Category Archives: Pet Peeves

Too Much PC Not OK



GORDONVILLE — This past Monday was the most manic of Mondays I’ve had in quite some time.

I emerged in such grumpy old man form that I may as well had been wearing a moldy cardigan sweater.

Set against the backdrop of the surreal Notre Dame Cathedral fire in Paris, there were two other dueling issues I wished would go away.

There was Tiger Woods winning the Master’s Open.

And there was Pete Buttigieg officially throwing his hat into the ring of a million Democrats in the quest for the presidency.

I have nothing against Woods or Buttigieg, and I have nothing against the need for political correctness –especially in the era of your president (not mine) setting such a low bar for civility.

But I can’t help but think, in both cases, that we may be dealing with political correctness run amok.

While I regard golf as a four-letter word, it was a big deal when Woods lived up to his advance hype and won his first major tournament in 1997, but all I learned in a career of journalism was lost with a headline from a Philadelphia paper that read “Tiger Wins One For Us All.”

Did everyone – i.e. “us all” — win that day?

And, in those pre-Internet days of steadfast rules, first names in headlines were for middle school papers with faculty advisors who napped through production.

After a stretch of dominance in his “sport,” Woods fell into oblivion with physical and personal issues.

And yet, he remained the biggest name in the game. News reports would start with “Tiger (not Woods) is 17 strokes behind in 45th place after the second day of the XYZ Invitational” without even a mention of who was winning.

Because of his name – his brand, if you will – he stayed on tour long enough to hit a ball in a hole a few less times than everyone else last weekend.

Sorry, not quite the “comeback of the century” it was made out to be, and I’m willing to stray from the PC script to say it.

Meanwhile, the situation with Buttigieg is less benign, as the need to vanquish your president (not mine) grows by the tweet.

And being PC is not OK if we want to KO the current claimant of the presidency in 2020.

“Mayor Pete,” already drawing hecklers about his sexual orientation, is not the right choice – at least not right now.

And something tells me he will be.

Just like something told me your president (not mine) was going to be the GOP nominee. We were at a Loretta Lynn concert (yes, she is still alive) in Lancaster, and she said her son, Earl (eye roll), wanted to make a political statement.

He bellowed the name of your president (not mine), at which point a surprising roar came from the throng.

Cult 45 was alive and well.

Something similar happened recently, when Bill Maher didn’t make it all the way through Buttigieg’s last name of 1,001 pronouncements when the crowd erupted in raucous cheer.

Even though his platform is a bit Hillaryesque, “Mayor Pete” already has rock star status.

In a foot-shooting drill, PC-minded Democrats are so quick to show how enlightened they are that that they are not considering that the chances of this realistically working with a thick-headed national electorate that can’t see past the idea of the spouse of the president being a man.

I get it with “Mayor Pete,” I do. He is the antithesis of your president (not mine). With no alleged “bone spurs,” he actually went to war. He’s well-educated, well-spoken and insightful.

After the Notre Dame fire, for example, he went on French TV and spoke French in the interview.

Big change from a current “president” who butchers the English language, huh?

But he is also 37 and is the mayor of South Bend, Indiana — a small town in a middling state.


How about moving on to the Indiana governor’s mansion and/or the US Senate before taking a serious run at the White House when we are more open-minded?

The fear here is that he will get chewed up and spit out in a general election, thus ruining his promising brand so severely that it may take Tiger Woods-type comeback to be viable again.

And the embarrassment of another loss on the left will be pretty severe.

Democrats need to build a farm system as in baseball, with the likes of “Mayor Pete” and AOC as blue-chip prospects rising up through the ranks.

Putting this mayor – gay or straight – in the presidential race now would equate to promoting someone from single-A to the big leagues.

You’d root for the kid – you know, just to be PC – but he’d be overwhelmed.

Nominating the first openly gay man for president in 2020 could backfire into winning the PC battle just to lose the war in the quest for the larger and more pressing issues (health care, gun control, education, environment, etc.).

We’re past the point of trying to prove a point, as we are at the point of no return.

Any day of the week.

This column appeared in The Times Herald on April 21, 2019

Hey You, Get Off Of My Lawn



GORDONVILLE — There are a lot of people I like.

