Congratulations to the Philadelphia Eagles.  Despite a season filled with [injury-related] adversity, the players and coaches managed to bring the Lombardi Trophy home to Philadelphia for the first time.  Millions of people across the Delaware Valley can now cross “Super Bowl Win” off of their bucket list.  For that we thank you, Philadelphia Eagles.

The aftermath of the win, namely the manner in which many fans celebrated, was almost as big a story as the win itself.  Videos circulated of former WNBA star Dawn Staley verbally unloading the chip from her shoulder, while others of Kobe Bryant’s fatherly-subdued reaction warmed many hearts.  Average Joe fans took to the streets, flooding the intersections around City Hall and Frankford & Cottman alike.  There was screaming, yelling, hugs, kisses, fireworks, and so forth (and less arrests/destruction than in Boston…another win for Philadelphia).

At home, with just a small collection of family around me, I witnessed a lot of screaming and a lot of hugs (father and son, father and daughter, etc).  So what did I do?  Surprising even to myself, I mostly celebrated internally.

I am not a quiet guy.  I am not a passive guy.  I emphatically high five for every touchdown.  I yell at the screen when Big V misses a block.  I screamed and nearly woke my daughter two floors above me when Brandon Graham forced Brady to fumble.  And yet, when the clock hit zero…I backed against the wall, fist-pumped to myself, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Since that moment, I’ve taken some time to reflect on the reaction.  I find it odd and kind of out of character, which makes it compelling to me.

As an active adult athlete (yes, they’re beer leagues, so sue me), I’ve won a handful of championships over the years.  Looking back on those wins, while my teammates are throwing their gloves in the air and running to hug one another around the pitcher’s mound…I’m fist-pumping and breathing a sigh of relief.

When the Phillies won the World Series in 2008, my friends at the viewing party I attended lost their minds.  It was, after all, the first pro sports championship any of us had experienced in our lifetimes.  They piled onto one another in the middle of the living room as if Brad Lidge was under that very pile.  They ran outside and sprayed beer and soda bottles on one another, jubilantly hugging, kissing, yelling.  Me?  I fist-pumped, breathed a sigh of relief, and observed.

So…I’ve examined the wins.  What about the losses?

When Patrick Kane snuck the puck inside the left post in Game 6 of the 2010 Stanley Cup Finals, I was in the building.  My seat was about 100 feet above the scene of the crime.  Fans around me cried.  Others cursed and began placing blame.  Regardless, most stayed to watch the Stanley Cup be awarded.  Me?  I left my seat and sank down along the wall in the corridor.  Alone.

When those same beer league teams lose in the playoffs or championship and the team rallies together to pick one another up (or put each other down, depending on the team), I keep my distance.

All of this leads me to the question of why.  Why does someone so social, so passionate, and so invested withdraw and celebrate/lament internally?  Have I just invested SO MUCH physically and/or emotionally that I have nothing left to give?  My curiosity has certainly been piqued.  I think some serious research is in order.

Stay tuned for part two (eventually).