Dog Mentality: A newsletter from a Birds fan abroad (or at least outside of Philadelphia)

Week 17: “Eagles vs Saints”

I was gearing up to dissect the Eagles’ stunning loss to the Saints this past weekend, but I found I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I love football. Like most of you (i.e. the 12 or so wonderful consistent readers) I love that every play matters. I love that so few games mean Murphy's Quantum Law (anything that can happen, will happen) gets the opportunity to come to life in real-time for 16 Weeks (to the chagrin of sports bettors everywhere). I love the incredible stories of players who bring themselves out of some of the most humble beginnings imaginable with nothing but the sheer force of will and talent. When good football’s on, autumn Sundays are the best time of the year.

Unlike some of you, I never played full-contact football. I never put on the pads or stepped on a high school field. I got into football, really into football, as a means to get closer to my pops (and give myself a fighting chance in Fantasy). Again for the few of reading along, I think it’s fairly clear that my first great love is letters. I love writing. I love staring at a blank page and making sense of whatever crap my head’s wrapped up in that day.

My beautiful parents always supported my interests. They came to plays I performed in, listened to me rant and rave about the author Cormac McCarthy’s place in contemporary fiction, and fulfilled my odd Christmas requests for things like a collection of “Rolling Stone” coverage of the 1972 presidential election (I know, I’m an enormous dork). So I leaned into football as a means to share something my dad was passionate about with him.

And it worked. Like so many fans, specifically Philly fans, I was seduced by the game’s highs. Football, like so many of America’s big spectacles, really does bring people together. For the truly obsessed, it creates an opportunity for connection here-to unheard outside of going to war together or getting stuck in an elevator for hours with strangers. It’s hyperbolic, sure, but I think it rings true.

Which is why the life-threatening injury Bills Safety Damar Hamlin suffered during the SNF game is a stark reminder of the high toll the game takes on the players who make it what it is. There’s no game without the phenomenal athletes who suit up every year and make it happen. So while a young man fights for his life in the hospital, I thought the very least I could do was keep my yuck-yuck hee-ha football analysis to myself for one week.

Again, I never played the game. So going forward, it feels necessary to consider what the people actually playing think about the risks inherent to the game. There’ll be plenty of time to investigate the NFL and Goodell and everybody else who may be bureaucratically responsible for the heinous injuries suffered by players on the field. In the meantime, everybody else (from pundits to bloggers like me, to armchair quarterbacks) should shut up, and listen to the guys who actually risk their lives for the game. For now, for me at least, I’ll be praying for Hamlin’s recovery.

By all counts, he was the best of an already exceptional group of people. Hopefully, none of those exceptional folks wind up in this position ever again.