Howrah for Philly for winning the Super Bowl! Indeed it was Super. They have not always been. I had a friend, George Gutikunst, now departed, the garrulous owner of the Five Star restaurant Ondine's in Sausalito, CA that used to host Stupid Bowl parties. He would have not called this fabulous struggle stupid.
Having got my start in the NBA as the Philadelphia Warriors first round draft choice in 1961 and having become addicted to cheese steaks, hot pretzels with mustard, and roasted chestnuts, how could I not cheer for Philly? Besides, Patriots owner and Tom Brady voted for Trump. They deserved to lose. I sure hope Trump was watching the commercials that featured tons of people of color and racially mixed couples. The future is all about blending, Trump baby, suck it up!
The personal story, of course, is Foles, Philly quarterback, who almost quit the game, but came back and took over for injured starter, and superb leader, Carson Wentz. And take over he did, in spades, directing four quarters of seamless football. With his performance in the playoffs, and in the Super Bowl, Nick Foles earned the right to be the circus master of his own NFL team. The Eagles are ethically required to give this young man the right to negotiate with other clubs, many in dire need of quarterback leadership. Go Nick, we old Philly Warriors are on your side. I can imagine my dear Philly Warriors teammates and Philly natives, Wilt Chamberlain, Tom Gola, Paul Arizon and Guy Rodgers cheering wildly from their heavenly homes as you guided your Eagles down field for that last touchdown.
Was Robert DeNiro in the stands? He should have been. Oops, I forgot DeNiro is banned from Eagles games. DeNiro's son, Bradley Cooper, was in attendance, sitting with the Eagles team owner.
As soon as I finish this blog, I'm heading to my nearest Cheese Steak joint. It won't be a Philly sandwich, but I think flying to the City of Brotherly Love for lunch might be taking the victory too seriously.
The Super Bowl deserves a football poem. Here's one of the funniest poem about the pigskin sport that I've ever read. If it doesn't look like a poem for those who don't read much poetry, no worries, it's called a prose-poem.
Football by Louis Jenkins
I take the snap from center, fake to the right, fade back. . .
I've got protection. I've got a receiver open down field. . .
What the hell is this? This isn't a football, it's a shoe, a man's
brown leather oxford. A cousin to a football maybe, the same
skin, but not the same, a think made for the earth, not the air.
I realize that this sis a world where anything is possible and I
understand, also, that one often has to make do with what one
has. I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear corn
syrup on them because there was no maple syrup and they
weren't very good. Well, anyway, this is different. (My man
downfield is waving his arms.) One has certain responsibili-
ties, one had to make choices. This isn't right and I'm not go-
ing to throw it.
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