April 2012. Greatest month ever. Job. Coachella. Caps. Nats. RGIII. 

One morning, when I was 12, I stood waiting for my school bus at the bottom of the hill where Granalta Circle meets Kemp Lane. It was a crisp Maryland morning, still early enough to see the white fog of breath and the light grey sheath of morning dew atop the fields across the street. I was alone at the bus stop each morning as I was the oldest kid in the neighborhood (there were only 4 of us), and I usually just stood there fidgeting in my Redskins Starter jacket, pushing my glasses tight up against my face. This was the only method for keeping my glasses in place on my fat, flat, Asian face which lacks a bridge above my nose.

My fat, flat, Asian face.

I wasn’t aware of any of this at the time, my fatness or flat facedness or Asianness. Well, not in a self-conscious way, anyway. I knew I was different, but I was just a goofyass kid. I had scored some major cool points in 6th grade by writing an original horror story about a family that had their limbs cut off and stuffed into pizza boxes and delivered to their relatives as free pizza (because, hey, who doesn’t love free pizza?). Not only was I writing for an audience, I was also performing quite a bit in the classroom. I once received a written referral citing my creation of “250 paper missiles and other spitball projectiles positioned in a threatening way to fellow students.” Another time I was made to sit out in the hall during science class because I kept pointing to an empty chair next to me and telling my friends to “come shit over here.” I once spent an entire math class miming as “Michael Jackson in a Box” from my desk at the back of the room.

And that morning, waiting for the bus at the bottom of Granalta Circle, I was just another goofyass 7th grader waiting for the bus. The bus was a crazy place. My middle school shared a parking lot with my high school and so, the district thought it only made sense to pack petrified 11 year olds alongside 19 year old redneck ‘super seniors’ who’d had their driver’s license revoked for conducting ‘hillbilly drive bys’ with their BB guns, all in one yellow school bus. This is all true. And for the fifth year in a row, I was the only non-white person on the bus.

When the bus finally arrived that morning, I climbed aboard and found it unusually quiet, even for a Monday. Our bus driver, Mehrle DuVall, usually had country radio playing in the background, but he was in no mood that morning. I quickly surveyed the scene: the eighth grade girls doing their hair up front, as usual; the 6th graders huddled three to a seat hugging their clarinets; the high school couples dry humping at 6:47 in the morning; and the aforementioned super senior rednecks in the last three rows. I usually sat with my friend Colin somewhere in the teens, but that morning, I saw Colin’s pale arm shoot up and wave me to the last row - he had been accepted by the rednecks! My face lit up as I made my way back; there was always unspeakably awesome mischief taking place beyond row 25, or at the very least, candy. 

I sat down next to Colin and kept quiet. I had no idea how he got the invite back there, but I wasn’t gonna blow it. I fidgeted some more with my jacket - it kept puffing up in the middle, and I cleaned my glasses with the Redskins shirt I had on underneath (we had just beaten the Giants on Sunday). I still couldn’t help but wonder what Colin had done to move up (back?) the social ladder so fast. After silent deliberation, I decided it was the condom-as-a-skullcap bit he did on Friday that put him over the top. Yep, condom as a skullcap, it’s exactly what it sounds like. The hicks LOVED that.

So there I was, wedged into row 28 with my knees up against the back of row 27, listening to Alpha Redneck talk about how he was building a wall of beer (“burrr”) cans in his shed. He had fresh welts on his face and arms; apparently from a game of paintball war he plays with his brothers except instead of paintballs, they shoot copperhead BBs at each other. “Paintball is fer pussies,” he said. He looked hungover.

The bus hit the wavy part of Shookstown Road and Alpha Redneck slowly turned his neck a full 90 degrees to stare straight at me while keeping his shoulders awkwardly square with the seat. I avoided eye contact at first, but flashed a bashful smile and raised my eyebrows.

