Oh yes — that’s me there on the cover of this week’s Center City Weekly Press.

My good pal, Kerry O’Connor, Sports Editor for the Weekly Press, wrote a feature on my Eagles poem (and my general fanaticism) and then printed the poem in the paper, on page five. Check it out!

Maybe now the Eagles organization will finally recognize my deep and abiding love. Please. Please. Love me back. Just a little bit. Please.

Of course, I crave all things Eagles. And after years of drooling at the commercials for Turkey Hill’s Eagles ice cream, I finally got some tonight — surprise surprise, Acme was unloading the stuff at a deep discount now that the Eagles’ season is over.

Turkey Hill describes it as: “Vanilla flavored ice cream spiked with plenty of choco peanut butter footballs…plus, smooth swirls of peanut butter and chocolatey fudge. It’s a true team effort, and a super sundae!”

All I can say is YUMMY! Although… it is a pretty darned rich… I’m sitting here eating this ice cream with a glass of water.

And, in honor of the Eagles triumphant return to the post-season, I give you “Brotherly Love,” a poem I wrote just before the Eagles trip to Superbowl XXXIX in 2005. To Jeff Garcia, Brian Westbrook, David Akers, Brian Dawkins, Jeremiah Trotter, Andy Reid, Jim Johnson, and even Donovan off in recuperation — we love you, fellas!

Brotherly Love
for James Phillips and the Philadelphia Eagles

A local man [James Phillips] said he shoveled snow at Lincoln Financial Field for 30 hours getting ready for the big NFC championship game, and now he is in the hospital, in danger of losing his fingers, his toes, his ears and possibly his nose.

–reported by NBC 10, Philadelphia, January 27, 2005

We love you more than fingers or toes.
Remember that.

Remember when they call us dangerous,
when they issue warnings throughout the league
and hold him up us as proof of just how crazy we are.

Remember, we love you
more than mere digits,
more than appendages—ears or nose.

We love you more than the scent of sweet fried onions
on a cheese steak on an Amoroso roll.
We love you more than Tony Luke’s, Pat’s, Jim’s, or Geno’s.
We love you more than soft pretzels,
more than water ice, Tastykakes, or $4 Pitchers of Lager.

We love you more than the sticky floor at Dirty Frank’s,
more than Tattooed Mom’s, the Continental, or Buddakan.

We love you more than the girls at Delilah’s,
more than the men of The Cave.

We love you more than William Penn, Ben Franklin, or Betsy Ross,
more than the Constitution,
more than the Liberty Bell and its ridiculous crack.

We love you more than Cape May in August,
more than the Mummer’s on New Year’s Day.

We love you more than Rocky,
more than counting the steps at the art museum,
more than jogging along West River Drive.

We love you from the Schuylkill to the Delaware,
from the Blue Route to the Boulevard.
We love you more than South Street,
more than parking in the middle of Broad on a Sunday afternoon.

We love you so much
we shovel snow for you,
30 hours in a blizzard with no gloves
for you.
This is how we are dangerous:
after all these years, we don’t see ourselves
turning purple in the mirror,
our fingers, black and green,
the colors of your uniform.