On an early August afternoon in 2017, I was walking back to work when I spotted Ike Reese heading toward Independence Mall. It was the day of the solar eclipse, and Reese was joining the throng of people hoping to catch a glimpse of the celestial event.

I asked the former Eagles special teams ace and current sports radio host for a Birds prediction for the upcoming year. “10-6,” he proclaimed, with an unearned confidence that imbues all of our no-stakes preseason outlooks.

Yet, 10-6 seemed a bit optimistic to me. There were too many questions and not enough answers surrounding the team to justify a belief that this franchise could vie for a playoff spot, let alone a place on the Super Bowl stage. Would Doug Pederson develop in the area of game management? Was he the right guy to develop Carson Wentz? Was the recent acquisition of Ronald Darby enough to paper over a lack of depth in the secondary? Would the Eagles survive a brutal opening stretch of three road games in four weeks, including trips to Washington and Kansas City, with a cross-country flight to Los Angeles added for good measure? Could Philadelphia keep pace with the Cowboys and Giants, two teams that both seemed bound to contend once again in 2017?

Who am I, though, to temper Ike Reese’s enthusiasm? He might be right. With a little luck and a healthy roster, the Eagles had a reasonable chance to edge toward the periphery of contention.

Later in the day, we would all look skyward, hoping against hope that the gathering clouds would not obstruct what might be a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Fast forward to Sunday. From a weather perspective, it was a gloomy day in Philadelphia. But overcast conditions and steady rain did little to dampen the outlook of Eagles fans. Our team was on the cusp of Super Bowl glory. All that stood in the way of the organization’s first Lombardi Trophy was arguably the greatest coach and quarterback tandem in NFL history.

However, Tom Brady and Bill Belichick seemed like minor obstacles given the gigantic hurdles the Eagles negotiated this season. The Eagles lost their Canton-bound left tackle, franchise quarterback, and star middle linebacker to season-ending injuries at various points of their journey to Minneapolis. In addition to Jason Peters, Wentz, and Jordan Hicks, the injured reserve brigade enlisted offensive spark plug Darren Sproles, special teams standout Chris Maragos, and starting kicker Caleb Sturgis.

No matter. Into the breach stepped Halapoulivaati Vaitai, Nick Foles, Najee Goode, Corey Clement, Bryan Braman, and Jake Elliott. As starters were sidelined, roles were redefined, schemes were altered, and the train kept moving. The Falcons and Vikings proved to be no match for an Eagles team that seemed destined to win it all. Why would the Patriots be any different?

For me, the “Matt Stairs moment” was the flea flicker in the NFC Championship game. When Foles connected with Torrey Smith for a 41-yard bomb that put the Eagles ahead by a score of 31-7 against one of the NFL’s elite defenses, I knew this was a different team. They weren’t playing by the set of rules in which all of my preseason anxieties were rooted. This team was assertive. It was resilient. Above all, it was relentless in knocking down anything that stood in the way of greatness.

The final challenge wasn’t easy. Brady had a performance for the ages. He threw for over 500 yards, tossed 3 touchdowns, and boasted a QB rating of 115.4. Brady moved the Patriots offense down the field with ease, to the point that Belichick never had to call on his punt team. The Pats racked up 613 total yards of offense and scored 33 points. It wasn’t enough.

In the end, not even the GOAT could withstand the inexorable pull of destiny. And the remarkable play of Foles.

During his first stint with the Eagles, Foles was the subject of a lengthy profile by legendary sportswriter Buzz Bissinger. In his piece, Bissinger derided Foles as a “chickenshit” quarterback who would never lead the team to the Super Bowl. “Acolytes get to heaven,” he asserted. “Strut gets you to the Super Bowl.”

It would be easy to attack Bissinger from the lofty perch of hindsight, but the author has a gift for observation, as anyone who has read Friday Night Lights or A Prayer for the City can attest. True to form, Bissinger did identify a crucial aspect of Foles’ personality that presaged his success on the biggest stage professional football has to offer. He just mistook it for a critical weakness. Bissinger writes:

Foles seemed almost philosophical, in his own way. “He just wanted to make sure I was okay,” says Nader today. “That I still recognized there’s more to life than football. Everybody has to stop playing it at some point.”

So maybe Nick Foles doesn’t have the edge of Peyton Manning. Or the come-from-behind fearlessness of Tom Brady. Or the gravitas of Drew Brees. Or the feet of Russell Wilson, or Colin Kaepernick, or …

He carries with him the fragility embedded into everything. The dividing line you never know. It’s something that no championship ring can ever teach him and few NFL players truly understand, clinging to their careers long after they’re over.

Foles played like a man unburdened by the weight of expectations. The game wasn’t too big for the reserve quarterback because he maintained the perspective that he was just playing a game. The results speak for themselves:

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The national media has an annoying habit of trafficking in disaster porn when it comes to covering Philadelphia sports fans, so it was no surprise that they found some video that resonated with a script that was written long ago. Moreover, resident curmudgeon Ernest Owens was able to shoehorn his narrative about white privilege into a description of the post-game revelry:

If this is the distorted image one takes from the Super Bowl celebrations, then the editorial offices of Philly Mag must need a good cleaning. Owens’ musings on this topic are always written from a distance. He’s a writer who at times has a decent view of the forest, but his inability to see the trees renders his perspective hopelessly incomplete and largely inconsequential. His analysis of the post-game events was already written. He just waited for the selectively chosen footage that would validate the immutable narrative to which he has dedicated himself. So it goes with the rest of the national media.

Sunday night was not a riot. It was a celebration. The overwhelming majority of us who took to the streets were peaceful. We were happy. Our team had won, finally.

This was not a manifestation of white privilege. Far from it. What I saw as I walked through Mayfair was a reflection of the diverse community in which I live. We were all united in the joy of witnessing our football team accomplish something it had never done before. It was a welcome break from worrying about the future of the neighborhood, declines in home ownership, the ubiquity of drugs, and the tenuous ground on which many of our local businesses find themselves. These are concerns shared in areas as diverse as Bucks County and West Philadelphia. I know. I’ve covered community events in both places.

For one night, we were able to put aside the challenges of the future and enjoy the present. All of us.

I found myself at McNally’s. Not that McNally’s. Mayfair’s McNally’s doesn’t have The Schmitter, but it does have the welcoming feel of a friend’s basement bar. It was no surprise, then, to find so many people I knew there. In a scene that was replicated throughout the Delaware Valley, we hugged our family members, reconnected with old friends, and toasted those who weren’t able to see the day the Eagles delivered a Super Bowl victory.

Don’t let the detractors define the storyline. In a town that’s seen some good days and endured its share of bad days, Super Bowl Sunday was a great day.

On Monday morning, the sun parted through the clouds to greet the city of Philadelphia. And a new day dawned on the city of champions.