Remember when Anakin joined the Sith? Or when Benedict Arnold betrayed America? Or when Judas snitched on Jesus? I’m about to do something similar, albeit with less historical significance. (Maybe. We’ll have to see.)
Since the mid-to-late aughts, I’ve been a fan of the New York Giants. Today, all that changes. I am officially registering as a Philadelphia Eagles fan.
… Not that it’s a political party or something. Actually, now that I think about it, it’s not all that different. Point is, I’m flying with the birds now, baby.
It all started at this past February’s Super Bowl. There I was, rooting against the Eagles while everyone else at the party rooted for the Eagles, because they were so sick of the Chiefs and/or Taylor Swift’s luxury box reaction shots. They flapped their arms like morons, frantically spelled a six-letter word as if to prove they were literate, and I thought to myself, Huh. Usually when I act like a doofus, I’m not celebrated for it.
Yet when Eagles fans flap or chant or scale greased-up flagpoles, they’re just being passionate. That’s the word they always use. Passionate. I suspect “being passionate” is a legal defense in Pennsylvania, and one that works quite well if your judge happens to be a fellow Eagles fan, which is likely.
I can’t get passionate about the Giants. Depressed, downtrodden, frustrated, and ashamed, sure, but never passionate. The Giants are just too incompetent lately, with their foremost highlight being the perpetuation of an Italian-American stereotype.
The Eagles, on the other hand, just won the Super Bowl. They have Saquon Barkley, and he was my favorite player (until he joined the Eagles). Also, Eagles fans get to whip batteries at people or pelt Santa with snowballs, all using the protection of their favorite defense. Might as well be diplomatic immunity.
So, this coming year, I look forward to a season of highlights, ass-whompings, and casual muggings in the parking lot of Lincoln Financial Field. Fly, Eagles, fly. I’m joining you on the road to victory.
P.S., Happy April Fools’ Day.
Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include seven books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.
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