Important Stuff

By Ronald N. Guy Jr

The workday is done.  Dinner is consumed and cleaned up.  Other daily audulting (yes, it’s a verb) nonsense - paying bills, ironing clothes, making lunches for the next day – is complete.  An aging domestic warrior saunters upstairs, grabs the remote and flips on the television.

Countless channels are available (the spoils of a modern world enabling sedentation), but only a few are needed – i.e. the ones broadcasting live sports.  Every night over these last few fabulous weeks has offered NBA and NHL playoff showdowns in New York, Raleigh, Los Angeles, Miami, Oklahoma City, Minneapolis and several cities north of the 49^th parallel (Canada!).  “Waiter, I’ll take one of everything, please!”

An ancillary routine has emerged in my household during execution of the ritual described above.  The games beamed from across the hinterland into my man-loft inevitably produce a fantastic shot or sick goal that prompts a loud guttural sound from my loins that would make my hairy, meat-eating, cave-dwelling ancestors proud.  On cue, my son, whose bedroom is adjacent to the man-loft, will run in to survey the scene.  He’s likely been watching the same event and takes the primal reaction next door as evidence of my presence upstairs and an invitation to watch the rest of this night’s fantastic competition with his old man.

As east cost dwellers, we stay up past our bedtimes to watch to conclusion.  I neither have nor want the discipline to turn off epic games in crunch time.  I certainly don’t want my kid thinking he should.  This is important stuff! 

Important stuff.  The games?  Yes, of course.  These are the greatest athletes in the world battling for their sports’ biggest prize and team and individual immortality.  But something more important is happening.

An admission: Sometimes I don’t watch the games.  My mind wanders.  My vision drifts from the television.  And I just watch my kid, the one-time little fellow who is now entering quasi-adulthood.  He jumps.  He laughs.  He produces similar caveman noises.  Most importantly, though, he’s present, with me, in this moment.  Age and life experience have provided me the wisdom to recognize the preciousness of these daily gatherings and this moment in time.  This will not hold.  It will not last.  There’s a clock on this experience, just like the one governing the games we watch.  The countdown to zero is inevitable. 

My son is a high school senior.  He’s off to college this fall and our lives will never be the same.  The life that we’ve both known since he arrived as we all did – naked and screaming gloriously – is about to change forever.  I know this because I’ve lived it as a younger man and as a father (with his older sister).  I think he does too, as much as he can.  We’ve never actually talked about it, but it is what draws us together at night.  I’ll admit that I embellish my reactions during these games, ensuring he can hear me.  I smile wide when I hear his door open seconds later, indicating he’s in-bound.  Do my eyes sometimes swell with tears as he darts into the room?  Every time.  Why?  Because next year he won’t be down the hall for the NBA and NHL playoffs.  He’ll be in a dorm room.  I’ll be in my man-loft - alone.  Sure, we can text and FaceTime, but it won’t be like this.  Not next year.  Not the year after.  Probably never again.

During this graduation season, many families are facing this same inflection point.  The emotional roller coaster is real – a combination of sentimentality and excitement for the present and future.  What I tell myself: I have to be okay with my son’s departure for college.  This is how it’s supposed to be.  He’s worked hard and created this opportunity; this is the first step in building his life, not existing in the life his mother and I built for him.  Like a lot of parents, I’ll get to this point eventually.  For now, it’s elusive and I’m just grateful for sports, the daily games and the treasured memories they are creating for this dad and his son.

Hockey Pucks and Fried Eggs

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Imagine the innocent hockey puck.  It’s held firmly in a warm hand, unsuspecting of the future it was designed to endure.  The calm ends with an abrupt slam to a hard, cold surface, followed milliseconds later by a violent beating from competing weapons.  The subsequent 60 minutes are a demolition derby, as the poor little puck is slapped, kicked, slammed against boards and deflected off metal posts.  Some die heroes (souvenirs for fans).  Others find the briefest of reprieves – a soft landing in a comfy net – but even this well-earned rest can prompt a chorus of displeased boos (an opponent’s goal).

Pondering the life of a hockey puck of course led to a memory from the 1980s.  Remember that anti-drug commercial with the egg and the frying pan?  A blazing hot pan is shown on the screen while a disembodied voice proclaims, “This is drugs”.  A cracked egg then lands in the pan and immediately begins to sizzle while the chilling voice from the beyond declares, “This is your brain on drugs…any questions?”

Forty years later, I have one.  Actually, it’s a statement.  Conferring recently with a dear friend of similar vintage and trusted source of wisdom, we concluded that our brains are frying on the daily in a new, well-oiled pan: The consistent onslaught of information-age stimuli.  First it was email.  Then social media.  Then smart phones brought 24/7 connectivity to all things and produced crispy-fried brains – i.e. agitated, over-stimulated and wounded - worldwide.  Now 30 years in to what is clearly a never-ending adaptation cycle, we both acknowledged fatigue - our original curiosity and determination to keep pace with technology being replaced with a palpable dose of “I just don’t give a damn anymore.”      

It is two days later and I’m typing this piece while watching games in a quad box and monitoring text messages from other sports degenerates.  Glorious?  In some over-indulgent fantastic way, yes.  In others this method of modern sports consumption, which is metaphorical for our daily lives, is in a dimension all its own.  In an effort to be everywhere, are we really present anywhere?  It is a question best pondered in a dimly lit room and with proper mental lubricants in play: classic jazz playing, incense wafting though the air and a decent amount of whisky having been consumed by the conversationalist. 

In that aforementioned discussion with my dear friend and fellow member of Gen-X, we had none of those ingredients, but we made due with salads, iced tea and the multi-decade poporri of pop music that was playing in the background.  We talked about our unique place in history, as the last generation that will remember life before the internet and the first to encounter and wrestle with its impact and evolution – in the workplace, as parents and across all aspects of society.  We cherished our ability to escape it all as needed; after a tough day at school there were no text messages to fear or address, there was only the therapeutic solitude of the basketball court in the backyard.  We reminisced about how we used to consume music – hunting for the latest album, scoring it at a record shop, listening to it front to back (no skipping), finding the hits and exploring the deep cuts, learning all the words – and our sympathy for kids today who are robbed of that magic by the instantaneous, superficial world of digital downloads.  Road trips were another topic.  Truth be told, I wouldn’t trade the power of GPS, but navigating with a road atlas and a little bit of directional chaos sure created some epic adventures.  Sports were very different too.  We felt closer to our teams and our favorite athletes, even though they were far less accessible; the suggestion being that a child’s imagination is a better gap-filler than a website, YouTube or a social media follow. 