You know who you are.

All eight of you.

Everyone else?

Eh, not so much.

I have followed a collision course from my younger self and, right on time, became a grumpy middle-aged man.

A combination of Archie Bunker, Frank Costanza, Fred Flintstone and Andy Sipowicz.

Perhaps, on a good day, a little bit of the great curmudgeon philosophers — Bob Dylan and George Carlin — sprinkled in.

And I guess we can’t forget Sonny Corleone, had he not met his premature fate as a younger hothead.

While you’re getting off my lawn and turning down the Justin Bieber noise, keep the following grievances in mind as I dance around my Festivus pole:

1) This “Merry Christmas” Thing: I do know a lot of people from a lot of backgrounds. Life has been good to me that way. And guess what? I know no one — at all — who ever said you can’t say “Merry Christmas.” As matter of fact, even though the holiday is now past us, say it twice and call me in the morning. There are real societal outrages right outside your window. Why create one that doesn’t exist?

2) Road Work At Rush Hour: A necessary evil. I get it. What I don’t get is creating a backup on a major thoroughfare between the hours of 8 and 9 a.m. Unless it’s an emergency, go have breakfast at your local diner. Speaking of which …

3) Male Waiters At Diners: I expect to be waited on by an old-school waitress — not waiter — with a bouffant hairdo who calls me “baby” and “honey” and has a natural instinct to fill up my coffee (and remembers I’m a decaf guy) and pre-butters my toast. I have nothing against male waiters in other dining scenarios — like, say, certain authentic ethnic restaurants (even if they are faking the accent for effect) — but we really don’t need the world spinning off its axis any more than what it already is, do we?

4) Casual Cyclists: I’m all for exercise (especially if I’m not the only doing it), but can’t they stick to the bike path? It’s not like we haven’t made them a few hundred to use. As far as I know, if a cyclist is on the road — even if it’s merely to get to one bike path to another on the other side — they are supposed to obey the same traffic laws as a motorist already stuck behind rush-hour roadwork. The next cyclist I see actually yield the right of way — or actually stop at a stop sign — will be the first. And don’t even get me started on the way they hog the roadway, oblivious to the world, once they are on it.

5) Royal Families: They can do what they want in the UK, but we won the Revolutionary War (in all the history books, if you’d like to check). If there any leaves floating about from the John Adams family tree, no thanks. Same for Roosevelts, Kennedys and Bushes. Suggestions of Michelle Obama running are just as bad as those of Chelsea Clinton. And don’t get me started on Ivanka (my eyes just rolled so hard that I got a detached retina). We are better than thinking certain bloodlines are better than others.

6) Guys Who Aren’t Sports Fans But Pretend They Are: You know the type? They show up at a Super Bowl party asking who is playing and then they ask the line (a real sports fan could care less who does or doesn’t cover the spread). Listen, buddy, if you don’t follow sports, that’s fine. Just be upfront about it. I don’t play the stock market. I don’t hunt or fish. I don’t even know how to play poker. I don’t have a woodshop in my house. If you’re into those things, I won’t insult your intelligence by trying to fake my way through a train-to-nowhere conversation. I’m into sports, so don’t insult mine. This is especially if the game in question is a life-or-death scenario involving a Philadelphia pro team or Temple. Speaking of which …

7) Ersatz Dallas Cowboys And/Or Penn State Fans: If you’re from the Dallas-Ft. Worth metropolitan area, or if you attended Penn State (or one of its 32,492 satellite campuses), fine. I’ll even be nice about it. I’ll let you slide on Penn State if you are Pennsyltuckian, and maybe even on the Cowboys if you are from a place in the country cursed with no pro team and have a weird fetish about blue stars on silver helmets. Otherwise, for your own safety, keep moving. You are morally bankrupt and spiritually corrupt. Side Note: Villanova is a national basketball program that happens to based on the Main Line. Unless you went there, which probably means you are from North Jersey or Connecticut anyway, zip it.

