I’ll remember Super Bowl Sunday in 2018 for as long as I live.

For some strange reason that I can only now call “somebody up there looking out for me”, I decided to spend most of the 2017 Philadelphia Eagles season with my grandfather JJ, or “Pop Pop”. I knew I eventually wanted to move to North Carolina to be closer to my immediate family, and I knew he was getting older: a ripe, young 93 at the start of the season. “Why not spend some time with him?” I thought. I watched most games from home, anyway. Plus, I could spend some time with my best friend Craig, who lived nearby in New Jersey. 

And for about seven or eight Sundays in the fall of 2017, there we sat in JJ’s living room at 298 Springdale Terrace. Drinking the occasional “cold one” and cheering on our beloved Eagles. Regardless of who showed up or when, he’d always welcome them in. “Grab a cold one,” he’d remark. “You know where the fridge is!”.

And the most amazing thing happened in the fall of 2017. The Eagles opened up with a victory over the then Washington Redskins, then dropped a tough Week 2 matchup in Kansas City on September 17^th. They didn’t lose another game until December 3^rd against Seattle, some 11 weeks later. I wasn’t at Pop Pop’s house to see it, nor their season-ending Week 17 loss to Dallas on New Years’ Eve. In fact, I didn’t witness another Eagles loss at Pop Pop’s house that entire season.

Now, every Eagles fan has February 4, 2018 tattooed in their brain. The finest day in Eagles history. One of the greatest games in Super Bowl history. The whole day was perfect, though. I’d had a nice lunch at Yardley’s Continental Tavern with my first friend and fellow neighborhooder Emily. I’d shown up at Pop Pop’s house early that afternoon to play some cards. Pinochle, Pop Pop’s favorite. A rare occurrence too, as I partnered with him for one of the only instances I can remember. His arthritis was acting up on this rainy day, and he could barely hold his hand of cards. Apparently, his memory was acting up too: he’d forgotten to count a suit of cards and reneged on his hand, costing our team 50 cents. Tsk, tsk. 

But I’ll never forget one thing: when his beloved Eagles finally won the “Stupid Bowl” (as he’d call it), John J. Brennan of Yardley, PA smiled. And giggled. And looked happier than I’d ever seen him before. Like a young child on Christmas morning, gleaming at his new presents from Santa Claus. This stalwart, solemn, and sometimes gruff World War II veteran and leader of our family morphed into a giddy 6-year-old kid. It was so special to be there with him in that moment.

Sunday, February 9, 2025 was equally special. I decided to fly home from Charlotte to Philly to watch the game with my high school friend and golf teammate Dominic. It was a spur-of-the-moment kind of trip; I’d booked flights just a week before, and I was only spending 23 hours in Philly. But it was a gamble worth taking: buying a flight for the opportunity to rush Broad Street with all the yahoos and diehards. Boy, did that gamble pay off in spades. And I have Dominic to thank for that. 

He gently twisted my arm to come up for the game, to spend the day with him and his wife Kate and son Jack. Ultimately, I think my role was part fan, part therapist; to keep him sane in those stressful hours leading up to the game. Just like they were stressful in 2018 against the Patriots, and again in 2023 against the Chiefs. 

Just like 2018 and 2023, the game started well with the Birds putting up early points. But unlike those previous games, there was no real anxiety. No back and forth. No fingernail biting, no sheer dread, no sense of panic when something bad happened. Because nothing bad really happened. Super Bowl 59 was a bonafide, grade-A, 100%, certified ROUT. The Philadelphia Eagles, once again, playing spoiler to a dynastic team looking for glory. Against the Kansas City Freaking Chiefs. Against Patrick Mahomes. Against Coach Reid!

BEATDOWN!

I noticed something cool too: Dominic reminded me of Pop Pop last night. He was equally giddy, laughing and fist pumping throughout the living room of he and Kate’s South Philly rowhome. Any more fist pumping and I think Tiger Woods would be jealous. But it was sheer jubilation, the whole game. 

And of course, we took to Broad Street along with, oh, maybe 400,000 of our closest friends and neighbors. What a fascinatingly ludicrous scene: people clad in green and black jerseys, marching like ants northward towards City Hall. Car horns honking from the few brave souls who dared to cross Broad after the Super Bowl. Fireworks popping in the cold night sky. Shouts of “Go Birds” and some rather uncensored remarks towards the Kansas City Chiefs, Patrick Mahomes, and possibly Taylor Swift. Not that we ever used such foul and crass language, no sir! 

(….you don’t believe that, huh?)

Dominic brought his football and we just tossed it around for an hour in between sips of Yuengling Lights. Random people all over Broad Street jumped in for catches and throws, re-enacting their favorite Jalen Hurts passes from hours before. It was magical, and there’s nothing quite like a herd of well-lubricated Philadelphia sports fans to celebrate with. I was actually there, witnessing the absolute spectacle that is Broad Street after an Eagles Super Bowl win. And I couldn’t have done it without the gentle arm-twisting from Dominic. 

THAT’S what friends are for. THAT’S what I call a football game. And because of the Philadelphia Eagles, and because of Dominic and Kate and Jack, I’ll remember Super Bowl Sunday in 2025 for as long as I live, too.