At the conclusion of our discussion, we parted ways with a hearty bro-hug, an appreciation for the emergent circumstances that brought us together, gratitude for genuine, focused human contact and this definitive conclusion: We grew up in the best of times.

Off-putting

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

“The Lakers just traded Anthony Davis for Luka Doncic.” 

My son burst into our sports loft one night earlier this year and spoke those words.  I was skeptical.  My bull-stinky-stuff meter registered “likely”.  The boy, this dear offspring of mine, has an ability to deadpan some nugget of marginally believable news and make you buy it.  It’s annoying, but he’s good.  I feel no shame admitting he has fooled me several times, enough where I’ve debated continuing to provide food and shelter. 

I wasn’t taking the trickster’s bait this time.  Nice try, kiddo, but you went too big.  There is no way the Mavericks traded Luka to the Lakers.  Then defiant dad met the telling screen of his humored son’s cell phone.  The Mavericks had in fact shipped Doncic to the City of Angels.

The trade made no sense on paper.  The Mavericks received Davis, 32, an older, inferior player to Doncic on an expensive, multiyear contract.  The Lakers welcomed Doncic, a 26-year-old franchise anchor and one of the best ballers in the world.  There were other players, teams and draft assets involved, but none of consequence.  This was, for all intents and purposes, a dubious one-for-one that justified this gray-bearded dad’s doubt of his prankster offspring.  So, what was Dallas thinking?  Former Notre Dame head football coach Lou Holtz might have captured the Maverick’s mentality when he said, “Don’t tell people your problems: 80% don’t care and 20% are glad you have them.” 

Prior to the trade, I was aware of the book on Doncic: elite scorer, defensively challenged and a bit fussy.  Meh: That’s the story with most modern stars.  But a move from Dallas to Los Angeles, from the Mavs to the 17-time NBA champion Lakers, brings more than a jersey change: a much, much bigger stage awaits.  After being just an occasional video acquaintance for years, it felt like Laker Luka was screen-side every other night.  It offered a different view from the bleachers - more thorough, more nuanced, more complete.  The familiarity of full Luka exposure bred contempt.  My conclusion after just a few months: Watching this guy regularly for extended periods is intolerable. 

In arriving at this place of total judgment, I acknowledge that I am the old sports fan screaming from the porch with a snarl on my face, a can of beer grasped tightly in my hand and an ever-present ache in my back.  I don’t care; my conviction is unwavering.  Much like what a dying Capt. Miller (Tom Hanks) urged Private Ryan (Matt Damon) to do in “Saving Private Ryan”, Doncic has earned this.  Doncic is a great scorer and a challenged defender, but these words define him: whiney brat.  My beef with Doncic: He complains about every call.  Not some.  Not only during timeouts.  Every call.  Often while the game is still being played.  As if he is the center of the universe and the world should stop while he airs his grievances.  Doncic’s whining is in a class by itself, even in a league where officiating complaints are routine.  Doncic’s behavior, and sense of entitlement to everything, is so off-putting that it completely overshadows his game.  A two-year-old fit follows every time he possesses the ball and a defender makes the slightest contact.  If Amazon sold emotional intelligence, I’d ship him some.

Seeing Doncic flail, flip his arms in the air and fire verbal barbs at officials sends the mind on rewind, back to players like Art Monk, Cal Ripken and Barry Sanders – consummate professionals who carried themselves with class and dignity.  Did they get every call?  Did the game always go their way?  Of course not.  Juxtaposing how Doncic and these three greats handled adversity, unfairness or even the unjust, offers a teaching moment.  Is it about you?  What you want?  What you deserve?  In the moment and always?  Or is it about staying focused, overcoming resistance and propelling a group to victory?  Putting appearances aside, it’s unclear how Doncic would answer those questions as he obnoxiously announces his problems to all.  That said, one can begin to understand why Dallas made the deal.  Lou Holtz certainly would. 

The Gr8 Familiar

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

It is a dreary Saturday afternoon after a monsoon blew through Southern Maryland.  Walking in the yard sounds like skipping across a saturated sponge.  Best to settled in for some deep couch sitting and, what’s this, an encore showing of “Avengers: Infinity War”. 

No happy endings with this one: Thanos victorious, the Avengers broken and half the universe’s beings reduced to dust by the combined power of the Infinity Stones and the snap of Thanos’s fingers.  Those left were more confused than hurt, unable to process the speed and depth of change.  It feels like College Park was just a victim of Thanos’s omnipotence.  Just days after the best season in men’s basketball in a decade, the coach (his name will not be typed here) and every player of consequence is gone – to graduation, to the NBA Draft, to the transfer portal.  New names and faces are gradually filling the vacancies, but the only thing familiar about next season will be the jerseys.

Familiar.  It is a highly valued commodity as a child.  As one ages into adulthood, there’s an assumed disruption, as life, opportunity, school, career, friend groups and significant others pull in all directions.  Then mid-life arrives, somehow by surprise despite society’s and an aging body’s strict and inescapable keeping of time, and familiarity again becomes a desired state of mind and being.  And for a world that encountered a pandemic and has been on tilt ever since, the added disruption and confusion has created great weight on conscious minds that crave a recognizable stasis. 

Even in chaos, seekers can find familiarity.  It can been in simple things: a spouse’s warm smile, a favorite dish, a drive through town or the feel and smell of a dear pet hugged tightly to one’s chest.  There is familiarity in big things too: the moon overhead on a clear night, the incomprehensible beauty of mountains extending into the horizon when viewed from a peak in Shenandoah National Park, a sports team you’ve followed all your life, or in a star player that feels like a friend despite you never having met.

Reflecting on Terps basketball, this season won’t be anomaly; it is indicative of the way things are and a predictor of the future more than a one-off created by the confluence of strange circumstances.  Stated more bluntly, there will never be another Juan Dixon or Len Bias, players we watched grow up over four years and grow into a national champion and the greatest player in program history.

