The equation appeared on Malcolm Jenkins' face as he stood on a patch of carpet and glanced toward the back wall. It was not written, but it was there, his muscles crackling with the calculus spinning in his brain: a curl in the upper lip, a dip in the arches above his brow, an expression that simultaneously combined irony, amusement, and a sprinkling of pride.
"We don't have anything," the Eagles safety said. "We're at the bottom just like everybody else."
That was one side of the equation. The other one was at the opposite end of his gaze, a picture of a silver trophy that challenged the validity of the words he'd just spoken. The words accompanying the image erased any question about its significance.
Super Bowl LII Champions.
"I hate it, personally," Jenkins said. "My focus is all on adding another 'I' to the end of that. And so it's great. But I'm well beyond celebrating last year's accomplishments, because they don't mean anything this year. They don't get us anything."
I hate it. It's great. But it doesn't mean anything.
Thursday night marks the dawn of a new era in Eagles football, the opening round of the first Super Bowl defense in franchise history. With it, the animating question shifts from "Can they?" to "How long?"
There are a lot of concrete variables that will determine the number of Roman numerals that materialize on the NovaCare Complex walls between now and the arrival of the next extended stretch of desolation. Uniting them all is the psychological push-pull reflected in Jenkins' musings.
There is meaning in accomplishment. But there is no accomplishment in that meaning.