“What’re you doin back here (‘hurrr’)?” he asked.
I just shrugged, unable to speak as my mouth was suddenly deathly dry.
“This bus is white man only, don’t you know?” 

His tone was obnoxious and laced with a hint of sarcasm beneath it. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, he always sounded like that. Like Stifler making the jerk off gesture.

And suddenly, before I could respond, he said it: “no Chinks allowed.”

I gave a nervous chuckle and looked away. I was scared and I immediately sensed my brain trying to process the situation. The only thing I could surmise was that I had somehow never known the meaning of the word “Chink” until now. Why did I think it applied to Mexican people? Was it ‘Chico’ that I was confusing it with? Chicano, maybe? Wasn’t A.C. Slater Chicano? Is ‘Chink’ supposed to imply that I’m Chinese? He knows I’m not Chinese, he’s asked me before. In fact, just last week he kept referring to me as ‘Koreanese.’ I distinctly remember not knowing how to feel because I had no idea what the intended effect was. Is he joking? Is he gonna pick me up by the collar of my puffy Starter jacket with his huge, hay-bucking hands and kick my Koreanese ass? I knew it wasn’t the “N word,” but I knew it was derogatory. At least, I thought it was meant to be derogatory. No one had ever called me that before. Could Alpha Redneck really be that unabashedly racist and stupid?

So I just chuckled. That’s all I could do. Chuckle like a harmless, cowardly, little Chink. Chinks don’t fight back. Chinks act like they didn’t just hear that word come out of your mouth. Chinks sit there and chuckle, quietly. Stupid, scared, little Chink.

Alpha Redneck looked right between my eyes, at my fat, flat, Asian face and he said, “yeeaaah I thought so.”

Then, suddenly, he shot up like a prairie dog and pointed to the window, “Holy shiet! Look at that buck! Thas at least a 10 pointer right thurr!”

I was saved by a fucking deer. Durrrrrr.

Almost 18 years later, I think back to that morning and what it meant. I remember wanting to cry in the moment, but not because it hurt me; I just didn’t know what to do with it. Maybe it was the impetus for my fascination with words and my irreverence about race. Maybe it was the day I started classifying everyone in the world as either “stupid motherfuckers who don’t know what they’re doing and saying” or “cool people.” Maybe it was just another one of a billion odd and wonderful things that happened to me in Frederick, MD.

Last week, ESPN.com went with the headline, “Chink in the Armor,” when the Knicks lost and Jeremy Lin had a bad game. I chuckled. It was the first time I’d heard the word since 7th grade. The first time I recall, anyway. I wasn’t offended. In fact, my first instinct was to laugh my ass off. And when my wife heard about it the next morning, I told her I was certain the writer made an honest mistake as “Chink in the Armor” has become a rather boring, but common idiom in the American sports vernacular. (I swear this was my reaction! My wife will vouch for it! PLEASE BELIEVE ME!!) Anyway, over the next few days, the requisite media shitstorm invaded my internet universe and even conjured up some of Jay Caspian Kang’s best writing. I still chuckle at the whole thing.

I’m not 12 anymore and I don’t chuckle because I’m scared or confused. I chuckle now because I think a headline featuring an Asian basketball star that says “Chink in the Armor” is a pretty damn funny mistake to make. It’s better than a chuckle, in fact, it’s worth a full-throated laugh. Of course it’s not ok. Of course he should be fired. Of course we shouldn’t teach our children such words or values. Of course it’s hurtful and ignorant. Of course. But we’d all get on so much better if we’d just accept that racism happens. Yes, we’ve come a long way and we’ve all evolved so much in the last 20 billion years (Eminem! Obama! Tiger! Lenny Kravitz! Larry Bird! Jeremy Lin! ALF!!), but stupid racist shit still happens and it always will. Do you know why? Because there will always be somebody dumb enough to be ignorant or hateful, or both. There will always be stupid motherfuckers who don’t know what they’re doing or saying.

But there doesn’t always have to be somebody on the other side being offended by them.