8) Lincoln Was A Republican: Easy there, cowboy. Not quite. We’ll get into this more down the line, but let’s leave this here for now: Lincoln was a progressive, which is what the Republican party was then but the polar opposite of what it is now.  If you have to go back nearly 16 decades — doing a selective hop, skip and jump over a clear role reversal in between — you don’t have much to go on, do you?

9) Self Checkout: When people in our moral conscience to the north — Canada — are refusing this concept of eliminating minimal wage jobs, it’s mirror time for us in the US. So wrong on so many levels, it’s yet another sign of apocalypse.

10) Unwanted Calls: Don’t tell me about a Do Not Call List. Been there, done that. No such thing. We still live with daily calls from weird numbers (i.e. 111-111-1111). Because I’m me, a stubborn curmudgeon, I sometimes call back and turn the tables. The best joys are when I get someone clearly from a foreign country trying to tell me his name is Tom or Joe — or Archie, Frank, Fred or Andy.

This column originally appeared in The Times Herald ( on Dec. 30, 2018.



A Cool Idea





GORDONVILLE – It is a typical pastime for a typical American.

What will your child be when they grow up?

Not sure yet on Sofia. Many roads to travel, and passions to come and go.

However, it would surprise me if she wanted to be like her old man and be a writer – even if it’s a side thing while making real money in the real world with a real job.

How do I know this?

Because she loves stories. Not just to be amused, but to retain for future use. I can talk by the look in her eyes that it is being retained, kind of like bank deposits to retain interest (i.e. embellishment).

We drive through Conshohocken, and she queries her mommy all about her hometown with questions well beyond that of the average incoming missile of a ‘tween.

The other night, she asking me about old Atlantic City – the Atlantic City I remember as a kid around her current age; the Atlantic City before gambling made it the weird combination of glitz and the pits that it is now.

Among the stories was how my grandfather, Poppie, would wake up each day and, with a broad smile on his easy-going face, ask if it was a “beach day or a Two Guys day.”

Two guys, for the uninitiated, was a catch-all department store – a sorta pre-historic Target – where they had it all, from an arcade and a place to eat to a furniture department.

You could buy food, a new baseball glove or bell-bottom jeans for your platform shoes.

After Sofia drifted to sleep – these stories are often meant as biofeedback to cure summertime insomnia – an old idea resurfaced it what is left of my brain.

Beach day or a Two Guys Day?

That more or less sums up the forecast for every day from Memorial Day through Labor Day, does it not?

Especially here in the Melting Ice Age, the forecast is pretty much in the same octave range, is it not?

It is either going to be hot or very hot, with a chance of rain to varying degrees.

So, I wondered, why do we need met meteorolgists in the summertime?

No offense to them, or the profession.

And the world doesn’t need more journalists working at a coffee shop.

And the loss of eye candy – from any perspective — would mean less sweetness in the world.

All I’m talking about is a three-month furlough.

I’m willing to bet that nine out of 10 of us could care less, especially if the time is better spent on real news.

Seriously, why do we need to be told the obvious three times in a half-hour span – and all before the important news, like the sports?

Just throw a graphic up on the screen and the anchor can do a quick summary. Hot or very hot, and the chance of a thunderstorm by percentage.

In and out faster than Chris Christie at a burger joint drive-thru on his way to the beach.

And, since this is my idea, it must follow the rule of being after the sports, lest you run the risk of FCC fine.

I took the liberty of breaking out the calculator.

According the “fake news” on the “internets,” the average weather person makes $89,820 a year. There are four stations – the three networks plus FOX in Philadelphia, employing an average of three meterologists – which brings our three-month (Memorial Day to Labor Day) savings to $269,460 that can be donated to help causes more worthy than letting people know if it is going to be a beach day or a Two Guys Day.


Double Vision and Head Games

Split Screen



GORDONVILLE – Go ahead, look up at that picture. Study it closely. It will tell you a lot about who you are and which side you are on in this country strewn by an endless and vicious cycle of subdivisions.

The picture has been making the rounds on Facebook a lot lately. What makes it intriguing in Meme World is that is a missile deployed by both supporters of Sen. Bernie Sanders and those diametrically opposed – supporters of Donald Trump.

