Magicians And Sports

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Life is an interesting scroll.  As a child, you observe people around you adulting to a phenomenal level.  How food appears on the table, clothes get washed and garbage doesn’t pile up so high as to create some disgusting ecosystem of micro-organisms and hatching insects is beyond your comprehension.  Then you have the really exciting things like mortgages, insurance and taxes; such things are just words in a child’s world, annoyances for another day, if the obvious mood drain they cause your parents is any guide.

Quick story: a dear friend of mine was fielding complaints from his daughters about being out of a critical snack.  He reminded them of the grocery list on the refrigerator.  All they had to do was write down what they wanted and it would appear – bought, transported and stocked – days later.  It is like magic, he asserted.   

Magic.  Say it with me, kids: Adults are magicians!  Goodness knows I had many such magicians during my childhood.  I hope you can count a few from yours as well. 

As time and years and decades have flown by, I evolved from clueless child into an independent human, a parent and then, a rather adept magician myself, if you don’t mind me saying.  One day you’re barely capable of making lunch and the next you’re running a household and facilitating the life of other humans.  What once seemed impossible becomes routine tasking for some older, wiser version of you, one apparently adorned with a bottomless magic hat. 

Parenthood…how to even describe it?  The hardest and greatest thing ever.  A source of worry and incomprehensible joy to equal extremes.  The greatest purpose a person may ever have.  The answer to “what’s this life on earth all about?”  Something that taps in to the depth of unconditional human love like nothing else.  And it comes with a life-long membership to the parental fraternity. 

A little about that fraternity.  I’ve seen it over the years.  Leaned on it.  Contributed to it, I hope.  Sometimes words are spoken, sometimes it’s just two sets of tired eyes meeting in a grocery store – when you see a fellow fraternity brother or sister, you just know.  The fraternity is a source of strength, of answers to hard questions, of comfort with parental imperfections and inevitable mistakes, and, perhaps most importantly, inspiration.  The fraternity can be seen at band concerts, scouting events, birthday parties, after school pick-up lines – parents sacrificing sleep, forgoing their own interests and supporting their kids.  And then there’s youth sports…

Precisely when the life of sports families changed is unknown.  Best I can tell, purely from my own experience, it was sometime between the early 1990s and 2010s.  Youth sports used to be about a couple practices a week at a local park or school and games played less than an hour from home.  Now?  Daily practices, long trips, some consuming weekends, and travel teams.  It is…a lot, even for magicians.

After the Washington Commanders selected Jayden Daniels second overall in last week’s NFL draft, he thanked his parents for their 23 years of devotion (i.e. his entire life) in getting him to this dream-come-true moment.  It was a familiar refrain from other draftees, either in words or video clips from living rooms across the country – lots of tears, lots of mom and dad hugs.  A common quip to extraordinary moments is “I can’t imagine.”  Most parents won’t support their kids into college sports, much less the pros, but we can actually imagine the commitment of Daniels’s parents.  We can picture the tough games, the bumps and bruises, the long drives, the daily practices, equipment all over the house, and dirty jerseys in the laundry room.  They did it for the same reason we all do: simply because their kid wanted to play.    

As I type this, I’m on hour six at a track meet far from home, which, judging from the crowd, makes me exactly like a couple hundred other “fraternity” members.  Now, scale this to a state and nation and for all spring sports.  You get the point.  Magicians are at work on a grand scale. 

Sports Please

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

As this “View” gets underway, an unencumbered journey into the world of sports has been interrupted by the site of Iranian missiles raining down on Israel.  This, of course, is fresh off Israeli-Hamas hostilities and occurs while war rages on in Ukraine, tensions remain high in the South China Sea and the future of Taiwan is very much uncertain.  As always, the world is a heavy place; jarring reminders are unnecessary, but, as history shows, they are inevitable.

There will be no breakdown of any of the above in this column, and certainly no politicization of it.  The former I’ll leave to real experts and reputable media sources.  Regarding the politicization, that will inevitably occur on your favorite social media portal.  And a quick scan in the wake of the attack on Israel indicates it is very much underway.  Facebook, Twitter/X, Truth Social, etc. – pick your favorite social media cesspool, plug in your brain and prepare to be reprogramed with someone’s agenda and whipped into some sort of misinformed frenzy that will, at the very least, raise blood pressures and damn well could cause alienation from friends and family.  Because if we aren’t freaking out based on sketchy news, blindly consuming A.I. fallacies, retreating to our socially engineered tribes, raging against our fellow Americans (note: we are allies, not enemies) who have a different point of view, and generating misguided victimhood, we aren’t trying hard enough.    

