Post-Super Bowl sadness: It’s a Philly thing
As is grief, regret and the sense that this city — at least when it comes to sports — can't catch a break.
At Reading Terminal Market, the “Go Birds” chants had stilled.
At Ray’s Happy Birthday Bar in Passyunk Square, somber tears were shed into breakfast beers.
At Tony and Nick’s Steaks in deep South Philly, the bitterness of defeat somehow made even the whiz taste a little less perfect.
”A little heartbroken,” said Donnie Jones, grabbing a couple comfort steaks on the day after, still sporting his Jalen Hurts jersey, not wanting to take it off. Not wanting for it to be real.
For Monday was a day to wallow. A day to agonize over what could have been, what should have been, what seemed so certain: After such a dominant season, a Super Bowl victory, which somehow seemed destined, until it, like our brave hero’s final Hail Mary, fell desperately out of reach.
It was a day to howl over terrible turf and lousy calls — to despair in the deepest doom and gloom of Philly fandom: that we remain forever underdogs, no matter the truth of it (the Eagles had been slight favorites).
» READ MORE: The Fumble. The Penalty? The Receivers! Eagles issues at Super Bowl LVII
We’re Philadelphians, said Kristie Pagliaro Noel, who worked the morning bar shift at Ray’s, where the neon Eagles sign now felt like a taunt. “We’re accustomed to disappointment.” Now, more than ever.
Now this new indignity, a fresh layer of pain.
Three championship appearances in three months. Three losses. It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. It did. And that was our sin: We dared to hope, and our hopes were yet again dashed. We rose above our station, forgetting, for a moment, that our lot as Philly sports fans — as Philadelphians — is to dream of nice things, once in a while reaching the promised land, but mostly falling short.
”It’s the Philly jinx,” shrugged Matt Silvano, coproprietor of Mike & Matt’s Italian Market in South Philadelphia. Just a day before it had felt like New Year’s Eve in the deli, what with all the game-day sandwich trays flying out the door, and confidence booming. But on the day after, a cloud of resignation hung over the counter.
His coworker at the counter, Suzanne Altieri, pined for a party that will never come. ”A parade would have been so nice for the city,” she sighed.
The Philadelphia Union’s title defeat in November surely stung. To lose like that on penalty kicks. And the Phillies hurt, of course. But their run felt almost like a bonus, a long shot to even make the playoffs, never mind Game 5 of the World Series, and providing all that magic along the way. That beautiful “Bedlam at the Bank.”
But the Eagles’ loss represented a special sort of pain.
On Monday, fans grieved online, tweeting about office places that seemed more like ghost towns, with so many employees too depressed to show, or having requested the day off to celebrate, but drowning away their sorrows instead.
”My job is lucky I’ll be there tomorrow,” said Elon Jackson, a social worker, dulling the pain with a Corona at Max’s Eagle Bar on Germantown Avenue.
Some endured humiliation. One man outside Big Charlie’s Saloon, perhaps the only bastion of Chiefs fandom in Philadelphia, lifted a homemade Lombardi trophy Monday, and shouted, “Champs here” at every passerby. Then, in an attempt to reduce his risk to life and limb, he immediately clarified that he was an Eagles fan that had lost a bet. A friend next to him, bedecked in Chiefs gear, filmed his torment, and laughed uproariously. ”You got an hour left out here,” he taunted.
Others tweeted about all that perfectly good pole grease gone to waste. Some even planned a support group to meet up on Thursday at Bridget Foy’s. Better to mourn together, of course, especially if a group celebration is not an option.
And instead of thrilling in the ecstasy of victory, parents and children took solace in memories made, like Johnny McDonald, 50, and his son Victor, 10, who made the trek to Phoenix all the way from Merion. McDonald, a real estate agent, had snatched up some nosebleeds. But when getting to the stadium, in the true enterprising spirit of our city, they squeezed themselves into seats 16 rows off the field. As time ran off the clock, tears streamed down Victor’s face.
“We never win,” the boy said. “We always get second.”
But again, in the spirit of our city, McDonald refused to give in to total despair.
“We never lose,” he told his son, later recalling the conversation over the phone from Phoenix. “We either win or we learn, and we’ll be back.”
And that’s how it seemed all over. A day to mourn. A day to grieve. A day to let ourselves feel the agony.
But a new day, still. Because though we can be a little dramatic, we’re not destined to always be the underdog. We’re not even the underdog anymore. And we’re proud — because we’re always proud — because we’re a gritty resilient city that cares.
Only people who care this much could feel this bad.
It’s like what Johnny “Dings” Dingler, who runs the sports pool at Matt & Mike’s Deli was saying about better days ahead.
”We’re getting the feel of what it feels like to win,” he said. “Even if you don’t win the big game, we’re still getting there. We’re no longer the underdog. Next year, we come in as the second best team in the league.”
Staff writer Aubrey Whelan contributed to this article.