Mood: Weltschmerz
Song: “Vanilla Twilight” – Owl City (Not sure how I feel about a basketball player in the video)

Seismic sigh. Maybe the Counting Crows and Vanessa Carlton are right: You really don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone. I fear this will be the case when we look back on the should-be storied legacy of Donovan McNabb in Philadelphia.

From the moment the team drafted him, McNabb was showered with scorn, mostly because he’s “a black guy”. He wasn’t just any black guy, though. He was a great black guy with a sensitive nature and a song in his heart. None of this mattered. Truth be told, most Philly fans would prefer their quarterback be a hybrid of Jaws, Rocky, Vince Papale, Mike Schmidt, Sal Fasano and themselves (but only if they’re white). Donovan did not, could not fit this mold. All he could do was be the best quarterback we ever had. And he was hated for it.

That wasn’t me. I saw the genius and I appreciated his humanity. I felt that if we hung out, Donovan and I would become fast friends. We would go to Phish concerts together, because everyone in this town loves that shitty hippie band for some reason.

But the reasons I loved him are the same that others used to cast him out. For years, he’s been dogged by his vomiting on the final drive of Super Bowl XXXIX. This is a pain I know well. I took Lower Merion High School to consecutive Ultimate Frisbee state championships. Each time, our chances we felled by my inability to not wet myself in crucial gametime situations. This, along with general social awkwardness, contributed to a rocky social life that continues to this day.

But, really, we all buckle under pressure from time to time. Is that so hard to admit? Do we really, truly surrender our dignity to admit simple human fallibility that we all possess? And that’s ignoring the fact that our infinitesimally smaller failures are not scrutinized anywhere nearly as much as an NFL player’s are. It’s a terrible, unspeakable injustice. Who could possibly live up to that impossible standard? Not me, that’s for sure. And I doubt you could either, dear reader.

Oakland would probably be a good fit for McNabb. It’s like San Francisco’s “Island of The Misfit Blacks and Poors”. Just not actually an island, so I don’t know how well that simile works. Philadelphia doesn’t really have that so much as scary neighborhoods in which I dare not tread.

Anyway, Raiders fans would welcome Donovan, I think. Underneath the Darth Vader masks and spiked shoulder pads, they possess a vibrant soul that Philly fans do not. It’s probably why their team beat us in that Super Bowl in the ’80s. And I wish him well. In fact, few things would please me more to see him come back and beat the ever-loving snot out the team that unjustly gave up on him. It will be a victory for unappreciated people everywhere, one far more important than any Super Bowl or Ultimate Frisbee state championship. It will be a victory of the soul.

Song: “I Caught Myself” — Paramore
Mood: Wistful for an era long before I was born

It’s been a while since I last committed feelings to web page but, if there has been a lapse in time, it was caused the heavy stock taking of anguish that occurred in the wake of Brian Dawkins departure from the Iggles. In the long sleepless nights since, if I’ve even been able to manifest feelings into words, they connect awkwardly (and I know of awkward connections) in broken sentences shot through with emotion and punctuated by longing. And possibly an ellipsis.

In lieu of writing, I’ve tried my hand at a number of coping mechanisms.

I take free throws at the basketball hoop in the driveway. If I make three in a row, he’ll be back before training camp. I abandoned this tactic early.

If I can guess the next song on the radio, Dawk will be released by Denver next week. And I did it. So what if Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” comes on every third song. It still counts. So you owe me God.

The Wolverine movie only reminds us of our Weapon X, so we have committed to protest.

I even stopped being depressed that Samatha blocked me on Gchat because I spelled out the name of her Philly message board screen name (4lorn) by chemically killing the grass on her lawn.

Anyway, since the unspeakable happened, there has been the appearance of the team moving forward. The Eagles as a whole seem to be improved, added as they have a Pro Bowl left tackle and talented rookies at receiver and running back, but the mind inevitably comes back to the Dawk. But it’s like when your mother leaves your dad and you have to live with them because the court determined your real dad to be unfit. Yeah, the guy has a job, doesn’t refer to you only as “Kid” and buys you the dirt bike you really wanted when you were 12 but don’t really care about anymore but your mom knows it broke your heart when you didn’t get it at the time so she told the new guy it would be a big gesture to win you over so he did it anyway. You got the clean dad and the dirt bike, but it’s not quite the same. So I guess what I’m saying is I wish Brian Dawkins were my dad.

I suppose it’s bearable for now. The Flyers playoff defeat was predictable enough not to be too disappointing. The Fightin’s are in first, still defending champs. So that’s good. And the NFL regular season is far enough off that the specter of seeing my Daddy Dawk in an opposing uniform is an abstract horror. There may not be a copism mechanism outside of the medicine cabinet if that comes to pass.

Day two of Wild Card weekend opens with two AFC teams fond of employing gimmick plays and crazed linebackers. If the teams can negotiate a playing field draped in shoes, it’s to their credit.

Of course, it’s a homecoming of sorts for the Ravens, since half their starters went to the U. Okay, just McGahee, Ray-Ray and Ed Reed, otherwise known as the only Ravens anyone gives a shit about (except Bawlmer fans – they love their Matt Stover! That and McGahee sucks).

So join us in some retarded commentary. Otherwise

THAT’S DISRESPECT!

And Peezy ain’t havin’ that.