Irreconcilable Differences

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following scenario is fictional, but I would not be the least bit surprised if something like it is taking place in more than one home these days.

Picture, if you will, a father sitting on the edge of his young son's bed as the last fading sunshine of a fall day gives way to the gloaming. Though it is getting hard to see in the upstairs room, no light is on save for the tiny single bulb of the son's nite-lite, a grinning ceramic likeness of Clifford the Big Red Dog. The father is talking gently, softly to his son; the subject is one much like the day: cold and dim. He is trying without much success to ease the child's mind, to get rid of his fear....

"Listen, buddy -- sometimes these things happen, even when you don't want them to. I know it's hard to understand now but when you're a little older it might be easier. You need to know that we both still love you as much as before, and that will never ever change. It's just that the two of us, well....we just can't be together anymore....not like we used to be. Okay?"

With wide, anxious eyes and a trembling lower lip his small son nods his head. Even at his young age he understands that just as he needs his Dad, right now for some reason his Dad needs this from him every bit as much. With every ounce of courage he can muster he tries to look his father in the eye, the way he told him to, and respond confidently and convincingly. His body language betrays him, however, and reveals the scared child behind the brave mask.

For a moment the two men -- one grown and the other little more than an infant -- stare helplessly at each other. The boy wonders if he gave his father what he seemed to need so badly. He will never know the answer. Neither of them will ever speak of what they saw in the other's eyes that sad day.

This little episode is all too common in today's world of disposable convenience and frighteningly little commitment. Tsk tsk, you mutter -- another family broken beyond repair; another divorce, another do-over for Mom and Dad, and another child left scarred and alone in a scary, difficult world. But that's not at all what's happening. Take a closer look:

Downstairs in the den, walls which were once almost completely covered with pennants, pictures, posters and anything else that bore the insignia "Washington Redskins" are now nearly bare. The wall surfaces where all these oaths of allegiance hung are conspicuous by the difference the shades of paint on the walls, which now look oddly like two-dimensional, vertical graveyards of abandoned hopes and dreams.

The father's closet was recently at least half-filled with every kind of clothing imaginable that sported the proud Indian-head profile and team name. All that remains of those items are the hangars used for them; what little clothing there is is normal and scattered amongst long stretches of bare clothes rod. Underneath the carpeting suddenly seems too bright, or too something -- maybe it's just the absence of all the Burgundy and Gold footwear that once rested there.

In the living room the large, modular entertainment center that served as both an electronic means to an end every Sunday from September through December AND a mini shrine to gridiron glory now sits as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. The footballs, helmets, collectibles and assorted other memorabilia that had been crammed into or on every available space since, well, forever, are gone with no clue as to their whereabouts.

It's almost as if they were never there at all.

The young boy's parents, in many ways, wish they hadn't been.

Mom and Dad both grew up diehard 'Skins fans. Their third date was a home game at RFK. Through the years the life they built together had always counted Redskins football as one of it's constants, a symbol of tradition and continuity in an increasingly changing world. It was so much more than just one thing they had in common. In some ways it was the foundation of their entire relationship. Heck, once or maybe even twice they'd fought so bitterly that just about the only thing keeping them together, at least for that night, was their team.

That was then. This is now. And now is not good -- not even a little bit.

Now it's all about the megalomaniacal owner, a man of small physical stature but giant ego who cares not a whit for the proud, storied history of the team he paid nearly a billion dollars for. Now it's FedEx Field, not RFK, where the Redskins play their home games. Now the stadium isn't even in the District at all, but instead out in Landover MD. Now the football team created by George Preston Marshall and raised to greatness by Jack Kent Cooke is in the imperious, callous hands of an owner who thinks no more of it's loyal fanbase -- one of the very best in all of sports -- than is necessary to keep them paying into his coffers, and no more.

Like I said, now is not good. In fact, now sucks. Big time.

In both sports and business the most successful groups lead with integrity and sound principles from the top down. These days with the Redskins that's exactly where the problems start. Dan Snyder has learned nothing about football since the day he took ownership over ten years ago. This in and of itself is not so unusual; roughly half of the current NFL owners know the game, and the other half just know how to sign the checks. However, when one considers that coming in he knew absolutely nothing about football, and a decade later well, knows exactly what he did then...yeah. For such a supposed entrepreneurial wizard this total lack of progress, this flatline of a learning curve, is not only appalling, at first glance it seems nigh impossible. The Dan may or may not be many things, but he's certainly no idiot. You aren't able to pony up $800 million for anything unless you have a shrewd mind.

