The Philly Psyche

Well, that was wild. With all the news coming out of the Keystone state that Fat Andy would be gone, Donovan McNabb had choked in a big spot again and the world was coming to an end after that travesty in D.C. last week, the Eagles got every bounce yesterday and have made it into the NFL's year-end tournament. They will play Minnesota, coached by Reid's protégé, in a battle of the minds next week (seriously, where are the jokes here from the Philly papers? I thought Minnesota was going to blow it yesterday at the end of the game when they let a good 20 seconds run off the clock before calling a timeout, then called a play with nine seconds left, which was incomplete, before kicking the game winning field goal. How many terrible challenges and wasted timeouts will we see next week in the Dome with these two guys sitting down at the chess board?).

But, as I have learned so many times before, rooting for those infuriating teams from the seat of Democracy does a good deal of damage to the brain, as evidenced by the truly horrid night of sleep I just had. I was awoken in a fit of panic by Teddie's cries at 6 a.m. after dreaming that the Eagles had beaten Dallas in a blowout, only to be forced to play Pittsburgh for the right to go to the playoffs. In that game, the Eagles led 33-3 entering the fourth quarter before blowing it and missing out on the playoffs (333=(1/2)666?). I woke up and had to smack myself to remember that that did not actually happen and the Eagles had in fact secured their playoff ticket.

Then, with only about 40 more minutes of sleep to enjoy before my alarm went off at 7:10, I entered another horrifying dream. I was back in my high school's neighborhood in Metropolis after hours, which isn't the safest part of the city. In the dream, I lived about 15 blocks away and I was walking to my apartment, but I was not using the sidewalk, I was wandering down the deserted street. I saw four men coming toward me, all wielding baseball bats. Inexplicably, after three of the four had passed me without even a wary glance, I dove at the last's knees, taking him out like a cornerback fells a running back. I trembled in fear as the other three came to his defense and threatened to beat the life out of me. They wanted all the money I had on me, which I was reluctant to give because I needed all of it to pay down my mounting credit card bills, all of which I had just secured by gifts for Christmas and deftly was carrying on my person. I remember mustering an excuse of a car accident that left me woozy, and that's why I had fallen and taken out the last man, but they advanced anyway...

RING...RING...RING

My alarm clock saved me from the beating and the ensuing robbery that would have left me in credit card hell. So, the next time you call out your whiny Philadelphia fan for complaining about a skewed run-pass ratio, remember what we suffer in the dead of night, even after stunning fortune and a dominating victory over a hated rival.