I’m sorry Brad Pitt, you’re wrong.

or, 
Everything you want for America on Super Bowl Sunday was in the Philadelphia airport. 

Not a football fan? Fear not. There is something here for you too. Especially if you like hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolet, your country, and/or maybe even baseball. (Go, Phillies.)
 
Unlike my standard blog posts, this is not going to be a rant about what annoys me and should therefore annoy you. (Well, maybe a little bit it is.) Instead, this is about the true meaning of the Super Bowl in America as seen through the lens of a visit to Philadelphia International Airport on game day. 
 
I have to admit, leaving my father on Super Bowl Sunday sucked. His beloved Philadelphia Eagles were about to take the field, fighting for the hopes and dreams of an area of the country too accustomed to having those two things routinely shattered and splattered like overpriced eggs against an old linoleum floor. 
 
What kind of a crap daughter would do such a thing? This one, right here. I had my reasons. Real life-based reasons. But sitting with Jer (AKA, my dad) waiting for the nice Uber driver to pick me up, those reasons felt super-model thin. 
 
After kissing Jer on the head, I left for Philly. I was now in the hands of my Uber driver. Let’s call him Marcelo Alfaro, Jr. (Because that’s the man’s name and it deserves to be shared.) Marcelo was dressed head-to-toe in Philadelphia Eagles green with all the appropriate logos. His hat, shirt and pants were all Eagled-ed up. This guy from the Philippines seemed happy to take on the emotional burden of NFL fandom in his adopted city. 
 
A quick bit of intel on said burden. Every major sports city’s fans have their own vibe. If you’re not from Philly, you may not know that our vibe makes Philadelphia’s nickname, “The city of brotherly love” seem ironic. 
 
We’re loud, brash, blue-collar lovers of the throat punch. We’re often remembered for booing Santa Claus and maybe throwing flashlight batteries at him. When the cute and globally beloved hitchBOT robot from Canada was hitchhiking around the world, guess where his journey ended with violent decapitation and dismemberment. That’s right: The City Of Brotherly Love. 
 
And so you know, the fine folks of Philly are A-OK with all of that. Perhaps that’s because our sports-fan vibe mirrors our vibe as a people. You might politely describe it as passion blaring at top volume. It’s not unusual to get in a bar fight with someone from Philly, only to end the night sharing drinks and songs with your new, battle-tested best friend.
 
Back to the drive to the airport. The road was empty. I guessed I was the only one leaving their father on game day. But Marcelo was a good driver and great company. He shared his optimism for the game and let me know I shouldn’t worry about him. He was planning on heading home and assuming the position immediately after dropping me off. I hoped he’d enjoy his evening viewing and we parted ways with an appropriate, “Fly, Eagles Fly.”
 
My next transition was as staggering as Dorothy’s entrance to the Emerald City. Walking through the doors at PHL, I slipped inside an alternate universe. It was a sea of Kelly (emerald adjacent) green. Inside the terminal, the travelers, the sky caps, the shopworkers, EVERYONE was sporting their best Eagle’s garb. 
 
My favorite was a woman in head-to-toe Eagles with a Flava-Flave-style gold eagle pendant on a huge chain-link necklace. But the new vibe went well beyond wardrobe and accessories. It extended to how people carried themselves. Instead of the usual airport shuffle with its backpacks full of stress, lack of eye-contact, and overall dismissal of civility, these people were smiling, openly greeting each other, and sharing their excitement. 
 
In this alternate universe, people had hope. Real hope. Not that hand-wringing, please-don’t-let-us-all-go-down-the-drain-together hope so many of us have been engaged in for way too long. We’re talking real, this-could-go-our-way hope.
 
Strangely, inside this temple of transition, and anonymous coming and going, something good felt possible. And we were all pulling for it. Whether you gave a shit who won the big game or not, if you were there in that moment, you were welcome and part of it all. 

The fine ladies of the Philadelphia Delta Lounge

In this new town, nobody was a stranger. Entering the Delta SkyClub (I try to fly only Delta because I enjoy actually getting to my destination, but that’s a different blog post), all the employees had on their fan garb, as did the guests. I complimented one staff member on her shirt. She thanked me, and the deal was sealed. We were pals. She started telling me about how she was getting off early to watch with her kids and added her thoughts on the game. Then a new voice entered into our conversation. To my right was a woman who clearly wanted to share the love. Then a guy to my left joined in. I could hear the same thing happening all over the lounge. Hope. Excitement. Bonding.
 