In the case of words, victims are voluntary. They called him Chink. So what? Give em the finger and move on. It is beneath us, all of it: the chatter, the fight, the “one step forward, two steps back” essays. I’m more offended by the amount of time and credence given to the word than the actual word itself. It wasn’t wanton (wonton?) discrimination. Jeremy Lin wasn’t denied the right to vote or told to use the Yellows Only bathroom. It was just a stupid word. Laugh it off and move on. Just laugh because it’s all so absurd, especially in this day and age. Laugh, and it loses its power. Laugh, not because you approve, but because it’s so stupidly wrong that anyone who attempts to hurt you with such words looks utterly stupid and wrong. Laugh, and make it “Chinks in the Armhair.” Laugh, and it loses its power. Laugh, and we become bulletproof. Laugh, and we eliminate chinks in the armor.

Tim Tebow believes everything he says. I know this because I used to be Tim Tebow. Well, not literally, of course, you dumbass. I mean I used to say the things Tim Tebow says and I used to believe the things Tim Tebow believes.

There’s a temptation among “non-believers” to lump all “believers” into a single category of “crazy religious people.” It’s actually quite easy and fun to do this, especially when the majority of religious people seem to fall so readily into the “crazy religious people” bin. You’ll know they’re genuinely crazy religious people when they take pride in being labeled as such and then proceed to picket military funerals or strap C4 around their belts and ride the bus. I’d like to suggest that this level of “crazy religious person” is actually quite far down the periphery of religious folk and Tebow is definitely not in their ranks.

Tim Tebow is passionate in his belief and love for Jesus. (I’m going for the Most Obvious Sentence of 2011 Award). Although this may be classified as crazy by some, it is not disingenuous. Tim Tebow is a devout, well-intentioned, evangelical Christian in the truest form. This is why he is so beloved. This is why he’s treated like Jesus Jr. within his community of faith and observed like a zoo animal by the rest of the godless horde.

While some may be dismissive of the idea, there actually is quite a large spectrum of belief and praxis within Christianity. The diversity of theology and culture is what makes the faith fascinating (to me, anyway), and what we’re seeing in Tim Tebow is a classic evangelical Christian. Evangelicals wear their God-lovin hearts on their sleeves. In theory, they don’t do it to show off or be prideful in their piety; they are up-front in their expressions of faith because they believe that Jesus is the most important thing they can offer the world. This is the underlying philosophy of short-term overseas mission trips: while clean water and food and a sustainable economic infrastructure are great, the Gospel is the most important thing I can give to my Third World neighbor. Jesus is the bread of life, not you know, actual bread.

So, when Tim Tebow says his annual summer trip to Dad’s orphanage in the Philippines is what makes him most happy, he means it. It is his adherence to a higher calling. It is living life in the most fulfilling way possible - the way Jesus would have done. Evangelicals believe it is their duty to be the hands and feet of God. That means everything they do, whether in word or in deed, is intended to honor the Almighty. As an Evangelical, everything matters: what I say, what I do, how I walk, how I dress, how I behave in front of Brent Musburger.

I’d bet a year’s salary that Tim Tebow has read or heard about a book called, The Prayer of Jabez. It’s a pocket-sized text based on the prayer of a little-known character in the Old Testament named Jabez who invoked a simple prayer: “’Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.’ And God granted his request.” Evangelicals interpret this prayer to mean, “bless me so that more people will be within my sphere of influence.” In other words, “God, help me be successful so others will look up to me and I can tell them all about You.”

Every time Tim Tebow wins a game, his territory is enlarged and when he mentions his faith or thanks God in an interview or Tebows after a game, he’s doing you a favor. He is sharing with you the most important message he knows. Like The Secret before The Secret. He may not be preaching to you directly and he may not be holding a bible study in your home, but he is bringing God into your conversation, and that honors Him. Tebow believes that his actions and expressions of faith, no matter how indirect they may be, will somehow compel you to be like him. The crazy thing? When you’re Tim Tebow, it works! Tebowing toes the line of irony because it’s often done in jest but is also a huge win for the evangelical Christian community. When was the last time words like “faith” and “God” have so dominated the dialogue of sports? Tim Tebow is God’s bulldozing hype man into the secular world.

