‘Winning hands’: My father showed me the power of the human spirit to overcome challenges

Just before the 2004 NFC championship game against the Atlanta Falcons, my father, James Phillips, was very excited to tell me he had taken a temporary job shoveling snow at the Linc. He felt like he had won the lottery.

To know my father is to know the quintessential Philadelphia Eagles fan — born and raised in North Philadelphia, a 1973 graduate of Simon Gratz High School, and an aficionado of the Eagles’ pre-Veterans Stadium playing days at Franklin Field.

The profound love and commitment to the Eagles was passed down to me both genetically and through rituals — often weekly — going to games, watching games, and spending weekends catching (often dropping) passes from him. I ran routes he named after different players: “Arkansas” Freddie Barnett (curl), Keith Jackson (flat), and Mike Quick (slant).

The job was a perfect opportunity for him to contribute to an Eagles win, and then travel to the Super Bowl in Jacksonville, Fla., that year.

The frigid air at Lincoln Financial Field that day mirrored the intensity of the Eagles’ fans. As game time approached, only 30 shovelers remained, a testament to the brutally cold conditions, as the wind chill plummeted to 2 degrees.

My father braved the frigid temperatures, determined to witness history unfold. He was also without gloves. Numbness crept in, followed by an agonizing pain he initially dismissed as the price of passion. By the time he realized the gravity of the situation, it was too late. In the euphoria of the victory, he noticed the alarming signs — his hands were bleeding. That euphoria quickly turned to dread. As his hands bled out, he rushed to the subway to make it to the hospital. Hospital staff escorted him to the burn unit before he passed out.

Two days later, I saw my father in a dimly lit hospital room in North Philadelphia. The sterile scent of the hospital was a stark contrast to the stadium just days before. A man who exuded boundless energy was now bedridden and bandaged across his face, hands, and feet. The doctors delivered the grim prognosis: The unforgiving wind chill led to frostbite that had irrevocably damaged his fingers down to the knuckle. While his face and feet might recover fully, the amputation of all 10 fingers was an inevitability.

Witnessing my father’s struggle, his frustration, and his moments of despair was a shocking experience. I saw the man who once effortlessly fixed my bike, who taught me how to throw and catch a football, now unable to live independently. Everyday tasks, once taken for granted — grasping a glass, buttoning a shirt, zipping up a coat — became monumental struggles.

The world, designed for able bodies, suddenly became a minefield of obstacles.

The initial shock gave way to sadness. I saw the flicker of self-doubt in his eyes, the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. My father is a talkative and expressive man, often wildly gesturing with his hands. It was a constant reminder our lives had changed.

It wasn’t just the physical limitations that plagued him; it was the emotional toll, the invisible scars that ran deeper than any visible wound. He wrestled with a sense of diminished worth, a feeling of being less than, a burden he often carried silently, although he confessed: “The stares and whispered comments were hard enough, but it was the children’s fear that broke my heart. Their cries and screams made me feel like a monster.”

This inspired my father to redefine himself.

He started to talk about “Winning hands” — a mindset that transcended the physical. It became his mantra, a guiding principle that permeated every aspect of his life. Eventually, he learned to adapt, to find new ways of doing things, to embrace his limitations while refusing to be defined by them. He faced the world with a renewed sense of purpose, determined to show his family that abundance, joy, and fulfillment are all possible and present.

“Losing a limb, or something you hold dear,” he explained to me, “does not mean I’m useless to what and to whom I love, and who loves me. I can still do things that I didn’t believe I could do.”

This experience profoundly impacted our relationship. We became closer, and he instilled in me a deep empathy for anyone facing adversity, a recognition that everyone carries their own unique set of challenges.

Twenty years later, our family continues to reflect on the fragility of life, and the power of the human spirit to overcome even the most daunting challenges.

The Eagles’ 2017 Super Bowl victory was a moment of catharsis. My father tattooed the Lombardi Trophy and Eagles logo on his left arm, a permanent reminder of the triumph. And, of course, he plans to get the right arm tattooed because “I’m an Eagles fan from the cradle to the grave. That’s what real Eagles fans do.”

This Super Bowl victory, while a joyous occasion, served as a reminder of the importance of cherishing every moment.

I find strength in my father’s “Winning hands” legacy of resilience, hope, and the unwavering belief in joy. It is about the enduring power of family, the indomitable spirit of a father who turns tragedy into triumph, and a son’s gratitude for the lessons he learned along the way.

To honor those lessons, I encouraged my father to adapt “Winning hands” into a limited series podcast to capture our family’s stories and memories for posterity. The series offers unique perspectives and illuminating conversations across generations, between father and son, family members, and people we admire. The trailer to the pilot episode “The Incident” can be found at www.youtube.com/@WinningHandsPodcast.

Omar Woodard is a North Philadelphia native and resident, and graduate of Girard College. He is executive director of HRS Management and chairs the investment committee of the Independence Public Media Foundation.