For the better part of eight years I pondered this: why wasn't this guy learning how to run a football team the same way he learned how to become a multi-millionaire? Year after year, one colossal blunder after another happened and then happened again. It didn't make sense...until it finally hit me: the man has no interest in learning how to run a successful, competitive team so long as it's not a requirement of making money with one. As long as his investment continues to bring in substantial returns year after year he's as happy as a pig in ----.

He may have paid some lip service to the great Redskins tradition and history when he signed the papers. Hell, he may even have been somewhat sincere about upholding such things back when he said as much, but let's be clear: the man's first and foremost priority, above all else, is and has always been TURNING A BUCK. Period.

Now hold on a second, you say. If he's the micro-managing corporate despot you say he is, why is it that time and again he's shelled out mountains of cash to acquire some of the biggest marquee free agents around? If he only cares about making money why has he been so generous with player salaries? The man must want to win if he's willing to pay top dollar (some would say considerably more so) for premium talent to come play here. Right?

Wrong. The willingness to spend to win is only one of several key things an owner must do for his team to become great. Moreover, the last time I looked it was pretty much the only one of those things Snyder has done, so he's far from willing to do whatever it takes to field a championship team if you ask me. Had I been asked this a year and a half ago I would have held up his spending habits as evidence of his commitment, and I would have argued it to my last breath. Up until three or four months ago I was still creatively finding ways to rationalize the stewardship of this man who in just ten years took a team that was one of the league's elite and turned it into one that is only slightly better than the most pathetic laughingstocks in all of football (see Browns, Cleveland and Lions, Detroit).

That doesn't happen if the owner is 100% committed to building a winner. No way.

Now -- there's that word again -- I no longer have the luxury of those foolish illusions. I can't keep telling myself that this clown means the very best for this team, that he will eventually make it all happen. Now it's all becoming terribly clear. Everything Snyder has done practically screams his disdain for the game and the legions of fans who made it the biggest spectator sport in the world. From his excessive marketing and selling ad space like the 'Skins were a Sprint Cup stock car to his near-censorship of fans who rightly feel that paying outrageous sums of money entitles them to be critical of his aimless 'leadership,' through his continuing, almost insanely stubborn refusal to admit his lack of football acumen, making it virtually impossible to hire anyone who actually does, he's done so many things wrong it's tough to keep count.

The number of mistakes he's made is not nearly as important as what they all add up to however: this franchise is being run right into the ground as fast as can be. He must know this as much as we all do, but he doesn't care. He believes he is better than we are. He is not. He still thinks he knows what's best at all times. He does not. He is convinced he is above reproach. He is not. He just has more money. His money gives him certain power, but you know what they say:

Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Snyder's lack of respect for his fanbase coupled with his false sense of unassailability are the same two fatal errors powerful men have always made; from Nero to Ceausescu they all underestimated the power of their once-cowed masses and overestimated their iron grip on the situation. All eventually fell from grace, as will the Dan if he doesn't pull his head out and grab a clue. He cares only for the bottom line, a fat black inked summary of his periodic profits. Little does he realize those profits are generated by fans who understand what this team is and what it means to be a Redskin...he has not truly earned them. What's more, he refuses to grasp that even fans like us have limits; go too far and you may see it all come crashing down on your head, Mr. Snyder.

It starts with real families like the ones described at the outset of this piece making an agonizing decision: their personal health and well-being or their team. When you come right down to it it's really not much of a contest. Our owner believes that just like big tobacco, his clientele will continually renew itself to replace those who die or voluntarily walk away. I don't think it works that way, Dan-o.

For now at least, on the balance sheets a small family that comes to a place where they can no longer be Redskins fans may be worth much less than the collective value of the organization. For now. But I don't honestly think it will stay that way for long. Not with this character at the wheel.

He just doesn't get it. He probably never will. The kicker is that by extension we the fans won't get it -- respect and perennial contenders that is -- either. At least not before our fifth owner, whoever that may be, takes over this show.

The National Footsie-Ball League?

Let the reader beware: in my extended absence from this forum I have become so like a grouchy old man that I am now nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. This piece will therefore be chock-full of crochety, traditional, hidebound looks to the glorious past (when men were men and women were there for the men)...I kid, ladies. I kid.

But only a little.

