And then. . . Well, you tell me. You saw it. I know I wasn't the only one to feel that scrotum tightening tingle of dread when the Giants scored a touchdown on a bizzarre fumble into the endzone that should have been an Eagles game clinching turnover with 13 minutes to play. Still leading by 10 in the fourth quarter, I could feel doom creeping up my urethra.

It was so familiar. Why are Philadelphia sports fans so acutely sensitive to the coming of a sudden and inexplicable collapse? I was standing in the left centerfield bleachers looking over the railing at the Vet on Black Friday when pinch hitter Manny Motta, the oldest active player in the major leagues, hit that game changing double that Greg Luzinski trapped against the wall in the ninth inning of game two of the 1977 National League Championship Series. Everyone knew that Luzinski's late-inning defensive replacement, Jerry Martin, would have made that catch to win the game I'll never forget the ride home on the subway. It was like the village of the damned. Not a single person spoke from Pattison Avenue to City Hall. It was eerie to ride on a train where everyone was thinking the same thing -- suicide.

Did you see or hear Andy Reid's post-game press conference? He sounded like Robert E. Lee after Pickett's Charge. It's all my fault, he acknowledged. It's all my fault. So why do I believe Reid about as much as I believed Buddy Ryan when he said it WASN'T his fault? Why do I think Andy Reid will do the same thing next time? And why am I disgusted with the winningest coach in Eagles history?

Because. That's my reason. Because.