By Ronald N. Guy Jr.
A long time ago (i.e. “before kids”), mid-summer trips
to ‘Skins training camp were an annual pilgrimage. These were simpler times for me and better
times for Washington’s football team. Dan
Snyder’s ownership, or reign of terror if you prefer (and appropriately so),
was in its infancy. Washington’s
football brand was still strong and the burgundy and gold could be worn with
pride. Snyder’s wild spending and impatience
was considered youthful exuberance and not the fatal flaw that it proved to
be. And brass tacks: the questionable
decency of his soul remained unexposed.
But most important for this story, Snyder had yet to
corrupt training camp into the paid event it was at the team facility or the
polished, structured, political and no doubt profitable endeavor it now is in
Richmond, Virginia. The camps I speak of
happened west and north of D.C. – in Frostburg, Maryland and across the
Mason-Dixon line into south-central Pennsylvania and the quaint little town of
Carlisle. These far-off lands were
technically within Darth Snyder’s empire, but they remained unspoiled or, to a
use a modern term, “off the grid.”
The stories.
Some are fit for print in this PG format, others I’d disclose only verbally
after some liquid encouragement and with the express understanding that all of
it would be denied if pressed. Protect
your source, protect the innocent…and protect yourself. Splendid advice indeed.
Suffice to say late nights and spirited carousing were
the norm. And why not? Constraints were minimal and it was good for
the local economy. Spread the money,
spread the love. Least I could do,
eh? The morning practices though, part
one of the old brutal two-a-day sweat-fests, were a challenging bell to
answer. I observed most from distant bleacher
perches while humbly nursing hangovers in the muggy July morning air. This is when I first realized that professional
football players are not from this planet – or are at least a unique human gene
pool. I watched many players practice,
and seemingly well, despite being out very, very late the previous night and consuming
a whole lot of non-performance-enhancing beverages. How were they doing this? A mere mortal, I could barely turn my head
without feeling dizzy. Maybe superheroes
are real?
There’s mercifully scant evidence from these
excursions. I do have hats though, each
filled with autographs. Even casual ‘Skins
fans would recognize most of the names.
Buy some are completely obscure, even unidentifiable. In this case, the unknown and forgotten are
who matter.
There’s a “Rod S.”
Number 51. Linebacker, I
assume. Monte Coleman he was not. “Matt” something or other played quarterback
and wore number 11. He wasn’t quite Mark
Rypien 2.0. My favorite signature though
is “Eric.” I think it is Eric Whitfield
but can’t be sure. Nevertheless, the
dude signed the hat right above the ‘Skins logo in big, bold cursive and ended
with an emphatic “#36!”. He was announcing
his presence with authority. He was
going to make hay in the NFL…until he didn’t.
Eric Whitfield never played a down in the league.
This isn’t a knock on those players; it’s just the
opposite. While their names have been
lost to history, their against-all-odds stories still stick with me. I think of them every year as July turns to
August and another NFL season approaches.
Training camp and the NFL preseason are loathed by established players,
coaches and fans. But for many NFL
hopefuls – literally dozens per team – it is the ultimate opportunity, maybe
the last opportunity, to realize their football dream. No matter the odds or the sacrifices, they
have it all on the line. In late August,
final roster cut-downs deliver a harsh and absolute judgment. Some make it; many do not. None are failures. To a man, they dared to take a chance on
themselves and pursue a dream. They boldly
stood on that thin line between NFL player and obscure autograph on a dusty old
hat. And all these years later, it’s the
“Rod’s”, “Matt’s” and “Eric’s”, not the more famous autographs acquired, that
I’m writing about. It’s the “Rod’s”, “Matt’s”
and “Eric’s” who have provided the lasting inspiration.
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