I'm not sure when exactly it happened, this age thing...but suddenly one recent day I looked in the mirror and saw a person I didn't much recognize. Instead of me staring back there was this guy more than a little curmudgeonly. Some pseudo-AARP more than a little set in his ways, and that more than a little too soon.

I'm not happy about it, but such is life. Ever the opportunist, I intend to synergize what's left of my youthful enthusiasm and open-mindedness with my newly emerging, ever growing cynicism and irascibility. I don't know about any of you readers, but I'm more than a little afraid of what might come of this unlikely pairing -- but damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead, as my generation used to say...

Last warning: DANGER - NARROW-MINDS AHEAD. PROCEED WITH TACTFUL CAUTION. Let no readers who brave this entire piece later claim I did not give sufficient notice. While there may never be much of a rational explanation for these particular peeves of mine, as outlined below -- at least I can admit that much.

It's an exceedingly small victory, but I'll take them where I can get 'em.

Without further ado, here's what has my knickers in a knot. Roughly two-and-a-half weeks ago the NFL held it's annual spring meeting in Dana Point CA. While this particular gathering is less about actual business than it is about creating the preseason groundswell of excitement scant weeks before each season's draft and beyond, there are a couple of pretty significant items on the agenda every year. One of them is the meeting of the league's Rules Committee, which as it's name implies legislates all new rules or addendums to existing rules.

These are the guys who decide when and where the popcorn will fly. That is, they write the rule book; take that a step further and they more than anything else shape the game into not only what it is,  but also what it will become. That's key in a  sport as venerated and traditional as pro football is.  They do this by changing the rules, which subsequently changes the way the game is played.

Change is inevitable; it is, ironically, an unalterable fact of life. No matter who you are or what you do, you will face changes. Furthermore, each time you do, every time you adapt to your fluid circumstances...changes you. There is a saying that it is not the destination in Life but the journey that matters. We all experience that to some degree. Here endeth the cribbed version of Basic Life Philosophy 101, and my point is this: change is a necessary function of life. As such, I accept it because I must -- not necessarily because I want to. At times, when the pressure of mounting change and other factors becomes too heavy, I do what everybody does at some point. I look for an escape -- a brief respite from my daily reality.

That's where sports come in.

One of the many reasons so many sports have always been a big part of my life is that they exist outside of the mundane. From merely watching the Super Bowl to playing in the Saturday afternoon pickup hoops at my local rec center, my favorite sports have almost nothing in common with my 'regular' routine. When major upheavals have threatened to crack the bedrock of my entire values and belief system, sports have remained constant -- a familiar lighthouse beacon glimpsed through the raging storm. And it has always been that way.

But these days that's being threatened.  It appears -- you guessed it -- that change is looming on the horizon.

And this one's particularly unwelcome if you ask me.

On March 25th, with the announcement of it's four new 'safety rules' that go into effect in 2009, the NFL Rules Committee reminded me that no sport is ever safe or completely free of change.  Football apparently abhors a vacuum as much as Life in General does.  To that end it alters itself from time to time,  whether we as fans like it...or not.  Some modifications are minor and cosmetic more than anything,  and fairly easy to assimilate. 

Then there are those other ones. 

Some changes are big dogs;  a handful for even the most progressive-minded individual.  Like the ones we're looking at now. 

Some of the most basic,  fundamental aspects of the greatest game ever invented are being re-constituted by men who very likely do not share my reverence for them.  What's worse is that this hasn't just begun.  The NFLRC has actually been making some fairly radical changes to the game for some years now -- but they've done so in small increments which have probably flown under more than just my radar for this long.

Not anymore.

Their latest overprotective attempts to remake the game have at last pinged on my screen.  Conn,  sonar,  contact bearing break with all tradition; recommend designate contact "who cares so long as we make big bucks?" 

Sonar,  conn aye.

While I know I could not have done aught but watch no matter when I realized what was happening, in this case the comprehension is much better late than not at all. Finally seeing what the owners plan to do to this game I love, what they will do in their own sweet time without any opposition, has helped me sharpen my memories of the game the way it should be played.

The way it once was played.

For those who have just moved out of their Tibetan cave back to the bright lights of the big city and may not have heard, the four new rules, along with one addition to an existing rule, are as follows:

* The initial force of a blindside block cannot be delivered by a helmet, forearm or shoulder to an opponents neck. (big toes, ring fingers and funny bones, however, can actually be used to beat on an opponents helmet like it was a set of drums...)

