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Words fail.
The enemy of creativity is boredom.
And friends, these Washington Redskins are B-O-R-I-N-G.
I love to write. And there’s nothing I love to write more about than the things I love. And God help me, how I do love the Burgundy and Gold. But right now, me and her, we’re on the outs. Because I’ve come to realize something. She’s nothing but a bitch who takes, takes, takes. I would’ve broken up with her long ago, except for one thing.
Who’d take care of her? Who’d spend long weekends waiting for her, thinking about her, imagining the next time they’d be with her? Who, but me? Sure – she’s no peach. She does nothing but promise. 'I’ll change…just give me a chance…I know you love me…don’t give up on me after all these years…’. And I won’t give up on her. I wish I could, but I can’t.
Don’t get me wrong – I have no delusions. I know the love I feel may never really be returned. The girl I fell in love with so many years ago, young, beautiful, exciting, hell – inspiring – she may be gone forever. She’s that shell you find unexpectedly washed up on a beach at sunrise, perfect and untouched. You hold her expectantly to your ear, longing to hear that refrain. Angels. The voice of God. The roar of the crowd. Something. But all you get is the cold, echoing brash whistle of a November morning.
Unrequited love. It’s beautiful and noble in sonnet and ballad. But in real-life, it just feels lonely.
Some might mock the analogy. Laugh away. But when you’re done, stop, think for moment, and tell me how much time you’ve spent over the past year pining for and agonizing over this team. I’ll take comfort knowing I’m not alone.
So what’s a poor boy to do? I’ve written apocalyptically about this team before. I’ve written about waking up face down in the alley, a drunk at rock bottom, choking on the bile of my Redskins addiction. I’ve written about walking away from the warm fold of NFL fandom altogether and finding something indubitably more productive to do with my time. And yet I’m here. Why? There’s only one answer.
Someday.
That’s the only explanation.
November is made for long, thoughtful end-of-the-day walks. I oblige. But the sun, and hope for the Redskins, sets painfully early in the Fall. Eyes water involuntarily. We squint against the cold heartlessly whipping wind. As the sun creeps towards the horizon, gray gives in to purple and black, and resignation sets in. The warmth of the sun will have to wait. There’s nothing to do but head home, and hope for better days to come.
Someday, my team will rise. Someday, cursed owner or not, the Redskins time will come again. I don’t know if I believe. But I have to believe. She’s my girl afterall.
And she always will be.
The enemy of creativity is boredom.
And friends, these Washington Redskins are B-O-R-I-N-G.
I love to write. And there’s nothing I love to write more about than the things I love. And God help me, how I do love the Burgundy and Gold. But right now, me and her, we’re on the outs. Because I’ve come to realize something. She’s nothing but a bitch who takes, takes, takes. I would’ve broken up with her long ago, except for one thing.
Who’d take care of her? Who’d spend long weekends waiting for her, thinking about her, imagining the next time they’d be with her? Who, but me? Sure – she’s no peach. She does nothing but promise. 'I’ll change…just give me a chance…I know you love me…don’t give up on me after all these years…’. And I won’t give up on her. I wish I could, but I can’t.
Don’t get me wrong – I have no delusions. I know the love I feel may never really be returned. The girl I fell in love with so many years ago, young, beautiful, exciting, hell – inspiring – she may be gone forever. She’s that shell you find unexpectedly washed up on a beach at sunrise, perfect and untouched. You hold her expectantly to your ear, longing to hear that refrain. Angels. The voice of God. The roar of the crowd. Something. But all you get is the cold, echoing brash whistle of a November morning.
Unrequited love. It’s beautiful and noble in sonnet and ballad. But in real-life, it just feels lonely.
Some might mock the analogy. Laugh away. But when you’re done, stop, think for moment, and tell me how much time you’ve spent over the past year pining for and agonizing over this team. I’ll take comfort knowing I’m not alone.
So what’s a poor boy to do? I’ve written apocalyptically about this team before. I’ve written about waking up face down in the alley, a drunk at rock bottom, choking on the bile of my Redskins addiction. I’ve written about walking away from the warm fold of NFL fandom altogether and finding something indubitably more productive to do with my time. And yet I’m here. Why? There’s only one answer.
Someday.
That’s the only explanation.
November is made for long, thoughtful end-of-the-day walks. I oblige. But the sun, and hope for the Redskins, sets painfully early in the Fall. Eyes water involuntarily. We squint against the cold heartlessly whipping wind. As the sun creeps towards the horizon, gray gives in to purple and black, and resignation sets in. The warmth of the sun will have to wait. There’s nothing to do but head home, and hope for better days to come.
Someday, my team will rise. Someday, cursed owner or not, the Redskins time will come again. I don’t know if I believe. But I have to believe. She’s my girl afterall.
And she always will be.