Local pro sports have provided a few athletes that were “Great Oaks” in our lives.  Skins fans enjoyed 20 seasons with Darrell Green.  Ravens fans had a similar run with Ray Lewis.  The greatest example, and something out of a fairy tale, was Cal Ripken Jr.’s career with the Orioles.  Local kid.  Dad worked for the O’s.  Drafted by the team.  Played 21 seasons in Baltimore.  Won two MVPs, a World Series, sets the consecutive games played record and punches an immediate ticket into the Hall of Fame.  Does it get any better than that?

No, but it can get as good. 

Alex Ovechkin has been in the news of late for an extraordinary feat: breaking Wayne Gretzky’s goals scored record by netting number 895.  In a sport where 50 goals in a season is an extraordinary accomplishment, scoring nearly 900 once seemed impossible.  Ovechkin has disregarded previously held hockey and human limits.  After being the top overall pick in the 2004 NHL Draft, Ovechkin’s career in Washington has somehow exceeded all expectations: perennial all-star, three Hart Trophies (MVP), nine Rocket Richard Trophies (league leader in goals scored), a Conn Smythe Trophy (playoff MVP), a Stanley Cup, and now the all-time goals scored record.

Immediate thoughts of Ovechkin lock on these superlatives.  In the afterglow of his record-breaking goal, though, there is something else, something extraordinarily simple.  For 20 years now, flipping on a Caps game has meant seeing Ovechkin, D.C.’s great hockey oak, on the ice.  The hits, the tooth-challenged grin and that that glorious shot from his “office”: In an otherwise ever-changing world, Ovechkin’s unchanged and perfectly familiar.

Cup of Coffee

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

27.  16.  9.  As in 27 wins and a Sweet Sixteen berth – both milestones last reached nine years ago.  That is what the Maryland men’s basketball team accomplished this season.  And what a fun team it was.  The ingredient list was diverse: star freshman Derik Queen; Ja’Kobi Gillespie, Rodney Rice and Selton Miguel, three huge portal additions; and Julian Reese, the rarest of college athletes – a senior who spent all four years at Maryland.  The season featured buzzer beaters – both for and against the Terps – gritty conference battles, a cool nickname (“The Crab Five”, an ode to those five aforementioned starters, Michigan’s “Fab Five” from the early 1990s and our state’s fabulous crustacean) and an epic bank shot by Queen to send the Terps to the Sweet Sixteen.

So, all is good in College Park, then.  Ahhh…if it was that easy it wouldn’t be life or major college sports.  There’s a fly in the ointment.  A black spot on the sun.  Pineapple on pizza.  Fruit in beer.  Pick your favorite idiom that best expresses a flaw in a masterpiece.

Head coach Kevin Willard isn’t happy.  He doesn’t like not knowing who will be Maryland’s athletic director and his boss (AD Damon Evans recently departed for SMU).  And he wants more NIL money for the basketball program.  More resources and a clear chain of command.  These are fair asks. 

The issue is Willard used the NCAA Tournament platform as his Festivus, an “airing of grievances” to the extreme pleasure of Frank Costanza.  A day before his team was play its opening round game in the crown jewel of the sport, a moment that can create memories for a lifetime, and while he was still very much employed, at a rate of $4M a year, Willard chose the podium in front of a national audience to register his complaints against the university.  His complaints.  His asks.  While the Villanova job, one he’s certainly interested in, sat quietly open.  There are no coincidences, as the saying goes, or boundaries for seeking personal gain, apparently. 

Since that initial bombshell press conference, Willard has done little to dispel the rumors of his departure.  In the same breath that he has repeated his issues with Maryland, he’s pledged his love for the university and his focus on his players and this moment.  It’s a lot of yada, yada, yada, to use another Seinfeld reference.  The punch is so full of, well, not punch now that it’s hard to imagine Willard returning to Maryland.  So be it.  This is the game now.

College basketball games are still amazing.  The athleticism is off the charts.  The tournament remains a fantastic experience.  But for fans - the ones with long history, lots of memories, psychological scars and incredible highs with their schools, the ones who bleed the colors and wear the gear and genuinely hurt after losses – this product feels inorganic. 

Willard doesn’t love Maryland.  He loved the opportunity when he got it and the accompanying salary.  Do the players love Maryland?  Maybe Reese.  Queen, a local kid?  Hard to say, but when asked about listening to his coach, he quipped that Willard’s the guy paying him.  The rest?  Did they choose Maryland or did Maryland simply offer the best financial and basketball situation? 

The competition still matters.  The score still matters.  Coaches coach hard; players play hard.  The score still matters - you can’t fake it at this level and win 27 games.  And the overall experience still matters.  But the colors and the name on the front of the jersey don’t matter; in most places everyone involved in these programs is there for a cup of coffee and personal gain.  Everyone is on a one-year contract.

A lot of suits made a lot of money off college sports for a long time.  Players sharing in the revenue they create seems right; massive coaching salaries do too.  But the fan experience doesn’t have the same depth anymore.  There’s no marination, no team building, only an annual frenzy catering to a powerful force: self-interest.  Which makes college sports a reflection of the modern world it exists within.

A Farewell to Words

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

We were introduced via a rolled up, well-traveled newspaper.  Our meetings were frequent.  He did all the talking.  His opinions would occasionally cause me to mumble a reply or blurt out a passionate counterpoint, but he never heard a word I said.  On any day.  Ever.  The one-way interactions weren’t bothersome; we had a lot in common – music, righteousness, an appreciation for writing and the press, and, most importantly, an insatiable appetite for sports. 

For my entire childhood, my dad was out the door long before my alarm rang for school.  Accompanying him, on a road to some Southern Maryland jobsite, was that day’s edition of The Washington Post.  He would return home long after my school day ended with a folded and tightly rolled Sports section with him, looking as used and abused as his work boots.  To me, it was perfect.  Pure gold. 

Within this daily masterpiece was a window into one of the few worlds that made sense and provided comfort during adolescence: sports.  I poured through box scores, monitored individual player statistics and religiously read the literary works of talented columnists.  Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon were my go-tos.  I loved Kornheiser’s humor and Wilbon’s directness.  But there were others.  Thomas Boswell.  Sally Jenkins.  David Aldridge.  Even an infrequent piece by the legendary Shirely Povich.  Think about that list.  Extraordinary talents, many of whom transcended the pages of The Post to find greater fame. 

