Four Remarkable Stories, One Common Lesson

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in Jan 2014

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

A long time ago, I used to play a little softball.  I have a few faded jerseys, soiled championship t-shirts and body scars to prove it.  My glove is somewhere.  A random softball still appears in my house from time to time.  An abused joint occasionally creaks and reminds me of, as fellow Marylander Jim McKay famously said, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”  Like many rec-league athletes, my pre-game routine included a feverish exit from work, scurrying to a nearby bathroom to imitate Superman’s phone booth wardrobe change and a quick drive to the field.  On good days I’d preserve enough time to loosen the hammies and right arm.  On bad days (meaning time ran way too short), I’d stretch on the field before the first pitch and limber up the throwing arm by employing Pete Townshend’s windmill guitar move.

Despite my youthful exuberance, the long workday preceding games contributed to different levels of motivation.  Sometimes I was ready to go; other times I brought what I had.  For important games – rivalries, playoffs and certainly championships – I would incite my competitive juices by playing Eminem’s “Till I Collapse” at volumes my mother wouldn’t appreciate.  The song is a personal call to arms – a raw play to basic human emotions.  More than the obvious stoke to one’s internal fire, it was (for me anyway) a healthy shot of resolve, an audio elixir to help me cope with the ebb and flow that inevitably occurs during athletic competition.  Errors happen.  Momentum shifts.  Victory can appear likely, then nearly impossible an inning later.  Dealing with negativity, maintaining resolve and ultimately overcoming adversity is nearly as fundamental to success as physical talent – in any sport. 

The chatter leading up to last Sunday’s NFL conference championships – a heavyweight twin billing featuring New England versus Denver and San Francisco versus Seattle - was predictably a present- and forward-look focused on the games, the personnel and the quarterbacks.  I couldn’t help but consider the past and the road each team traveled – or survived - to reach the NFL’s final four. 

While the four teams were prohibitive favorites to play deep into January, none arrived at their presumed destination via a tranquil script.  Seattle played several games without its starting offensive tackles, absorbed the year-long suspension of star cornerback Brandon Browner and, due to a slow recovery from hip surgery, got virtually nothing from wide receiver Percy Harvin, the team’s key offseason acquisition.  San Francisco played 11 games without its best wide receiver, Michael Crabtree, who sustained an Achilles tendon injury in the spring, and five games without stud defensive end Aldon Smith while he received treatment for alcohol abuse.  Denver’s road to the AFC Championship was as rocky as its famed nearby mountain range.  Left tackle Ryan Clady and center Dan Koppen suffered season-ending injuries in the preseason.  Von Miller, the team’s best defensive player, was suspended the first six games and tore up his knee in week 16.  And head coach John Fox missed several games while recovering from heart valve replacement surgery. 

And then there’s New England.  The Patriots were chameleons this season, reinventing themselves weekly based on available personnel.  One star tight end - Aaron Hernandez - is incarcerated; the other – Rob Gronkowski – is recovering from knee surgery.  Vince Wilfork and Jerod Mayo, perhaps their best defensive players, were lost for the season weeks ago.  I could go on…and on…and on.  Frankly, New England’s presence in the AFC Championship game is arguably the organization’s greatest accomplishment.

In their survival stories, the common message of the NFL’s elite quartet is this: no matter what you seek in life, and no matter how probable the achievement of a goal may appear, you have to expect the unexpected and prepare to overcome adversity during the journey.  Or, to use a golf analogy, a hole may set up perfectly for your natural draw and strong mid-iron game.  But what if you inexplicably slice your drive into the rough?  Well, you just have to regroup and find a way to make par.  Humming an Eminem song as inspiration is optional.  

A Former Terp Repeats A Heinous Act

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in Jan 2014

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Once upon a time, the University of Maryland football team was led by a lovable coach – Ralph Friedgen – and wore recurring, recognizable and, dare I say, iconic uniforms.  That sounds crazy in the era of head coach Randy Edsall, one of those most unlikable people in local sports, and the school’s Under Armour sponsorship, a relationship that has morphed Saturday afternoon football games into fashion shows featuring large young men.  So much for those marketing classes I had back in the day that trumpeted the importance of establishing a brand image.  The Terps’ “image” has the shelf life of guacamole and their wardrobe is deeper than my wife’s.

