By PHIL ANASTASIA
(Cherry Hill, N.J.) Courier-Post

PHILADELPHIA - The madman in front of the television in his living room, screaming at Todd Pinkston to catch the football? He can calm down.

It's a done deal.

The crazies in the sports bars, spilling beverages and pounding tables? They can sit back and relax.

It's happening.

The face-painting, jersey-wearing, stadium-shaking legions in the old concrete bowl in South Philadelphia? They can take a series of deep breaths - see, that cold air can work wonders on a muddled, manic mind - and a few moments to collect themselves.

It's the Philadelphia Eagles' year.

Sure, the waiting is the hardest part, and the worrying is the most natural part, and the wondering is the best part of following your team on the way to the Super Bowl.

Sure, the fretting and the fussing is the unalienable right of the true fan.

Sure, the anticipation and the anxiety that starts in the stomach and spreads through the rest of the body like reverse anesthesia - that's the real, pure, perfectly legal drug of choice for the faithful.

So let's not expect them to face facts. To admit that this isn't a football season. That this is a thrill ride, a hair-raising trip along tracks that lead - despite some dips, some twists and some turns - to the old stadium in San Diego.

Here's a dirty little secret: It's inevitable. It's the Eagles' time. It's the fans' time - a long-overdue payback for all that suffering, all those cold and dark and barren winters with the raw, fresh memory of all those missed kicks and dropped passes and frustrating defeats.

Don't believe it? Guess you weren't paying close attention on Saturday night, when every call went the Eagles' way in a difficult, 20-6 victory over the Atlanta Falcons in an NFC playoff semifinal in Veterans Stadium.

"I guess they do a better job of coaching their guys on techniques to avoid penalties," said Atlanta coach Dan Reeves, sarcasm as thick as the syrup on a stack of pancakes.

Sour grapes? Sure.

But Reeves had a point. From the opening kickoff to the key moment of the game - Michael Vick's apparent score-tying touchdown run that was nullified by a holding penalty late in the third quarter - everything came up yellow for the Falcons.

Was there holding on Vick's run? Sure.

But know this: There's holding on every play. When it's your year, the referee is looking at the guy from the other team that is doing the holding, and not the guy on the other side of the line who is blocking with perfect technique.

Know this, too: The Eagles were in serious trouble if Vick's touchdown had counted and the score had been tied 13-13 entering the fourth quarter. The wind, the momentum, the burgeoning confidence of a fearless, 22-year-old, superstar-in-the-making - the Falcons would have had the stick, as they say, in the final 15 minutes.

But that kind of stuff doesn't happen to these Eagles. Not this year.

You know it's the Eagles' year when a potentially devastating injury turns into a blessing in disguise.

It's true. The loss of Donovan McNabb energized the Eagles, focused them, forged them together in a way that nobody could have imagined when the franchise player went down with a fractured ankle.

You know it's the Eagles' year when bad turns to good, when adversity serves as a rallying point, when an damaged quarterback inspires his teammates as much on the sideline as in the huddle.

That what happens in a special year. That's what happens when a team gets locked into one of these unconscious zones, when the stars lined up and the moon nestles into the seventh house and cosmic tumblers fall into place.

Sure, the Eagles play hard. Sure, they earn their victories through their athletic talent and teamwork and focus and intensity and ability to perform under pressure. Sure, they have direction from above and leadership from within.

They also have luck - both the residue of Andy Reid's design and the fallout of their new best friend, fate.

It's simple. It's obvious. It's their time.

The madman in front of the television, the crazies in the sports bars, the legions in the stadium - they don't want to believe it. They don't allow themselves to believe it.

They don't dare consider that they locked in and buckled down, giddy passengers along for a wild ride along undulating tracks that lead, inevitably, to San Diego.

After all, that would spoil all the fun.

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