The Post’s Sport section is where I “met” another of my favorite writers: John Feinstein.  Feinstein, author of numerous sports and children’s book, may have been the most prolific writer of them all.  His book, “A Season on the Brink” about the 1985-86 Indiana Hoosiers men’s basketball team and Bob Knight, its combative head coach, is regarded as one of the best sports books of all time.  (“Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life in the Minor Leagues of Baseball” is a recommended read for distraction seekers - and who isn’t?)  Like many Post colleagues, Feinstein also grew beyond print media, doing stints on ESPN’s classic show “The Sports Reporters” and a long-running weekly appearance on the The Sports Junkies radio show. 

John Feinstein died suddenly last week.  He was 69.  Fittingly, given his prolific writing career, his last Post column was published on the day he passed.  The tone is routine Feinstein and the subject, the longevity of Michigan State men’s basketball Head Coach Tom Izzo, is benign.  But the near future that would be realized soon after Feinstein created this piece made it a heavy read; to borrow a title from a classic Ernest Hemingway novel, it is a farewell to the author, the words he produced and those left unwritten, at least in this dimension. 

Life is full of farewells, “final columns”, if you will.  The last day of formal schooling.  The last day of work.  The last time you fish with a childhood friend.  The last time you hike that intense summit trail in Shenandoah.  The last time you see a favorite athlete play.  The last birthday.  The last Christmas.  The last beer.  The last hug.  The last kiss.  The last day.

Some “lasts” are predictable, most are not.  At the confluence of ego and foolishness, one will often find the human brain sorting through such milestones, filtering on the most undesirable ones and setting an estimated arrival date based on an assumed general order of life events.  The illusion of control is powerful, indeed.  Meanwhile, another little voice in our heads, one often dismissed because its truth is terribly uncomfortable, points to the folly, even to the tragedy, of such thinking.  I’ll hike that trail next spring.  I’ll schedule that round of golf with my old roommates in a few months.  I’ll tell my wife and kids I love them tomorrow.

Tomorrow.  Next week.  Next month.  Assumptions. 

John Feinstein’s end of life perspective is unknown, but I’ll take this from his parting bow: By leaving us with a posthumous article and a new book just published last November, he was writing it hard - living his craft and his life - to the very end. 

Finding Footing

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

The line it is drawn.  The curse it is cast.  The slow one now will later be fast.  As the present now will later be past.  The order is rapidly fading.  And the first one now will later be last.

Those words, the last verse of an iconic song, were written by a famous poet from Minnesota over fifty years ago and released to the world in 1964.  While many Bob Dylan’s songs are abstract word paintings that evolve over time and leave the meaning in any moment to the listener, “Times They Are A-Changin’” clearly speaks to a world and a current reality shifting under foot.  The gist of Dylan’s musical sermon is this: The old order is done, the present is strange and new, and the future remains a great unknown. 

At the core of the song’s timelessness is its lyrical wisdom.  The ground is always moving under our feet.  Change is the only constant.  Control and stasis are but an illusion.  But there are certainly times that are more fluid than others.  In 1964, America was processing the recent death of John F. Kennedy, escalating commitments in Vietnam, the Civil Rights Act and desegregation.  The currents of change flowed briskly.  Enter Bob Dylan to capture, in song, a moment in history that stirred a spectrum of human emotions.

With that opening, what happened in D.C. sports last fall seems insignificant.  Historically, it is, but for fans of Washington football - a lot that covers the gamut from blinded-by-love forever-fans, graybeards whose interest succumbed to decades of losing and off-field atrocities, and youth who have known no success – last season is as big as anything experienced since the burgundy and gold last hoisted the Lombardi Trophy in early 1992.

In roughly a four-month period, the competence of new leadership was confirmed, the seeds of cultural change were planted, sowed and sprouted, and, most importantly, a franchise quarterback, indisputably the most important asset in any sport across the globe, was found.  

“Jayden Daniels”, the concept not specifically the player, happens in other places.  Patrick Mahomes rewrites Kansas City history.  Lamar Jackson, Josh Allen and Joe Burrough make Baltimore, Buffalo and Cincinnati perennial contenders.  Jordan Love, Justin Herbert and C.J. Stroud make Packers, Chargers and Texans fans rightfully hopeful.  Such things never occur in D.C.  Heath Shuler, Gus Frerotte, Trent Green, Brad Johnson, Patrick Ramsey, Jason Campbell, Donovan McNabb, Robert Griffin, Kirk Cousins and Alex Smith all delivered only false hope.  Jayden Daniels feels different.

With one epic season in the books, the present for Washington football, unlike Dylan’s long-ago suggestion of never-ending uncertainty, has painted a crystal clear future, dictated by finance.  Daniels is signed through the 2027 season (with a club option for 2028).  His cap hits for those seasons range from $8M to just over $12M; these figures are a quarter of that of other elite quarterbacks.  Translation: Washington is now all-in.  The team has four seasons to capitalize on its quarterback bargain and spend wildly across its roster.

It feels like “Times They Are A-Changin’” has been playing in a constant loop since at least the pandemic.  To grab a metaphor from nature, life over the last five years has been less deep-rooted, steadfast oak and much more like occupying a boat on rough seas or being a leaf in a brisk autumn breeze.  Superficially the world looks familiar, but much has changed on a global, national and personal level.  That the Commanders are suddenly competent, have a foundation for long-term success and just played for a spot in the Super Bowl – crazy talk just 18 months ago - is more evidence of a world flipped on its head.  It also indicates how quickly fortunes can change, even after a lengthy, hope-sapping malaise.  One supposes the take-away is to seek moments of footing, remain confident in their arrival and be poised to capitalize.  It might not be as obvious and impactful as drafting Jayden Daniels, and it could get lost in the flow of life, but opportunity will wash ashore.  And even Dylan would agree that while change is constant, progress need not be flat. 

