I’ve always been loud when it comes to sports.
Just… not like this.

I grew up in a basketball family. NBA games hummed in the background like a second language—quick passes, fast breaks, the sound of rubber against the boards. In our house, you watched the Lakers because the Lakers just happened to you, whether you wanted them to or not. We argued about free throws, yelled at refs who couldn’t hear us, and declared full-on war with anyone disrespecting purple and gold.

Being vocal wasn’t new to me. I knew how to pace a room with frustration. I knew how to cheer. Strictly speaking, I even knew how to play. I understand basketball.

But football was different. To be fair, football didn’t exist where I grew up—so yes, I was late to the party. To this slower, more brutal party. Too many pauses. Too much jargon (ehem, pass interference). Too many men standing around while announcers tried to explain the complexity of something that just looked like violence and chaos.

And then I started watching the Eagles.

I’m still not entirely sure how it happened.
Actually—wait. I do know.

My ex was an Eagles fan even before I met him in L.A. Then we moved to a town an hour outside Philly, and the following year, the Birds won their first Super Bowl. You’d think that would’ve been enough to get me hooked. But football was his thing. His space.

Then he disappeared from my space.
Which meant I got to watch whatever I wanted on the TV in my bedroom.

One Sunday after my post-church nap, just for fun, I turned it to the Birds.

One game here.
A fourth-quarter comeback there.
A defensive stop that made me bolt upright on the couch.

“I’m not going to be invested in this…” I said to myself—as I typed an angry, ALL CAPS text full of careless typos to my brother about how our Offensive Coordinator should be FIIIIRRREEEDD.

Somewhere along the way, I got pulled in.

Not casually.
Fully.

Because when you start watching the Eagles, you don’t get to stay detached. You don’t sip your coffee politely while Jalen Hurts takes his sweet, sweet time getting the ball out of the pocket. You don’t just nod when Smitty tiptoes his way into the end zone. And Saquon Barkley—well, enough said.

You yell.
You rise.
You scream at screens like it might change the outcome.

The Birds didn’t just make me loud.
They made me feral.

There’s something about the whole gritty, unapologetic spirit of Philly football that lets me be aggressive. That wants me to be. Yes, it’s impolite at times (okay, most of the time). But when you’re in the midst of it, it’s not chaotic or aimless.

It feels… right.
Focused.
Even beautiful.

Football—and this team in particular—gave me permission to tap into a part of myself I didn’t realize needed air.
The part that doesn’t apologize for yelling.
The part that wants to feel collective agony with a crowd of strangers.
The part that finds a kind of strange poetry in anticipating what play was called right before the snap.
The part that lives for those impossible fourth quarter miracles—
and still willingly signs up for the heartbreak that often follows.

I pride myself on being logical. A sport played almost exclusively in this country should feel trivial in the grand scheme of eternity—or even human history. But maybe that’s the point. Victories are momentary. Plays are explosive and short. Seasons reset. Players and coaches get cut or traded, and the slate is wiped clean. In the big picture, it’s fleeting. And yet… I care.

My friends would argue I care a lot. And they’d be right.

Normally, I need to understand something deeply before I get invested.

Basketball is rapid and creative. Baseball is patient and precise. Football is pure, unfiltered: “What just happened?!”

For a long time, I dreaded admitting how much I cared about the outcome of games—because what if some gym bro saw my jersey and asked me to name the entire depth chart, or explain the difference between a right and left tackle? I couldn’t. Still can’t.

But it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. It doesn’t mean I can’t learn it. And the moment I realized I’m allowed to love something without mastering it—that I can be a fan without being an expert—was oddly freeing.

“It’s not that deep, bro.”
Oh, but maybe that’s what makes it meaningful.

I’m no expert.
I’m just a fan.

Let’s be honest—heart palpitations are the norm for the middle 95% of every Eagles game. You think you’re getting a break, and suddenly you’re screaming into a throw pillow because we went for it on 4th & 1 from our own 35.

Because—duh. Of course we did.

And yet… I keep watching.
Keep yelling.
Keep showing up.

So when that second Super Bowl win came easy, it felt earned.

Because something in me comes alive when the Birds play.
Something louder.
Grittier.
Braver, maybe.

So yeah—I’ve always been loud.
But this?

This is Eagles loud.

All that to say—football is back tonight.
Go Birds. 🦅