Joy.  To.  The.  World.

Ah, but this sports retreat is only delayed, not deterred.  Have a seat.  The beer man and peanut vendor, brave souls dedicated to do-good-ery, just climbed the steep stairs to the upper reaches of the bleachers to deliver a fresh bag of legumes and a massive plastic cup filled with fermented grains.  No inflation here – this stuff has always defied any rational pricing curve.  The cost matters little: this is exactly what’s needed to settle the pulse and improve the mood.

Our little sports cabin in the mountains isn’t a perfect retreat, though.  It has its issues – a bad roof, drafty windows and a fridge that struggles to keep beer appropriately cold.  The transfer portal in college sports has made roster-building an annual endeavor and rendered long-term school-athlete-fan relationships a rarity.  Conference membership has the durability of a scoop of ice cream in my presence.  Too many pitchers are getting injured.  NFL mock draft overexposure syndrome is highly contagious.  Shohei Ohtani’s interpreter is the latest example of sports’ recent embracement of gambling.  Can you have it both ways – benefitting from gambling’s boost to interest (and revenue) in sports while maintaining the precious integrity of the competition?  Gut instinct from a duped steroid era fan: no.

Then one looks around and the skeptical nerves calm and the cynicism abates.  The view from the bleachers is rich, indeed.  Caitlin Clark is dropping threes and South Carolina is going undefeated.  Alexander Ovechkin is scoring goals again and his march toward Wayne Gretzky’s record is reenergized.  Jackson Holiday reported to Baltimore; James Wood is bound for D.C. soon.  The NBA and NHL playoffs are about to begin.  The Paris Olympics arrive this summer.  The pending selection of a new quarterback (and a new name too???) – on the heels of a new owner, general manager, coach and darn near everything else – has made it feel like spring again for D.C. football fans.

The incredible games, the fantastic competition and compelling stories can, at least temporarily, transcend the warts of the sports world and worries over existential global crises.  That is part of the magic of sports: being the tonic, the elixir, the special sauce, the spoonful of sugar that makes the real world’s medicine go down.  And as usual, in these difficult times, I am grateful for having been bitten long ago by the sports bug.  If you weren’t, or maybe not as deeply – no matter.  Indulge your favorite interests.  Maybe it is music or books.  Comedy.  Gardening.  Hiking.  Movies.  Art.  Theater.  It is a beautiful and amazing world out there – mostly, but not always.  So, when “not always” happens, hold tight to your pleasurable distractions, for sanity’s sake.    

Here…want some peanuts?

Scrolling On

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

As any parent of a high school student who is involved in a theater production will tell you, it is an intense experience.  The lines.  The choreography.  The preparation of the actors and the set.  The daily afterschool practices.  It is an intense experience.  Add in potential life variables – like a sore throat ahead of a musical (gasp!) – and you have an incubator for parental anxiety. 

Usually, like most things in life, everything works out just fine.  That is not an immediate tonic for the anxiety, though.  Watching your kid perform covers the gamut of emotions.  It is absolutely excruciating in process; there is no ability to influence, much less control, the situation, which leaves mom and dad with the worst of all strategies – hoping for the best.  But then again, is there a better bumper sticker for parenthood than “Hoping for the Best”?  Other than “Clinging to the Frayed Ends of Sanity” or “Can I Get a Drink Up in Here?”, of course.

The last show brings peace.  The mind calms and joy swells without the fear of another performance.  Not long after the final bow, curtain drop and after-show congratulations and mingling, the emotional enormity of the end sets in.  There are no more practices.  No more shows.  Months of preparation and high-intensity performances have reached a natural, if abrupt, conclusion.

It is a rough transition – for parents, yes, but particularly for the kids.  The time, the energy and the emotional investment are undeniable.  Then there’s the experience of the show – all involved performing in unison to create a magical artistic expression.  It is an incredible emotional peak.  Then it is over.  There are videos, pictures, mementos and memories, of course, but that show, with those kids, in that moment along the time continuum will never be again.  Don’t be sad it’s over, be grateful that it happened.  Sage wisdom.  If only it was only that easy.  The mind doesn’t easily bow to the words. 