Mental Reprogramming

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

The offensive display delivered on every expectation.  The performance included casual moves in the paint, deft passing, other-worldly ball handling, impossibly long Eurosteps that seeming covered the ground from the three-point line to the basket, and long-range shooting (including three-pointers on three consecutive possessions) that are typically reserved for players of much shorter stature.  The brilliance prompted only a few measured smiles and head nods that indicated little more than, “Yup, as advertised.”  As a multi-decade, insatiable sports fan, the guilt from my muted response was detectable; this moment deserved more. 

While the performance was very much “on-brand”, there was nothing matter-of-fact about it.  It should have stirred emotions and generated one of those “My gosh, I’ve never seen this before” childhood reactions that age makes increasingly harder to spark.  No, the offensive effort didn’t do that, the consequence of high expectations.  But fear not, the game did deliver such a response, surprisingly when the night’s main attraction was playing defense.

Last week my favorite son (there’s at least a chance that’s not because he’s my only son) and I attended the San Antonio Spurs and Washington Wizards game.  I wish I could say we went because of the home team, but for the vast majority of my life, attending Bullets/Wizards games has been more about the star power of the opponent than love for the star-power lacking ‘Zards.  This night was no different: Our weeknight trip to D.C. was all about seeing Victor Wembanyama, the 7’3” Spurs phenom.

Wembanyama’s offensive game should have left me in awe.  The vertical giant, with an incredible eight-foot wingspan, seemed to be in all places at once.  He dribbled the ball into the front court and distributed like a point guard, he drained threes like an off-guard sniper, he scored in the paint, he covered ground on the court and got shots off at angles previously beyond human capabilities.

Which was great.  But it was his impact on the defensive end that made the unexpected impression.  He was everywhere.  You could sense the internal conflict with Wizards players.  As they attempted passes on the perimeter or drove the lane, the confusion was apparent.  These are moves and situations they had done/been in thousands of times and their minds knew exactly what to do: an extra dribble here, pull up for a jumper there, make a dish to a cutting teammate here, finish at the rim there.  But a virus had infiltrated their operating systems and was wreaking havoc.  The virus was Wembanyama’s size and athleticism.  He cut down passing lanes and threatened shots like no one the Wizards had experienced.  They were tentative.  They lacked answers for this strange new reality.  They were glitching.  Hoops lifers.  Professional basketball players.  The best of the best.  Befuddled by something they had never seen.

Filing out of Capital One Arena, the image of those Wizards players looking so uncomfortable on a basketball court, a place that could actually be more comfortable for them than their own homes, was racing through my mind.  There are Wembanyama’s in real life – disruptors, reality re-setters, brain scramblers, routine destroyers.  They arrive in many forms.  Perhaps it’s a lateral professional move: same job but with entirely new team of people.  A family that moves to a new house and city: same people, completely different place.  A dear friend who drifts away from a long-held shared interest or set of ideals: commonality lost.  The first dinner with a sibling and his post-divorce significant other.  All things familiar – and strange.

The confused faces of Wizards players encountering Wembanyama last week were a metaphor for the strange hands that life, the grand experience of sharing this planet with eight billion other humans, often deals.  There are few constants.  Everything is susceptible to being recoded, generating distinct life before/life after moments.  Acknowledgement and adaptability are key, with patience and time being the best catalysts for significant paradigm shifts requiring a mental reprogramming.  It's impossible to know yet if Wembanyama will produce a lasting inflection point on the court, but for now, he’s at least a reminder of the inevitable disruption off of it.

Managing Elephants

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

A young rookie quarterback commands the room.  The hype doesn’t faze a talented freshman.  One team ignores injuries and plays on; another appears unburdened in its historical pursuit.  A coach trudges on despite personal catastrophe.  A college athlete achieves greatness despite a heart broken by a tragedy.  And a massive mammal sits in a room unnoticed.

It’s a brain scramble.  Where is this going?  Does the writer even know (maybe?).  A long time ago, I considered renaming this column “Burying the Lede”, an admission of a chronic tendency to break a basic rule of good writing (and hoping readers endure until you mercifully get to the point).  I probably should have gone with it; oh well, another “View From The Bleachers” will have to do.

“He’s always the same.”  My dad and I would inevitably say it at some point during every game last fall.  Win or lose.  No matter the flow of the game.  Regardless of the success or adversity.  Other than a little touchdown dance or brief primal scream after a big play, his facial expression was calm and his nonverbals were relaxed.  Was he in an epic NFL struggle or having tea on an idyllic spring afternoon?  That was the Jayden Daniels experience, Washington’s 24-year-old rookie quarterback with the poise of a 10-year veteran.

I hate Duke basketball; my son loves it.  I don’t know where I went wrong.  But for the sake of our relationship, I watch Duke games with him.  I must love him.  Anyway, Cooper Flagg, the super-hyped, all-everything phenom who’s likely top overall pick in the 2025 NBA Draft, headlined another stellar Duke recruiting class last year.  My adorable offspring told me all about him.  Fueled by decades of obnoxious Duke hype, I was skeptical.  And wrong.  He scores, drops dimes, grabs boards, gives you a block and steal here and there.  He’s good.  Really good.

The Detroit Lions won a lot of games this year - fifteen to be exact.  This despite their defense being ravaged by injury – an astonishing 13 defensive players on injured reserve by week 18.  To quantify that reality, consider: the NFL roster limit is 53 with roughly 25 allocated for defense.  Easy but brutal math for Detroit.  Meanwhile, the Kansas City Chiefs carried the dual burden of being champions and attempting NFL history: an unprecedented third straight Super Bowl win. They shrugged at the pressure and ripped off 15 wins too. 

Unfortunately, it gets serious now.  Lakers head coach J.J. Reddick lost his home in the California wildfires, a tragedy of unimaginable scope.  He coached on.  Jack Bech caught the winning touchdown and was named MVP in last weekend’s Senior Bowl; his brother was killed in the New Orleans vehicle attack on New Year’s Day.  Broken hearts beat strong.

When there’s an elephant in the room, introduce it - sound life advice whenever there is a significant issue gnawing at a relationship or undermining a team.  Hit it head on.  Clear the air.  Blissful ignorance is impossible and will only cause the situation to fester.  So, embrace the elephant; give it center stage. 

