Christine M. Flowers: Jilted by the Eagles . . . again
IF YOU ask a random man what he'd pick as the most horrific scene in movie history, he probably won't mention something from "Friday the 13th," "The Hills Have Eyes" or "Saw 1-6."
IF YOU ask a random man what he'd pick as the most horrific scene in movie history, he probably won't mention something from "Friday the 13th," "The Hills Have Eyes" or "Saw 1-6."
No, if you ask your husband, boyfriend or brother what makes his blood run cold, the odds are 10-1 he'll pick the moment in "Fatal Attraction" when Glenn Close makes bunny stew in her ex-lover's kitchen.
Now, I'm not a proponent of cooking the family pet, but (like many of my sisters) I do understand what motivated Glenn to fricassee that wascally wabbit.
It transcends mere homicidal anger. The thing that pushes you over the edge is that profound feeling of betrayal that comes when someone you love, or thought you loved, crushes your heart under his cleats.
I think you know where I'm going with this.
While I'm not about to head off to the pet store and nab a sacrificial lamb (or bunny), I can certainly empathize with Glenn just now. It's Super Bowl weekend, and the Eagles have once again ripped my heart out of my chest.
There are words that do justice to what I'm feeling; it's just that Brian Tierney won't let me print them.
Of course, I'm not going anywhere. How could I root for another team, given my history with the Green-and-White-and-Black-and-Silver and whatever other color they decide to add to the uniform?
But I'm really, really upset.
Since '73, my family has had season tickets, which in Philadelphia terms makes us relative newcomers to the party. I know people who've sat at Franklin Field, then the Vet and now the Linc, an unbroken chain of grandfathers, fathers and sons (with a healthy sprinkling of daughters, too).
They've seen (and booed) the greats: McDonald, Van Brocklin, Bednarik, Gabriel, Carmichael, Randall, Wilbert and Jaws.
And they - meaning me - have greeted every season opener with the same fragile sense of hope, clinging to the possibility of a championship the way a parched man lunges toward an oasis in the desert.
We're like Glenn - sitting by the phone, "Madame Butterfly" playing in the background, hoping Michael Douglas will call and tell her he's left his family, including the bunny.
But though Glenn and I never do get that call, at least I get close. Twice, I even made it to the Big Game with the boys. But the creeps left me in the lurch.
The crazy part is, I keep coming back, co-dependent as ever.
Spring and summer blunt the pain, and I start to remember the things that attracted me in the first place: that sense of inevitability, the knowledge that the boys will be back on the field in September, courting me with sweet nothings like "first and goal," "through the uprights" and the ultimate aphrodisiac, "two-point conversion."
Maybe I'm like a battered spouse, a victim of serial abuse.
That I continue to make excuses for the team, which promises the moon and gives me, at most, a few conference championships, says more about my addiction than my beloved team's character.
That's the nature of the pathology - as someone once said, true insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. So, like Glenn, I hope. I pay for the tickets. I add green to my wardrobe, even though I don't even like the stupid color.
I turn down invitations every Sunday from Labor Day to New Year's, spurning other suitors with a "Sorry, there's a game that day." I even imagine seeing the Lombardi Trophy on the front page of the Daily News.
And then I get shafted.
USUALLY, I smile and say, that's OK, dear, hurt me some more. (Not like Glenn. She didn't take the betrayal lying down.) But this year, I'm considering something different. No, it won't involve a saute pan and some oil. I'm better than that. Plus, there's no Starbucks at Muncy.
This year, I'm going to take a team photo of our guys and use it for my dartboard. It won't be as dramatic as cooking a bunny. But at least I won't end up bleeding in the bathtub.
By the way, Arizona by 7. *
Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer. Hear her Sunday 4-6 p.m. on WPHT 1210/AM. E-mail