* Initial contact to the head of a 'defenseless' receiver will be unsportsmanlike, and also 15 yards.(at present it is unclear whether defenseless refers to someone like TO and his off-field antics, OR a pass-catcher whose body position leaves him vulnerable on a given play...)

* On kickoffs, no blocking wedge of more than two players (!?!) will be allowed.(3 or more will be considered within the rules but only if the additional 'wedgies' tap their two teammates on the shoulder and properly cut-in beforehand...)

* Also on kickoffs, no kicking team can have more than five players bunched together pursuing an onside kick. Either it scares the ball way too much or the NFL is concerned about increased loitering amongst its players...)

* Lastly, any defender knocked to the ground may not lunge into the QB from that low position: in short order this will be known simply as The Brady Rule. Again, it is presently unclear whether such players must sit in 'time-out' until the play ends, thinking about what they had done, or if it will be legal for them to crab-walk their scurrilous way off the field...)

Apparently -- judging by their 'safety' measures -- NFL owners believe that football would be an Even Better Sport without all that hitting and contact between players. Once that's gone this game will be perfect. Well, at the very least their profit margins will be perfect; without contact there's virtually no chance of injuries to their star players...meaning they fill ALL the seats, ALL the time. Brilliant!

Little did I realize over fourteen years as a football player that I was in effect reinforcing a very bad and wrong habit every single time I hit an opponent during a play. It's no wonder in my case sports built no character -- when you're playing the wrong way, how could it be otherwise?

Give me a break. Figuratively or literally, I don't care. Any break will do -- the more violent the better. Has this game, the most exciting, the best sport there is, really come to this? They were a little ahead of my time, but I remember reading about players with names like Night Train Lane and the Mad Stork. Players who thrived on units named the Doomsday Defense, or the Purple People Eaters, or the Fearsome Foursome. Players who used to LIVE for Sundays in the fall when they could line up and literally knock the snot and anything else that was loose clean out of the guy across the line of scrimmage from them.

Possibly more than anything else that violence, that controlled warfare and aggression, hooked me line and sinker as both a player and a fan who idolized those talented enough to do what I would have given anything to be able to do -- which was play on Sundays. I was instantly smitten and have never looked back or thought twice about it. Quite frankly, I should have no reason to. No reason outside a bunch of bean-counting rich brats and their incessant tinkering anyway. The sport is nearly perfect in every way; even the uniforms -- with the possible exception of hockey the most extensive in all of sport -- seem, I dunno, natural. I kid you not, if I could go to work wearing a helmet with a bitchin', menacing facemask obscuring part or all of my face...you bet I would. In a hot second. You put that sucker on and you're ready for anything, which not coincidentally [paging all NFL owners] could and sometimes did happen on a gridiron.

It's a crazy, unpredictable game, and sometimes people get hurt. On a few (thankfully rare) occasions people have even died. That's the way it is. It's part of the mythology of the game, and goes a long way toward explaining it's spellbinding hold on millions of us out there who are as addicted to it as drug addicts are to methamphetamine. Why would anyone in their right mind want to dick with that? I'm not 100% sure, but I can make an educated GUE$$-

It seems nothing is sacred, unless it be the Almighty Dollar. Call me old and addled; a worn out dog who can't be taught new tricks -- but that's the message I'm hearing with every new, supposedly 'safe' change to this game.

How about you? What do you think of this kinder, gentler NFL? Most importantly, do you believe these rules are in place to protect the players, or those who have a substantial investment in them?

For me, the answers to those questions are as obvious as a yellow, popcorn-filled hankie thrown onto the field.

A Grimm Fairy Tale

Yesterday the Pro Football Hall of Fame announced it's class of 2009 inductees. It is a strong class that includes such luminaries as Bruce Smith, Derrick Thomas and Bob Hayes, among others. What this group does not have, however, is a player who spent either all or a fairly significant part of his playing career in D.C. Outside of Smith, no one in this new class so much as played one single snap for the Burgundy and Gold.

Once again, no Hogs made the final list.

Once again, Joey T., Gary Clark and Ken Harvey were deemed unworthy.

For one more year, at least, Mssrs. Grimm, Jacoby, Lachey, May, Theismann, Clark and Harvey are on the outside looking in. For one more year each of these worthy candidates must wait a little longer in hopes of making it into the NFL'a most exclusive fraternity. For one more year these former Redskins must look in their mirrors and ask the question, "was it all enough? Did I do enough?"

