kevdonahue.com

I never thought I’d see the day when being named Kevin would get me side-eyed walking to work down Market Street.

For decades, “Kevin” has been a solid, unremarkable name — the kind of name you give a dependable guy who holds the door at Wawa or patiently explains how to connect your Bluetooth speaker. Then along comes Kevin Patullo, the Eagles’ offensive coordinator, and suddenly we’re all catching strays.

Don’t get me wrong, Patullo seems like a nice guy. I mean, come on, he’s a Kevin! But increasingly as fall turned toward winter, every time the Birds failed to convert on third-and-1, my phone would light up like it’s New Year’s Eve: “Yo Kev … you calling the plays today?” “Kevin, you been hanging out with Patullo again?” Even my mom texted me during the regular season finale vs. Washington, “This isn’t you, is it?”

It’s not easy carrying the name Kevin in Philly right now. We used to be a proud bunch — a brotherhood united by modest decency and the ability to laugh at ourselves. But these days, when someone hears “Kevin,” they flinch like you just said “Carson” or “Chip.” I fear we’re the male Karen.

We now know how it feels to be a Carson, a Chip, or a Jonathan in this town.

Ah, Karen — once, it was a name that evoked PTA bake sales and friendly advice on mulch. But then, through a mysterious alchemy of viral videos and cultural frustration, Karen transformed from person to archetype — the universal symbol of obnoxious, angry, charged privilege.

But Kevins? We’ve always been neutral ground. No drama. No memes. Just solid, khaki-wearing reliability. You hear “Kevin,” and you think of your cousin who helped you move that one time, or maybe Kevin Bacon dancing joyfully in defiance of small-town tyranny. That’s the brand. Or was the brand — until the Eagles’ offense wilted like a wet hoagie.

Now, when a Philly Kevin walks into a bar, heads turn. We hear whispers: “Oh great, another genius with a plan.” Strangers ask us where our screen passes are going. I can’t even order a cheesesteak without someone muttering, “Don’t overthink it this time, Kev.” It’s exhausting.

So I’m speaking now for Kevins everywhere: we’re not all Patullo. Some of us are just trying to enjoy a Sunday without being blamed for a missed red-zone opportunity. We’ve survived bad drafts, rain-soaked tailgates, and relatives from South Jersey. We can survive this too. But we need help. We need redemption. 

I have a plan.

Maybe, just maybe, the Birds can hire Kevin Stefanski, the Philly native and recently fired coach of the Cleveland Browns, as OC. He steps in and — dream with me, Kevins! — he solves Jalen Hurts, gets the running offense back on track, and takes away A.J. Brown’s iPhone. I picture him and Nick Sirianni handing the Lombardi Trophy to Jeff Lurie amid a storm of confetti in February 2027.

Give us time, Philly. The name Kevin will rise again — dependable, decent, and maybe even a little heroic. Because if there’s one thing Kevin Patullo, Kevin Bacon, and yes, even this Kevin have in common, it’s that we always believe there’s next year.

Go Birds! Go Kevins!