There is something about unlikely victories that make them particularly sweet. We know something about that here in the urban wilds of eastern Pennsylvania. That guy named Washington fled across the Delaware from New York near here with a rag tag group of troops and one of the most powerful armies in the world on his tail.
No serious thinker gave the continental army a chance. Even the Congress, meeting in center city Philadelphia, assumed their little rebellion was over; they ran. In short order he commandeered every boat on the river, trapped his enemies on the other side at least temporarily, steadied his men, and recrossed the river on Christmas morning. His unlikely and unexpected victories at Trenton may not have turned the tide completely, but they held the rebellion together.
In more recent time, Rocky Balboa became the patron saint of underdogs everywhere. We must be the only city with a statue of a boxer in front of its glorious art museum.
During the past week the region sold out of dog masks, as a collective frenzy to embrace the Philadelphia Eagles’ underdog run through post-season football took hold. They were given no chance of winning either of the past two games. They won the first, they dominated the second, and last night my city went bananas. The underdogs’ win meant we won, our scrappy underdog of a city won.
February fourth our underdogs will play in the Superbowl
without the home field advantage that undoubtedly helped them last night. They will face the machine that is Tom Brady and his invincible Patriots. They are given little chance; I think they are going to win.
Meanwhile, I toil along telling my stories far removed from the big New York publishing houses, and while I sell books, I am unlikely to see the NYT Best Seller list. Still, I like being an underdog. I’ll take the success I get and give God the glory, as Nick Foles said after the game.
I have a made-to-order story to finish and The Unexpected Wife to edit now that comments are coming from my Beta readers. But first, Coffee.