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| This is his preference. Keep the focus away. |
Fight, Eagles fight!
Score a touchdown 1, 2, 3! (1! 2! 3!)
Hit 'em low!
Hit 'em high!
And watch our Eagles fly!
Fly, Eagles Fly!
On the road to victory!
E-A-G-L-E-S!
Eagles!
- "The Eagles' Victory Song," written by Charles Borrelli and Roger Courtland
Eric Allen would want you to know he's an Eagles fan.
Well, scratch that. First, Eric would want you to know about Meaghan, his wife of barely seven months, and of Carson James, his son of only 14 months. These were the loves of his life.
Carson. Yes, as in Carson Wentz. Now-former Eagles quarterback.
He might talk about how he and Meaghan met, which was painstakingly reproduced for a video that was shown at their rehearsal dinner last August.
They met at a Cumby. A Cumberland Farms. Seriously. It's like fairy tale stuff.
But he wouldn't want the attention. He'd dodge it and change the subject.
Yet, since you asked, he'd happily talk about the Eagles.
He'd grumble -- with a smile, and always a smile -- about how awful the Eagles were.
He was a Philly boy despite being a Connecticut guy.
He went to Fairfield Prep but went to college at Temple to be close to his Philly teams, including those Eagles.
Temple, who played their games at the Linc. Lincoln Financial Field. Home of the Philadelphia Eagles.
And, as I'm writing, Eric's Eagles have just signed Joe Flacco. I can hear the grumbling off in the distance.
Smiling, of course.
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
Short of marrying Meaghan and bringing Carson into the world, Eric was probably the happiest when those Eagles helped prove that a Sir Tom of New England was, indeed, no GOAT and that a guy named Nick Foles knew that a Philly Special could run past Sir Tom.
The likes of Eric are a rare breed. They're not here forever. So it was when Eric left us last Friday night.
Still a baby himself at just 34.
A family is distraught.
This was not some theoretical "good guy." This was a good guy. A great guy.
People who have never met him wish they had.
But Eric wanted to meet all of you.
"How are they?" he'd ask. "I hope to meet them one day."
He cared.
He texted me after his birthday party out of the blue a few years ago. I didn't know that he even concerned himself with me.
"...I know that drive is a pain and it was really awesome to have you and everyone there."
There were texts. Many texts. About football and my mother and Meaghan and becoming a father.
"And I won't hold it against you if you turn him into a Yankees fan!" he said, regarding Carson after the baby was born.
Perhaps most special to me was this one following Sean's graduation:
"...Got to hang out with Sean a little, he's a really good kid with his head on straight. He's gonna do good things."
What sucks, if I can use that term, is that everything was just getting started. At 34, things were there for Eric Allen. Wife. Kid. Life.
Loved. Beloved. The best was yet to come.
Now there's simply devastation and he'd hate all of this attention.
Hit 'em low! Hit 'em high!
And yet, there's a story of how he'll carry on, at least in my house. More than just the treasured memories of time that was so short but something tangible.
It's probably no shock that all roads lead back to Sep 4, 2020, and the grandmother he adopted, who loved him right back.
His sadness at my mother's passing was palpable. We texted during the day before we each went about our business. At 7:16 that night, I decided to text him to see if there was a place where Shawn Sailer, Paul Silverfarb, and I could grab a socially-distant beverage.
Eric had other ideas. Instead of going to a place, he wanted me at his place. For Eric was all about wrapping his arms around his loved ones.
That's a thing I'll remember. The first hug I allowed in the pandemic -- of all people -- was Eric, when he saw me for Mother's Day as we all tried to keep our space. But he was having none of that.
It was the first time Mom and I got to see Carson.
But on Sep 4, a cat named Binx rubbed up against me in their apartment. I petted him. He seemed friendly. He also seemed to want to eat my chicken parmigiana.
"Do you want him?" Eric asked.
I laughed.
"I'm serious."
We texted over the next few days. His support following the passing of my mother was so important if only to tell me how "those Pinstripe dudes look like s*it recently!"
I asked if he was really serious about the cat.
"Yes, he's available!"
My world seemed to think I needed this cat, whom I picked up on Sep 13, brought home, and eventually renamed Rascal.
And Squeaky.
And he's going to be called Eric from time to time also.
Fly, Eagles fly!
Sadly, as I went through my texts, I was reminded of times around that same stretch in the fall when he told me he wasn't feeling so great and that he had to get it addressed. I told him I'd come kick his ass if he didn't.
But we just didn't know what was going on.
And now?
Now?
He's gone.
It doesn't make sense. It never will.
Thirty-four.
We've asked those big questions before. We've expressed that anger before.
Why? Seriously, Why? If I may, WTF?
There are no answers.
Now you know why I wrote about grief and the awful day that was Sunday.
Eric Allen has left us. We're better for knowing him. We're sadder for losing him.
He got to see his Eagles finally win the Super Bowl. Finally.
E-A-G-L-E-S!
Fly, Eric.
Fly.
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