Nevermind their combined fourteen Super Bowl rings. Put aside their 21 overall Pro Bowl selections. Throw out their ten total 1st Team All-Pro nominations. Completely discount their eighty cumulative seasons of playing the most physically arduous sport at very high levels in the toughest league there is.

Take away all those accolades, throw them all out the window...and each one of those men deserves a place amongst their legendary peers anyway. Period. No ifs, ands or buts.

In a perfect world, anyway.

I'm not blind; as loyal as I am to all current and former Redskins players, alive or dead, I still realize that some of those names are more deserving of a bust than others. In all honesty, a couple of them should consider themselves fortunate to have even made a HOF ballot, much less make the Hall itself. And two in particular, former linemates Grimm and Jacoby, should by all rights, by anyone's criteria, have already been voted in.

That those two original Hogs are deserving is not the question.

Whether they ever receive their due is.

Sadly, if they haven't by now they most likely will not. Every year they are left out, every year more players become eligible, lessens their chances that much more. The farther we get from their glory days on the field, the less great they seem to the voters they must depend on. In a world full of injustices and unnecessary hardships this sits way, way down on the list of That Which Should Not Be...but it is a travesty nonetheless.

Grimm, drafted in the 3rd round in 1981, played center at Pitt, but in his rookie training camp was moved to left guard, where he immediately became a powerful fixture. He, along with Jacoby and fellow linemates May, George Starke and Jeff Bostic, became known as The Hogs, and rapidly cemented their reputation as one of if not the finest offensive line in the entire NFL. In a career that spanned 11 years and 140 games, Big Russ started five NFC Championship Games, four Super Bowls (winning 3), appeared in 4 consecutive Pro Bowls, and was named 1st team All-Pro four times. A punishing blocker, he was named to the all-80's team as one of the best players of that decade. Most important, perhaps, he came to be known as the Redskins' answer to the Cowboys and Randy White; in his prime he more than held his own against our hated rivals vaunted defense, led by their most intimidating player.

Jacoby wasn't even drafted -- by any team -- coming out of Louisville the same year, 1981. He was signed to a free agent contract by the Redskins and in no time at all had become their starting left tackle. He would hold that position for the next 13 years and 170 games, during which time he started 19 playoff games, tied for 21st all-time. He too was named to four consecutive Pro Bowls, and named 1st team All-Pro four straight seasons. As with Grimm, he was named to the NFL's all-80's team, and was named one of the 70 Greatest Redskins after retiring. He was one of the lynch pins of a dominating line that paved the way for a series of 'Skins running backs, from John Riggins to Timmy Smith through Kelvin Bryant to Earnest Byner, one of the key components of the virtually unstoppable ground game that symbolized the Gibbs' Super Bowl-winning juggernauts of that era.

Both of these men had long, excellent careers. Both garnered the highest individual and team honors a player can receive. Both men's stats and bodies of work compare quite well with all but a few of their brethren who already sit in the Hall. Both have poured several lifetimes worth of blood, sweat and tears into the effort that should have more than earned them their place in that august assembly.

Yet both are still waiting -- in all likelihood a little less hopeful with each passing year and subsequent HOF snub.

What, pray tell, is the freaking problem?

I'm just a passionate observer, as outside this process as I could possibly be, so I can only speculate here...but my best educated guess goes something like this.

In the modern era (post 1946) 34 offensive linemen have been inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. That's roughly one every other year. In contrast, 23 QB's and 25 RB's (half- or full) have gone in in the same period. Consider that there's only one of the former starting for any given team, and at most two of the latter, compared with five O-linemen on each team...and you begin to grasp just how weighted the ballots are with regards to the unglamorous trenches of the gridirion. There's never been an official document concerning this, but you can bet your bottom dollar in the back rooms and power dealings of the NFL the prevailing opinion goes more or less like this: all those pilgrims to the Holy See in Ohio each and every year are not there to see and hear about some half-remembered blocker for the glitterati like Brown, Simpson, Sanders, et al -- therefore why go crazy selecting no-names and cluttering up the hallowed Hall with 'em?

Or to put it another way: how many offensive -- or defensive, for that matter -- linemen have won the Heisman Trophy in the last 40 years as opposed to how many QB's, RB's or WR's? There you go.

Long before football supplanted baseball as the biggest and most-watched sport in all of America the league placed a much higher premium on the entertainment value of its product, i.e. it's high-profile, exciting stars, than it did on the unsung working-stiff brutes who labored on their behalf. Touchdowns sell tickets; cross-blocks, traps and pulling guards...not so much.

