and written them off and turned instead to find fresh new rights -- the Seahawks? the Packers? the Vikings? -- about which to be wrong, this year will be the year when up is down and in is out, when dumb is smart and tight is loose, when bad is good and good, wearing black and white and midnight green, will finally be good enough.
For the fourth time in four blessed, brilliant, brutally unsettling seasons, my beloved and bedevilled Philadelphia Eagles advance to the NFC Championship game, flirting yet again with several million fragile hearts that, already thrice broken and many more times lost, stand and teeter on the vertiginous edge of despair, hesitant, helplessly hoping, daring once more to dream the dream of flight.
Sunday. 3:00. At the Linc.
Early forecasts call for temperatures in the 20s and a few snow showers. Early prognostications call for an Eagles victory and a berth in the You-Know-What Bowl. Of course, early prognostications called for those same things last year. And the year before. But last year and the year before, like the year before them both, those Eagles and those dreams did not take wing, flapping and flailing and falling and failing instead, leaving southeastern Pennsylvania -- and those of us who hail from it -- with yet another playoff nightmare from which we would not awaken.
Until next year.
And the feeling here, mainlined from the Main Line, says that this year, when so many pundits and analysts and that idiot Merril Hoge have questioned and criticized and guessed and second-guessed and still, ever and always, save for one thrashing at the hands and feet of the Steelers, been wrong, will finally be the year. This year, when, post-T.O. and pre-resting the starters, everyone has chalked them up and written them off and turned instead to find fresh new rights -- the Seahawks? the Packers? the Vikings? -- about which to be wrong, this year will be the year when up is down and in is out, when dumb is smart and tight is loose, when bad is good and good, wearing black and white and midnight green, will finally be good enough.
Posted: Mon - January 17, 2005 at 08:21 PM
Quick Links
Calendar
| Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed | Thu | Fri | Sat |
Categories
Archives
Terror Alert
Brilliant Satire
Required Reading
Traffic Count
Official Muse
Syndication
Carbolic Wear
Y Chromosomes
Some Perspective
On Tour
XML/RSS Feed
Statistics
Total entries in this blog:
Total entries in this category:
Published On: Oct 30, 2008 01:04 PM
Total entries in this category:
Published On: Oct 30, 2008 01:04 PM