Sanders is on the left — naturally (wink) — getting arrested during a Civil Rights protest in Chicago, where he attended college. Trump is on the right, donning a military-style uniform that has medals attached to the chest (and it is not from his “college years,” as the labeling suggests).

Sanders people will say that their man was standing up for others, instead of attending a folk hootenanny and calling it a college experience. Trump backers will say that Sander was a malcontent while their man must have been in the military – perhaps serving in Vietnam – while hippies hid behind their fake morals and causes.

Well, every picture tells a story, and these two pictures – melded into one – tell a story as well.

And here it is.

While Democratic rival Hillary Clinton was campaigning for segregationist Barry Goldwater at the time, Sanders was fighting for Civil Rights and rightfully wears that past proudly. The picture is real. And the arrest – for disorderly conduct and a $25 fine — is listed in newspaper clippings.

The picture was snapped during a 1963 rally against segregation in Chicago, which was in line with Sanders leading a rally against draconian segregating campus housing policies. Sanders, a student organizer for the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), was passionate enough about this cause to be on the front lines on the home front.

Trump, contrary to what a lot of people would like to believe, never came close to a battlefield – whether in Vietnam or on the streets of a nation as divided by black and white as he has helped make it again with his presidential run.

The son of a wealthy Nazi sympathizer and closet Klansman, Trump was so misbehaved that he was shipped off to military school – the New York Military Academy (NYMA) – for eighth grade and kept there in high school.

At NYMA, he played dress up and marched around enough to be called a “captain.” Hence, the above picture – and “punch-me, please” smirk.

While he has arrogantly claimed to have emerged from this glorified reform school for rich kids more prepared for war than “most in the military,” he curiously avoided Vietnam with Houdini-like prowess.

Declared medically eligible in 1966, Trump received four student deferments while attending Fordham. In 1968, when the time came to show off his soldiering skills, he suddenly developed “bone spurs” in one – or both – feet (he can’t seem to remember).

“I actually got lucky because I got a high draft number,” he has since been quoted as saying.

No doubt he did. Money buys a lot in this country. It even buys you the ability to magically “get lucky” – which those who served, or who lost loved ones, should be deeply offended — but then have the gall to turn around and pander to veterans for support with a empty “Make American Great Again” slogan.

The thing is this, though. Who cares?

Our culture tends to judge the man by what war he fought and deduct testosterone points if he didn’t (even if, like Barack Obama, there was no war in which to serve during the “man-up” years).

In case you haven’t guessed, I am supporting Sanders for president. And while his past of being on the right side of history at almost every turn makes for a nice back story, it is more about what he is standing for in the present – with visions of a less dismal future for coming generations — that has made more passionate about a presidential candidate as I ever been in my five decades on the planet.

I believe Trump has appealed to the lowest common denominator among the American populace, ripping some pages out of Adolph Hitler’s shameful playbook, and that’s just unacceptable (Plus, I developed a strong dislike for the guy when he ruined the USFL back in the 1980s.).

I would rather see former Eagles’ coach Rich Kotite elected president over Trump, but it has little to do with what did or didn’t do during the war.

Anyone who served in Vietnam was a pawn in a game, poor kids offering themselves up as sacrificial lambs at the behest of their rich masters. It was not the World War of their fathers and uncles. It was an ugly and needless war.

But in that place and time, in that moment, there was not much choice for some but to go when called. And we have no choice but to thank them for their service and try and comprehend what they endured.

Anyone who didn’t serve was being just as brave, just in a different way. Sanders was a conscientious objector, and does not pull a Fred Astaire – like Trump, with the rotating bone spurs — when asked. He didn’t believe in the war, but does not disrespect those who served. He has a long history in government of standing up for the rights of veterans – often working across the aisle with Republicans – to back that up.

How veterans support Trump but not Sanders amazes me as much as how blacks, especially in the South, can support Clinton over a man like Sanders, who attended the 1963 march on Washington and was inspired by Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech.

Trump? Well, as outlined above, it’s a little murky what he was all about back then. While it should not change to much in the present, we are in some serious perception and reality terrain and we could use a GPS to find our way out of Meme Hell. It should be cause for pause for anyone looking at the picture above with an objective eye.