When asked by reporters about his frequent conjuring of the Lord in interviews, Tim Tebow disarms the questioner by responding, “If you’re married, and you have a wife, and you really love your wife, is it good enough to only tell your wife that you love her on the day you get married? Or should you tell her every single day when you wake up and have the opportunity? That’s how I feel about my relationship with Jesus Christ.” While godless heathens like Chuck Klosterman are surprised by such a lucid reply (jk, CK, i love you, I’ve got all your books), it’s just one of many canned analogies Evangelicals are taught from an early age. There will be more, especially if you start questioning his beliefs. Tebow will explain the Trinity to you by comparing it to the 3 molecular phases of water (ice/water/steam=God/Jesus/Holy Ghost). Tebow will talk about the faith of Abraham and Job and he’ll encourage his teammates by reciting a proverb about iron sharpening iron. This is what a good Christian boy does, and he does it earnestly.

There are more “crazy religious people” within the Christian faith than I can shake a stick at; and at times, it seems the hypocrisy of the church knows no bounds. It’s the diversity of belief and culture that’s led to the proliferation of hundreds of denominations and the unbelievably asinine nature of “church drama,” but if all the in-fighting has honed one skill, it’s our ability to spot a fake. No one is faster to accuse a believer of hypocrisy or impure motives than a fellow believer. I’ll tell you this: no fellow believer doubts Tim Tebow’s motives. He’s criticized for being calculating and throwing religion in your face. Well, that’s because he is. That’s what he’s trying to do. In everything he does, whether in word or in deed, Tim Tebow wants you to look at him and think about Jesus. If Tim Tebow sold steak knives for a living, he’d be the same way. Except he’d be the “crazy religious steak knife guy.” Football is just what he happens to be doing now. He wants to win games and be the best quarterback of all time because it broadens his territory. His final destination is not money or fame or victory, they are means to an end: to hype Jesus on the biggest platform in America; ‘cause Elway ain’t done shit for Jesus.

Tim Tebow is modest about everything except his faith. That’s because he’s following the words of the Apostle Paul: “I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile” (Romans 1:16). In a world full of Jews and Gentiles, Tim Tebow is not ashamed and he’s not lying.

So, last night’s Saints-Packers game was classic proof that I am indeed cursed. I’ve joked about it for years, and then the laughter turned to tears as I watched my Skins fail year after year after year. The curse is no joke and I’m gonna prove it now. 

I started a site to track all my NFL predictions and analyze what happens to them. I’ll probably make some gambling folks good money along the way. If you’re into the NFL or curious about my curse or like to bet on games or if you like anything that you enjoy then you’ll probably find this palatable: Cursed Bets

And now, a shameless self-aggrandizing excerpt: 

If you’re wrong, you’re wrong. How is it a curse?  

It’s not that I’m wrong, it’s how close I am to being right. Anybody can be wrong, but it takes a special kind of curse to string you along til the last possible second - only to be wrong in the end anyway. It’s a cruel suspense, but I’m sure it’s thrilling for the people who bet against me.

