The Redskins were back from their bye week, which meant I was as well. What a glorious bye week it was, though: I took an Asian fusion cooking class. I reacquainted myself with how amazing it feels to run through a national park with a golden retriever puppy leading the way. I read Dostoevsky’s The Possessed in its native Russian. I learned to not just have sex, but truly make love, for the first time. And that last item I mentioned didn’t even involve the golden retriever puppy. See, I told you it was a good week.
If only I had those movie star good looks to go with the temper. Christ, he looks like a constipated chipmunk.
I decided I would shake up my usual Redskins routine and go out to watch the game, which is odd because I almost always insist on watching any sports event I’m invested in alone with a locked door. The reasons for this are two-fold: First, I’m a highly ADD control freak who loves complete reign over the remote control so I can flip around during commercials to other games or TBS’ 40,000th broadcast of
Billy Madison. Second, for a fairly stable man, I invest way, way too much of my emotional well-being in the success of my chosen team. If things are going well, I’m as happy as an Irishman seated next to a poorly guarded tap. If things go downhill, though, I tend to scream profanity non-stop into nearby furniture cushions (which makes me even angrier because I know my mouth is pressed against a foam-filled fart vault). And if anyone around me gloats about my team failing, it takes a Herculean effort for me not to compact their rectum with my boot: Like an abusive father, only
I get to make fun of my underachieving child.
It was either this picture of Woody or, well...just Google image search the word 'Jew.'
At the bar I was joined by my friend Brian, the only person I know who’s tall and successful in life that I don’t want to bleed out like a cow I intended to prepare as a Kosher brisket. I knew Brian would be good company during the game because he’s both a Redskins fan and almost as negative as me, both qualities I want in a person I’m planning to drink with during a game. We quickly ordered our beers, and, no sooner did he begin talking about how the team needs to fire both its offensive and defensive lines and rebuild entirely through the draft then the unthinkable happened: The Redskins scored a touchdown.
It was the reaction at the bar that shocked me the most, though: The entire crowd lit up and cheered. There was thunderous applause as “Hail to the Redskins” boomed over the house sound system. I heard things like, “Just one more like that and we’re back in this thing” and “I
knew we could do it!” The unbridled optimism of it all made my skin crawl. Back in this thing? Do it? How dare they act like the Redskins could defeat
any opponent, much less the above-average Atlanta Falcons. Don’t they know that the only way to derive any enjoyment from the Redskins at this point is to act like you’re watching a Tee Ball game? Jason Campbell completed a pass? Hey, good for him! A field goal? Wow, startling athleticism! Like so much in life, the key is greatly lowering your expectations. Play your cards right and there might even be a juice box and orange slices waiting for you at the end of the game.
Yes, a one-armed drummer. No, this isn't 'Spinal Tap.'
As for an analysis of the game itself, what do you want me to say? It’s not like the Redskins magically gained a new offensive line during their week off. Did you get mad when Rick Allen’s drum work after losing his arm seemed a little light on drum rolls and clash cymbals? Hell no! You were simply astounded that the sonofabitch could even play (okay, you laughed until you emptied your bladder into your pants the first time you saw the video to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” at the sight of a one-armed drummer, but, by the fifth viewing or so, it was all love). Similarly, until the Redskins get a new offensive line, all I can do is cheer for them like a kid who’s 20 swings deep into his first plate appearance and seems as likely to knock the ball off the tee with a strong fart as he is with the bat.
Of course the Redskins lost: That’s not the point anymore. Maybe it was the fact that two of my best friends got married the day before. Maybe it was the drunkards singing along to “Hail to the Redskins” like a scene out of
Triumph of the Will for the not one but
two touchdowns scored on the day. Maybe it was the cheap beer and four pound nacho plate that will no doubt lead to my Farley-esque early demise. Whatever the cause, I suddenly found peace while watching the Redskins lose. Knowing that they as a team have the balls to go out there every week, fully aware that the odds of success are zilch and yet still play ball, I felt my heart swell with…well, I think an old friend said it best:
BART: I feel so full of…what’s the opposite of shame?
MARGE: Pride?
BART: No, not
that far from shame.
HOMER: [voice hopeful] Less shame?
BART: [satisfied] Yeah.
Here’s to eight games of less shame.
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