Football and violence were masculinity for me. In prison, I see things differently | Opinion

I never had a choice. Ask almost any Eagles fan, and they’ll tell you it’s generational. You’re not asked to become a fan — you’re born into it. It didn’t matter that I grew up on the West Coast. My roots were in Philly, so that’s where my loyalty would lie.

I wore an Eagles jersey before I even knew who they were. But I did know that the men I idolized loved those Birds. And whenever the Eagles won a game, they were happy.

My dad worked long Sunday shifts at the wood mill, so he couldn’t catch the games live. He’d come home late, grab a beer, heat up a TV dinner, and say, “Let’s see how the Eagles played.” I rushed to sit beside him, watching a game I barely understood. His focus was on getting a buzz and seeing a win. But for me, it was my time to connect with my dad.

The evening’s trajectory depended on how well the team played — and how many beers my dad drank. If things went well, he’d excitedly break down the game highlights. But when things went bad, it felt like I could never say or do the right thing. I would sometimes become the target of his aggression.

What I didn’t understand about my tie to the Eagles at the time was how steeped it was in toxic masculinity. I accepted it as a way to have a relationship with my dad and his dad. I didn’t question it.

In hindsight, I can now see the subtle ways their lessons shaped me into an angry and, at times, violent young man — a label I’ve worked hard to shed in the decades since I was incarcerated.

I come from three generations of diehard Eagles fans on my dad’s side, dating back to the team’s 1933 formation. Fathers handed down the fandom like a family heirloom — or, at times, a curse.

Despite our recent Super Bowl win, our Birds have had plenty of disappointing years. In 1981 — the year I was born — we lost to the then-Oakland Raiders in the Super Bowl. My dad blamed me. He said he couldn’t receive two blessings so close to each other. In the 2005 Super Bowl, shortly after I started my lengthy prison sentence, we lost to the Patriots by three points.

“Maybe if you were home, they would have pulled it off,” my dad said. He always had a way of connecting the Eagles’ losses to me.

I never thought twice about this connection to the men in my family. It wasn’t easy being an Eagles fan on the West Coast. I took the struggle as a badge of honor.

“We are an aggressive, no-bullshit fan base,” my grandpa used to say with pride. The city built a courtroom underneath the now-demolished Veterans Stadium for unmanageable fans. According to my grandfather, a lot of Cowboys fans got beat up at The Vet.

“And they deserved it!” he’d add.

The more history my grandpa taught me, the more I embraced the culture and identity of what an Eagles fan was meant to be — an in-your-face, aggressive, angry, Dallas-Cowboy-hating motherf---er!

Translation: A man consumed by toxic masculinity. At the time, I embraced that ethos wholeheartedly. That’s how my dad and grandpa acted, so how could it be wrong?

In my early 20s, I punched a friend in the face for talking shit about the Eagles. It felt like typical fan behavior at the time. But, as I grew older, I started to wonder why I took fandom so seriously. Why would I put my hands on another human over a sports team? Looking back, it’s embarrassing.

I later realized that when I heard people make fun of my team, I took it as disrespecting the men who raised me. At the time, I thought being a “real man” meant I had to defend my family’s honor.

But those men didn’t deserve my loyalty. My grandpa abandoned our family before I was born. He had more children and rarely kept in touch. When we did connect, he always gave me an Eagles-related trinket. I still have a silver Casio watch with the ‘80s team logo in the center, although I never wear it out of fear of damaging it. When he gave me a Randall Cunningham jersey, Cunningham instantly became my favorite player.

My grandpa also taught me to be tough, be a “man,” and never let anyone take advantage of me. He survived years in the military, as well as the nuclear meltdown at Pennsylvania’s Three Mile Island. Toxins from the accident later gave him terminal cancer. But until his dying day, he never took shit from anyone and never ran from a fight.

My dad was the same. We barely talked and had a horrible relationship. He physically and verbally abused my mom and me. But we still maintained some semblance of a relationship through the Eagles. The rare times we spoke, we discussed how our players did and how the coaches were blowing it, at times sounding like two old friends. I loved that feeling, but the line always went quiet after we had exhausted our updates and rants about the team. It was all we had — and still is today.

When the Eagles won their first Super Bowl in 2018, I sat in a prison cell and let tears roll down my face. My cellmate watched and asked in disbelief.

“My dude, are you crying?” he asked. I looked at him without fear of judgment.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just witnessed something my grandpa never got to see, and he loved the Eagles his whole life. Shit, he probably loved them more than any of us.”

I don’t know if I was crying because of the win or the painful memories the event dredged up, but I have to believe it was the latter.

Today, I realize that the Eagles are just a sports team. When I see people rooting for other teams, I don’t feel attacked. And I no longer carry the toxic masculinity the men in my family had passed down since 1933. Instead, I teach younger guys my story. I help them understand the harm toxic masculinity can cause in their own lives before it’s too late.

I’ve been blessed to turn my pain and struggle into a tool to help others. But, if I’m being honest, I still can’t stand Cowboys fans.