I admit I don’t have one, but I will tell you what I see.

I see Sanders as the hero here, not Trump. I will choose wisely.

If Trump went to war, and served admirably, different story. He seemingly hid behind daddy’s checkbook and got deferments. If you think that’s OK, what you are really saying is that Civil Rights – Sanders’ war at home — was not a just cause.

And that is why America was not great then, or now, and won’t be until we face that reality and deal with it.





No Treats For These Tricksters

Teen Trick2



GORDONVILLE – What you do in your own hometown is your own business. If you want to contribute to the moral decay of our culture, I can’t stop you.

Here in Gordonville, though, there will be a zero tolerance for Halloween 2015 – which also happens to be Halloween 8.0 for Sofia (for the record, she couldn’t decide between between a witch or a Native American girl, so she is going to be a Native American witch).

While other Temple alums were celebrating like it was VE Day when it was announced that the unbeaten Owls would be facing traditional power Notre Dame at 8 p.m., as the featured game of the week, I felt a little piece of myself die inside.

And when I explained it to Sofia, she gave me those eyes – and you dads with daughters know what I’m talking about – and asked me, “but aren’t I more important than a football game, daddy?”

And for emphasis, she reminded about DVR.

Not the same, though. I mean, navigating our development and taking candy – half of which she’ll have to toss because of her peanut allergy anyway – while knowing the game is going on is just going to eat away at me faster than Chris Christie devouring a meatball sandwich.

My best bet is get her to move fast – and we moved pretty fast last year, so much so that my mother fell on her butt (scary at the time but funny now) trying to keep pace – and then turn the reins over the better half while I make it home for kickoff.

The issue, of course, is the home front. We usually leave candy out with a “Help Yourself” sign while taking Sofia around, and then we do it in person once one of us – and it will be this year – gets “tired.”

By 8 p.m. the rush should be pretty much over.

But it won’t be.

And then we have the criminal element — the ones who will get the door slammed in the faces if they ring the bell.

You know who I’m talking about. I’m talking about teens – usually boys – who are too goofy to be invited to any age-appropriate co-ed parties and who ruin what is intended for the little ones.

Some look old enough to be driving house to house, and it wouldn’t be surprising to learn they are (a moving violation in Gordonville). They violate other Gordonville ordinance by barely wearing anything resembling a costume, and barely muttering a proper “trick or treat.”

You extend the basket of candy. Instead of taking two or three items, they scoop up a dozen (as if that’s going to help their skin conditions clear up).

Then, they leave without a thank you.

It’s not my fault these I-Don’t-Wanna-Grow-Up kids don’t have a life. Go get one on your own time. Leave me out of it.

I blame the parents!

The Gordonville PD has let it slide in the past, but not this year.

Not when Temple is playing one of the biggest games in program history.



The Curse of Old Dirty Knee




GORDONVILLE – I tried being Superman.

It didn’t work out too well.

It was that day in first grade when we got wear our Halloween costumes to school, and the Man of Steel was my superhero of choice.

There may be no comic book chronicling this adventure but Superman’s Kryptonite on this day was the double-knot on the back of the Woolworth’s get-up. While going to the little boys’ room, it didn’t come untied before a calamity occurred.

To raised eyebrows of classmates, I returned as Peter Pan – same as Kindergarten –that afternoon.

Although my grandmother’s first cousin created the Green Lantern, and pretty much got screwed out of royalties, my forever match to anyone sounding like a comic-book hero is, fittingly, out of the music world.

That would be Adam Ant, who scored a hit in 1982 – more than a decade after the Superman costume dried out — with the song “Goodytwoshoes.”

The otherwise forgettable new wave ditty featured the memorable line: “Don’t drink, don’t smoke – What do you do?”

That’s pretty much me these days.

I don’t drink. I don’t smoke.

For that matter, I don’t play golf or hunt or fish or hike or play poker with the boys.

What do I do?

I obsess over things I can’t control.

A lot of things I can’t control.