If you remember this by-gone, prehistoric time when the Terps proudly and simply wore colors that matched the Maryland flag and helmets that just said, well, “Terps”, (the best things aren’t over-thought), then you might remember the Henderson brothers, E.J. and Erin, playing linebacker at College Park.  The Minnesota Vikings drafted E.J. in 2003; little brother Erin followed him to the land of purple Norsemen in 2008.  E.J. is now out of league but Erin was a starter for the Vikings this season until a DUI arrest in November.  He was profusely apologetic afterwards, cited compelling life-changes, and reclaimed his starting role by season’s end. 

On January 1st, Erin Henderson was arrested and charged with DUI – again - after his vehicle made the acquaintance of some very unlucky foliage.  He is now simply the latest in a long line of NFL players who have gotten behind the wheel after having far too much to drink.  In Henderson’s case, no one was injured.  That wasn’t the case when Rams defensive lineman Leonard Little killed Susan Gutweiler in 1998 or when Cowboys DT Josh Brent got liquored up and killed Jerry Brown, his Cowboys teammate, in December 2012. 

Whether Henderson has an alcohol addiction, is fighting other personal demons or is just too overcome with professional athlete syndrome, an unofficial affliction that infects the subject with a feeling of invincibility and logic-arresting ego, is unknown.  What isn’t in doubt is that the NFL, a league committed to player safety and protecting the image of “The Shield” (the league’s unmistakable logo), has a problem that it apparently doesn’t really mind.  The league routinely fines players for “excessive celebration” or wardrobe violations and suspends them for alleged usage of obscure performance-enhancing substances.  DUIs, though, often slip quickly through the headlines and the perpetrators, absent a history of behavioral issues, seldom suffer meaningful professional consequences. 

Yes, there is a difference between an allegation and a conviction, but the NFL has been extremely heavy-handed in doling out discipline for illegal hits and failed drug tests.  But DUIs?  Apparently those aren’t as problematic.  Personally, I’m more offended by a guy suiting up days after a DUI arrest than I am by a group of players celebrating a touchdown or using deer antler spray. 

Over the holidays I caught an ESPN E:60 piece on Southwest Minnesota State basketball coach Brad Bigler.  In 2011, Bigler was present when his mother drowned in a kayaking accident.  A year later, while traveling for a family get-a-way, a truck driven by Dana Schoen smashed into the Bigler’s vehicle killing Drake, Brad’s infant son.  Schoen was intoxicated and his decision to drive impaired snuffed out an innocent young life.  Do you know what separates Schoen and Henderson?  Dumb luck.  That’s it.  One harmlessly hit a tree; the other killed a child. 

I wonder if the possibility of vehicular homicide and its accompanying upheaval crossed the inebriated minds of either Henderson or Schoen.  It - the loss of human life, the worst of all consequences - should have.  It should also occur to the NFL.  It should also occur to anyone flirting with the idea of piloting a 2-ton machine down the highway with a belly full of booze.  You might make it home okay.  You could take out a tree.  Or you might kill a child.  Is it worth the gamble?  What would Bigler’s or Schoen’s answer be?  Henderson’s?  Yours?  Mine?  The answer must be no - without exception.  

Come Together: Chuck Berry at the Howard Theater

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in May 2012

An elderly, city-dwelling African American couple, a similarly-aged white couple from the suburbs, two 30-something Gen-Xers from Southern Maryland and a 20-something couple recently transplanted from Indiana walk into an urban bar to share a dinner table and an evening’s entertainment…

What?  You haven’t heard this joke?  That’s because it’s not a joke.  It’s not even fiction.  This diverse cast of strangers randomly assembled and, within moments, conversed like best friends.  So you’re thinking, “okay, it’s not a joke…but is there at least a punch line?”  There is…or at least there’s a point to consider...which I’ll get to later. 