Game 1, week 1 of the 2011 season is a perfect example of my curse. The Saints were 4.5 point underdogs to the defending champion Packers. I took the Saints to cover in what I thought would be a close, high-scoring shootout. It was an incredible game: 2 TDs on special teams, Aaron Rodgers throws 3 TDs in the first quarter, Drew Brees lights it up in the second half. Down 27-42 in the 4th quarter, the Saints score with 2:15 left in the game to pull within 8. They fail to recover the onside kick. Green Bay ball at the Saints 45 and the defense only has one timeout. Game over, right? Nope! The Packers can’t convert on 3rd and 4 and are forced to punt with 1:05 to play. The punt is perfectly executed and it looks like they’ve pinned the Saints at their own 1 yd line. Game over, right? No, wait! The ref calls it a touchback - Saints ball at the 20. Drew Brees is in shotgun with 1:01 left and no timeouts. He throws 4 beautiful passes to drive the Saints down to the Green Bay 11. With :03 left in the game Brees drops back and throws a laser to the end zone - incomplete. Game over, right? No, wait! Pass interference on AJ Hawk! Saints ball at the 1 yd line! They’re gonna score! They’re gonna cover! The curse is lifted! Last play of the game with no time on the clock: Mark Ingram, halfback dive from the 1 yd line. Splat. Stonewalled. Game over, Packers win 42-34. After the game, Trey Wingo tweets: “76 points… and it takes a defensive stand from the one, on an UNTIMED play to seal it.” Profootballtalk can’t explain why Sean Payton, one of the most brazen playcallers in league history, lost his nerve on the Saints’ last chance.The curse lives on. 

Last night my wife and I were debating what position Madden would play on a football team. Then I got carried away thinking about who his teammates would be and spent the next few hours toiling over a roster. My wife moved on with her life. I love dogs. I love football. So, without further ado:

The Ultimate K9 Football Team
OFFENSE

Quarterback - Labrador Retriever
NFL doppelgänger: Peyton Manning 
The All-American. Highly intelligent breed with a passably athletic build and a winning personality. He’s already the most popular dog in the country. It all starts with the quarterback and I want someone steady and poised. A sure bet.

Running Back - German Shepherd
NFL doppelgänger: Walter Payton
There’s speed, there’s power, add in some ferocity and you’ve got yourself Sweetness. This was by far the toughest position to fill considering some dogs are built for speed, and others for power. In the end, the German Shepherd wins the job for his dedication to following orders: take the ball and score. Nothing can stop him.

Fullback - Bull Terrier
NFL doppelgänger: Mike Alstott
He may be stout and slightly undersized, but this dude is built to terrorize anything within 3 yards. Just look at his body, he can only move forward. It’s an under appreciated breed, typecast for its endorsements, but when I need something plowed over, the Bull Terrier will get the job done.

Left Tackle - St. Bernard
NFL doppelgänger: Jonathan Ogden
The big boy. The loyal protector of the franchise and anchor of the offensive line. He’s a gentle giant only cuz no one dares mess with him.

Left Guard - Shar Pei
NFL doppelgänger: Russ Grimm
Here come the wrinkly hogs. The Shar Pei was bred as a palace guard. Stocky, but maintains great economy of movement - perfect for pulling on those counter runs.

Center - Bull Mastiff
NFL doppelgänger: Nick Mangold
Big, smart and mean, that’s what you want. A dog who will fight to the death, but keeps it under control for the team. Also, doesn’t seem to mind having a labrador retriever touching his ass.  

Right Guard - Bloodhound
NFL doppelgänger: Leonard Davis
He may look lazy and slow (cuz he is), but the bloodhound is keenly observant and remembers everything - exactly what I want in a guard. He’ll sniff out the blitz every time.  

Right Tackle - Dogue de Bordeaux
NFL doppelgänger: David Stewart
He’s big and powerful with great balance. The Dogue de Bordeaux could probably play on either side of the ball. He’s got the athleticism to play tackle and a no nonsense attitude to go with his no nonsense look. 

Tight End - Scottish Deerhound
NFL doppelgänger: Tony Gonzalez
The flashiest hybrid position is fitting for the most recent winner of the Westminster Dog Show. Size, speed and an impressive wingspan. Something tells me he’s got hops too. 

Wide Receiver - Greyhound
NFL doppelgänger: Randy Moss
Was there ever any question? You put the tall, fast guys on the edges and let em run. The Greyhound is the fastest dog on the planet and he’s got more than enough diva quality for the position too.

