WASHINGTON — The day began to die on the second play from scrimmage, when Erik Kramer was smothered and the ball squirted loose and the Redskins picked it up as if lifting a penny off the sidewalk. You knew then, somewhere in your stomach, that the theme of this chilly championship game would be simple and sad: The dream ends here.
A lot of people will be rooting for the Lions to beat the Washington Redskins today, and for many reasons.
Some say it’s only fair, since Washington goes to the Super Bowl year after year, while Detroit sits home, waiting for the auto show to open.
Others think it would teach a lesson to Redskins coach Joe Gibbs, so tunnel-visioned about his job — sleeping at the stadium much of the week — that he recently asked an aide whether President Truman needed tickets.
Getting them lined up for the photo was the best part.
“Yo, Big E! Get in here.”
“Where’s my shirt, man?”
“Picture time! All right!”
“Get Ledgehead in here.”
“You’re Ledgehead.”
“Hey, Tiptoe, get out of the front, man. You never smile.”
“At least he’s got his pants on this time.”
“BIG E, GET IN HERE!”
“Why they taking our picture?”
“Yo, Lomas, your calves cramping yet?”
“Oh, funny, funny.”
“Hey, photo man. What kind of lens you using?”
“Must be one of them super wide angle lenses.”
“Definitely.”
Alone in the dark he sits, behind the projector, his thumb clicking the remote button as the players on screen move backwards then forwards then backwards then forwards.
“Corner trap (click, click),” he says, “now a sprint 15 . . . see how that guard rides the center up there (click) . . . now this is a 15 bend, see that tight end (click) he’s supposed to block No. 52 (click) he’s gotta get his butt up there, right now! Look (click) he’s hesitating (click) he’s hesitating (click) . . . GO, RIGHT NOW! (click) . . . too late!”
For one thrilling Sunday, it was perfect chaos, all these inspired men doing things they weren’t supposed to do, exploding like a silver-and-blue volcano after years of bubbling frustration.
PASADENA, Calif. — Couldn’t run. Couldn’t pass. Couldn’t call in sick.
PASADENA, Calif. — It’s New Year’s Eve, and look what I found: All your heroes from the sports page, gathered together to toast 1992.
Will you please rise and state your resolution:
“I, Charles Barkley, resolve never to insult anyone again, especially those stupid reporters.”
“I, Andre Agassi, resolve to wear shirts that reach my waist.”
“I, Bryan Murray, resolve to get some help for goalie Tim Cheveldae.”
“I, Tim Cheveldae, (yawn) . . . zzzzzz . . .”
“I, Jack Morris, resolve to stay in Toronto . . . at least until the check clears.”
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