The list is so long that I can only go partial here:

-Snowstorms on days when you can’t stay home;

-Walking the dog in the rain (unless you don’t mind him pulling a “Superman”);

-People talking behind my back (probably about my dwelling on things I can’t control);

-People stabbing me in the back (probably because I act too much like Julius Caesar);

-A tick giving me Lyme Disease;

– iTunes changing the rules so that you need to give up your first born to shuffle songs;

– My real first-born, Sofia, having her feelings hurt at school and …

-The Philadelphia Eagles.

No matter what I want them to do, it seems that those Birds – with the brains to match — are going to do what they want anyway.

And the years pass, leaving me at 44th anniversary of Superman’s most embarrassing moment, without the one thing I want most from the wild world of sports – a Super Bowl title for my Birds.

Just one.

Not two in a row. Not three in four years.

Just one.

But it remains elusive.

I have been a fan for long, long time.

How long? My first game by my father’s side was at Franklin Field in 1970, making Lincoln Financial Field my third stadium.

In second grade, I traded in my Superman outfit for an Eagles uniform – the one with the white helmet and green wings – and went accident-free that Halloween of 1972.

I have been through too many owners and coaches to name, dreadful seasons and many where they were just good enough to not be quite good enough.

In the last 25 years, as I have grown into an alleged adult, the Eagles have had the best record in football — for teams who haven’t won the Super Bowl, that is.

My mantra has been to hope for the best but be prepared for the worst.

I protect myself in a veil of pessimism, trying to elude jinxes by exuding negativity.

This approach as kept me semi-sane.

But I went another way this year. I went public on and predicted the Eagles would win it all this year.

And now, as it seems highly unlikely, I’m going for a ride on the crazy train.

I really had no basis for this out-of-character prognostication, other than that we were due.

And after Temple beat Penn State at the Linc, eliciting real post-game tears and leading to an item a notch below a Super Bowl win coming off my Sports Bucket List, I threw caution to the wind.

Hell had already frozen over, I surmised, so why not continue skating unfettered on the Pond of Dreams through the NFL the season?

Yeah, why not?

Well, because we have to consider the very real possibility that the Eagles are living under some sort of curse.

That’s why not.

It has become abundantly clear that the ice in hell was meant for only one bird, that being the Owl of my alma mater, and the wounded wings of the Eagles.

The 2015 Eagles now look more like Dream Team 2.0 (a reference to the 2011 Eagles that loaded up on free agents and failed to make the playoffs) than the one that will theoretically make my dreams come true.

While I don’t like to get my hands dirty – proven by the fact that I got a D-minus in Archaeology 101 while suffering from a bad case of Senioritis at Temple – I decided to go on my own dirt-free dig to get to the bottom of the source of the curse.

If all those annoying Bostonians can point to the selling of Babe Ruth to the Yankees – so that the team’s owner, Harry Frazee, could finance a musical called “No, No, Nanette” (no, no kidding … that was the title) – we can find something to that put a hex over our most beloved, and irksome, franchise, too.

The Eagles won titles in 1948 and 1949 and again in 1960, so the curse had to come shortly thereafter.

If JFK was assassinated here, we’d be set, but he wasn’t. He was shot dead in Dallas. How many Super Bowls the friggin’ Cowboys have won?

Five. That’s how many. Five.

See what I mean? Not that easy.

I came up with two finalists to match the since-broken “Curse of the Bambino” in Boston: “The Curse of the Dutchman” and “The Curse of Old Dirty Knee.”

It seems 1960 quarterback Norm Van Brocklin, aka The Dutchman, was promised the head coaching job here the following year but the promise was not kept.

Sounds plausible. A broken promise. A broken heart. Broken dreams for decades to follow.

But the numbers – like negative turnover ratio — don’t add up to a spiked ball in the end zone.

Van Brocklin did get his chance to coach in the NFL and the nine-time Pro Bowl quarterback will not be confused with Vince Lombardi. He coached the Minnesota Vikings from 1961 to 1966 and the Atlanta Falcons from 1968 to 1974 and got the playoffs just once. His career record: 66-100-7.

All due respect to the last guy to quarterback a team in this town to the Promised Land — not counting Chuck Fusina and Philadelphia Stars of the USFL or Willy Whoever and the Philadelphia Soul of the AFL — but we were probably better off.

