I hate football. I hate when my team loses (real life or fantasy). When both lose in the same week, I go into a deep, dark depression that lasts at least until Thursday (hence the radio silence on the blog last week). I hate the idea of a London-based NFL team. I hate all the injuries to guys I like. I hate having been outbid by $2 for DeMarco Murray and then he goes on to run for 253 yards and a TD. I hate that all my actions on Sundays are governed by an overwhelming sense of superstition, and that if I don’t wear, eat, or drink exactly the right things, or I don’t sit in exactly the right place, I know it’s my fault that the Redskins lost. I hate all the insurance commercials during football games. I hate that I spend 12 hours a week watching football, plus at least 20 hours a week reading or writing about football, and I don’t get paid for it. I hate Chris Collinsworth. I hate my kids’ friends’ parents for scheduling birthday parties for Sunday afternoons in the fall. I hate that Indianapolis could get Andrew Luck. But mostly, I hate the Redskins.
I hate that they haven’t been good in 18 years. I hate my parents for raising me to love the Redskins so much. I hate myself for the abuse I’m inflicting on my daughters by raising them as Redskins fans. I hate my husband for making snide remarks like, “so what’s your record now? And what’s the Giants record?” Jerk. I hate that, even though I should know better by now, every year (EVERY YEAR) I get my hopes up and tell myself the Redskins have turned things around. As Red says in Shawshank Redemption, “Let me tell you something, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.” Yup. That pretty much sums up being a Redskins fan. But I kind of love it.