THERE I sat, at the edge of my bed, bleary-eyed at 10 past midnight. I had a court date in mere hours, but sleep was the farthest thing from my mind.

The Phillies had just won the pennant, damn it, and I wasn't going to miss a second of the celebration.

That's when I knew the Eagles had lost me. Here I was, fighting off the Sandman for the Fightin' Phils when, on Sunday, I'd turned off the Birds after only 45 utterly disappointing minutes.

What strange behavior from someone who'd spent 37 years bleeding Eagles green. Who orchestrated her dates around scrimmages. Who swooned over Roman Gabriel while others lost their hearts (and other things) to David Cassidy and Greg Brady. Who considered both the rat-infested Vet and the Vince Lombardi rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike sacred ground. (Some things transcend team loyalty.)

I'M NO bandwagon-jumping chippie who's rolled over for the guys on the fast track. My connection to the Eagles has been visceral. I may not have watched Bednarik play, but I grew up hearing about the hit on Gifford. Suffered through the McCormick, Kotite and Swamp Fox years. Rejoiced with Vermeil, and Buddy. Embraced Jaws and Wilbert and Harold (especially, forever, Harold!), Randall and Donovan. Saw the Promised (Meadow)lands with Herman.

Sobbed when B-Dawk left.

But something's gone out of me these last few years, even though we made the playoffs and reached the Super Bowl. I've been trying to tell myself it's that way with all pro sports, that the spirit and soul take a back seat to the bottom line. I even said that football, in particular, is susceptible to this kind of thing because the season is so short and they need to suck as much profit out of it in as limited a period as possible.

That also goes for the players, who have a more abbreviated professional life expectancy than, say, a competitive golfer whose major injury is something along the lines of a hangnail.

But when I watch films like "Knute Rockne, All American" and "Jim Thorpe, All American" and "Insert Name, All American," I long for the days when loving the game for the sheer joy of it wasn't considered corny.

It's hard these days to look at a pro team in any sport and think that this bunch of guys (face it, Title IX or not, the guys are still the main draw) are together for a purpose other than padding some wallets.

With very few exceptions, like when McNabb played injured or Brian Westbrook was giving his all, the Eagles have been uninspiring these last few seasons. Sure, they've made the playoffs, but they haven't shown that their hearts were in it.

Sunday was a perfect example of how they just marched onto the field to earn a paycheck. With McNabb sleepwalking through most of the first half, and not even knowing how many timeouts were left, it seemed as if the guys just didn't give a fig.

But now I understand, a little slow on the uptake, that there is a team in this city that does. A team with a real heart and soul.

The boys in red and white have shown us over the last few seasons that they might make mistakes, might even do some sleepwalking of their own, but overall, especially now, their performance has been magical.

Having spent most of my life preoccupied with the Eagles, vigorously defending Philadelphia as a football town, I've come to realize that the team that really deserves our devotion isn't the one that can't score a lousy touchdown against a lousy team.

The team that really deserves our affection is the one that comes through in the clutch, stares defeat in the face with two outs in the ninth and still manages to snatch victory from its jaws. The team that, despite all the trash-talking from the national media (and having to deal with Manny "The Needle" Ramirez), is headed back to the World Series.

Like it says in that great song from "Damn Yankees" (an omen?), "You gotta have heart, all you really need is heart."

With the Eagles, that organ is now officially missing, and has been for a long time. I knew something was wrong when I cheered B-Dawk's success in Denver, and hoped he'd sack our QB (whichever one is healthy or off probation) when the opportunity came.

Sayonara, Brian.

Come to Mama, Ryan!

Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer.

E-mail cflowers1961@yahoo.com.