This is a lame transition.  It doesn’t measure up to the thud families feel after a school play concludes an epic run.  But as a sports fan (and a non-actor and a cringy karaoke singer at best), the Super Bowl is my best comp.  It is the pinnacle of a slow and steady build of the nation’s most popular sport.  Hope abounds in August.  Real contests begin in September.  The legitimate contenders are known when the cool air of fall arrives.  Injuries happen.  Inexplicable outcomes influence playoff standings.  Some teams surprise, others underwhelm.  Thanksgiving.  Christmas.  New Years.  It gets serious, captivating, enthralling.  Hearts are broken.  Dreams get bigger.  And finally, two teams take the world’s grandest stage for a final duel. 

The clock ticks to zero.  Confetti falls.  A trophy and MVP are handed out.  The game is reviewed – on the net, the radio, at the watercooler…everywhere.  The context within NFL history – for the team and individual players – is pondered.  The rush is intense.  The immediate aftermath is consuming.  But by Wednesday the following week, save for the fanatics of the winning team, it’s over.  By Sunday of the subsequent week, the void of the NFL’s departure after its annual and incomparable crescendo is undeniable.

But life quickly moves on.  Pitchers and catcher report to spring training.  March Madness arrives.  April introduces The Masters and the NBA and NHL playoffs.  And then, in the blink of an eye, the NFL returns in September.

Individual human feelings are inconsequential to the unstoppable scroll of life - an inconvenient truth in magical moments that we wish would linger, but therapeutic after tough losses, unfortunate life events or for any experience best forgotten.  Regardless, nothing is static.  Something ends, something begins.  For good or ill.  For good and ill.  Memories, however, travel untouched across time.  Accumulate enough, though, and the joy of yesterday can become tinged with melancholy.  The trick – good advice from a friend, particularly in mid-life - is to keep moving with the scroll.  Carry the past, but don’t allow it to burden the on-going journey.  Embrace the next game, the next season and the next musical – the next chance for something special.

Go For It

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

I can’t imagine being Caleb Williams.  Or Caitlin Clark.  Or Jayden Daniels.  Or any of the hundreds of athletes who will be considered for the NFL, NBA, NHL, WNBA, MLB, or any other professional sports league draft over the next few months.  Neither does the vast, perhaps even all, of the millions of readers of this column (wink).  We have never thrown a pass in a packed stadium, set NCAA scoring records, drained threes from deep or hoisted the Heisman Trophy.  But those obvious athletic differentiations aren’t what this is about.

Close your eyes.  Breathe.  Imagine.  You’re about 20-years-old, give or take a calendar year or two.  A college student.  You likely haven’t voted in a presidential election.  If you’re a dude, you’re only a couple of years removed from selective service registration, a sobering obligation.  Renting a car or a hotel room, and buying a beer could be problematic.  To date, you’ve been mainly a student and an athlete.  Defined.  Simple.  Maybe you stayed close to home for college, or perhaps you ventured out of state, or even across the country, to a blue blood program with some serious panache.  Regardless, the choice was yours.

Now, due to eligibility limits or prodigious prowess, college has been outgrown.  The “real world” beckons.  A professional life awaits.  In preparation, you’re poked and prodded, measured, interviewed, tested, analyzed and judged…every aspect of your life is considered to the nth degree.  Such is the pre-draft experience of the best prospects, those who could convert a woe-be-gone franchise into something special, something that matters, something that will be remembered.  Or maybe you’re a marginal prospect just hoping to catch the eye of anyone – any general manager or obscure scout – who will provide an elusive opportunity to continue chasing the dream. 

Regardless, where you will work and who you will work for isn’t your choice.  An unpredictable draft process and the intentional or whimsical actions of front office personnel determine your fate.  Your name is called; the future has arrived.  Video in the immediate aftermath features hugs with family members, celebration and a few tears.  The athlete dons a team cap or slips into a uniform.  Idyllic.  Iconic.  Heart-warming.  Beautiful.

I wonder what they are really thinking.  The athletes, that is.  To have your future so uncertain, so beyond your control, and ultimately so dictated.  Are they too young to care?  Perhaps the euphoria over the culmination or continuation of a dream overrides everything.  Pizza is good anywhere, right?  Beer from darn near any microbrew from across this great country is lovely.  Perhaps the awesomeness of basketball, baseball, football…sports…transcends geography.  I’ll buy that. 