Two very different types of elephants lurk in this piece.  Let’s take the sports stuff first, where the giant mammals were ignored.  Daniels, in all his youth and inexperience, could have been overwhelmed by the immediate franchise savior anointing.  Flagg, too, would have been excused for blinking under the blinding light of Duke basketball and the hype around his arrival.  Detroit and Kansas City both ignored their ready-made reasons for regression.  Excuse elephants?  Where?

As for Reddick and Bech, what can be said?  They certainly aren’t ignoring their massive elephants.  How could they?  Both are dealing with awful, inescapable circumstances.  Instead, they compartmentalized their tragic, giant guests.  Sit there and don’t move, you beast.  I have work to do; no interruption allowed.  It’s an inspirational mental victory. 

In all, it left me rethinking the elephant analogy: when dealing with significant challenge – professional pressure, expectations or tragedy – sometimes the humans, buoyed by remarkable strength, are the illuminated giants, while the metaphorical beast is left cloaked in a dark corner, controlled and appropriately without introduction.

LIke It Was

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

A loyal reader noted a conspicuous silence - an astute observation.  The first edition of this column covered the second retirement of Washington head coach Joe Gibbs in January of 2008.  In the seventeen years and over 400 “Views” since, it is safe to say that D.C.’s football team has been the most frequent subject.  In that time, many coaches and quarterbacks have come gone, many more football games have been lost than won, and off the field the team devolved into a petri dish of unethical bacteria that eventually led to a merciful ownership change. 

The road traveled by ardent Washington football fans over the last quarter century is unprecedented in professional sports.  Normally statements like that include a dash of hyperbole; in this case it an undeniable fact.  Washington was once not only among the league’s best on the field, it was model sports organization, an entity respected as much for its success as the way in which it conducted its business.

It took 25 years, but former owner Dan Snyder ruined it all.  He destroyed a passionate fan base and wounded a second form of Sunday religion that had been passed through generations of fans and provided a shared passion that brought family members, friends, and even complete strangers from the DMV closer together.  The Burgundy and Gold was more than a football team; it was the tightest of fraternities and a source of shared civic pride that was a bright light in the shared human experience of its loyalist.

Much of that has been lost: the passion has been sapped from many supporters, some completely abandoning the team, and a generation of new fans is adrift, wondering if they can or should adopt the team of their family’s elders. 

Trust that this opening was typed with a heavy heart and lingering anger for the person who oversaw it all, his only consequence being that he was finally forced to sell the franchise for $6 billion.  That hardly feels like justice; but freedom from his darkest was a priceless gift.

Then a new owner arrived (Josh Harris).  And a new General Manager (Adam Peters).  And a new coach (Dan Quinn).  Intriguing moves were made in the offseason – veteran free agents and a promising young quarterback via the draft.  There was a detectable professionalism, decency and competence from the new leaders.  Still, justified skepticism remained.   

Then the season played out like a dream.  The quarterback, Jayden Daniels, was a sensation.  The parts all seemed to fit.  And not once was the team or its quarterback featured in this column.

I was spooked; Snyder’s residual emotional scarring is thick.  I watched waiting for the Thanos of football to deliver an inevitable demise.  So, give me a minute, or a few years, to sort this out.  My pessimism is entrenched after 25 years of programming. 

Here’s what I will say: The last 18 months have exceeded even the optimist’s imagination.  I take my kid to school in the mornings and during the winter months, the sun is blinding through the windshield.  That’s what it feels like – from complete darkness and hopelessness to the brightest possible light. 

Where this goes is anyone’s guess; sustained success in the NFL is an incredibly difficult reality to achieve.  Every team is year to year.  But what has happened in Washington is instructive.  It’s not owner Harris’s handywork.  Or Peters’s.  Or Quinn’s.  Or Daniels’s.  It’s all of that.  A team goes from 4-13 and completely adrift, to 14-5 and on the cusp of the Super Bowl, in one season, only through complete organizational alignment.  Top to bottom.  One vision.  One mission.  Every person supporting the success of the other - coaches, players, veterans and rookies.  Complimentary parts fitting together like a puzzle.  That’s a must-have formula for elite teams, regardless of professional endeavor. 

The future, the great unknown, will write the ending to this magical year.  Part of that story will include this: generations of families huddled together, passionately pulling for Old D.C. – like it was, like it is again.  Snyder took a lot from us, but he didn’t get that. Hail!

Of Ravens and Commanders

By Ronald Guy Jr.

New owner.  All new coaches.  Massive roster changes, including a shiny new quarterback.  It’s normally a formula for hope.  Deep psychological scars prevented any such normalcy.  A quarter of a century of losing and an incomparable organizational meltdown will do that to you.  And others.  Or an entire fan base.  Across an entire region.  To include a lost generation of fans. 

Dramatic, yes.  Appropriate?  Completely.

Then, way back in September, Jayden Daniels, Dan Quinn, Kliff Kingsbury, a totally new coaching staff and front offer, and a roster full of strangers, took the field in Tampa for a Week 1 game against the Buccaneers.  What every Washington football fan was thinking: Here we go…let’s see if the organizational exorcism worked and if this team is worth my time.  On the first offensive play, Daniels threw a quick screen to running back Brian Robinson.  Good thought: Get the rookie quarterback an easy completion to calm the nerves and into the flow of the game.  Or not.  The pass, maybe a mere 15 feet in distance, sailed over Robinson’s head.  A scrambled ensured and the ball bounced out of bounds.  Worse than an incompletion, it was a lateral, so Washington was fortunate the ball reached the sidelines.  Somewhere the definition of a brutal play is when a loss of 5-6 yards was the best possible outcome.  I’m watching this thinking, “He’s a total bust (Daniels).  Completely overwhelmed by the moment.  More of the same for this bleeping team.  My fall weekend calendar just became available for other activities.” 

Fans major in overreactions.  It’s a lifestyle, bruh.

A few days earlier, the Ravens had opened the NFL season in primetime, at Arrowhead Stadium, against the defending Super Bowl champion Kansas City Chiefs.  This was personal.  The Chiefs ended the top-seeded Ravens’ season in a playoff upset the previous season.  The Ravens lost again on this night by an inch – literally.  Down 27-20, Ravens quarterback Lamar Jackson completed an apparent game-tying touchdown to tight end Isaiah Likely on the last play of regulation.  Upon further review (the best or worst words for a sports fan), Likely’s left foot was down, but his right foot landed an inch…maybe…out of bounds.  Game over.  Chiefs win. 

