Reflections on the Road: Two Birds, One Super Bowl

I drove over 225 miles round trip Super Bowl weekend to visit friends in Baltimore. I-95, I-695, York Road, MLK Jr Highway, I-395, and city streets in between; through neighborhoods like Rosebank, Federal Hill, Inner Harbor, and Mount Vernon. I drove by M&T Bank Stadium twice, unintentionally, misdirected by my co-pilot. At night, well-lit and deserted, the stadium is particularly impressive.

Just twenty-four hours later, I was home in Philadelphia watching a football game happening in a different stadium. By the end of the night, I had officially changed from a Ravens fan to an Eagles fan. While I don't pay attention to football - I've never even attended a game - I've hosted playoffs and Super Bowl parties; I've worn purple and claimed Baltimore pride. Yet, not until this Super Bowl, rooting for the Eagles on the road to victory, have I felt stressed about football, or even really, truly enjoyed watching football. I felt invested, which surprised me. For the first time, I felt more like a Philadelphian than a Marylander, and that scared me.


In Western Maryland, football fandom is very diverse, even within my own community of family and friends. Ravens, Redskins, and Steelers fans dominate, with a smattering of misplaced New England or New York fans. In fact, I think I'm in the minority among those closest to me when I claim to be a Ravens fan. Even my brother, who lived in Baltimore, roots for the Broncos instead. I've been surrounded by HTTR and terrible towels, even from the pulpit, but it always seemed to me that if I was from Maryland, I had to support the Maryland team - and that's the Baltimore Ravens. It was a matter of state pride, like eating crabs or flying the flag. Why would I choose another team? I didn't care about the sport itself, or the players - goodness knows defending Ravens players is difficult - which only left caring about where the team comes from. Why would I root for a team from any place other than home?

Of course, Baltimore is far from being my home. I would never tell someone I'm "from" Baltimore, like people often claim their nearest city when they meet someone new. In fact, only in the last few years have I explored the city outside of the Inner Harbor and Camden Yards. I'm still trying to get a grasp on its neighborhoods, its sprawling geography. This past visit, I made a point to drive through town to get from point A to point B, instead of taking the faster drive on I-83. I want to understand Baltimore; to see its streets change; to see the block-to-block conditions people say it has. For whatever reason, I feel obligated to know Baltimore. I'm a Marylander; I should know my way around our biggest city.

The truth of the matter is, though, that I've spent more time in Philadelphia in two and a half years than I have in Baltimore in twenty-five years. Despite my Maryland pride, I chose Philly - not Baltimore - as the city in which to establish myself. Still, throughout football season, I gracefully exonerated myself from Philly Eagles mania by saying "I'm a Ravens fan." I passively supported the Eagles when I needed to, but admitted my general disinterest and lukewarm affiliation to the other birds. I got by; no one seemed to care. I realized, though, that by drawing that distinction, I was continuing to other myself from Philadelphia. I was living here for over two years with no plans to leave, but insisted on making it clear that I was not from here. I was not a Philadelphian. I wasn't even a Pennsylvanian. Maryland was my true home and that was where my affiliations always would lie.

Then, the Eagles made it to the Super Bowl. I left Baltimore in the rain to arrive in Philadelphia and drive around for an hour and a half to find a parking spot. I watched the game with four other non-natives, non-football fans yet we all sat on the edge of our seats, cheering so loudly at times we scared the cats. We took to the streets that night along with everyone else in Philadelphia to celebrate the incredible victory our Eagles had just won. I watched hundreds, maybe thousands, of people march up Broad Street, dressed in green and chanting E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES! on repeat. I wasn't wearing a speck of gear; I eventually stayed tactfully to the sidelines to let the true fans celebrate. I didn't want to pose or impose, but I was really, truly excited the Eagles had won. I was excited for Philadelphia, for my neighbors and bartenders and grocery cashiers and garbage men and police men and even the PPA. I was excited that this city and people I had come to care for so very much had finally gotten something for which they've waited a very, very long time. I was excited to be in a city that, even in its most exciting moment, feels like a small town. I was excited that Philadelphia is the city I call home.

Do I care about the Eagles? No, not really. Do I care about Philadelphia? Yes, a whole lot. So for a night, or a season, I'll support the Eagles, and who knows - maybe it will go further than that. Maybe I will finally change my license. Maybe I will finally get a parking permit. Maybe I will finally live in the moment, embracing the place that informs my identity right now as opposed to clinging to the past or anticipating the future. Right now, I am a Philadelphian. That might not last long, so why not milk it for what its worth? I think my heart has room for two cities, two states, two birds. That is, until a Ravens-Eagles Super Bowl...but let's cross that bridge when we get there.