Philadelphia ? The overweight, robust protectors of Philadelphia quarterback Donovan McNabb spoke louder than ever.

On Monday, not Super Bowl Sunday.

Donovan McNabb’s teammates said they heard the wails from their faithful, who were suffocating in torment on the day after. But there was a reason for the paralysis of common sense — conspicuously displayed by the Eagles’ offense — that could quell their hostility, diminish their misery.

“Donovan was almost puking in the huddle,” Eagles center Hank Fraley said Monday night on Comcast SportsNet. The quarterback’s condition even forced wide receiver Freddie Mitchell to call a play for him.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is your explanation to temper the agony that, once again, serves to substantiate this city’s stigma as a wannabe instead of a winner.

Let it be known that no one here questions whether McNabb was ill or was suffering from dehydration or an anxiety attack.

Let it also be known that few should care, particularly when McNabb fails to wear his emotions in the same manner as others.

Only two Super Bowl quarterbacks passed for more yards than McNabb (357) did Sunday. He tiptoed, hopped and scampered away from numerous Patriots defenders along the way. The last time I checked, running and throwing were requirements for the quarterback position.

So who cares if McNabb was sick?

Especially right now.

Super Bowl XXXIX has come and gone, and again the Eagles ended the season with their heads hung low. A very good Patriots team appeared ordinary at times. And still, the Eagles could not close the show.

We heard McNabb wax eloquently about what transpired Sunday and where the blame lied.

It was his fault, of course, the responsibility squarely on his shoulders. But if you’re an Iggles lover, just how do you feel about hearing him say that right now?

Is it OK to see such poise — absent during various moments in the Super Bowl, but so evident on a podium afterward?

Is it OK to see such resignation, such acceptance in defeat embraced so easily by McNabb when it’s shoved away by wide receiver Terrell Owens?

As McNabb stood on the sideline watching defeat settle in, knowing another championship had eluded his grasp, a clearly disgusted Owens was cringing.

What difference does this make?

Here’s Mr. McNabb: “I messed up. I’ll think about those three interceptions I threw.”

Here’s Mr. Owens: “We’ll be back. Believe me, we will be back in the Super Bowl.”

Which one do you want to hear?

The star pupil, the poster boy for all that’s good and wholesome, pontificating about what might have been? Or the defiant, abrasive, valiant one, always uncomfortable with losing, never wilting beneath the spotlight?

When the end arrives, sometimes the greatest winners are the losers who dwell in discomfort. They never surrender, never give an inch, and never hide their misery in the face of adversity.

McNabb probably feels miserable. After three interceptions, he should. Where fault lies, however, is neither in McNabb’s mistakes nor his willingness to express it.

It’s in his penchant for accepting blame so easily, leaving others behind to explain his shortcomings while he heads to Hawaii instead of wallowing in misery with the rest of the city.