Philadelphia has lived through a Black Friday turning on it before. The one at the Vet nearly fifty years ago, when everything felt secure until it wasnât. Burt Hooton losing the plate to four straight walks. Vic Davalillo dropping the drag bunt that whispered danger from the moment it rolled down the 3rd base line. Manny Motaâs drive glancing off Greg Luzinskiâs glove and off the wall. A hop off Mike Schmidtâs foot that Larry Bowa fone-handed and fire to first beating L.A.’s Davey Lopes to first but being called safe anyway. Bill Russell driving in the run that froze an entire stadium. A sequence so strange and sudden, all coming with two outs and nobody on the in 9th inning of game 3 of the NLCS, that it felt less like baseball and more like a trapdoor opening beneath the city.
That night settled into Philadelphiaâs bones like a London Fog would that seep into the marrow of it’s residents like a Dickensian tale of regretful pasts and foreshadowing fate.
Almost a half century later the Ghost of Black Friday’s Past reared it’s ugly head again in South Philadelphia and three and a half hours later it felt like he was spelled by the guy who says nothing, but when he points to your head stone you pretty much know wnat’s coming next.
That all-too triggering feeling of something faint and familiar drifted over Lincoln Financial Field today, a chill that didnât match the weather. A heaviness that didnât match the kind of presence you sense before you understand it, the kind Charles Dickens pressed into the fog of old London, a warning folded quietly into the air, as the Chicago Bears visited the Philadelphia Eagles‘ end zone three times and left with a 24-15 victory.Â
That eerie sensation of feeling what you cannot yet know. A whisper from the Ghost of Black Friday’s Past. The Eagles stepped into it and never found their way through.
No Big Birds’ Energy
From the opening snap, they moved without their edge. There was no spark, urgency or tempo. They looked like a team waiting for the day to wake them up instead of taking control of it. Jalen Hurts couldnât find rhythm. Two turnovers, each quieter than they should have been, drained what little life the building tried to generate. A crowd ready to explode to exororcize the team’s epic melt down in Dallas just five daays ago spent most of the afternoon caught between frustration and disbelief.
Chicago didnât need fireworks. They just owned the line of scrimmage. The Bears finished with 281 rushing yards, a ground assault that came in steady, unhurried waves. Kyle Monangai ran for 130 yards on 22 carries, DâAndre Swift added 125 on 18, and both had cracked 100 with still three minutes left in the third quarter. They didnât just run well, they ran with confidence, anger, rhythm, and confidence, something the Eagles never found.
Meanwhile, Philadelphia finished with just 87 rushing yards, a number that only felt smaller as the minutes passed.
A Tush-Push Nightmare
There was one stretch albeit brief and fragile when the game felt ready to tilt. Saquon Barkley began cutting with purpose on a short field given to him by defensive teammate Jalyx Hunt when he picked off Bears quarterback Caleb Williams in the left flat. The line finally leaned forward. The offense breathed for the first time. The crowd stirred, recognizing a flicker of something theyâd been waiting all afternoon to feel.
And then the moment that turned the day.
Third and a long one at the Bears’ 12 yard line. The kind of down Philadelphia usually bends to its will.
This time they rolled out old faithful, the Tush Push, their signature play that the Detroit Lions stopped on bak to back snaps late in the game two weeks ago, a play that doesn’t appear to be as automatic as it used to be lately. Chicago didnât hesitate. Nashon Wright shot through the crease, met Hurts at the line, and ripped the ball free and caused a fumble that landed with the cold finality of a dropped curtain. One of the biggest plays of the afternoon, delivered by a name no one expected to hear in the moment that mattered most. And just like that the air shifted.
On the very next play, Monangai ripped off a 31-yard run straight up the middle. A run that didnât need misdirection or trickery. A run that sliced through hesitation and poor leverage. A run that told you everything you needed to know about how the rest of the afternoon would unfold.
Monangai capped it off the drive a few plays later with a nine yard waltz to the end zone early in the fourth quarter and the Birds never fully recovered after that.
No-Make Jake’s Costly Missed PAT
But the turning points didnât end there. Jake Elliott, one of the most reliable kickers in the league, missed an extra point after A.J. Brownâs first touchdown, a simple point-after that should have tied the game at 10 early in hte 3rd quarter. Instead, it left the Eagles chasing, forcing their hand in ways that never aligned with the rhythm of the day. When they eventually needed a two-point conversion, after Brown scored his second toucvhdown of the game with under four minutes left, they didnât get it. A simple miss early in the third quarter that hung over everything that followed.
Brown was one of the few bright spots. He finished with 10 catches, 132 yards and two touchdowns.
A performance good enough to win on most days.
But not this one.
The Bears doubled the Eagles in first downs, 28 to 14, controlled nearly 40 minutes of possession, and outgained them 425 to 317. At no point did the numbers lie. At no point did it look like Philadelphia was the steadier team. The Bears finished the first half with an imbalanced time of possession of 21 minutes to nine and 16 first downs to just two for the Eagles. Yes, it was that bad. It was so bad it made Ebenezer Scrooge’ s night out with the GOCP feel like a trip to Epcot.
And as the game settled into its final stretch, the same uneasy feeling from before kickoff thickened. The kind that doesnât announce itself until it does. The kind that settles on your shoulders like something old is returning to check in.
The Eagles never led.
Never played from a position of strength.
Never punched back long enough to make Chicago blink.
A Nightmare Before Christmas
And so another Black Friday will go down in the annals of Philly sports lore as an epic sports tragedy, a nightmare of sorts that will evoke a plethora of different emotions than the one spewed from the outcome of their baseball counterpart’s ghoolish haunting, separated from that one by fifty years, yet willl still carry the same sort of shame-shivers and reverberating regret as the one from 1977 did. Not because the games matched. Not because the disasters aligned. But because the day carried that same strange shadow the city knows too well. Hint: Rhymes with Smitty’s nickname, The Slim Reaper.
The Ghosts of Black Friday’s Past came through the fog again with all the weight of a Jacob Marley guilt trip and the drag of the chains he forged in life.
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