If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
NFC 6th Seed — Washington Redskins (9-7)
There are several factors that might make it difficult for me to root against the Redskins: the death of Sean Taylor, the fact that Shawn Springs went to my high school, that my mother, uncle and many of my friends are fans. But it is, in truth, not really all that hard at all.
There’s always the all-too-easy litany of charges against them: the megalomaniacal imp Dan Snyder (who blocks out other games in the time slot when the ‘Skins are on), the team’s racialist name, its fanbase of Blackberry-toting doucheocrats, the Dead Tree Crew and FedEx Field being a slightly more unpleasant experience than Dachau and about as easy to get to as the Kwik-E-Mart corporate headquarters.
If that doesn’t prove sufficient, I can always draw upon this chestnut: In January of 1992, when I was in 4th grade, the week before the Redskins beat the Bills in Super Bowl XXVI, my school had an assembly where we did nothing but sing “Hail to the Redskins” for an hour. ON LOOP. FOR A FUCKING HOUR. The song is less than two minutes long. Such is the torpor-based education you get in public schooling in Maryland, I s’pose.
Did you know they won their playoff clinching game by 21 points? And that Sean Taylor wore the number 21? You know who’ll be sure to remind me? The woman who rings up my groceries. The UPS guy. The guy who hits me changing lanes on the Beltway. My drug dealer. Someone looking at DVDs next to me at Best Buy. The stick up kid who steals the DVD from me when I leave the store. The cop who takes my statement. The guy at the gun store. The people who I rob when I turn into a vigilante.