Close-up black-and-white portrait of a man with a beard, looking at the camera, focusing on his eyes and forehead.

I know the right path. The good path. I know it both intellectually, emotionally, and even historically, but still, I refuse to take it. It’s the path that leads to sanity and happiness. It’s right there and I decline, knowing I’m choosing a more difficult one, from which I will surely emerge bruised, battered, and torn. I know this from personal experience, and yet still, I persist. I make the poor choice.

Portrait of a man in a cap and glasses making an OK sign with his right hand.

Ed Dobbs always looked to me like he’d just thought of something darkly funny and was trying to decide whether or not you were worthy enough to share it with. More often than not, he kept it to himself, which is presumably the same reason I didn’t know Eddie was sick until I got a text from him last night. Only it wasn’t him after all, it was his wife, Fran. Eddie, it turned out, had already left the building.

Close-up portrait of a bearded man wearing dark sunglasses outdoors, with a blurred waterfront in the background (black and white).

I have never been a local—never the native. I’ve always been the transplant, the visitor, the outsider, the interloper. I have met people who have never left the town they were born in and everyone they’ve ever known resides within 50 miles of their home, but I have never been that guy. I have always been from somewhere else.

Costumed orange mascot wearing a face shield and orange-and-black jersey holds a sign reading “Welcome to my house!” at an ice hockey arena.

When you’re a city with a reputation for being a tough, scrappy underdog with a chip on your shoulder, finding yourself as the team to beat can be disorienting. Philadelphia has never been one of the big dogs. No legacy of championship eras here. We’ve never been the San Francisco 49ers of the 80s and 90s, or the Yankees with 27 World Series titles to their name. No one has ever mistaken us for “America’s Team.” We’re Philly. We’re lucky if all our players are out on bail in time for the game.