That brings us to theory No. 2. Van Brocklin’s backup in 1960 was Sonny Jurgensen, whose primary role in 1960 was to hold for placekicker Bobby Walston (also the tight end, who kicked straight-ahead with more accuracy than Caleb Sturgis). That job earned him the short-lived moniker of Old Dirty Knee (only part of his uniform that got dirty was his knee from holding the ball).

Jurgensen got to take his place under center in 1961 and responded with 32 touchdown passes (still a franchise record that likely won’t be broken any time soon). For reasons that remain as mysterious as why Sam Bradford was seen as an upgrade over Nick Foles, Jurgensen was traded in 1964 to the Washington Redskins for a cornerback named Claude Crabb (I couldn’t make that up) and quarterback Norm Snead.

While Crabb was here for two seasons, ringing up a grand total of zero of his 10 career interceptions, Snead was an OK quarterback (think Mark Sanchez) on teams that ran the gamut from middling to hideous.

He actually scored the first touchdown of the game on a scramble when I made my aforementioned trip to Franklin Field in 1970 (a 35-20 loss to the St. Louis Cardinals). Snead made a Pro Bowl in 1972 (after moving on from the Eagles to the New York Giants, of course) but he was no Sonny Jurgensen, who was selected to the 1960s All-Decade Team and inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1983 after retiring in 1974.

And speaking of Lombardi, who made his household name in Green Bay (his only loss in a championship game was to the 1960 Eagles), he finished his career in Washington with Jurgensen as his quarterback. The legendary coach, for whom the elusive Super Bowl trophy is named, said Jurgensen was the best quarterback he had seen.

Note Jurgensen, not Norm Snead.

Ouch. It hurts my fingers just to type that.

Sure, opinions are like teeth, everybody has them until they fall out, at which point you are too old to really care anymore.

This is mine, the trade of an all-time great quarterback for a guy named Claude Crabb and a Tier II signal-caller named Norm Snead.

Forget the whiz and onions. Put that in your cheese steak and eat it.

We are now living under the Curse of Old Dirty Knee.

It sounds like a Spaghetti Western, but it is unfolding in the shadow of cash-only spaghetti restaurants in South Philly.

How do we break the curse?

Better call Superman.

A real one, not a first-grader who can’t untie the back of his costume.



Memo to NFL: Keep The Change




GORDONVILLE – Is one’s gut instinct always the best?

Let’s put it to the test.

When my Internet trolling led me to the headline that that NFL was about to convene to consider more rules changes, my gut screamed “nooooooo” … kind of like your pooch running into the street with a bus coming. (This actually happened the other day, but said school bus was stopping anyway and Rex did a U-turn and came back on his own, realizing that a walk was no fun without yanking my shoulder from its socket).

If there is anything the NFL doesn’t need, it is more rules about its rules – unless they are passing a rule banning future rule changes (except one to address my pet peeves of players showing up officials by making official gestures for what they think should be called and announcing whole teams, instead of individual starters, at games).

But upon further review, not all proposed rule changes are created equally. With that – presuming you can put down your NCAA bracket, seeing if one school you couldn’t find on a map beat another one you never heard of before and never will again – join this mad scientist in his lab as he places the proposed changes under the microscope.

Here is the list of the 13 proposed changes:

1.  Move kickoffs to the 40-yard line, from the 35, where they are now.

Reaction: Well, this would bode well for touchback-challenged Alex Henery, the Eagles’ kicker, but it seems a bit extreme. It didn’t seem too long ago that the league moved kicks from the 40 to the 35 to avoid touchbacks (I remember lining my men up at the 40 in electric football). Hey, NFL, let’s cut to the chase. You want to take kickoffs out of the sport? Just do it then. I grow weary of your foolishness.

2. Making all personal fouls reviewable.

Reaction: About time! (Note: I don’t come by exclamation point easily, either.)

3. Eliminating overtime in preseason games.

Reaction: I shouldn’t even comment, because this is a done deal. It’s more about time and money than the risk of injury, despite how it will be spun. Honestly, since I’m certifiable, I enjoy preseason games. It’s only rookies and journeyman on the roster bubble who are playing that late in the game anyway, so why not have a chance to get a longer looksee at them? I get the final preseason game, when rosters have been trimmed, so maybe only have overtime in the first two preseason games. In the third, maybe if one or other teams have already been in one, then they can opt out of it.