Wide Receiver - Weimaraner
NFL doppelgänger: Andre Johnson
Still fast, still deadly, but more of an underrated possession receiver. The Weimaraner is sleek and quiet, but there’s plenty going on upstairs. Really high awareness ratings on this guy.

DEFENSE

Defensive End - Pitbull
NFL doppelgänger: Deacon Jones 
Not to perpetuate an unfair stereotype, but a Pitbull can get nasty if you let him. His reputation precedes him and strikes fear in every opponent. He’s the guy who gets his own corner in the locker room and his own edge on the field.

Defensive Tackle - Rottweiler
NFL doppelgänger: Warren Sapp
Big and nasty with a bad reputation for good reason. The Rottweiler does not give a damn who you are or what you do, he’s comin to get his. QBKILLA

Defensive Tackle - Cane Corso
NFL doppelgänger: John Randle
He’s got a loud bark and the muscles to back it up. The Cane Corso is gangsta and looks completely uncontrollable. Seriously, avoid eye contact.

Defensive End - Boxer
NFL doppelgänger: Bruce Smith
The technician. A dog with solid fundamentals and an understanding of how to use his body to get what he wants. The Boxer is quiet, tough and hardy - can’t ask for anything more from a D.E. 

Outside Linebacker - Alaskan Malamute
NFL doppelgänger: Junior Seau
A true athlete with surprising strength and speed. The Malamute looks like a ball of fluff but he’s all muscle underneath. Excellent with orders and I trust him to contain whatever comes out of the backfield. 

Middle Linebacker - English Bulldog
NFL doppelgänger: Mike Singletary
Ok, more than a little biased here, but hear me out. For an inside linebacker in a 4-3 defense, tenacity and tackling ability are much more important than size and speed. The bulldog is built tough, can squeeze into the A gap unnoticed and most importantly, will never ever give up on a play. Plus, he’s my son and he gets to start cuz he’s special.

Outside Linebacker - Siberian Husky
NFL doppelgänger: Lawrence Taylor
Is it a dog or is it wolf? He seems a bit unstable and more than a bit wild; he looks like he might revert back to whatever species it was he evolved from. The Siberian Husky has seen some rough shit (in Siberia, duh) and he’s an intimidating physical specimen. He’ll play just fine in space.

Cornerback - Pointer
NFL doppelgänger: Rod Woodson
The ball hawk. Once the Pointer has the ball in his sights/nostrils, it’s over. The Pointer has excellent hands and a great motor, but lacks the speed to play offense. He makes up for it by sticking to receivers like the loyal hunting dog he is. 

Free Safety - Dalmatian
NFL doppelgänger: Ed Reed
Everyone knows the Dalmation, but few appreciate how special he is. Fast, athletic and easily trained, the Dalmation is extremely obedient but unafraid to improvise when the situation is right. He stalks the entire field and is well-suited to be the last defender.

Strong Safety - Bernese Mountain Dog
NFL doppelgänger: Troy Polamalu
Strong and sturdy up front with sound fundamentals, the Bernese Mountain Dog can play up with the front 7 or play back in coverage with ease. His territorial qualities make him an ideal zone coverage safety. Also, big hair.

Cornerback - Doberman Pinscher
NFL doppelgänger: Deion Sanders
Go ahead, look at him -that’s what he wants. Have you ever seen a Doberman that wasn’t shiny and sharp? The Doberman is fast and ferocious and the most likely member of the team to appear in a Snoop Dogg video. 

Kicker - Australian Cattle Dog
NFL doppelgänger: Morton Andersen
The specialist. He can do one thing and one thing only. Don’t ask him to tackle or throw or catch, just ask him to do his one job and the Cattle Dog will do it obsessively. He’s used to being with the guys without really being one of the guys.

Punter - Schnauzer
NFL doppelgänger: Jeff Feagles
Ok, punters are a little… different. They do their own thing, never have the opportunity to singlehandedly win a game (though they can lose it) and usually play in the league until they’re old enough to grow massive schnauzer-like gray beards. 

