The President was in the Superdome, and the Eagles were in the end zone.

I'm 'm a native New Yorker but a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles. I very rarely miss a game. By the standards of the species, I'm an ordinary ape, yelling at the TV, conjuring referee conspiracies, poring over (but never commenting in) fan forums and game threads online. Wherever I've lived or visited, through the decades, I've sought out the Eagles bar. In recent years, I have frequented the Merrion Square Pub, at Ninety-fifth Street and Second Avenue, where the patrons join in the periodic incantation shouted by the guy they call R.J.-"Good things happen when you RUN THE BALL!" and then, after wins, dance together to Bill Withers's "Lovely Day."

But, more often than not, I watch at home, alone, standing slightly to the side of the screen, arms crossed. Frederick Exley, on the first page of his autobiographical novel "A Fan's Notes," describes the "high and delicious anxiety" of an N.F.L. afternoon, which induces symptoms "the pain was excruciatingly vivid" that he mistakes for a heart attack. In January, during a particularly harrowing fourth quarter, in the Eagles' playoff game against the L.A. Rams, I measured my blood pressure, for science, and the result was so obscene that I will not share it, in case my doctor is reading this. When the Eagles escaped with the win, I jumped up and started removing my clothes. The first chapter of "A Fan's Notes" is titled "The Nervous Light of Sunday," and though I am not a suicidal drunk like Exley-or, let's say, not much of one I know the wobbling migraine radiance of game time.