Monday, January 24, 2005
vindication and bliss (yes, another fucking sports post)
I should not be at work today.
My head is pounding, my complexion is ruddy, and my eyes are bloodshot. I have the shakes, the chills, and the runs. I'm not answering my phone, I can't focus on work, and I've spent half of the day either in the library "resting my eyes" or on the can reading every article from philly.com.
The source of my current pain is an unbelievable joy: the Philadelphia Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.
I still can't believe it, so I'll write it again: the Philadelphia Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.
I hesitate to write such sweeping, grandiose statements like, "This is one of the best things that has ever happened to me" or "My life as I know it will forever be different", but to be honest, they do apply here. Call me shallow, tell me that I don't have my priorities straight, say I'm racist for once putting a sign on a public beach that said, "We Don't Want No Ricans Here", but it's true: I am in complete and total rapture, all because of a football game.
These feelings are impossible to understand or to explain to anyone who is not a sports fan. I know that I have done nothing, save for karmic support, to help the Eagles get to the Super Bowl. But yet I have dedicated a large portion of my life and energy rooting for this football team. For years I have followed them, watching every possible game I could and reading everything written about them - from the days of Randall Cunningham and the Gang Green defense (when I knew all the words to the unintentionally hilarious "Buddy's Watching You", a song about then-coach Buddy Ryan), to the bleak days of the Rodney Peete-Ty Detmer-Bobby Hoying-Koy Detmer-Doug Pederson QB shit-show. And now finally, for only the second time in the team's history and the first time since the 1980 season (when I was one), the Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.
The game itself yesterday was tense. During the first half, I remarked to my buddy Greg that I'm not entirely sure why I'm a sports fan, since Eagles games are usually a terrible three hours for me, as I sit on the edge of my seat, fidgeting like a crack baby after a case of Red Bulls, and drinking faster than I can swallow. Fortunately, I was surrounded by a good group of hardcore Eagles fans, and though the game was relatively close throughout, everyone in the bar felt confident (and drunk). My original plan was to stay a little bit sober so I could watch and remember the game, but I guess I forgot how good Bud Light drafts taste. The good news is that I had about fifty wings (though I don't particularly like wings) and a half-pound burger during the game, so that kept the alcohol at bay and allowed me to have rational thought processes like, "Man, the Falcons are killing us with that off-tackle run" and "We need to stretch the field out a lot more than we're doing", rather than drunken observations like, "I wish I was at the stadium so I could get a hot dog" and "Why do black people have so many tattoos? Don't they know that you can't really see them? Why don't they just get white ink on their tattoos, so they can be more easily seen? I have a boner."
And as the Eagles pulled to a 27-10 lead with only three minutes left in the game, it took every ounce of my being to hold back the tears of joy. Yes, I almost cried over a football game. I'm not ashamed to admit it; after all, I'm a Cancer, so I'm very sensitive. I usually only cry under three circumstances: 1) every time I hear Elton John's "The One"; 2) after a really good poo after a really good sandwich; and 3) whenever I notice that the sour cream has gone bad. But yesterday - I think my allergies were acting up, because it was getting a little misty in there.
I thought the partying would continue all through the night, but sadly, shortly after the game my compatriots all left. I too eventually left, when it became apparent that I could no longer fit any more beer or wings into my body (a sad realization that I did not take well) and, oh yeah, when I stumbled into the bathroom and on the way back the bartender offered to call me a cab (I took that as my cue to leave). My recourse was, of course, to go home and drink a bottle of champagne in the shower - I mean, duh. In an alcoholic frenzy, I had drank a bottle of champagne on Friday night, because it was the only thing in the fridge. So on Saturday, while stocking up on goods before the blizzard, I got another bottle (in addition to a ton of meat products, beer, and loads of chocolate syrup) because I had enjoyed the first so much. I had to get sober, because I couldn't call out of work today, so I sat in the tub, shower head aimed at my feet and the water flowing down the drain so that the rest of my body was dry, drinking champagne. And yes, I realize how weird this is, and how flawed my idea of "getting sober" is. And no, I don't care, because it was fucking awesome.
And now I'm here at work. The beers, shots, champagne, and greasy foods did quite a number of me, and Vegas currently has the over/under on my heart attack at 4:30pm. It doesn't help that I was sick all weekend with a fever and the chills, which I completely ignored in order to - surprise surprise - drink and get high with my roommates as a blizzard raged outside, keeping us in all fucking weekend. And while there's very little worse than having a massive hangover on a Monday, it's all good, because the fucking Eagles are in the fucking Super Bowl.
And now the hard part: waiting. The Super Bowl isn't until February 6, so until then I have two weeks to read all sorts of articles from football analysts and experts saying the Eagles don't have a chance against the mighty Patriots. I'll save my analysis for later, because I need to bask in the warming glow of being a winner. I don't get this chance often, so if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to nursing my hangover, reading about the Iggles, and staring at the giant (well, moderate) erection I have. I don't know if it's me, but it looks a little bigger than usual. But, I admit, I am a little high, so that might have something to do with it. Oh well.