**Awakens from two-day hangover while furiously shuffling past 800 cans of Yuengling**

Since we only do this every two decades or so, please allow me talk some shit. Ahem.

Y’ALL REALLY THOUGHT CASE KEENUM WAS FINNA COME INTO THE GREATEST CITY IN THE UNION AND BEAT THESE BOYS? LOLOLOLOLLOOLOLLOLOL.

Anyway.

This is the way Philadelphia would have wanted it. We do not care about you talking about beating us until you actually throw enough hooks to keep our heads on the canvas. You wanna take over the Rocky statue? Keep it. Joe Frazier been waiting to whup another ass. You think it fazes us that you’ve kept us down, undersold our culture, and given the world an expectation that we are less than another franchise? Fine. We’ll sell out dog masks on Amazon like they’re steroids for a city yearning for the top spot.

This is Philly. We don’t give a damn about theatrics, your SKOL claps, them Viking pigtails, your shitty Dunkin’ Donuts, or our rejected sons, like Matt Ryan playing in Atlanta and making national broadcasts talk about him like he’s special because he went to Willy Penn Charter. We don’t need gimmicks. We ain’t asking for anything, we’d rather scrape and crawl our way there and somersault over your lifeless corpse in the process.

So it’s OK. Philly, you are allowed to cry in the stands because the last time you saw this happen, you might not have been of — legal — drinking age. You can bang all the beers in F Lot under the lights of The Linc because who knows when it’ll taste this good again. You can climb any pole in South Philly, dance down Broad St., and ride your dune buggy up the Art Museum steps because that shit needed a dune buggy.

There is no Carson Wentz. There is no Darren Sproles, Jordan Hicks, Jason Peters, the foundation building the meat of the franchise over the last few years to propel us to this point. Our glory is in Nick Foles, Jalen Mills, Chris Long, the forgotten collective thrusting the might of a mischaracterized group of snowball throwers, mainline preppies, and South Philly curmudgeons who have been waiting for a moment to remind you why we matter.

All we want is the same thing we’ve always asked for: Our moment in the sun, our Super Bowl, our time to talk every ounce of shit our ancestors were denied in countless haunting seasons. This ain’t only for Brian Dawkins and Donovan McNabb, Big Reggie White and Randall Cunningham, Sonny Jurgensen and Jeff Garcia, and the like. This one is for all of us.

This is for Jigar Desai, who might still be running into poles if his passion allows it. This is for the gawd Larry Poff, the fire behind a 20-week trek back to the top, the King of Eagles Twitter, and “Our Baby.” But mostly — like last time, and like the next time -- this is for the tired, the proud, the resilient, the dominating core of Philadelphia’s most extreme fan base: The men and women watching the Eagles. The crowd that infiltrates every arena, daring you to kick us out.

My fellow jawns, I don’t know what’s going to happen in a couple weeks in Minnesota. I hope we slap the avocado paste out of Tom Brady’s shitty face. But what I do know is, this was worth the ride. We’ve played this game a lot of times and never won once when it was called a Super Bowl. We did it being led by the most unlikely man to get us there. Fuck it, we’ll be the underdogs. We’ve never won the biggest one. But best believe, we’re going to try to kick your ass with the arrogance of a crew that’s been here before. What else did you expect? This is Philly, after all. Y’amean?