Why I despise the Eagles

I watch every Philadelphia Eagles game religiously, hoping in my inner heart that they will lose.

It is time to bare that inner heart now. I don't like the Eagles. It is personal. It becomes more personal each week.

That great, raccoon-eyed comedian Fred Allen entitled his autobiography, Treadmill To Oblivion. That is how I feel about the Eagles. They are on a treadmill of mediocrity, and their occasional brief flashes of glory only serve to render the treadmill more unendurable as the years roll relentlessly on.

My animosity starts at the top with the franchise owner, Jeffrey Lurie, and his snake-haired wife Christina. They set my teeth on edge, sitting in their private box like the two yuppie prigs they are, chatting aimlessly with their yuppie chums and trading incongruous high-fives when their team shows a flare of excellence.

Jeff Lurie was a producer of mediocre family-funded films until he was handed the Eagles on a family-funded silver tray, buying the franchise from the inestimable Norman Braman, who at least worked as a used-car dealer for a living.

The trucker vs. the preppie

Remember Leonard Tose? Now, there was an owner: a bare-knuckle trucker in a tailored suit who couldn't stay away from the casinos until they sucked him as dry as Jeffrey Lurie's soul. But Lenny was a Philly guy, and the Eagles' faithful loved him for it. Jeff Lurie is a New England prep school snob who couldn't find Fishtown with a map. Not that he'd ever try.

Now take general manager Joe fucking Banner. Please. Take him far, far away. Little Jeffie hired his old pal little Joey as his GM, and we got Mr. Peepers with a spreadsheet running our football team. Note the results.

Coach Andy Reid is the major result. I think Andy Reid is despicable— a bloated, arrogant creep who is more senior management than a true football guy. I think he's a tad crazy, too, if you go by Freud's definition of crazy as doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.

Remember Buddy Ryan? Now, there was a coach. Ryan revolutionized pro defense as a Chicago Bears assistant, and he wasn't afraid to call out head coach Mike Ditka, the arch pug, when he felt the situation demanded it (and sometimes when it didn't). Ol' Buddy was all about football, and two of his sons now coach in the National Football League.

A house full of drugs

Andy Reid's sons? Two of them are dope fiends serving prison time. Andy was too busy climbing the corporate coaching ranks and securing his position once he reached the top to notice a house full of guns and drugs and two out-of-control boys. Once they were arrested and re-arrested, he more or less put their fate in the hands of whatever Mormon god he serves. Then he went back to watching game film.

And Andy Reid and Joe Banner and Jeff Lurie begat the quarterback Donovan McNabb. I grit my teeth when I listen to the homer out-of-town announcers on Fox praising Donovan (notice how we've all become first-name intimates of our athletes today?) as he goes about his business of ritually choking up when anything important is on the line. Can you picture Bobby Layne vomiting in a Super Bowl huddle? Can you see Norm Van Brocklin putting up with Terrell Owens's bullshit for a second longer than it would take to grab him by the throat, put him against the nearest wall, and explain to him the facts of football life in the Dutchman's world?

A racehorse in the glue factory

The total quarterback today is Peyton Manning. The Indianapolis Colts are his team because he is the complete leader, thoroughly prepared, incomparable in execution, and totally dedicated to the football business at hand. Is there any way by the wildest stretch of the most dedicated Eagles fan's imagination that Donovan McNabb could fit that description?

And then there's the truly sad and despicable postscript of Michael Vick. This animal-abusing ex-convict is the ultimate football thug. Yet I feel a certainly sympathy for Vick in his present state, a watch fob plaything for Eagles management, a transparent public relations ploy, hired to run out for a play or two for whatever whimsical reason and then relegated back to the bench to watch the game that he once played so well. It's sad to watch a racehorse in the glue factory before his time.

It's sad to watch the Eagles, too. You can paint a treadmill green, but it's still a treadmill.♦


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To read a response by Dan Rottenberg, click here.