Philadelphia had a historic sports night. Now watch us strut.

Before we begin, I must set the mood.

** turns on Beats Pill at 3 a.m. and plays Dreams And Nightmares by Meek Mill loud enough not to hear the neighbor’s cussin **

Good. We needed ambiance.

Let me explain something to you real quick, humble internet reader. If you have never been to Philadelphia, you have never seen the slender face of God stuff a pretzel and cheesesteak in his mouth at the same time. That is the only way I can describe what happened on Oct. 23 in front of the world. The Sixers and the Eagles won on the same day for the first time since December 2013. Even more importantly: The Eagles are 6-1 for the first time since Freeway didn’t have a beard.

“Ain’t this what they been waiting for? You ready?”

I’m not, Meek. I’m not ready for this moment set in motion so long ago.

Back in 2013, we did not know Sam Hinkie would die for our sins and set in motion the dreams of a generation of wahoos from the Italian Market to Kensington. Hater rest in peace, rest in peace to the parking lot. Our Phantom got so big it can’t eem fit in the parking spot. This is real. My body might combust.

This historic night must live on in the future of our fandom as Philadelphians because this shit probably should have never happened. Hinkie should still be GM of this fun, dumb basketball team but the Basketball Gods can’t have us infallible. Andy Reid should still be coaching football in winter puffer jackets during August, but we mustn’t be fat with greed.

In an ideal world: Chip Kelly isn’t smirking on a sideline and dealing away DeSean Jackson and Shady McCoy for onion rings and whatever Sam Bradford is, but losses make you humble. We shouldn’t have been able to move up to No. 2 in the 2016 NFL draft by trading away eight mufflers to the Browns to hire Carson Wentz, aka Yakubian Warren Moon, aka Diet Big Ben, but we must remember Cleveland only knows failure.

“I go and get it regardless, draw like I’m an artist, no crawlin’ wen’t straight to walkin’ wit foreigns in my garage...”

That’s right, Meek.

Make no mistake, humble internet reader, Philly deserves this. We deserve to laugh at the misfortune of other franchises and cities because our existence is inherently unfortunate. We are the sons and daughters of dock workers and stadium cranks and all the other lies Rocky movies tell you about this city.

We are the kids who tried to kill Santa with batteries on Christmas. We are only two cheesesteak shops deep, and everyone lives in the same crevice on Broad St. The world thinks of us as either preppy jawns at St. Joe’s and ‘Nova or gritty jawns at Temple and La Salle, so damnit, that’s what we’ll be.

William Penn came here in 1862, a Quaker devoid of sports, and wondered: What the hell would happen if a kid from North Dakota, a Cameroonian by way of Kansas, and Melbourne’s First Born son were in the same place years from now? “Lol, that would probably be fire as fuck,” he texted into his BlackBerry.

We deserve this right now, no matter how unprecedented it is, because Philly doesn’t wait for shit. We want it right now. It doesn’t matter if we have to sacrifice half the city for a Super Bowl, we will do it and honor those we lost when the Yuengling runs out. No. I’m not lying. We basically tried to do it after the Phils won the Series.

Philly is a city devoid of expectations. Everything is crap and everyone has their own story of how crap it is whether you live off 23rd and Berks or you lavishly sip Brandy in a golden hot tub in Rittenhouse Square.

Really, Philly is the healthiest version of what a city should be: We have no ambition. Everything in the country basically started here, and we don’t have anything else to contribute. That’s as much as we want to succeed. This isn’t Houston building into the ocean. This isn’t Phoenix making new solar panels. This isn’t DC gentrifying everything in sight. We built your shitty country, and we would like our sports to be as good as promised in the Constitution. We ask for so little.

Jeff Bezos wanna build an Amazon plant here? Will it get Doug Pederson to call better plays? Fuck it then. The new mayor wants to put in a Soda Tax? Is that improving Markelle Fultz’s jumper? Fuck it then. Half the history of the city is tied to a fictitious boxer who made white people feel good during a down time in the city’s history. Don’t you dare tell me all we want isn’t just sports fame.

“I don’t say a word, I don’t say a word. Was on my grind and I got what I deserved..”

Amen, Meek.

We deserve this moment. When Wentz threw 100 interceptions last year, we waited his growth out. When Ben Simmons had a setback and we were told to wait, we did it. When Joel Embiid decided to cripple the beginning of the future of the Sixers franchise by getting some trash cornrows, we told him to take them out and we started winning. This is our Shakespearean tale. It has always ended in tragedy. If only for a second in our miserable history, let us appreciate the glory in this moment.

So Boston can keep its shitty Dunkin’ Donuts and Tom Brady. We’ll drink a Yards at Standard Tap with Wentz. Atlanta can keep Migos and the ghost of Dominique Wilkins, we’ll mix Meek and Beans and Freeway and watch Iverson lace up a du-rag and put on a mink. New York can keep its cabs and chopped cheese, DC can have the Metro and Half-Smokes, and we’ll stuff 18 cheesesteaks in our mouths and ride SEPTA into the sunset.

This is for the goonies in the market eating wooder ice. This is for everyone who eats their steaks not at Pat’s and Geno’s. This is for the ol’heads on 52nd and Market still sellin’ tank tops and blasting Musiq Soulchild. This is for the moms in Lawncrest who can’t get their kid on a fall ball team because he likes to fight. This is for the homeowners in Norf Philly still flippin’ double birds to gentrifiers. This is for the boul Joey Jihad’s lost career. This is for the Catholic League and the Public League. Hell, this is even for you Andrew Bynum, Doug Collins, Rube Amaro, Johnny Papelbon and Marcus Smith.

I don’t know what’s next for our little hovel of a sports town, but I know it will sing the songs of failures past and give us our own version of glory.

“Hold Up, wait a minute, y’all thought I was finished?”

That’ll do, for now, Meek. We just getting started. And also, my neighbors are probably calling the police.