Here we are again.
Philadelphia. Mid-January. It's the heart of winter. You can see your breath in the cold, crisp air, and breathing in feels like taking a knife to your lungs. Strangers smile as they pass on the street, acknowledging the nervous excitement that lingers inside every man, woman, and child. It's a silent bond between all who reside between the city walls; a mutual feeling of hopefulness, anticipation, guarded confidence, and anxiety.
Sure, I may be living halfway across the country, in a land where the Dallas Cowboys really are "America's Team," and the thermometer hits 70 in January. But I lived in Philadelphia for 18 years worth of playoff runs, and during that time I learned nothing if not this:
There are few things better than living in Philadelphia during the playoffs.
Philadelphians may lack class, but we more than make up for it in passion, loyalty, and faith. This time of year, history is just that. Forget the series of failures and almost-theres that cast a dark cloud over the city most months of the year. We have been given another chance, and today, nothing has been decided. Whoever said that hope springs eternal must have been an Eagles fan. For now, we are winners. Until Sunday, nothing can change that.
Hopefully, on Sunday, nothing will.
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