It’s times like now that make people question their loyalty and dedication to spending their free time and money on a sports team. When teams struggle or don’t appear to be on a path of being a contender, it’s sometimes difficult to want to wave that team flag loud and proud. Instead, we watch and judge, hoping that what we see will build into something bigger and better. The fans of the teams in this city are educated and want to learn even more about what they are seeing transpire before them. We don’t walk into a season blind with a carefree attitude, carrying zero concerns about a squad, but instead we tend to focus on those flaws. Whenever one of those flaws arise, we shine a light on it and demand for management to correct it, yelling from the top of our lungs. We are far from a perfect fanbase, yet we demand perfection from our teams.
Why do we dedicate ourselves to a football team with one Super Bowl title to their name for three hours every Sunday afternoon, or a basketball team that purposefully tanked for five long seasons? The baseball team was the first in North American sports history to lose ten thousand games, and the hockey team is closing in on a 50-year Stanley Cup-less drought. Yet here we are, year after year holding out hope that “this is the year,” and 99.9% of the time are left with broken hearts and questioning what the future holds. So what is it that makes us the type of fans that we are? We are all different people from different backgrounds, yet if you walk through the K Lot before an Eagles game, you are guaranteed to join in an “E-A-G-L-E-S” chant with complete strangers.
I don’t care what anyone says. The Philadelphia fan is made up differently than those in other fanbases. We obsess over these teams, keeping a close eye on every off-season move, planning trips to other cities the moment the schedule is released, and even buying expensive sneakers to match our team colors. Sports talk stations are never short of callers, podcasts covering the teams keep popping up every day (we’ve been at it since 2015, by the way), and Twitter is ablaze with opinions on any team every single day. I love it. I love the engagement, no matter how silly some of those opinions or thoughts may seem because it’s revolving around something that we all care an awful lot about. And when someone says something insulting your team? Boy, it’s like they just insulted your sister. You best be ready for some heat. Of course, that’s where some of the nonsensical stereotypes come in. For some reason, we seem to get analyzed and criticized by the national media more than most fanbases. Whether it’s from a few snowballs being pelted at a drunk Santa Claus before most of us were born, or because of that one moron who was really hungry at the celebration following the Super Bowl win, we are scrutinized in the spotlight. It’s easy to say “We’re from Philly and we don’t care,” but that’s a lie. You do care. I care.
We care.
That is one of the things that makes us stand out. We care so much. Passionate is an understatement for some. When one of our teams lose, it can alter your attitude for a day, a week, or longer. To be honest, to this day I still get angry when I think of the 2002 NFC Championship game loss to the Bucs. We take it very personal when we lose, as if we have any control over the performance of those playing the sport. Sure, crowd noise can play a factor here and there, but that doesn’t stop the Red Wings from shutting down the Legion of Doom, or an entire offense failing to score a run for Roy Halladay in a masterful performance. But the great thing is, we like to think that we have a hand in the things that go well; our mojo is what helps the team succeed. It could be wearing that same jersey through a playoff run, growing out that “playoff” beard, or sitting in the same spot you sat on October 29th, 2008.
We all have some quirks in our arsenal that are similar to each other’s, yet we grew up watching sports differently. Some earlier than others. Some born and raised here, others were transplants. For instance, it’s not uncommon to hear how someone was “born into it” thanks to their father or another family member. Personally, for the most part, I had to learn about Philly sports on my own. My parents weren’t exactly big into sports. My younger cousin and I would watch games and play outside, and I grew to enjoy sports that way. Baseball was my first love because of Mike Schmidt. Somehow, I got my hands on a “Starting Lineup” Schmidt figurine (which I still possess), so he was my guy. At the age of 6 or 7, I had no idea that he was on his way to the Hall of Fame, having just hit his 500th home run, but I knew he was the face of the team and I wanted to be like him. Ironically, Schmidt wasn’t always a fan-favorite despite how great of a player he was. Schmidt was admittedly sensitive to the boos and criticism when he struggled, and although he later understood and adapted, it showed him that we can be pretty tough on players when we feel you aren’t performing or giving it your all. Anyway, a little bit later on, maybe around the age of 10, my grandfather and uncle both became involved in helping me understand sports more in-depth, even though neither of them were “4 for 4” Philadelphia die-hards like I eventually turned out to be.
My first real memorable sports heartbreak was in 1988 when the Eagles lost the “Fog Bowl” to the Bears in Solider Field. This was only the first in a long string of heartbreaks, some worse than others: Cunningham’s broken leg to Bryce Paup in 1991; Joe Carter in 1993; the Flyers in 1997; the Eagles in the early 2000’s; but that would finally end in the joyous celebration of the Phillies World Series win in 2008, and it seemed like it was all worth the wait. Tears streaming down our cheeks as we raised our fists in the air knowing that for the first time in 25 years (and the first since I was walking and talking) we were the best in the world. I will never forget the joy that I felt when we won that series, and again when the Eagles won the Super Bowl, something that many of us started to believe would never happen. Being a fan from this city that can never seem to quite get over the hump, no matter how much we scream and yell, trying to push them towards that goal, leaves you with that feeling of elated joy when they finally do accomplish that goal.
We are much further from the success that Boston has had than we are from the slumps that a city like Cleveland has endured for the majority of recent memory, yet we still have no problem walking around with our chests puffed out, representing our teams like we are the ones with 27 world series rings or have been a dynasty over the last two decades. We will not hesitate to tell you “Crosby Sucks” when we spot that Penguin logo on your chest, or shake our head in disgust at that dreaded Dal….ahem…star sticker on the back window of your beaten down Honda Civic.
It’s a fine line between arrogance and confidence. We don’t have the history on our side to be either of those things, yet it doesn’t shy us away from it. We expect our teams, at the very least, to fight hard. Most of the time, losing a tough-played game is much easier to swallow than suffering a blowout. I dislike the whole “bring your lunch pail to work” saying, but there is truth to it. It’s why guys like Keith Jones and Aaron Rowand are forever beloved here and why other “bigger” names are forgotten or at least not remembered in the best way. Many of us bust our asses day in and day out and when it’s our time to relax and enjoy a game, we expect that effort out of the players. That’s no secret to anyone who steps foot in this town, but for some reason it seems to be forgotten at times.
We view our teams as our family, because to be frank, they are our families. The dedication and effort that is put into this relationship does not go unnoticed by those around you. They know where to find you every Sunday from September to February. No matter how much these teams make you angry, make you “hate” them, you always find your way back. And you do so because the juice is worth the squeeze. When the banner gets raised, the euphoria outweighs the heartbreak. In Philadelphia, our hearts are blended together with some Philly Special, a bag of Cole, Bernie and Moses, and it all beats as one.
Corner Pub Sports 
I felt this post from deep inside well said well writen
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