I grew up an Eagles fan, mainly because of Tommy McDonald, their electrifying, diminutive receiver. I was small for my age and am now the exact height McDonald was: 5’9’’. I also loved the green and white uniforms; the thing I coveted over every other, for one small stretch of my childhood, was a winged Eagles helmet. My father finally bought me one, if I recall correctly, at a Pep Boys store on Route 22. The first professional football game I saw live was an Eagles game at Franklin Field in Philadelphia, the stadium in which they won their last NFL championship. The Marlins have eclipsed the Phillies in my affections, but the Dolphins have not been able to supplant the Eagles. They are, more than the Phillies, the team that never quite makes it. Yet despite – or perhaps because of – this, its fans have a fierce, unbending, some might call it pathological loyalty to them. Even those who live a thousand miles away. I don't remember any spectators at Franklin Field flapping their arms above their heads, but when I saw them do it on Sunday, while joyously singing "Fly, Eagles, fly," it seemed like a venerable tradition.
