As a former Philadelphian, I’ve found living in Maine to be challenging when it comes to sports, especially with such domineering pro teams.

Since I couldn’t be there celebrating the Eagles victory with the huge throngs that made their way to City Hall, I came home from our local Super Bowl party and in the quiet of my slumbering neighborhood – still cloaked in my dated Ron Jaworski jersey – I embraced tradition by shimmying up my own telephone pole, one greased not in hydraulic fluid, but only in the metaphorical tears from years of heartbreaking Philly losses. Reaching the top, I boldly sang out, “Fly, Eagles, fly!”

As my faithful dog, Kaiser, began to howl right along with me, I felt even more triumphant. There I was, high atop my pole, jubilantly pumping my fist at a darkened sky while singing praises to the gods that tonight smiled on my hometown. Nothing could lure me out of this long-awaited reverie; not hunger, fatigue, not even one more IPA. It was just Kaiser, me and the pole; we were one with the universe.

Alas, the spell was not to last forever. Within minutes, just as I was fantasizing Challenger the Eagle soaring victoriously high above my house, came the distant voice of an angry neighbor, “Hey! Shut up over there!”

Quietly, I slunk down the pole, and as Kaiser and I made a sober retreat to the warmth of our living room, I looked toward the neighbor and muttered, “Yeah? Just wait until the Flyers win the Cup!”

Jeff Leonards

Buxton