Even so, the fact that to date not one single Hog -- not a single member of one of the most overpowering units in the history of the game -- has made it to Canton is more than just wrong. It's a fundamentally flawed approach to not only how the game is truly played but also how the league and the fans choose to remember those who played it better than the rest. These are the Hogs we're talking about here. Gibbs version of Coryell's one-back, power running game complemented in deadly fashion by a vertical passing attack that was a threat to swallow up to an entire field in one single play, at any time in any game, revolutionized the NFL. His offense became the prototype for a lot of teams attacks, and the single biggest cause of that entire strategic shift, far and away the largest part of the imitation that was the sincerest form of flattery for Gibbs' prolific offenses, was his offensive line.

The Hogs changed the game in the trenches every bit as radically and fundamentally as the Purple People Eaters of Carl Eller, Jim Marshall, Allen Page and Gary Larsen did with defensive lines, and the Steel Curtain of Mean Joe Greene, LC Greenwood, Dwight White and Ernie Holmes did after that. Plays like 70 Chip and 50 Gut became a part of every team's repertoire, though no one else ran them as flawlessly and implacably as did the 'Skins -- specifically, the Hogs.

I don't care who your team is or what kind of fan you are, if you're honest with yourself and know the game even a little you know that's a stone cold fact.

How is it that not one of that dynamic, domineering unit is immortalized in the Hall? Not one.

Here's how. Pro football's HOF balloting process has become a ridiculous joke, a tragic, maudlin charicature of it's original, intended self. More and more these days the selection process resembles one of those cheesy high school proms we all remember where the king and queen were chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with the criteria that should have mattered, and everything to do with shallow vanity and inordinately puffed-up egos out of all proportion to the circumstances. While I might have fantasized about being named king of one of my proms back then, today I thank my lucky stars I didn't have to sell my soul or whatever equivalent it would have taken to pull that off. Unlike some I knew, at least my integrity graduated with me, whole and intact.

The Board of Selectors of the NFL HOF have become no better than the worst of those superficial, image-conscious cliques from our juvenile, less principled pasts. With the sole exception of the Pro Football Writer's of America delegate, who serves a two year term per appointment, the rest of the 44-person group sit in open-ended seats. In plain English, once he or she is made a member of the Board there are very few ways that individual can ever lose that membership.

That bears repeating: once appointed to the board a member can expect to remain a voting part of the selection process until such time as said member no longer wants to, or death...whichever happens to come first.

I honestly couldn't tell you what the rationale for this lifetime of privilege was, but I can tell you what it really is: a very small, extremely snobby good ole boys club. As with all such fraternities, by and large the membership thinks very highly of it's supposed expertise -- which by the way exists only in their collective self-esteem -- so much so that they are as hidebound, as dogmatic, as idealogically inflexible as a bible-thumping Southern Baptist octogenarian, a lifelong card-carrying member of the Moral Majority who just knows that everyone who disagrees with him is going straight to hell because for damn sure he ain't. What's more, many of these loosely described "experts" often go out of their way to wage propoganda campaigns against certain players they don't like, trying as hard as they can for as long as they can to keep certain players out of the Hall forever.

Case in point: Paul Zimmerman's virulent, irrational maneuvering to keep Art Monk -- one of the most deserving HOF'ers I've ever seen, Redskin or no -- out of Canton no matter what (a policy that for far too many years worked better than it ever should have).

More often than not their antipathy can be traced back to some long-ago personality clash or perceived snub by the player in question, and has little or nothing to do with any honest assessment of that players' skills and/or career achievements. Color me incredulous but isn't that kind of malicious, petty b.s. the absolute last thing that people who decide who to bestow pro football's highest honor on should indulge in?

Is it too much to ask of these powers-that-be that they are at least able to put personal feelings aside, if not on a regular basis THEN AT LEAST WHEN IT COMES TIME TO SUBMIT THEIR BALLOTS?

Wouldn't those inducted feel even better about their admission if those who decided they were worthy of it based their decision solely on each player's play rather than his way? Shouldn't HOF-caliber players be picked because their skill speaks for their greatness, not for their great, endlessly self-promoting speaking skill? (see Irvin, Michael J) Since when are the best of the best, the greatest of the greats, passed or failed on the say-so of this arbitrarily assembled group of people who for the most part are as pedestrian and mediocre as those they sit in judgment of are singularly, uniquely gifted?