The Ravens returned home the following week to get well against a Raiders team that promised to be competing more for draft position than a playoff spot in 2024.  Yeah.  The Raiders, ultimately winners of just four games all season, hadn’t yet subscribed that bleak forecast; they left Baltimore with a win and the Super Bowl hopeful Ravens in a 0-2 hole. 

Needless to say, not great starts for either team.

Undeterred, the Ravens ripped off five straight wins and were 7-3 after ten games.  Similarly, after the Week 1 loss to Tampa, Washington won seven of its next eight to whip a long-hibernating fan base into a frenzy.

There were more bumps to navigate, though.  The Ravens lost to the inferior Cleveland Browns and were swept by Pennsylvania - losses to both the Steelers and Eagles.  Washington, meanwhile, saw Daniels sustain an injury and lost three straight games in the middle of the season.  But in the end, the teams combined for an impressive 24 wins, a division title (Baltimore) and surprising playoff berth (Washington).

That’s how the 2024 season went for the locals.  It was, at any moment, surprising, challenging, rewarding, disappointing, exhilarating (thinking of Daniels’ Hail Mary to beat Chicago), unfair and just.  And through all of those emotions and wild week-to-week ride, the 2024 journeys of the Ravens and Commanders have been instructive for 2025.  A team’s schedule is a rough outline of how a season will execute.  The details, many presenting unimaginable variables and situations, are filled in along the way.  Sounds like life, right?  The calendar, holidays, birthdays and the seasons – all predictable.  Beyond that, well, who knows.  Navigational recommendations?  Stick to your fundamentals, prepare, take it day-to-day, maintain discipline, make adjustments as needed, stay “medium”, trust your teammates (family, friends, colleagues), capitalize on breaks – lots of cheesy sports cliches!  True, but I’m confident the Ravens and Commanders would approve this message.

Cheers to the Calm

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

It’s the Saturday before Christmas.  The first college football playoff game was played the night before in whatever the postseason process of selecting the national champion is called now.  Today the sports calendar is packed: three more college football playoff games and two NFL games.  The Terps played Syracuse in NYC.  It wasn’t close; it’s cold outside but College Park’s reptiles blew out the Orange.  Oh, and on another unknown channel (who can keep track of such things these days), I caught a glimpse of two Woods’s – Tiger, of course, and his son Charlie playing in some sort of golf tournament together.  A broader view of the sports landscape delivers the good and the sad: a Capitals team among the best in the NHL, despite the prolonged absence of Alex Ovechkin and his “lower leg” injury (classic hockey vagueness) and the death of MLB Hall of Famer Rickey Henderson.

Regarding all of that football, resisting the urge to overthink this unprecedented college/pro intersection is proving to be a difficult task.  The right answer, if in the correct frame of mind, is to simply sink deeply into the couch, grab the remote and commit fully to consuming at least three times more calories than a sedentary body will burn.  Working the remote with fervor, though, has to count for some level of cardio, right?  Right.  I trust few readers will dispute that obnoxious and scientifically dubious statement.

When the bass player and drummer are out of time, the entire backbone of a song disintegrates.  Any compensatory actions by the singer or guitar player are futile.  The song is just off.  My mental bass player and drummer are not in synch.  I’m watching all of these college playoff games, every one a blowout, and trying to get my head around Notre Dame playing football non-descript Indiana and SMU playing Penn State in Happy Valley.  Somehow Arizona State and Boise State get involved later.  Gotcha.  And to clarify, all rosters of all schools get reset every offseason through the transfer portal.  Gotcha, again.  I’m sure this is totally legit.  Tons of money will not allow for any other conclusion.

As for the Caps and the Woods family, these are fantastic stories.  How the Caps are doing this I neither know nor need to know.  My interest in this completely unexpected success is only in its continuation deep into next spring.  The Woods’s story is, shall we say, uncomfortable for those of certain ages.  In a nut: How does Tiger have an adult son who will soon be (is?) his golf superior?  If Tiger is that old, what does that say about me?  Rhetorical.  No answer required or desired.  As for Rick Henderson, his death is hard to process.  He seemed indestructible and forever young, playing profession ball into his late forties.  He was just 65.  Double sky point to the greatest leadoff hitter of all time.

The holiday season lands in the middle of all of this change, chaos and surprise (both exciting and uncomfortable).  With it comes the familiar, the traditional, the reliable: the stuff that never changes!  Green and red.  Lights on homes.  Well-adorned trees.  A red-suited, rotund dude with a serious commitment to facial hair.  Flying deer.  Talking snowmen.  Elves on shelves.  An entire genre of timeless music.  Then New Year’s arrives: countdowns, descending balls, toasts, resolutions and hope for the year ahead (real…or manufactured in an attempt to fool the mind’s processing of a concerning future).

It's all a fantastic tonic: a pause on an impossibly fluid world where control is but an illusion, plans are merely suggestions awaiting inevitable modification, and nearly everything - except for entrenched holiday traditions - will be tweaked, manipulated or forever altered by the winds of change.  For a brief moment, things slow down and the world slips into an unspoken yet fully coordinated annual routine – fabulous repetition for the old and an amazing introduction for the young.  Unpredictable chaos, in sports and life, will return soon enough, but that’s a January 2025 problem, and that calendar hasn’t yet been hung.  In the interim, cheers to the calm.

Happy Holidays!

Not Your Day

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

I walked into my freshman homeroom on 12 January 1987 tired and grumpy.  I did not want to be there.  Not that I ever wanted to be there, you know, because it was school.  But this was next-level resistance.  The rude alarm, the morning preparation, the drive to school, the cold January weather – it all added to my irritation.  With zero effort to control my non-verbals, I plopped into my desk and pouted. 

My homeroom teacher approach with caution.  He possessed a personal knowledge of his students that provided a solid hunch as to what was bothering me on that dreadful morning.  He cut right to the chase, knowing I was in no mood for generic questioning about my mood.  Referring to the Washington’s 17-0 loss to the New York Giants in the NFC Championship Game the day before, he offered a direct, “Tough game, huh?”.  I needed the opening.  This being the days long before Twitter or group chats, the emotional rage has been boiling in my brain without a release valve for about 12 hours at this point.  Sleep hadn’t provided relief as the consequence of the outcome had permeated my subconscious.

