Frank's Place: The Eagles' humble beginnings
And so, with an unusual mix of optimism and pessimism, another Philadelphia Eagles season begins. The media buzz - traditional and social - is in full roar. The civic anticipation in advance of Sunday's opener with the Cleveland Browns is, like the humidity, unavoidable. The franchise's marketing machine is racing like a Porsche engine.
And so, with an unusual mix of optimism and pessimism, another Philadelphia Eagles season begins.
The media buzz - traditional and social - is in full roar. The civic anticipation in advance of Sunday's opener with the Cleveland Browns is, like the humidity, unavoidable. The franchise's marketing machine is racing like a Porsche engine.
There's nonstop Eagles talk on the radio, special sections in the newspapers, preview shows on TV, podcasts on the, well, wherever it is that podcasts exist. Their green jerseys are ubiquitous, as are the Eagle logos affixed to the back of cars. Team flags wave proudly in front of houses from New Hope to Nottingham, a testament to the level of pigskin patriotism extant in 2016.
The devotion is deep, the devotees determined. On his last visit home, my son attached something called a Sling Box to my TV. It will allow him to view the Eagles in Virginia, as long as I've got the set tuned to the game. God forbid he had to watch the Redskins.
Financially, popularly, and culturally, the Eagles - like the rest of the NFL - are a phenomenon. By whatever measuring stick you choose - TV ratings, bottom lines, attendance, salaries, merchandise sales, market penetration - the numbers are unprecedented.
It's a rather astounding and robust maturity for an Eagles franchise that endured such a traumatic birth.
Who, on Oct. 15, 1933, could have foreseen such a future for the NFL's newest member?
That gray afternoon at the Polo Grounds, the brand-new Eagles, wearing blue-and-yellow uniforms, were pounded, 56-0, by the New York Giants. They've changed uniforms often since then, but never again been beaten so badly.
The Eagles then were new and not unusually noteworthy. College football, even high school football, was far more entrenched and popular here. That weekend, if you had stopped 100 Philadelphians in the street and asked them to identify the new professional team's starting quarterback, you likely wouldn't have found one who could name Dick Thornton. The same, unfortunately, might have been true a week later when, after having completed just 2 of 14 passes and thrown four interceptions, he was benched, replaced by the equally anonymous and almost-as-inept Red Kirkman.
Such an uninspiring beginning might have doomed them. The world of team sports, with the notable exception of baseball, was a chaotic and precarious place in 1933. New franchises, new leagues, occasionally even new sports came and went as regularly as the seasons.
The roster of NFL teams that by 1933 already had disappeared from the 13-year-old league read like a train trip through the Midwest - Akron, Canton, Columbus, Dayton, Toledo, Decatur, Rock Island. And there was no guarantee that even the successful franchises, like the Giants or Bears, were going to make it.
Their owners' timing was awful. When the Eagles entered, the league, like the world, was teetering on the edge of a financial cliff.
That fall of 1933 marked the dark heart of the Depression. On Oct. 16, the day the story of the Eagles' debut loss appeared in the Inquirer, a banner headline atop Page 1 screamed, "U.S. To Lend Billion To Closed Banks." (If the prospect of a federal bailout didn't scare you, then the headline just below probably did: "Hitler Rallies Nation.")
Ticket prices were reasonable, 50 cents to $1.50, but few could spare the cash for such an extravagance. By 1933, more than 250,000 Philadelphians, a quarter of the city's workforce, were unemployed.
Underfinanced Eagles owners Bert Bell and Lud Wray, who'd paid $2,500 for the franchise after the Frankford Yellowjackets folded, couldn't have been too encouraged by the second game either. On a Thursday night, Oct. 18, the Eagles were shut out again, 25-0, by the visiting Portsmouth Spartans. Worse, the crowd at the shabby Baker Bowl was estimated, no doubt generously, at 1,750.
That 8:30 p.m. contest was, of course, the first night game in Eagles history, coming two years before baseball would play under the lights. How that was accomplished in the Baker Bowl, the Broad Street ballpark that never had lights, wasn't mentioned in the following day's newspaper accounts. It's likely portable lights were utilized, though that would seem like a wild extravagance for such a cash-starved franchise.
By season's end, the worst of the Depression was over and the Eagles were attracting some interest. By the time the Giants came here for a season-ending rematch, Philadelphia had three victories and a tie in eight games. And the attendance for that 20-14 loss on Dec. 10 was more than respectable, either 10,000 or 18,000, depending on which source you believe.
The Eagles won a couple of championships in the late 1940s, and at Franklin Field in the years flanking their 1960 title they built a large and loyal season-ticket base.
Today passion for the Eagles is more like a mania. Their games are religious experiences, Sunday gatherings of true believers as devoted as the most ardent fundamentalists to rituals, artifacts, and careful study.
For me, the overpowering zeal of these fanatics, their more than occasional excesses, as well as legitimate issues like concussions and ticket costs have tested my fidelity to the Eagles, to football in general.
But that won't stop me from turning on the TV and watching the Eagles each Sunday. Besides, what kind of father would I be if I didn't? No one wants to see his son become a Redskins fan.
@philafitz