Still, to have life pivot so quickly is unique.  For most of us, employment and residency are carefully considered.  Every pro and con – salary, cost of living, location to schools, proximity to family, recreational opportunities, crime, healthcare, etc. – is thoroughly vetted in our overactive minds (analysis paralysis).  To know, that at any moment, you can be picked and sent to Seattle or Detroit or Dallas or Atlanta or New York?  I can’t imagine it – as a husband, a son and a parent. 

Every year, though, young athletes face the same personal and professional inflection point, and, to the casual eye at least, handle it with grace beyond their years.  Some certainly experience a hint of disappointment over their dictated location or team – a longing to be closer to home or in a familiar city - but there is rarely evidence of remorse in their words, deeds or performance.  Whether it is the great adaptability of youth or the steadfast power of their joy, these young athletes, these new draftees, these rookies, these kids…embrace the moment – the uncertainty, the fluidity, the opportunity - and just go for it. 

And in that annually repeated act is their gift – to the older, the more calculating, the rigid.  When faced with a pivot point in life, be it personal or professional, be there some control of the outcome or absolutely none, sometimes the best thing to do is commit completely to the process and have faith – in the universe, in the journey, in yourself.    

Going To Overtime

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

The current view from the bleachers reveals only courts with rusty poles, slightly bent rims and frayed nets waiting to snap with the splash of another successful shot.  Kids are playing half court games at either end.  Their voices echo, but their words are indiscernible.  Sweat glistens on their skin.  Their laughter and determination are infectious.  Balls bounce in some hypnotic rhythm.  These are beautiful sights and sounds.

Ahh…basketball.  This busy “View” will need regulation and overtime. 

For the former, we will start with horse…or H-O-R-S-E.  Not the animal.  The game.  It’s a universal basketball language.  Simple.  Fantastic.  A test of basketball skills and the imagination.  One player makes a shot, then the other has to sink it or get cursed with a scarlet letter.  Fail to match your opponent five times and you spell out HORSE - and take the loss.  The shots can be traditional jumpers, lay-ups or deep bombs.  And, if called in advance, they can be creative.  Underhand shots.  Bank shots.  Behind the backboard attempts.  Hook shots.  Back to the basket.  Bounce off the ground.  Blindfolded.  Whatever you can imagine. 

I would lose HORSE to Caitlin Clark, Iowa’s sensational guard and newly anointed all-time leading scorer in women’s NCAA history, every time.  It wouldn’t be close.  I would take an honorable “L”. 

Shooters, man.  Here’s the thing about them.  Scant few humans can dunk.  Just as few have elite basketball athleticism.  And the masses who can’t dunk and possess only modest moves, are acutely aware of said limitations; they aren’t in the backyard duplicating Michael Jordan’s dunks or LeBron James’s fly-through-the-air-and-pin-the-ball-on-the-backboard blocks.  Maybe on a Nerf rim, but not a real basketball court.  This is other-worldly stuff beyond the capability of “normal” humans.  We watch.  Jaws drop.  And that’s it.

Shooters leave the imaginative door ajar.  Anyone who has played basketball at any level sees the stuff Larry Bird did, and that Stephen Curry and Clark do, and thinks, hmm…I can do that.  I can hit a fade-away jumper.  I can finger-roll.  I can drill “logo threes” two steps inside half-court.  And we can.  Not every time.  Not regularly.  Certainly not while being defended and in the clutch.  But in the backyard?  All alone?  Sometimes.  Sometimes we can hit those shots.  And…it…feels…fantastic.

Which is, I think, part of Clark’s allure.  She is one of the best basketball players I’ve ever seen and maybe the best women’s player ever.  Her range, feel for the game, flair for the dramatic, confidence, command of the stage – sensational.  She is the biggest thing in college basketball since some long-ago previous biggest thing that escapes my aging and cluttered mind.  Around the country (world?), little kids, teenagers and aging weekend warriors, are shuffling out to public courts, driveways and hoops at the end of cul-de-sacs, and doing their best Caitlin Clark imitations.  It usually ain’t pretty, but every now and then, a shot tickles the nylon as it splashes through the hoop.  These are the warm thoughts Clark inspires. 

