We lived in a two bedroom apartment on Staten Island in 1981. My father, who had no time or patience for football, turned on the radio because it was a long drive to my parents’ friend’s house in Westchester. Somehow, providentially, my dad settled on the Giants-Redskins game on the radio instead of “all news, all the time” 1010 WINS. I remember being upset, because a classmate had offered me (probably unbeknownst to his dad) an extra ticket to Giants Stadium. It was just as well that I couldn’t go, because we were on our way to dinner in Tarrytown.
I don’t remember specific plays from the game, but 36 years later, other aspects still stand out. First and foremost, my father noticed my interest and didn’t change the station, as was his wont. The news literally bored me to tears then, as it undoubtedly does with my children, who’ve learned to dread seeing “1010” on our car’s radio screen. Secondly, the announcers made it sound like the Giants were being beaten up by a playground bully. For a third grader who was routinely picked on by white kids – bullies – often to negative effect, rooting for the “wrong” team definitely had an appeal. I couldn’t and would never be someone who would taunt and torment another, but I could at least cheer for football players who did. I didn’t appreciate at the time that this was the collective rookie year for legendary Redskins like Joe Jacoby, Russ Grimm, Dexter Manley, and Darryl Grant. I was witnessing the birth of the Hogs and didn’t even know it.
I became a Skins fan in my dad’s 1977 Granada on 15 November 1981. That year, I finally also learned the secret to fighting: if you don’t show pain, and instead keep hitting until your opponent stops, you win. The same could be said for the Hogs, that lovable heavy drinking group of offensive linemen who ran at defensive lines like road graders on asphalt. 70 Chip was, naturally, an early highlight for me. As the eighties progressed, I became more and more of a diehard fan, even after we moved to Houston. Full disclosure, I’ve been known to sing “Luv Ya Blue” at the old Astrodome, but it almost isn’t cheating if your hometown team and your actual team are in different conferences. Being a Skins fan in Texas could have borrowed a line from one of my favorite books, Tales of the City. It was Anna Madrigal’s “logical family” vice “blood family” – but with football, which was infinitely cooler. When I started playing football myself, since I was too skinny to be a Hog, I wanted to be 81; Art Monk, not Ernest Givins. For better or worse, my football career ended with high school, but my love of the game and that team did not.
My fandom flared like a white phosphorous shell when I attended GWU, and I held onto it as a vestige of home when I enlisted in the Army. I’ve lived through two owners; countless general managers, head coaches, assistant coaches, and players. I helped make the lower deck bleachers shake on the last game at RFK, freezing my butt off because my buddies and I were painted burgundy and gold from the waist up. I happily suffered in traffic before and after home games at FedEx Field, and even more happily paid exorbitant prices for tickets. As a waiter and bartender in DC in the mid/late 90s, I also had the pleasure of waiting on a good number of them. Norv and Nancy Turner were 100% class, and it was an absolute pleasure to wait on them. Out of curiosity, a YOLO if there ever was one, I even once asked a player if I could try on his Superbowl ring. It was a monster, wide enough for two of my fingers, felt heavier than a .45 caliber pistol, and I was in football fan Nirvana. I told the player his check was on me, because he’d given me a story I’d tell for years.
Then the doldrums started, first with the Ol’ Ball Coach and his noodle armed Florida quarterbacks. I was never a fair weather fan, and had even survived the one Ritchie Pettibon-helmed trash fire of a season. I suffered and exulted through Coach Gibbs’ return, and hoped against hope that Chris Cooley was the H-Back Messiah we’d needed since Doc Walker retired. The cycle never seemed to end, and it was maddening to say the least. We would win the offseason with a huge coach or player signing, then watch other teams in the playoffs because The Danny couldn’t keep his little fanboy mitts off of the football program. Or, we’d make the playoffs, which would inevitably raise our expectations for the following season, when the team’s play would tear our hearts from our chest. We would watch a bad defense undermine a good offense, or vice versa. We would watch as less talented teams played meaningful games late in the season, while our boys in burgundy and gold played out the string. Casserly. Cerrato. Allen. McCloughan. Allen again. Who the hell was in charge? Hopefully not the meddling fan masquerading as a billionaire team owner, but then, this was also the man who forced RG3 and his “why are they sacking me” look on us.
Two seasons ago, my son, then six years old, asked me what a redskin was. I’d been watching highlights on my computer, and he knew of my friendly rivalry with his uncle the Giants fan. I told my son it was a bad name for Native Americans, then watched while he absorbed the realization that “redskin” was as ugly and powerful an epithet as the N word, or chink. While I, his Redskins-loving father, absorbed the same realization.
As a person of color myself, the hypocrisy of my former self, singing “Hail to the Redskins” after a touchdown suddenly became too much. The duplicity of a minority cheering for a team that George Marshall forced to be the last in the NFL to integrate. I had known that, but hadn’t truly internalized it until my son, in his innocence, challenged every football assumption I’d built over thirty-plus years. Then my son hurt me. He asked, wasn’t one of my friends from the military Native American? Did that mean I was calling this friend a bad name too?
Ultimately, I’ve come to the realization that I can no longer be a fan of a team named after a slur. As with the divorce that ends a long marriage, this is a painful dissociation. I’ve been hoping and praying (surprising even me, considering my heartfelt agnosticism) that Snyder will come to his senses and change the name. This would be a fabulous and overdue idea, but Snyder has shown nothing but cynical disregard for a name change. Mike Carey and Phil Simms even refuse to say the team name. I’ve tweeted about it, written unintelligible Facebook screeds about it, but until recently could never condense my thoughts into a coherent post until now, though nowhere as well as Mike Wise. I feel like an alcoholic admitting his problem at a meeting. I’ve known no other team, so I find myself unaffiliated for the first time since that long car ride with my parents.
I don’t begrudge those who continue to root for the Washington football team. Truth be told, I’ll still follow them, albeit not as closely as in the previous 36 seasons. But gone are my burgundy and gold hat, my Sean Taylor jersey, the 44 onesie I got for my son when he was an infant. Just Dan, a guy who has loved football for years and will continue to do so, but without the baggage of cheering the Potomac Drainage Basin Indigenous Persons.