From its opening in 1910, Washington D.C.’s Howard Theater was fortunately (because it existed at all) and unfortunately (because the segregated entertainment industry sadly mirrored society) THE place see the great African American entertainers of the period.   Legends such as Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald and James Brown filled the Howard with their musical genius.  The Howard closed in the early 1980s and for three decades emitted the worst of sounds for a historic, musical treasure: silence.  That changed this year when, after an extensive renovation, the Howard re-opened.  Being a nostalgic soul and someone lacking any recollection of the original, it’s hard to say that the Howard has never looked better…but it simply couldn’t have ever looked better.  Adorned with its iconic “Howard” sign on the theater’s facade and modern flash inside, the Howard is a spectacular venue befitting its place in American history.

My cousin and I were the two 30-something Gen-Xers; to pacify his extensive vanity, I’ll disclose that he’s seven years my junior.  The two elderly couples and the carefree young lovers from Indiana will remain unidentified.  What won’t is the urban “bar”: the Howard Theater.  As the eight of us were seated at a second-row table, the diversity of the group immediately struck me.  What on earth were we going to discuss until the show started?  A nervous panoramic view slightly tempered my initial unease.  Our situation wasn’t unique; nearly every table looked like a cross-section of America.  The average age was probably 45 but the distribution around that mean was enormous.  There was no identifiable majority race or gender.  Regarding the attire, I’ll offer this: at one adjacent table sat a gentleman in a tuxedo…at the other was a dude wearing well-worn jeans and a tattered t-shirt from the movie “The Big Lebowski” that read, “The Dude Abides.”   Indeed he does. 

Our social dilemma was resolved quickly.  We talked about…what else…why we were there: a common love of music and, specifically for this night, of Mr. Chuck Berry.  During our introductions, an immediate conversational catalyst was identified: the elderly African American couple was from D.C. and were original Howard patrons.  They offered a fascinating account of some of the best and most under-appreciated acts in music history.  The conversation then naturally meandered to other greats such as Bob Dylan and a band from across the pond that was heavily influenced by Chuck Berry.  You’ve probably heard of them…they’re called the Rolling Stones. 

Showtime arrived before a moment of uncomfortable silence found our table.  The curtains dropped and before our star-struck eyes appeared a living legend and a (if not the) godfather of Rock and Roll.  Before Elvis Presley, The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, there was Chuck Berry.  For the next hour differences in race, religion and politics were put on pause by what bound us together: the infectious blues-infused Rock and Roll of Chuck Berry. 

And that’s when the correlation hit me – save for the 9/11 tragedy, sports is the only thing that’s created such beautiful unity amid such diversity.  I love sports for that.  Here’s my short list of sports moments whose shared euphoria completely drowned out petty differences: storming the field after the last ‘Skins game at RFK Stadium, attending Cal Ripken Jr’s record-tying 2,130^th straight game (thanks for ticket, sis) and being in Canton, OH for Art Monk’s and Darrell Green’s induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.  What moments made the stranger next to you a good friend?  If only they could penetrate our daily lives more often.

Bryce Harper: Youth Gone Viral

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in May 2012

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

As Buffalo Springfield once said, “there’s something happening here…and what it is ain’t exactly clear.” 

For 20 years Washington D.C. sports has been a gory horror flick on a continuous loop.  It’s been so bad, for so long that District sports fans have forgotten how to support a winner.  This was once a fan base that carried itself with a confident swagger and puffed out its chest at any mouthy challenger.  Now, our profound pessimism, the product of nearly peerless futility, is so omnipotent that we snuff out any indication of better days and will our negative prophecies into reality.  You see, D.C. is the town where a fan’s hope goes to die.  That’s just how it is…and at this point we can’t imagine it any other way.

With that odd but true rant over, it’s understandable why the recent confluence of goodness that’s descended upon the nation’s capital has been so confounding.  First, the ‘Skins boldly acquired Robert Griffin III – the exact person, player and position the franchise and fan base needed.  Then the Capitals, perennial playoffs disasters that they mostly have been, seem to have hacked into the winning formula for playoff hockey and pleasantly overachieved this year.  And finally, while even jaded Nationals fans would have acknowledged the team’s likely improvement this year, I don’t think anyone expected them to be this good.  Despite a rash of injuries, the Nats keep winning behind the tried and true formula of exceptional pitching and timely hitting.  What’s more promising though – for both the short- and long-term - is the return to form of pitching ace Stephen Strasburg and the recent addition of a teenage sparkplug.