Head Coach - Border Collie
NFL doppelgänger: Bill Walsh
The mastermind. Too small to play, but smart enough to teach everyone else how. The Border Collie knows the rules better than anyone else and has just enough crazy eye to suggest he did nothing but gameplan and scheme all night. He’s definitely a players’ coach and he’s got a bit of the Al Pacino in Any Given Sunday thing going. 

sometimes this happens

and the streak continues!

and the streak continues!! Final Score: Auburn 22, Oregon 19.

I am SO in. It works. Good job, Redskins Mrktg

December 30, 2007 
(4 weeks after the death of Sean Taylor, the Washington Redskins had just won their 4th straight game setting up a must-win game in week 17 to clinch the final NFC wildcard slot. This is what I wrote that night.)   

It was a sentiment that was echoed in nearly every post-game interview and media quote binge — “one game at a time.” It is the most cliche of all jock-talk word vomit, but today, on the eve of another new year, it offered a most poignant reminder of what it means to be a fan, a coach, a player and a Washington Redskin. The argument could be made that the Skins are the king of heartbreak football. They keep us transfixed — leading us on with fervent first-half optimism, followed by stretches of cruel, almost-hopeless underachievement and just when it seems all but over, we stay tuned-in, only to have the team’s fate determined by a last-second interception, or a botched time out.

But something changed in these last four weeks.

Well, actually, a lot changed. Beyond the injuries and personnel changes, in addition to the attacking defensive and the well-oiled offense, the Redskins had an identity shift that was necessitated as much by higher, unseen, forces as by their own volition. A season marred by injury, uncertainty, and tragedy, could only end in two markedly different movie-script endings: a complete collapse, or a defining series of inspirational victories both on and off the field. But this season is no movie, and while it remains the best, unfinished story of the year, for the Washington Redskins and all of us who say “we” when referring to the team, this season has been all too real.

The uncanny 21-point victory over the Cowboys played in a stadium full of rabid fans attending the most important game of the Gibbs 2.0 era was a reminder of what “one game at a time” really means. Players have been mentioning the presence of their fallen teammate during the course of every game and while we mortal fans may never understand the depth of this presence, we can appreciate the integrity behind each player and coach who speaks the cliche. One game at a time is all we could afford to with #21 in his burgundy and gold. One game at a time is all that’s left to say when the Hall of Fame coach overlooks one of the simplest rules of the game and suffers the “worst moment in [his] career.”  One game at a time is the only speed suitable for a team with a career back-up quarterback at the helm of a shipped rocked off-course. And now, one game at a time is all we’ve got as we enter a single-elimination playoff.
”One game at a time” is the mantra of the Washington Redskins and it is the tagline to the epic story that has come to life these last four months. But that’s not to say that we can’t dream. After all, that what dreams are for, right?

How great would it be if we take revenge on those Seahawks in the January rain, in their own house no less? How great would it be to get the last laugh against that self-righteous, self-proclaimed, “America’s Team?” How great would it be to reach the Superbowl as the anti-Patriots? What would it feel like to celebrate a victory over the national villain, a team that humiliated our proud franchise and handed our hall of fame coach the worst loss of his career?

But there is pain in these dreams as well: the pain of a lost teammate still lingers after every game, no matter the result. The thought of a great playoff run and a dream-come-true Superbowl victory without #21 is almost too bittersweet to swallow. And so, the Washington Redskins, all of us, are left with only one choice: “One game at a time.” Perhaps that’s the way it should be. Perhaps that’s what we’ve been missing all along. Even the most cautious optimism can still fall victim to underwhelming disappointment; but to face the potential reality of just one more game conjures the potential for a sublime effort. A respect and an appreciation of the game that can only come with a singular, all-in, focus. So, here we go as Redskins, both in life and in football, “one game at a time.”

Kenny G rockin the Vuvuzela.