Clark’s recent assault on the NCAA scoring record has been magic.  It embodies everything we love about sports.  She’s transcended individual moments and accolades.  This is an all-time, generational player doing stuff never seen before.  It’s prime Jordan.  It’s peak Jerry Rice.  It’s Wayne Gretzky hoisting Stanley Cups in Edmonton.  It’s Serena Williams and Novak Djokovic.  It is one of those beautiful things that life drops in your lap sometimes and, with this likely her last season at Iowa, the only proper thing to do is enjoy it (and attempt feeble backyard replications). 

Overtime: Charles “Lefty” Driesell passed away last week.  He was 92.  Maryland basketball fans of a certain vintage know that no greater personality has coached or played for the Terrapins.  He was the coach of my youth - a bombastic, determine cuss who shook a defiant fist at the Atlantic Coast Conference power brokers in the state of North Carolina.  I am grateful for the disdain he sowed for Duke and North Carolina; part of fanhood, part of loving a team, is knowing who to hate.  Rest easy, Lefty.  Tell Lenny we said hello (#34forever).

The Mighty

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Good gracious fellow occupants of this fantastic southern peninsula on Maryland’s western shore.  There is lot going on.  Good news.  Bad news.  All of it big news.  Major seismic waves are reverberating across the hinterland.  Tectonic shifts are shaking the earth under our feet.  Whatever the world was, it is no longer – for good or ill.  Group therapy and celebration are both in order.  Let’s review, eh? 

Baltimore fans: Are you okay?  The range of emotions…intense.  One day you’re on the Super Bowl train with Lamar Jackson and the white-hot Ravens; the next minute, about three hours after Andy Reid, Patrick Mahomes, Travis Kelce, Taylor Swift and the rest the contingent of the Kansas City football team (that for some reason is still very much allowed to use its native American imagery, nickname and embarrassing chants) took the field at M&T Bank Stadium, all was lost.  Completely.  Forever.  All dreams…dead.  All crabs less than five inches in diameter.  No rockfish biting.  All National Bohemian kegs empty.  Absolute disaster.  Even Francis Scott Key would have had writer’s block and no sense of rhythm.

But then those Birds came out of nowhere with sunshine and bushels of Old Bay dowsed crabs.  They sold!  The Orioles sold!  Peter Angelos’s reign of terror is over!  And Cal Ripken Jr. is part of the new ownership group.  Simply amazing…and so, so deserved.  The future is blinding bright for this young team.  Ownership was the great threat; no more.  And if the off-the-field news wasn’t good enough, on the diamond, the O’s fleeced the Brewers in acquiring Corbin Burnes, an elite arm to ride during deep October runs.  Losing the AFC Championship at home is not ideal, but this isn’t a bad psychological tonic.  Pitchers and catcher report in a few weeks.  Start getting loose.

Regarding the emotional instability of sports fans, a cruise down I-295 from Charm City to D.C. will reveal another bunch who are dutifully losing their minds.  The hiring of Dan Quinn as the new Commanders head coach landed like a second helping of lima beans from a well-intended parent.  In a word, ugh.  Quinn, a middle-age, defensive re-tread head coach who lost a Super Bowl (sound familiar?), is not the young, offensive genius the burgundy and gold mob preferred (see Ben Johnson of Detroit or Bobby Slowik of Houston). 

But neither Quinn, nor his hiring, deserved this.  How quickly we forget.  Not so long ago, had you told Commanders fans that in February 2024 they would have a new ownership group (that included Magic Johnson!), a highly respected General Manager with full roster control, an experienced head coach and the promise of a shiny, new franchise quarterback, awkward euphoria would have been the response.  Embarrassing high-pitched squeals, involuntary dancing, maybe even a long awkward hug would have marked the moment.  Mind and body would have operated with uncontrolled blissful independence.  And now that the names have started to fill in, we…me…all of us…have slipped into the dark vortex of Washington football and reverted to our deeply ingrained defeatist mentality.

What are we thinking?  Quinn doesn’t deserve this.  He’s being treated like the second coming of Jim Zorn or Steve Spurrier.  Sheesh.  We need a professional, here.  Someone paid to listen to our madness and capable of reprogramming.  Lacking a couch to work through this habitual negativity, a song will have to do.  The obvious artist?  Bob Dylan.  The obvious song, The Mighty Quinn.  Sing the chorus 10 times, fellow D.C. fans: “Come all without, come all within, you’ll not see nothing like The Mighty Quinn!”  Repeat as necessary; add a drink for maximum therapeutic effect.

