A Love Letter to Philly, Passion and People Who Bleed Green

Ah, the birthplace of America. What a magical, gritty, glorious mess of a place. To most outsiders, we Philly fans walk around with a permanent chip on our shoulders. We’re loud. We’re blunt. We don’t sugarcoat, and we sure as hell don’t care about your fragile feelings.

Photography by Elizabeth Robertson

But if I had to sum us up in one word? Misunderstood.

See, we speak our minds not out of rudeness, but efficiency. Why waste your time—or ours—with the fluff of performative politeness? Maybe I’m biased, maybe I’m just fiercely loyal to my hometown, but once you really get to know us, you'll find we're some of the most genuine, loyal, no-bullshit people you'll ever meet.

I’m no Philly native, but I was raised like one—and I’m proud of it.

We have a fire in our bellies that’s hard to find elsewhere. A passion for family. A passion for hustle. A passion for getting a little too drunk on a Friday night. But more than anything, we have an almost religious devotion to our football team: the Philadelphia Eagles.

It's a love that borders on irrational. And no, it’s not like every other city’s football fandom. This one’s personal.

For those unfamiliar with the pain: until 2018, the Eagles were one of 13 NFL teams that had never won a Super Bowl. Fifty-one years. Not one ring. It’s a sore spot, and if you ever feel the urge to bring it up to a real fan—maybe don’t. That kind of talk can end in bruises.

But this story isn’t about me. It’s about the people who stuck around through it all. The ones who deserved that win the most.

Let me introduce you to the real Eagles fans.

Strip away the social media caricatures—the snowballs thrown at Santa, the drunken teenagers punching police horses (yeah, that happened). Forget all that noise. I’m talking about the lifers. The ones who bleed green, who tune into WIP 94.1 on their morning commute, who have the old-school eagle inked on their shoulder like a badge of honor. These are the people who redefine what it means to be a “fan” like my dad.

I come from a small but tightly knit family. My dad, has one sister—20 years older than him. He lost his mother when I was young and never really knew his father, except that he was from Philly. 

My dad didn’t grow up with a lot. Money was tight, vacations weren’t a thing, and asking for a car on your 16th birthday? Out of the question. He went to Fairfax High and found joy in what he could: his friends, mixing and turntables, his motorcycles, Prince. But most of all, he found joy in sports.

Sports became his religion. Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, tennis in the spring. Handball and dice in between. He idolized the Eagles the way other kids idolized superheroes. As he got older, that love only grew deeper. The team became his constant—the one thing he could count on every Sunday.

He grew up, did some college, met my mom, started a family. But his loyalty to the Eagles never wavered. No matter what life threw at him, they were his anchor. His escape. His joy.

And to this day, men like my father—now in their 40s, 50s, 60s—still gather around their TVs every Sunday. Sometimes together, usually apart, always committed. They yell at every bad play, cheer like kids at every touchdown, and spend all of Monday in a funk after a loss. Their moods rise and fall with the season.

And honestly? It fascinates me.

I grew up with that same love for sports. I wore basketball shorts everywhere, slept in my WNBA crew neck until it disappeared, and at any given moment owned no fewer than 15 jerseys. My dad even built a Jordan Flex Court in our backyard for my twin and me. But somewhere along the line, my passion shifted.

I realized I wasn’t going to be a professional athlete—and that was okay. I found new heroes. Creators. Visionaries. Writers. People like Steve Jobs, Maya Angelou, Doris Burke. My attention turned to storytelling, creativity, and connection. And suddenly, I didn’t care so much about the score.

When the Eagles lost, I didn’t spiral. I’d watch my dad rage at the TV and think, It’s just a game. Why not channel that energy into something you can build? Travel. Start a business. Create a memory worth retelling.

But for guys like him? That passion never dimmed.

It wasn’t until the 2018 season that I finally got it. That Super Bowl wasn’t just about football. It was a reward for unwavering faith. For the people who stayed loyal when there was nothing to show for it. It reminded me of the power of pure, unfiltered passion.

And passion—real passion—demands our respect.

Whether you’re an artist, an activist, a grocery store clerk, or a CEO—if you pour your soul into something, that’s enough. Passion has built cities. Sparked revolutions. Invented the devices we hold in our hands. Passion doesn’t whisper; it roars. It puts its arm around a stranger and belts out the lyrics to “Piano Man” in a dive bar at 2 a.m. It’s messy. It’s emotional. And it’s everything.

If you go through life without ever loving something that deeply—even if it’s just a football team—then maybe you haven’t really lived.

Being an Eagles fan didn’t teach me grace or diplomacy. It didn’t convince me that Santa Claus is a friend of the franchise. But it taught me something far more valuable:

Whatever you do in life, love it hard. Give it everything you’ve got. Don’t hold back just because it hurts sometimes. That pain is part of the ride. One day, it’ll all be worth it. The joy will come. And when it does, it’ll hit you like a wave—tears in your eyes, weight lifted from your shoulders, pride swelling in your chest.

If you’re a real Eagles fan, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

You felt it around 10:30 p.m. on Sunday, February 4th, 2018 and again this year. 

You earned that.

Fly Eagles Fly.