So I’m moping around yesterday like I normally do following an Eagles loss. Moping typically involves some sort of faux-healthy purge (half-assed trip to the gym, non-terrible lunch), so I meander to the deli up the street from the office to get a cup of soup.

Keep in mind that I hate eating soup for lunch. Hate it. This is because I contend that it shouldn’t really count as lunch — it’s liquid, and a man of my carriage merits solid food in the middle of the day. But again, we’re purging, and soup was all I deserved.

Anyhoo, the deli in question has a Soup Guy. As in, Mr. High-Energy-Personality-Plus who loves his job and relishes the opportunity to make a few moments of chit-chat with each customer as he ladles out portions. I mean, he’s nice enough, and he obviously means well, but there’s something about him that drives me insane. Don’t worry, friends and coworkers have assured me that I’m the one with the problem here — it just isn’t rational to dislike someone for being friendly/ polite / happy with his job (unless you’re some sort of psychopath). I get it. I’m the jerk. Yup.

It’s also worth noting Mr. High-Energy-Personality-Plus is also a big NY sports fans (Mets, Giants) who typically uses the most recent professional sports result as fodder for his idle (but apparently mandatory) chit-chat with the patrons.

So I roll in there mid-afternoon and belly up to the soup station. Thus commenceth the chit-chat:

“How can I help you!” [Insanely chipper and friendly tone.]

“Can I get the tomato basil with chicken?” [Dull monotone, no eye contact.]

“Sure you can! Small or large!” [Big smile.]

“Small.” [Barely making eye contact.]

“You sure?” [More smile.]

“I’m sure.” [Eye contact made, withering look.]

“How you doing today?” [As he’s ladling.]

“Yeah I’m all right. All good. How about you?” [Figured I should at least pretend to act like a human being.]

“Oh can’t complain, my shift’s almost over and the Giants looked great yesterday!” [Still ladling, smiling.]

[Beat.]

“OH YEAH??? THE GIANTS??? HOW BOUTS I COME BACK THERE AND F*CKING WATERBOARD YOU IN THE SPLIT PEA WITH HAM!!!!!”

[Actually, I just said, “Yes they did, they looked great — thanks,” and moved on to the register.]

Welcome to my sports feelings.

Did I actually head down to the Illadelph for an unprecedented third sporting event in as many weeks (and three different sports no less!)? Yes. Yes I did. And it was…glorious.

The atmosphere at CBP last night was, how do you say, “the exact opposite of the pervasive malaise that attended the Birds game on Sunday.” Whoa. Very cleansing — I had forgotten that you could actually have fun at these game things! All it takes it a little effort from the hometown team.

Three quick observations about the game:

1. The three-run home run offense is very popular. You gotta love that the Phils are defiantly anti-Sabermetrics. Walks? Putting the ball in play? Getting on base? Totally overrated. Just swing as hard as you can and the runs will come (especially in our wiffle-ball park). Cheers to the other number 5 for his continued redemption story in the playoffs. Maybe it’s just because he wants to get paid, but Burrell seems determined, and that’s a very good thing.

2. No Eagles jerseys last night. The message from the gear was unanimous — I just didn’t see any Eagles merch. At all. Just a million different variations on red with blue (and let us note that the Phils do an excellent job moving merch in that place).

3. The food remains the best ballpark food on Planet Earth. Who can challenge this statement? Who? Tell me where they have better ballpark food anywhere on the planet. I’ll go there and let you know. And I’m pretty sure they won’t be able to offer me a cheesesteak AND a roast pork sandwich (with the broccoli rabe).

Go Phightins.

(Actual Eagles content forthcoming later today.)

And we’re back.  After a week and change in Merry Old Ingerland (Did I miss anything?  Something about a global economic meltdown?), I’m back in the United States of Freedom and ready to sign.

I’ve got plenty of Eagles-related nonsense ready to spew forth, but I thought I’d start the weekend with an off-topic post in re: my trip last Saturday to see the other football over in London.  In another blog life, I’m actually pretty into the whole soccer thing as well, and was pretty psyched to score a ticket to see Fulham host Bolton Wanderers in a Premiership match at Craven Cottage.

My takeaways (with a compare-and-contrast American football slant, of course):

In terms of hooliganism, Fulham - Bolton isn’t exactly Among The Thugs.  You can still find football matches in the UK with a bit more of an angry bent to them, but Fulham - Bolton isn’t one of them.  Neither team has a particularly psychotic fan base, there’s no rivalry between them, Fulham’s in a relatively nice neighborhood, and it was like family day or something (they were painting kids’ faces outside the ground).  So no fears about getting knifed for having the wrong scarf.  It was more like a Houston Texans - St. Louis Rams game.  Only a lot smaller.

Speaking of smaller grounds.  There are some gigantic stadia in England (Old Trafford, the new Emirates stadium, Anfield, City of Manchester Stadium), but for the most part, these are not the cathedrals to which your average NFL fan has become accustomed (see here for a list by capacity).  Craven Cottage is listed as pretty small (22,000 and change) and it felt that way.  I mean, it was nice and intimate and all that, and in a lovely spot on the Thames, but it’s not the Linc.  It does give you some perspective on just how crazy it is to have these ridiculous NFL stadia (most built in the past 15 years) that are really only used 10-15 times a year.  Also, in that context, it’s offensive that we don’t yet have another World Cup on the books for the US and A.

Yes, I’d like eight pints of Carlsberg, please.  So they stop selling beer ten minutes before kickoff, resume five minutes before halftime, and then cut off again for good at the end of halftime.  Beer is extremely reasonably priced (3.50 GBP) and, wait for it, there’s no limit to the number you can get at once.  The dude in front of me at halftime ordered eight (8).  No joke.

No Americans got in the game.  Fulham had five Americans on the roster last season, but a regime change in management trimmed that number to one for this season, Clint Dempsey.  Unfortunately, Dempsey didn’t get in the game, which I’ll chalk up to having played at midweek for the United States.

Now let us get back to the proper football, as they say.

Go Birds.