Hail To The New Owners!

 

Growing up I remember my father was the model of decorum at church. He made sure we arrived with enough time to take off our winter overcoats and settle into the pews well before the service started so that we would not disturb any other parishioners. During hymns, he stood up with the congregation yet never uttered a peep in song. This wasn’t some weird Anglican protest but a silent testament to one of my father’s few deficiencies—despite a love of music, the man could not sing. Not a lick, not a note.

During the other religious services on Sundays, fall football, I would join my father in our pew, er couch, and do what fathers and sons do while watching sporting events. We would get the Giants/Redskins games twice a year, but by quirk of regional blackout rules, it was the only time we would get to see the Redskins except in the playoffs. My father’s allegiance to the Washington team meant that viewing those games was considered holy time and I would take in the play of saints Sonny Jurgensen, John Riggins, and “The Hogs” offensive line. It was also the only time when sacred decorum fell to the wayside after a Redskins’ touchdown. A full-throttled roar of song would burst from my father’s mouth as the verses “Hail to the Redskins/Hail to Vic-tor-y” filled our apartment. It wasn’t exactly the singing of angels, but team spirit can sometimes mitigate sonic disaster.

Present-day Washington should have erupted in song last week with team owner Dan Snyder finally selling off the politically-more-sensitively-named Commanders. Yet somehow the $6 billion emancipation of the local football team barely made any news. This is a sum equal to, or larger, than five state budgets. Real money, even in Washington.

Maybe the winning traits of the town’s baseball Nationals and hockey Capitals has taken some of the sheen off of Redskins/Commanders fandom. Perhaps the years of ongoing stories about sexually harassing female employees have taken their toll. Over a decade of not just bad, but awful, play on the field hasn’t helped any. Yet somehow, I imagine there is excitement. A college classmate of mine, she a Washington native and diehard Washington football fan, married a Giants fan. While his medical residency took them to New York, they settled in the Washington area where he established his practice. How this got negotiated I do not know, but somehow, as the Facebook tailgate posts attest, they raised their three kids as Giants fans. With their oldest daughter getting married in two months, I pray that the future son-in-law isn’t from Philly. Not even the Almighty can give that much grace.

My own pro football allegiances have waxed and waned over the years. I stood by the Jets, even in the upper deck of Shea Stadium in December, until they joined the Giants in…New Jersey. During my Northwestern years the Bears grabbed the Super Bowl and an eternal place in my heart. After college and back in New York, even when either of the Meadowlands teams won, it never seemed quite right that they had abandoned the city. Now here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, prayers aren’t for a miraculous return of Tom Brady but anything above a .500 Buccaneers season.

When the NFL season opens in September, I will be able watch almost every game. It will take a while to figure out which free agents landed where, and some of the uniforms will look different. As a New Yorker I will still stand vigilant against the Triad of Hate (Cowboys-Skins-Eagles) and I wouldn’t think of cheering on the Fish, even if they are in my new home state. But in honor of my father, if I see the Commanders score a touchdown I might, just maybe, hum a few bars of “Hail to the Redskins.” As some might preach, forgiveness begins at home.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.