The euphoria is such that I don’t feel like I have the words to describe the emotions of pure ecstasy radiating through my soul for the next whole week. After that Hail Mary from Tom Brady hit the turf, all I could do was run around my friend’s house screaming, stopping only long enough to soak in the trophy presentation, before hopping in my car to make the two-hour trek back to Philadelphia.

Everything about that night was bliss - speeding down the PA Turnpike to get in range of the sports talk station in Philadelphia, forming an impromptu caravan with some people at a rest stop north of Lancaster, the party on Broad Street, staying out until 5 to find a newspaper. All of it was sheer joy.

Then came the parade and the week leading up to it. Even now, nine months later, I cannot access the vocabulary to adequately portray what went through my heart. Using “bliss” to describe the feeling of non-stop Eagles coverage that week, the shining, sloppy seas of green humanity lining the parade route on a cold, sunny day, and of course the speeches - using that word “bliss” just doesn’t seem strong enough.