February 3- 9, 2005

cover story

How They'll Lose

Illustration By: Jeffrey Bouchard

Super Bowl vs. New England

by Brian Hickey

Since I'm, uh, doing all this bitter talking and so forth, how could I, uh, root for the Eagles? Let, uh, let New England, let the Patriots win. I don't care.

OK, for those of you who haven't yet figured out the scam here, let's take a moment to get you up to speed. We here at City Paper want the Birds to win as much as just about anybody in town. "How They'll Lose" is a reverse-psychology ruse to help them win it all (and despite the hate mail, the trick panned out thus far).

Now that that's out of the way, let's get back to that first paragraph, shall we? Kind of reads like something I'd have written, no? No is right. For I do care about what happens on Sunday.

Those words — and unintelligible grunts — were recently uttered by none other than Chuck Bednarik. Eagles great. Member of their last championship team. And these days, Concrete Charlie's pissed — way too pissed. You probably already know that story he's been telling Comcast SportsNet (and anyone else who'll listen) about how team owner Jeffrey Lurie refused to buy a stack of Chuck's autobiographies, and how the author then excised the franchise from the good side of his heart. Bottom line: It's a shame, really, to have such bad karma flying around like spit on the eve of the franchise's biggest game. (Chuck, if it'll calm you down until Monday, or at least help you get those gnarled fingers of yours fixed, I'll take two.)

Termini's Bakery, South Philly Photo By: Michael T. Regan

All right, all right, on to the Super Bowl.

Tough team, that New England. Or so it would seem, but you never can tell which way the big game's going to go until you see the players' eyes when they take the field. (The lone exception being, of course, when a player gets pinched for picking up a hooker the night before kickoff. In which case, it's game, set, match.) So, out onto the limb I go: Prostitutes will play no role in the outcome of XXXIX. But despite the seven-point spread, this game's anything but hopeless.

It could go one of two ways: a civic-numbing humiliation or an epic. For the moment, I'll play along with the latter (provided Fox 29 pulls that godforsaken Jennaphr Frederick as far from Andy Reid's press conferences as they can. Phr, there's no right time or place to ask Red whether he has any new fashions planned.).

I know, I know, the game. Sorry, but the hype's already Jell-O'ed my concentration. (Which reminds me, good luck, Cos.)

Germantown Avenue, Mt. Airy Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Let's talk matchups.

There are two bad-ass defenses. A wash. Neither gives up much.

Two clutch QBs. And even though just one is Super Bowl-proven, that matchup won't decide the game. They'll both be as gutsy as ever.

T.O.? Thrown to thrice, two receptions. One could account for a touchdown, or at least a nice first down to extend a drive that results in one. Corey Dillon? He'll get his yards. Probably some important ones, too. Neither player will seal their team's triumph.

Frankford Avenue, Northeast Philly Photo By: Michael T. Regan

So, who — or what — does that leave to decide the NFL championship? Well, that depends on you, because like I said earlier, this contest's up in the air. Let's take a stroll down memory lane to that weird time and place where Twist-a-Plot books were all the rage. From here, dear reader, you have two recent scenarios from which to choose: Talking about how they could lose magnificently at the corner taproom; or, sitting back and mulling it over on the couch while again watching the NFC Championship postgame ceremony.

The Bar:

It's a bye week, and the topic of conversation over at Krupa's in Fairmount is, of course, the Birds. In concocting an unthinkable theory as to how they could lose (people, he was just trying to help a patron) Eagles sweatshirt-sporting bartender Joe Ferry takes the bait and runs it into overtime. (Due to certain NFL regulations, I've had to tweak it for reality's sake.)

Before the first OT, the Patriots will lose the coin flip; the Eagles choose to receive. Fifteen minutes will pass, no score. Before the second, the Eagles win the coin flip and again get the ball. Fifteen more minutes, time for another coin flip. Pats lose, Eagles receive and — good God almighty — they go to a fourth OT. And that's where things get crazy.

The home-team Eagles win the flip. But this time, they opt to kick, figuring maybe that's just the change they need to end the longest Super Bowl ever. They're right on one thing: The game'll end soon enough.

Main Street, Manayunk Photo By: Michael T. Regan

The Pats will take that ball, drive it into field-goal range and kicker Adam Vinatieri will again reign supreme. Oh, the agony. (Don't blame Joe. He didn't mean a word of it. And besides, I egged him on.)

The Couch:

It's a bye week, and the thoughts on the couch over at the apartment in Fairmount are about, of course, the Birds. Here's what the imagination lays out: It's about 9:35 p.m. Sunday. Somewhere, Bednarik is gnawing — or dry humping — a piece of wooden furniture. He figures the Pats have them just where they want them. And then, he'll take a look deep down inside and try to fill that hole in his soul, realizing he still loves the Birds. At that moment, fates will be sealed.

Seven minutes left in a 10-10 game. Brady leads his troops on one of those from-out-of-nowhere, five-and-a-half minute touchdown drives. (Remember, all it takes is one play over the course of a season for a young cornerback to look young.) They go for one. Vinatieri hits it.

TV timeout. The longest TV timeout in Philadelphia history. And then, the camera trains onto the Alltel Stadium field. And you realize Brian Westbrook's standing near the goal line, ready to return a squib kickoff.

Penrose Diner, South Philly Photo By: Michael T. Regan

He gets it at the 15. Gets to the 25. 35. 45.

He cuts inside around their 45. Down at the 39.

First down. Pinkston to the 28.

First down. Westbrook backed up to the 31.

Second down. Screen to Westbrook. He jukes, glides and bulldogs his way to the 14. Time out. Thirty seconds left.

52nd and Lancaster, West Philly Photo By: Michael T. Regan

McNabb scrambles to the three. He has to spike the ball to stop the clock. (C'mon, did you think they'd still have either type of T.O. this late in the game?) They huddle. They line up. Donovan takes the snap out of the shotgun.

He looks into the end zone and sees Jeff Thomason leap and oh, c'mon, that would be a great story, but it ain't happening.

He looks into the end zone and sees a battered — and I mean battered — Freddie Mitchell. McNabb fires. The laser ball hits off the heel of Mitchell's left hand; he wraps his right around it. 17-16. Eight seconds left. Akers sends it to overtime.

Pats win the flip. They get two first downs. It's looking bad. It's looking like a heartbreak. But then, Dillon coughs it up. (Once a Bengal, always a Bengal). Oh God, was that Kearse that fell on it? Yes! The Freak got the ball! They're gonna .

20th and Market, Center City Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Oh, as much as I want to take you on a Super Bowl-winning drive with an ending that has the fans of Philadelphia pushing for the first-ever statue dedicated to a kicker, this is about how they'll lose, remember? So, here's your answer.

A flag. A goddamned flag. A goddamned, %#(%&*@)%#*@)!(*#$^%# flag that negates a fumble and leaves the Patriots in field-goal range. After the Birds lose by three, those obnoxious Bostonians, now with five times as many pro championships as we have, don't even think about erecting a Vinatieri statue.

The lesson a city takes solace in?

Yes, Philly fans actually are the best in the world, because you know they'll be back next year as hungry as ever. Because they have honor and respect, since they left Jacksonville (and South Street) standing. And because they care, even when one of their team's all-time greats doesn't.

So congratulations, Concrete Charlie. Hope you're happy. Because the refs let, uh, let New England, let the Patriots win 20-17 (OT).

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