What in the heck is wrong with that picture?

And at what point does this absurdly lopsided farce cease to be reality and revert back to it's rightful Fractured Fairy Tale existence? I for one would like to know.

So, I'm guessing, would guys like Joe Jacoby and Big Russ Grimm -

Final Thoughts 2008

Well, two days after what started as a minor opinion piece but soon became something much different (not to mention bigger), I've mustered the finalists for the moments that were the '08 Redskins. I would like to thank those of my fellow Redskins message board members/fans who generously gave their time and opinions in commenting on the subject, without which I would still be hopelessly stuck in neutral.

At least more so than usual.

Considering the final standings and the current state of the squad, which I touched on earlier, coupled with the contrast in the start vs. the finish, this season was one of extreme highs and lows. Their stunning and unexpected early success was mirrored by their subsequent, dreaded second half stuggles. The stretch run's growing futility and dwindling hope was relieved only by short, infrequent periods of so-so. Not bad, mind you -- just not the sort of things likely to be remembered, with the power to fire you up years after the fact.

Watching all this who among us was not carried through the entire gamut of emotions? As such no one, two or even three single moments will be equal to the task of summarizing their latest campaign. I've boiled down what for me are the ten lasting, defining images of this season, and why I chose them. As you no doubt can imagine, some are good, while others are -- ah, let's just get to it.

In chronological order, they are as follows:

1) Jason Campbell sidestepping an onrushing Saints lineman, then uncorking a beautiful bomb to a streaking Santana Moss for the winning TD in week 2. A comeback win against a quality team, one that showed us this was our guy behind center and on the sidelines. Bittersweet, poignant tribute by 'Tana as he stood in the endzone, head down, arm outstretched, saluting his fallen brother ST...followed shortly thereafter by ARE caught up in the moment, playing leapfrog like a schoolkid. The classic feel-good play.

2) Chris Horton's pick against Dallas, week 4. Just the thing to quell the old nagging doubts that somehow the 'Skins would find a way to lose the game, as they'd done so many times since the glory days. One heck of a way for the rookie to introduce himself not only to us, but the league itself.

3) Pete Kendall fumbling against the Rams, week 6. In a game that was the first time things just didn't feel right, that play stood out above all; cruel Fate at her capricious worst. There we were, comfortably en route to the expected win, when WHAM! -- hey, check it out! l call this play "incredible, crushing fluke." Whaddya think? Uh.......

4) Clinton Portis fumbling against the Browns, week 7. Quintessential post-dynasty Redskins: never a dull moment. Having slowly, inexorably choked nearly the last breath out of a team that they should, the long-awaited foregone conclusion was in our sights...then our workhorse RB picks that play to lay the rock on the ground. Boom. New life for them, newly bitten fingernails for all of Redskins Nation. A not so subtle indication that this season would be nip and tuck all the way.

5) Santana Moss' punt return TD against the Lions, week 8. The specials teams big play excitement we were starving for. Coming on the heels of his earlier long TD pass, it teased us with the potential for offensive fireworks that were always right around the corner, but never really materialized. One constant remained in this game, however; the outcome was in doubt until the very end.

6) Rock Cartwright's attempt to down a punt against the Steelers, week 9. Big game, and a Monday Night showcase to boot. Everything going right to that point, leading 6-0, a good but not great vibe. When he inexplicably caused a ball that was already at rest to follow him into the endzone, a chance to pin 'em deep and take the game over completely was gone. As was the vibe, then the lead, and ultimately any chance of winning.

CORRECTIONS: #6 above is listed as the wrong game. The play actually occurred during the Cowboys game in week 11. Thanks to hail2skins of ExtremeSkins for the tip.

7) Same game: Down 16-6 and outplayed most of the game, the 'Skins were about to make a show of it after all, when JC gets picked by a DB, who then fumbles, but recovers the ball to kill the drive and rip away any momentum we thought we had. Still a quarter and a half to play, but Game Over. A reminder that this edition of the Burgundy and Gold, like so many others, seemed to be either cursed or snake-bitten. Or both.

8) A four play series against the Seahawks, week 12. Late in the 4th, nursing a 3-pt lead, Zorn turned to old reliable CP, who responded with consecutive runs of 9, 11 and 2o yards. In a heartbeat they were in Seattle territory and things looked good. On the very next play Ladell Betts fumbled while spelling Portis. One carry almost turned out to be one too many. Fortunately they won anyway, but those four plays also symbolize the theme for '08 -- two steps forward, one step back.