On the way to my gate, I met Maki The Certified Therapy Dog. Maki’s sole purpose there was to be a happy presence and maybe help some travelers check a bag or two of tension. An interesting job description to give a pit bull. But Maki was as sweet as could be with her square head, powerful jaw and Eagles’ neckerchief. And while she was getting greeted and fussed over, it all felt more a product of joy than any need for stress relief.

Maki the Therapy Dog / One of the thousands of hopefuls

A serial eavesdropper, I listened in to strangers chatting at the gate. Their conversations would start with things like general speculation on the game. But then they’d start introducing themselves. I heard people share things like occupations, what their kids were studying in school, a trip they’d never forget. And they used each other’s names! 
 
How often have you spoken to a stranger, left, and realized you had no idea of the stranger’s name? I can answer that one: Constantly. For me, maybe it was because I didn’t want to get too close or feel too obligated. But on this Super Bowl Sunday, in the airport of one of the day’s two big contenders, people were exchanging names, handshakes, even hugs. I felt lucky to be there.
 
Cut to later that day at home in front of my TV and the game (or the pre-game). Here comes Mr. Brad Pitt speaking for the NFL. He goes on (and on) about the meaning of the Super Bowl in this country. They were all there: all the clichés and metaphors someone else had written down and dozens of others had approved for him to say; the poorly produced clips of Faux-mericana; all the desperate, empty gestures to convince us all that We Are Still One; that the ideals of our country—even after disasters like the LA fires—remain intact; how a huddle is a metaphor for Americans working together. So. Many. Empty. Words. 
 
I know some people loved it, but all I could think was: This is not resonating. Instead, I thought about the Liberty Bell, the cracked symbol of the American Experiment which lives in, you guessed it, Philadelphia. 
 
The Liberty Bell was commissioned to commemorate the Philadelphia constitution written by the progressive-thinking William Penn. It first rang to call Philadelphians to the first public reading of a radical statement. Known as The Declaration of Independence, it was extending a big middle finger to a malevolent monarch across the Atlantic. 
 
Eventually, the Liberty Bell cracked. The city of Philadelphia tried keeping that bell together, firm it up, and prevent the crack from spreading. It worked—until it didn’t. It rang in-tune loud and clear until it finally couldn’t. Today, the bell, with survives its now symbolic crack, in a giant glass case at the Liberty Bell Center in Independence National Historical Park across the street from Independence Hall. So much Independence with a capital “I”! 
 
The bell continues to be an enduring symbol. Among other things, it represents Native American rights, women’s suffrage, abolition of slavery, religious freedom, and the participation of citizens in enacting laws. (Yes, the idea of laws by “we the people” was radical.) In their time, these were enviable, cutting-edge liberties. The website US History dot org notes that the bell “Speaks of the rights and freedoms valued by people the world over.” (You grow up in Philly, you get steeped in this stuff.)
 
So that’s where my brain was going as Brad was blathering. Later on, Tom Cruise popped in on an impossible mission to add his own blabber on football and meaning and America. It was all cold and sterile and nonsense. Yes, the Liberty Bell is cracked so it rings out of tune. But all that Pitt-Cruisian pap rang hollow. 
 
No Brad. Sorry Tom. You don’t get it. If you want to know what Super Bowl Sunday really means to our country, you had to be in the Philly Airport the morning of the game. It was a big ol’ multi-cultural Philly melting pot with cheese and onions. (Provalone.) All the hope and the unity and the desire to be a part of something strong and resilient. It all felt possible. And to want that stranger you just met, you know, that woman in green, whose name you still remember and whose son you hope will pass his driver’s test tomorrow, to be right there with you. 
 
Sorry Jer. I do feel bad about not sharing the win by your side. I do. But I will never forget my Super Bowl morning in the Philly airport. And how in a time of such national stress and uncertainty, how it feels to be experiencing the utter joy of being with people who’d be happy to a) punch you in the throat and then b) join you for a beer because we’re all hoping for the same great thing in this land where great things are possible because they Are Great Things. 
 
If you made it this far, I thank you. I promise my next blog post will just be me being annoyed at something trivial. 

​Spoiler alert: We won!