The simple question triggered a flow of frustrations, what if’s, officiating gripes, grievances over player performances and general despair over how far the Burgundy and Gold had come only to lose to the Giants, Washington’s primary rival in the NFC East at that point.  My teacher listened, and acknowledging my feelings without arguing any points.  He noted that he shared my disappointment and then pivoted to the positives: they team had come far, had a strong roster, excellent coaching and, in all likelihood, would be in the Super Bowl mix for years to come.  Then, before turning back to his homeroom duties at the cusp of another school day, he said, “You know, Ron, sometimes it’s just not your day.”

At that moment, and for years after, that summation stuck in my craw.  It felt so submissive, like a lame excuse after getting defeated.  It implied that the loser didn’t do anything wrong, that they gave their all and it was just the forces of the universe that had conspired against them to produce this unfortunate outcome.  Could I use this in my own adolescent life?  Sorry for wrecking your truck, dad, it just wasn’t my day on the road.  Hey, mom, I know I flunked calculus, but, you know, it just wasn’t my semester.  Apologies for tanking that presentation, boss, Tuesdays on cloudy days when the temperature is below 50 degrees just doesn’t jive with my psyche. 

The years since that long ago January day have proven my teacher correct.  The 1986-87 season was the Giants’ year, not Washington’s; it was the culmination of an impressive crescendo from a three-win Giants team in 1983, to 14 regular season wins in 1986 and a Super Bowl victory in January 1987.  My initial disdain for my teacher’s explanation – that it just wasn’t our day – and my snap judgement that it was nothing more than personal therapy talk for not getting it done, was flat wrong. 

What he knew that day was that competition is impossibly complex and the verdict – winning or losing – is comprised of tangled web of variables, some controllable, some not.  Physical effort, film study, pre- and in-game strategy certainly influence a game’s outcome.  But so does a fingertip on an otherwise perfect pass, an untimely gust of wind, the fickle bounce of a loose ball, an untimely injury, the alignment of a locker room and emotional state of a team.  The answer to who won is always clear; why they won, well, that’s a lot more complicated.  

That long-ago homeroom lesson has come to mind many times in the decades since.  Like sports, life is complex.  Every situation, be it personal or professional, is influenced by a myriad of factors.  Regardless of effort or intention, sometimes it just won’t be your day.  That doesn’t mean you’re a failure, or that success is beyond your grasp; it only means that you fell short in that moment. 

Hmm…maybe school wasn’t so bad after all.

Perfect Strike

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Another long week was ending.  The sun had set hours before in what seemed like the late afternoon as much as the evening; November offers rare daylight in the northern hemisphere.  This being Thursday night, a prize awaited – an NFL football game.  The offering didn’t promise much.  The visitors arrived red hot, winners of five straight games.  The home team was, needless to say, adrift – victors in just two of 10 games, a coach in peril and with a regrettable quarterback situation.

With no expectations or rooting interest, this appeared to be an uneventful, semi-competitive affair supporting an early trip to bed (not a disappointment).  But this game was played next to Lake Erie, and it being mid-November that meant weather was a wildcard. 

The snow started with a few flurries then intensified into near whiteout conditions.  The underdog took an early lead.  The favorite was inefficient on offense and uncharacteristically leaky on defense.  A back-and-forth struggle in the second half saw the home team score on a dramatic touchdown run with just 57 seconds remaining.  The favorite stormed back in the last minute, driving to within range of a final heave to the endzone.  The pass fell incomplete.  The spirited crowd, unaffected by the weather or dismal state of their team (and perhaps energized by adult bootleg elixirs smuggled through stadium security), went nuts.  Players did snow angels on the field.  And at least for a night, the woeful Cleveland Browns could claim supremacy over the Pittsburgh Steelers.

In the days after this monumental NFL upset, other stuff happened in the sports universe.  A mediocre Oklahoma Sooners team hanging out at the bottom of the SEC standings beat Alabama.  Quarterback Daniel Jones, a first round pick by the New York Giants just five years ago, was released after an inconsistent tenure.  Florida ruined Mississippi’s promising season.  Auburn broke Texas A&M’s heart in triple overtime.  And the St. John’s Red Storm defeated a loaded Maryland Terrapins team in the 1999 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament.

The outcome of any of those individual games was, in the moment, surprising.  Jones’s fall from franchise savior to released failure was more of a gradual tragedy and an organizational indictment.  The random 25-year-old Terps basketball reference?  My son mentioned Meta World Peace, formerly Ron Artest, last week for some unmemorable reason.  It opened a wound.  World Peace starred on that 1998-99 St. John’s squad.  They were tough, gritty and talented.  They ran into an elite Terrapins squad led by Steve Francis in the Sweet Sixteen of the 1999 NCAA tournament.  The game promised elite competition and suggested a Terps win.  It wasn’t close.  The Red Storm outclassed the Terps in a soul-crushing 76-62 defeat.  Yes, it still hurts.

Reflecting on these recent and aged occurrences, ranging from unexpected to bizarre, it feels like sports’ wink to life’s uneven ride.  Not every day will be our best.  Not every moment can be met with maximum physical and emotional energy; humans are not machines.  And even at max effort, the breaks might not fall our way.  Sometimes it’s just not your day.  If The Dude were to interject at this moment, he might suggest, “The earthly journey is filled with strikes and gutters, man.”

It is, indeed.  Sometimes the ball obliterates all ten pins.  Other times it lands in the gutter after a disgraceful roll.  Still others it slams the headpin dead-on and leaves the dreaded 7-10 split.  Regardless, the ball returns and begs for another toss.  The pause offers a moment to reflect on what went right, what went wrong and, most importantly, another chance to succeed.  When next tossed, the ball won’t care what happened before, only the quality of this attempt; the pins will react only to this effort, agnostic to all others.  A second chance, if one’s so courageous to give it a roll. 

The rewards for resilience can be quite profound, as a future Terps team proved.  That disappointing 1999 Maryland squad had two freshmen on the roster named Juan Dixon and Lonny Baxter.  Steve Blake arrived a year later.  Fast-forward to April 2002 and the Terps threw the perfect strike.