January 15-21, 2004

slant

Fourth and 26

The greatest moment of my generation's greatest game.

by Brian Hickey

When you're a 30-year-old man-child like myself, there aren't too many "great Philadelphia sports moments" residing in the memory banks. Aside from vague recollections of the '83 Sixers, that is. (This is a fact, mind you, that my "friends" from North Jersey and New York regularly remind me of during conversations that generally end with, "When was the last time you had a parade? And the Kixx don't count.")

The good-memory list starts with the Flyers almost winning the Stanley Cup in '85, '87 and '97. Then, it's onto the Sixers almost winning the NBA Championship in '01. And from there -- catch a pattern yet? -- it's the Eagles almost getting to the Super Bowl a year ago this month.

So forgive me, codgers and curmudgeons, for feeling that Sunday's improbable, impossible, immaculate miracle win at the Linc was the city's greatest sports victory. Ever.

Challenge me on it, and I'll probably fire back that it was as good, if not better, than any Drive, Catch, Ice Bowl or Immaculate Reception, too. (This is coming from someone with an Elway shrine in his home, mind you.) With all due respect to Chuck Bednarik and Wilbert Montgomery -- about whom I do remember a little -- a generation of fans here have been reared on actual visions, and countless recaps, of disappointment and abysmal failure. In short, we don't know what it's like to actually win.

As I'm sitting here writing this, I've had about 36 hours to decompress (read: sober up) since "fourth and 26" became a permanent part of our city's lore. And no, it still hasn't lost any luster. I suspect it never will, even though I accept the fact that it never would've happened had luck not coupled with an opposing coach's stupidity.

Fifty years from now -- provided modern medicine continues modernizing -- I'll be telling my grandkids that yes, I was there, at the Linc. Seat was right at the Green Bay 46, actually.

Two-minute warning. Birds had the ball at their own 42. Until McNabb got sacked for a 16-yard loss. One incompletion. Then, their last chance. Nope, never had a doubt. And along came Freddie. Fleet-footed Freddie. Freddie the franchise saver. Hopefully, that tale will end with, "and from there, children, the Eagles went on to win their first Super Bowl."

Well, here's the reality of the situation: I was there, at my apartment in Fairmount, figuring I'd jinx them by going out to a bar. (We already, I'm convinced, cost them the 49ers game by putting Buckhalter, Staley and Westbrook on City Paper's Dec. 25 cover.) Seat was right at the very edge of the couch. Pack of smoked Parliaments bubbling out of an overstuffed ashtray. Nerves balled up like a pound of dough in my stomach. Eagles hat clenched in a fist with purpled knuckles. Cell phone turned off to ignore the inevitable calls of mockery.

Two-minute warning. McNabb goes down. This team has no chance to win. Those simple bastards did it. Again. But along came Freddie. Freddie the franchise saver.

If you tell me you saw it coming, you're a dirty, stinking liar. Because at fourth and 26, the season was over. Until -- well, you know what happened next.

So there I was, muttering like an aged gangster who's trying to convince surveillance that he's lost his mind.

"That didn't just happen."

"That couldn't have just happened."

"Nope, no way. Things don't go that way for Philly teams."

"Unbelievable."

"Un-fucking-believable."

"That didn't just happen."

And so on.

At the mere mention of fourth and 26, I laugh. Giggle, actually. There's something so inherently giddy about that damn game. So much utter desperation, more than I've ever witnessed in a Philadelphia sporting event, was somehow beaten back. Like I said, un-fucking-believable.

But then, I get to thinking about last year again. And I don't want to. For if I slide back into that typical Philadelphia mentality, I'll convince myself that those simple bastards don't have a chance against Carolina in three long days. Should they lose to those hicks -- I can call them this for I once lived among them in Florence, S.C. -- I can't help but wonder about the legacy of fourth and 26.

Will it be forgotten? Probably. Those plays never seem as good when they happen to a team that proceeds to lose the next week. Particularly if it's the third time in a row that said team blows the conference championship game.

But if that catch taught me anything it's that Tug was actually right.

I believe that thanks to a miraculous change of fate, it's our turn.

I believe the football gods were holding Donovan and Andy's free hands on the sideline as David Akers lined up for an overtime field goal.

And I believe that when all is said and done on Feb. 1, when everybody who isn't looting is looking back at an improbable, impossible run, the first playoff game at the Linc will rightfully take its place as the greatest single game in Philadelphia sports history.

Brian Hickey is CP’s managing editor/news. He expects to smoke two packs of Parliaments during Sunday’s game. If you would like to respond to this Slant or have one of your own (800 words), contact Howard Altman, City Paper editor in chief, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail altman@citypaper.net.