About Me

I hate football.

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.

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