4. Extending the goalposts vertically by 5 feet on each side.

Reaction: Hey, why not have them moving, too. It can like a game at Chuck E. Cheese’s.

5. Moving extra-point attempts to the 25-yard line, making it a 43-yard try. (This was proposed by the Patriots.) The competition committee separately is proposing one preseason game this season where extra-point snaps will take place from the 20.

Reaction: Proposed by the Patriots, because they are annoying like that, this is a bit extreme. I can live with the counter-proposal of the competition committee to make a preseason the guinea pig, but only from the 20. Maybe the whole idea will die a slow death from there.

6. Adding six cameras to all boundary lines on the field to supplement TV camera angles.

Reaction: The more eyes, the better.

7. Allowing any officials’ decisions to be challenged by coaches, not just specific kinds of plays.

Reaction: This goes to a deeper issue. The league needs to re-evaluate how its games are officiated. The old methods, in a changing sport, are increasingly inefficient. This would be a start. Not a destination, but the start of a journey.

8. Protecting players from getting their legs rolled up on from the side — and not just from the back — as a penalty.

Reaction: Since this happens by accident most of the time, I’m not sure how it can be regulated, but leave it to the NFL to fake concern about injuries with rules that will affect outcomes of games and not reduce injuries at the same time.

9. Allowing the referee to confer with members of the NFL officiating department in New York at the league office during replay reviews.

Reaction: Stealing from the NHL again, eh? Be careful what you wish for, as those Canucks north of the border need some fine-tuning as well (just ask the Flyers). That aside, absolutely.
10. Changing review rules on the recovery of a loose ball — aka, the “NaVorro Bowman rule” from the controversial NFC championship game non-call — in the field of play.

Reaction: Yes, yes, yes. Pet peeve of mine for years. This would necessitate an overdue reorganizing the replay section of the NFL rulebook, meaning two for the price of one.

11. Keeping the clock running on quarterback sacks at all times of the game.

Reaction: Ok … why?

12. Changing pass interference so that it can be called within a yard of the line of scrimmage.

Reaction: Something to consider, but it doesn’t seem like a pressing matter.

13. Enforcing defensive penalties behind the line of scrimmage from the previous spot, instead of from the end of the play or from the spot of the foul.

Reaction: Never quite understood why it is done how it is now in the first place, so … come on with it.

The Pesky Bylaws

The above are all on the field of play. What also intrigued me, and hit at some questions I have longed to see answered, are off-the-field issues that will be addressed this week at the NFL Annual Meeting in Orlando.

Here is a look at the few being bandied about that won’t put you to sleep:

1. Raising the number of active players on game-day roster from 46 players to 49 for non-Sunday or Monday regular-season games, excluding Week 1. The league has Thursday games throughout the season, as well as some late-season Saturday contests.

Reaction: I have a major issue with Thursday night games to begin with, and rarely – if ever – is there a well-played one (at least by both teams). And the league, claiming to have an interest in player safety, has major cojones to even have Thursday games for teams who aren’t coming off their bye weeks. The human body wasn’t meant to play football on a Sunday and again on a Thursday. So, yeah. Heck, yeah. Not the ultimate solution, but at least it is the recognition of a problem.

2. Raising the practice squad roster size from eight to 10 players.

Reaction: There are rumblings of a new spring league, the A11FL, so player development is essential. Why not? No downside.

3. Allowing teams to test and time up to 10 draft prospects at their own facilities, and allowing any rival team to come witness the testing and timing at the other team’s facilities.

Reaction: This is a snoozer, and was not going to make the final cut here, but it was proposed by your Philadelphia Eagles. Way to be on it, boys.

4. Allowing a team with a retractable roof to open or close its stadium roof at halftime, and not having to determine before the game whether it will be open or closed.

Reaction: Makes sense in theory, but it opens the door to controversy.

Welcome to the big-time.

This column originally appeared at