What, then, to take from this summary screed of recent local sports happenings?  Much, me thinks.  In 70 words or less, that life will toy with your plans and introduce the unexpected – sometimes good, sometimes bad.  The trick: gratefully acknowledge the former and process the latter knowing that life often provides pick-me-ups after kicking you in the teeth.  And if emotions run raw after old scabs are picked, that it’s best to breathe first and remain steady – perhaps with an assist from a song.

Party Like It's 1999

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Greetings and salutations, fellow Southern Maryland dwellers.  2023 is drifting off in the rearview; 2024 is front and center.  After a brief pause to celebrate the rotund, sleigh-driving dude in the red suit and pursue merriment, I’m back home, perched high in the bleachers looking out over the vast sports hinterland and pondering another year of “Views.”

How the heck are you?  Well, I hope.  Cowboys fans aside, is 2024 suiting you?  Contemplating any broken New Year’s resolutions yet?  Failed at maintaining a daily calorie deficit?  Already dropped a few wrinkle words?  Trips to the gym left…untraveled?  Dry January already soaking wet?  I feel you.  This column is a safe space.  No judgment.  Tomorrow isn’t just another day, it’s another opportunity for your 2024 self. 

Before the future stuff, let’s time travel back to late 2023.  Imagine driving west and climbing into the Shenandoah mountains just after Christmas for a three-week sabbatical from…everything.  Politics.  Sports.  The internet.  Consumerism.  Eggnogg and your neighbor’s fruit cake. 

After living the hobbit life, you return in mid-January - full beard and unique odor, craving a hot meal, a bed with a mattress, running water and elite toilet paper – to news that Bill Belichick, Pete Carroll and Nick Saban are no longer the head coaches of the New England Patriots, Seattle Seahawks and Alabama Crimson Tide, respectively.  Keep those mental musings rolling.  Imagine too that you’re a fan of the Washington Huskies.  You learn that the Huskies lost the national championship game and that your coach, Kalen DeBoer, was poached and will be Saban’s successor at Alabama.  Not good! 

Keep imagining (with a Washington twist): You’re a fan of the Washington professional football team and you discover that the prior coaching regime was whacked and Adam Peters, formally of the 49ers’ front office, was hired as the new General Manager.  The hire is not only solid, it indicates an apparent shift, for the first flipping time since 1999, to a traditional GM and head coach power structure, where the former builds the roster and the latter coaches up the compiled talent – you know, the approach that just about every elite NFL franchise follows.  This…is good.  Potentially very, very good. 

This “View’s” words are rifling across my screen on the 43^rd anniversary of Joe Gibbs being introduced as the new head coach of the then Washington Redskins.  The Twitter/X-verse has produced a few videos of the 1981 press conference – this is the kind of world history I would have thrived studying.  It would have been impossible – unbounded optimism - to project then what played out over the next dozen years – four Super Bowls, three Lombardi trophies and six Hall of Famers (four players, one executive, and, of course, one coach).  As Mark Twain once said, “Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t.”  Indeed.  The reality between 1981 and 1992 exceeded any conceivable fairy tale.

Spend enough time in the workforce, in any field, and you will intersect with cringy coworkers, terrible leaders, disastrous supervisors and toxic professional cultures.  The Commanders had it all in spades.  Success in such scenarios is rare; in Washington, where it all coalesced into a foul cesspool, success proved impossible.  New Commanders owner Josh Harris has received much goodwill just because he is the new guy and he ain’t…that other guy.  Very quickly the challenge will be this: prove that he is different, much, much different from his predecessor.  What Peters’s and the coach-to-be hirings ultimately mean on the field, on the scoreboard, in the win column and in the history of the franchise, only the future can answer. 

As for Harris, so far, so good.  His words indicate a mature professional with an understanding of the complexity of organizational development.  In scoring a highly sought after GM, he’s backed up his words and provided tangible evidence that Washington is again a desired NFL destination.  Like the new year, this is starting to feel like a legitimate new beginning.  Premature to party like it’s 1999 (pre-Dan Snyder)?  Sure, but get the beer on ice and music ready.