It was a pilgrimage to the very bottom of the talent pool that the National Football League has to offer, to a stadium out in the middle of nowhere, where people long for the Hogs, for Riggins, for Theismann with two functional legs. It was the abbreviated road trip of a sports-filled weekend.
Four tickets. Redskins game. Sunday.
It began with eight Keystone Light beers (“Ah, 60 percent water!”), a 40-ounce container of malt liquor, two backpacks and a red parking pass. Four Georgetown youth strode into the parking lot of Fed-Ex Field after a tiresome journey on public transportation. The highlight of the journey, to this point, had been a train packed full with people. Could this be? Despite the Redskins inability to win a game as of yet this season, their fans had not abandoned them! They would be there in full support and regalia to see them vanquish the Carolina Panthers and Chris “Most people my age are in Med School, or maybe even residency” Weinke. The RFK stop arrived. We pulled away from it. A full train car was now about six people, two of whom were engaged in a furious discussion about the high school gyms of upstate New York’s basketball culture. Seems there was a large benefit concert at RFK that same day. *NSYNC always beats Champ Bailey. Always.
The parking lot was a scene. We sat between two SUVs, waved our unused parking pass and commenced work on the beverages. Across from us, a family placed the largest rack of beer I have ever seen on a hibachi grill. A father and his son, who was clad in a Terry Allen jersey, much like one of our compatriots, threw a ball back and forth. A bunch of high school kids pulled up in their fathers’ SUVs and began tailgating with cans of Miller Lite. I tried to bond with Penn State kids about their win over Northwestern the previous day. It failed.
Somewhat buzzed and geared for combat against the team that unleashed Rae Carruth on the world, we headed inside.
After two laps of the stadium to figure out how to reach the nosebleed seats, we came upon the escalator we thought was ours. The man directly in front of us was wearing a Steelers jersey, which I found odd, as I had forgotten a franchise existed in Pittsburgh. We launched into a discussion of Slash Stewart, Louie Lipps and Alfred Pupunu. I told him the Steelers were awful. He offered me his other club ticket. Wanting to continue to insult the franchise whose main offensive weapon is called “The Bus,” but not wanting to leave my chums, I was forced to make a decision. I went with the boys.
The situation in Section 426 was comical. Several rows down, a man was imbibing beer at a rate not healthy even in Germany. When one of the Panthers lay motionless on the field for a minute midway through the game, he remarked, “Let’s Go Skins! Get him off the field!”
He twirled his shirt around his head. Behind me, a toothless old man in a Panthers jersey looked solemn whenever the Skins did anything right. Arrington’s interception had him looking cold as ice. On the Redskins worst drive, one that resulted in a third down and 37 situation, he remarked: “Goin’ the wrong way, Schottenheimer!”
I convinced the woman next to me that my father was Mike Price, head coach of the Washington State Cougars, and that I had moved to the east coast to work. I made fun of Jerry Glanville, who I figured was calling the game for Fox. In a southern twang:
“Someone hire me! I’ll install the Red Gun!”
Some idiot in our section kept yelling “Pooch Punt!” even on handoffs. I think he found it funny.
The game was like Clue, the board game my mother could never understand, in that it had several different endings. Gardner scored, then he didn’t, then a field goal was kicked, and all the while a shirt was waved, Schottenheimer was insulted, pooch punts were yelled for, and Jerry Glanville was insulted in Section 426.
It was a Sunday in America, and it was good.
