Goin' Deep 12.11.08

Eagles of a Feather
by Mikey Hammerstone

I awoke the other night (alone, unfortunately) in my bed shaking, sweating, and nervous. I began to reflect on the nightmare that had brought me to such a bloodcurdling state. Not knowing where to turn or who to draw comfort from, I screamed at the top of my lungs “NOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Had I dreamt that I was being ass raped by a large African-American man named Bubba in the state penitentiary? Did I see the likes of Beelzebub in the fiery pits of hell? Was I licking whipped cream off Rosanne Barr’s bunions? Sure, each of these scenarios would certainly be justifiable cause for such a reaction; however, the true anxiety was a result of something far, far worse. After taking a shot of Jim Beam from the bottle that I have lying next to my bed and smoking a cigarette in a total of three inhalations, I began to reflect. The following is an excerpt of the events as they unfolded (I implore those of you who are squeamish to please turn away now).

There I was, standing in the middle of an unknown city with the rain pummeling me like snowballs at Santa during an Eagles game. I looked down and noticed that I was wearing my beloved Brian Dawkins jersey. At that moment I realized, “Holy Shit, it’s Sunday!” I began to feverishly sprint down the street thinking to myself, “It’s almost kickoff. I need to get to G-man’s house.” With each stride I looked around only to see Giants fans to my left, Redskins fans to my right, and Cowboys fans chasing me from behind (only for a short distance seeing as how their redneck fat asses couldn’t keep up). I knew that something was terribly wrong. Why was I here? Where were my Eagle brethren? What would I do if I had to watch the Birds game alone?

Quickly, I dove into the first sports bar that I could find. Instantly I found an overwhelming sense of peace and comfort. There were 42-inch flat screen televisions in every corner, chicks with hourglass figures (with plenty of time left of the clock) serving free wings and beer, and football fans as far as the eye could see. As I began to peruse the establishment, one defining thing stood out to me. There was no Eagles section. I ran from table to table begging every passerby to please direct me to the Philly table. To my surprise, I received no response. After exhausting all of my options, I finally decided to ask the bartender: “Where are all of the Eagles fans?” The man standing behind the bar turned to me and said, “Eagles fans? There are no Eagles fans in this city. In fact, you’re the first one that I’ve ever seen.” Tears began to flow from my eyes, sobs of pain and sorrow bellowed from my hollow stomach, and not even the free wings and beer could calm my sorrow. It was at this time that I awoke.

Since that fateful night I’ve decided that no man (or woman) should ever fall victim to such a heinous scenario. Never shall a football fan of a certain team feel alone in a foreign place (unless you’re a Cowboys fan, in which case, you can go fuck yourself). That being said, I would just like to give a shout out to my Denver/Boulder Eagles family and thank them for never leaving me stranded during the NFL season. My glass (filled to the brim with bourbon) is raised to you G-man, Jimmy, Sergei, Dan-O, Sugar and Finn!

Go Birds!