A friend of mine wrote this article for Sports Illustrated a few days ago:

Philly Goes 100 Seasons Without a Championship

Once again, I'll summarize the story for those too lazy to follow the link (even though we're talking about a friend of mine writing a story for the preeminent sports publication in the world, but I digress).

The Philadelphia Flyers were eliminated from the NFL playoffs this weekend, making it exactly 100 professional sports seasons since a team from Philadelphia won a Championship. I'll repeat that: 100 seasons, no championships.

But what does that mean to me?

My father is a Baltimore guy, as pure as they come. He loves Wild Bill Hagy, Art Donovan, and Lenny Moore; he hates Peter Angelos, Bob Irsay, and Paul Tagliabue. He also hates the Washington Redskins... intensely. More on this momentarily.

I was born in October of 1983, two months prior to the Baltimore Colts departing in a Mayflower truck on a cold night, forever robbing Dad of his first (and probably—sorry Mom—only) true love. And so it happened from that one event that not only was the life of one sports geek ruined, but the fate of another was sealed before he even reached 6 months of age.

Dad's life as a sports fan was largely defined by the time he spent in Memorial Stadium with my Grandpa and Uncle. From their Arbutus home they traveled to The House that Unitas Built each Sunday, forming a foundation for their relationship along the way. A romantic guy, my Dad speaks poetically about a lot of things (particularly if they occurred between the years 1950 and 1959), but nothing puts stars in his eyes like the times he reminisces about weaving through the crowds of Memorial Stadium like a running back evading would-be tacklers, racing back through West Baltimore as if sprinting to the end zone, and waiting back at the car for his Dad and brother, eating a Tasty cake.

The theft of the Baltimore Colts made this relationship impossible for him and his sons. Which brings me back to Philadelphia's 100 straight seasons without a championship.

After the theft of the Colts, rooting for the Redskins was not an option. Many Baltimoreans suffer from a severe little brother complex with Washington, D.C., and Dad is no different. The only reasonable option, in his fanatic brain, was to take the train to Philadelphia eight Sundays a year, in search of “greener” pastures, if you will. We became a band of orphaned football fans, warmly adopted by Randall Cunningham, Reggie White, Jerome Brown, and 50,000 drunk, profane Philadelphia Eagles fans.

As young kids, my brother and I were taken by the passion of the Philly crowds. We fell in love. The Eagles teams of the late '80s and early '90s made for an easy affair. Constantly outclassed by Super Bowl teams from New York, Washington, and Dallas, they remained somehow unbeatable at home. The blue collar crowd in the seats was almost as tough as the gang green defense on the field, creating a partnership that was good for a few unforgettable upsets each year. Veterans Stadium was everything for us that Memorial Stadium was for a trio of Keatts boys before us; the southbound Amtrak to BWI was our equivalent of the streets of West Baltimore.

If I had known the lifetime of disappointment that awaited me, I might not have been so appreciative of my Dad's decision to buy those tickets. Since then, the Eagles have sprinkled winning seasons over two decades of mediocrity. We've witnessed one Super Bowl loss, 3 straight losses in the NFC Championship (one of which was the last game ever played in Veterans Stadium), and very little else to speak of. My identity as a sports fan is simple: I anxiously await my next moment of heartbreak.

Anyway, take this as one self-indulgent view on the continued impact of the evil Irsay/Tagliabue theft of a great franchise from a great city.