9) DeAngelo Hall's fumble recovery against the Ravens, week 14. A new concept: a big-name acquisition who actually produces the goods. His second turnover since he arrived led to a quick TD and we were back in business. Now if the defense could...just...hold 'em....sigh. Perfect illustration of how this year the 'Skins were never quite going to get over the hill. So close, and yet so goddamn far.

10) The final play was the final play at home against the Eagles, week 16. A superb defensive effort seemed as if it might go for naught when Donovan McNabb drove Philly from their own 9 all the way down the field in the last 3 + minutes of regulation. With seconds left he found Reggie Brown at the goal-line for a 17 yard completion. Problem was, the endzone was 18 yards away. Fred Smoot and Laron Landry combined on the hit that kept the receiver from crossing the plane by mere inches, and time expired before another play could be run. As a lifelong fan I was all too familiar with how I felt right then; euphoric, amazed, and exhausted by the drama.

There they are, folks. My year in review. About half are good, the other half are not, and a couple are actually a little bit of both. Two themes run throughout: great expectations (which in some cases were better than met; they were exceeded) and helpless frustration. Looking at the list as objectively as I can -- which is to say not much at all -- I truly believe that we saw more of the former than we have in a good long while, even taking into account the second Gibbs regime.

That's encouraging to me. It means we might be on the right track again, with an eye for the future plural instead of the future next season only. I could certainly wish for more proud, inspired highlights from any particular season of Redskins football, but it's all good. There's always next year.

And if that fails, there's always the year after that. Hail.

The Waiting -

As I sat down to write my first entry of 2009 and my first piece in this space in over three weeks, I reached for my moment of Zen: that single shining moment that more than any other encapsulated the Washington Redskins 2008 season.

A few scant moments later I began to realize there wasn't one.

I suppose that's somewhat to be expected; I am nothing if not introspective and self-analytical, in truth counter-productively so... but my mind's eye always seems unable or perhaps unwilling to truly dissect those things about which I have always been passionate. I am grateful for that. As Nietzsche himself said in his treatise Human, all too Human, "people who comprehend a thing to its very depths rarely stay faithful to it forever. For they have brought its depths into the light of day: and in the depths there is always much that is unpleasant to see." In lay terms, familiarity breeds contempt.

I've gone over this very thing in this space before, so I won't rehash it now. Suffice it to say that I'm reasonably sure I won't someday unexpectedly gain some heretofore unheard of understanding of my beloved 'Skins, thereby stripping them of their mythical status in my mind forever.

Reasonably. But I digress -

As I was saying, when I sat down and attempted to pick out that single moment in time which summed up this season, that single instance which more than anything else typified the 'o8 Redskins...I drew a blank. Nothing came to mind.

And you know what? The more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense.

It's simple, really. Winners and champions are often described in the briefest terms possible, with words like masterful, dominant, unsurpassed, destined, and lesser adjectives like heart, character, poise, and composure thrown in for a little flavoring. Their seasons can be boiled down in much the same way: watershed moments, do-or-die plays that were going to either make 'em or break 'em. I've long believed that some of the most forgiving jobs in the world are those of the contributors to these "Championship Season" yearbooks and highlight dvd's that become available for purchase scant weeks after a team becomes world champs. How can one go wrong with the content? Let's face it: when one of your teams wins the whole shebang, anything and everything becomes not only the fondest of memories, but also played a vital role in the team's post-season run.

[Riiight. That mid-season game when the Gatorade was unknowingly spiked with a whole elementary school's supply of dental fluoride pills was critical to the team's metamorphosis. They wouldn't have been champs without 'em.]

Mediocre, average teams, on the other hand -- say, this year's 'Skins for example -- tend to be a lot harder to neatly characterize. Conversely, recognizing the true defining moments of a humdrum season -- like this one, for instance -- becomes much more of a chore. They are there; pinning them down usually involves sifting through a heck of a lot of train wrecks you'd rather forget, however. This Washington team, like nearly every team since the 3rd and last of those glorious Lombardi Trophies was garnered an unbelievable seventeen years ago, is a muddled mass of fix-it to do's and problem spots, sprinkled here and there with the occasional surprise and feel-good story for good measure.

In case you're wondering, I'm still working on it. Stay tuned. You'll be the first to know -