By Sean Quinn

I love the phrase “Go Birds.” I think it’s the perfect cheer. It can be screamed by a little girl at the top of her lungs as she flips off the New York Giants bench, or it can be a mournful whisper into the ear of a dying man. It’s a municipal battle cry on a fall Sunday, because the good guys have gotta win, and may whatever powers that be have mercy on your soul if you’ve got a Dallas star on your helmet.  It’s short enough that somebody can catch you passing by in an airport or a subway when you’re both wearing gear. There’s nothing better than being in an international terminal, halfway around the world, and hearing some DelCo meatball shout-out at the sight of midnight green. It’s even better that it’s not the team’s actual name, but there’s only one THE Birds. If you know you know.

It was a fun ride Popop. There are no commercial prospects in my writing this, but I couldn’t help myself. It just felt right. You know I rocked my leather jacket with your urn in my pocket for the game. We went out and I placed you front and center. A couple of strangers at the next table asked me what the little jar was. In the most Philly way, they immediately understood. If you know you know. We had a great time and made some friends along the way.

I love so many places, people, and things, but there is a spectrum. There are some items on that list I don’t think I could stop loving even if I tried. You’re in that top tier. Wrestling and track were both mysteries to you, but I’ll never forget playing hockey and you howling, slamming on plexiglass while I laughed back and smacked my stick against the boards after a goal. I love how much you loved watching us play.

“Like Bobby Clarke, Seanie!”

“As Clarkie goes, the Flyers go.”

I was Bobby Clarke and Connor was Reggie Leach. You know I loved playing center. You get to do a little bit of everything. You get to pass, shoot, go into the corner, and throw some hands if it’s needed (or cool some of the boys down if they’re getting a little too froggy). I don’t think you ever watched “Goon.” Solid movie. I know you liked “Slapshot.” You can’t go wrong with Paul Newman. Goon is basically my generation’s version of Slapshot. I’ve still got my old skates. You know Grandmom could never throw anything away.

That’s another thing I love: how you two loved each other. I’ve played witness to too many calls between you both. You would be growling on the phone with one other, but I always knew what was about to come. The minute you hung up the phone you turned into a puddle, “I hit a grand slam with that One.”

Grandmom was more stubborn. She’d hang up after chirping at you. She’d stare off and mutter, “always has to be a production with that man.” Everyone knew she treasured you. You were the grizzled truck driver and the face of the operation, but anyone with working eyes could tell that she ran your show.

I’ve written the pilot season of a sitcom about youse two. I think it’s got legs. It’s schmaltzy and cute if nothing else. I did tell the world that you left Grandmom to beg for change in the bathroom while you stood in the corner. You deserve it, you absolute strapjob.

But that’s enough hockey talk. I saw Broad Street and people weren’t even angry-rioting. That bummed me out even more than the Super Bowl loss itself. It’s like when a dog doesn’t eat. Everybody just kind of hung their heads and went home. I didn’t really mind too much. I just enjoyed it all for what it was: a chance to be with you, even if only for a few hours.

Ray Didinger said it best with, “The Birds are a family heirloom.” That’s so well put. It’s not about some silly game that kids play in the park. It’s about getting everybody together for dinner before you head out on the town, looking for trouble in all the right places. It’s about watching a new player come over from Ohio and he “gets it” to the point where even his own mother admits that he’ll never leave the city. I’ve been all over, and there are other places where I would happily live at a moment’s notice, but I’ll never reject the moniker of being baptized in Philly. I was raised in the best cult in town.

Everyone still talks and tells stories about you. Every now and again I’ll hear a new one (which is always a welcome shock. Typically, I’m the historical source of your escapades). I’m just popping in to say hi to the old man. We’ve had plenty of fun, but I’m glad I’ve got my Sundays back. I’ve got too much crap to do anyway.

Go Birds, Love Always,

Your Sean