Bryce Harper, 19, isn’t just another prospect.  Harper, who followed Strasburg as the Nationals’ second consecutive #1 overall pick in the MLB draft, was from day one considered a franchise-altering talent.  Like most teenagers, Harper’s performance to date has been inconsistent and there were rumblings about his arrogance and immaturity.  The organization’s plan was to season Harper a little more at Triple-A and call him up later in the year.  Injuries and a desperate need for some offensive pop accelerated Harper’s ascent and he was tapped to make his major league debut on April 28^th. 

Let me admit this up front: except for a few random minor league clips, I hadn’t laid eyes on Harper between the lines until he threw on a Nationals uniform.  I expected to see an ordinary pro with flashes of exceptional talent.  By “ordinary pro” I mean a guy who glides through games with a grace that indicates he is perhaps more concerned about pacing himself through a 162-game regular season rather than exerting maximum effort to win any particular game.  You know what I’m talking about.  Major League games are littered with batters jogging out fly balls or running out base hits with the assumption the outfield will field it cleanly as opposed to “thinking two” from the crack of the bat and looking to capitalize on the slightest bobble in the outfield.  That’s just how major-leaguers play the game.

Harper didn’t get that memo.  Harper, bursting with youthful exuberance, plays like there’s no game tomorrow, never mind the ~125 games remaining this summer.  He hustles out every ball, throws his body all over the field and regularly exits with a bloodied and heavily soiled uniform.  The kid’s crash-test-dummy approach reminds me of the passion regularly on display during the County’s Rocking Chair Softball League’s hey day.  Indeed, Harper would have fit right in with Pennies, the Hollywood Stars and the legendary Hobos.   

On a major league diamond, though, Harper’s effort looks out of place.  It is, however, unequivocally contagious.  You can see it in the joyously infected eyes of the Nats’ coaches and Harper’s teammates.  Harper’s ornery determination is making the occasionally mundane baseball regular season fun and it’s translating to wins.  Call it the gift of youth.  It’s something every organization can use a shot of.  Harper’s enthusiasm and his team’s success are even threatening to lift the pessimistic haze from over D.C. and its expansive suburbia.  Yikes…what are we going to do???  

Robert Griffin III: Expectation Management

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in April 2012

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

It’s been a shameful few weeks, sports fans.  Instead of behaving like role models, our heroes have resembled boorish frat boys with an intelligence-sapping beer buzz and a thirst for mischief.  The figurative police blotter reads something like this…

The New Orleans “Saints”…how oxymoronic…are mired in the smelly wake of former defensive coordinator Gregg Williams’ tenure.  Williams’ bounty system – a disturbing pay-for-injury program – scored him an indefinite suspension from the NFL and has left the Saints without their head coach for the season (Sean Payton was suspended for the upcoming season).  

Ozzie Guillen, the habitually potty-mouthed manager of the Miami Marlins, spewed ignorance and cultural insensitivity when he inexplicably praised Fidel Castro’s ability to survive 60 years of opposition.  For his “enlightened” rhetoric, Guillen was suspended for 5 games and will be left with the massive chore of healing his relationship with the Latin community. 

Arkansas head football coach Bobby Petrino, a 51-year-old married father of four, wrecked his motorcycle and initially neglected to mention that his 25-year-old mistress was aboard.  When faced with the release of the police report, Petrino finally came clean.  Classy.  His introduction now goes something like this:  “Hi, I’m Bobby Petrino…I’m a liar, a cheating husband…and a recently unemployed football coach.” 

And then there’s the cherry on the top of the sports world’s boob sundae: Tiger Woods.  Once upon a time Woods’ performances at The Master’s were synonymous with record-setting performances, fist pumps and slipping on green jackets.  This year, in the midst of an on-course meltdown, Woods paid homage to his inner “terrible two” and dropped kicked his club after an errant shot.  Ahhh yes…Tiger Woods…the ultimate gentlemen for a gentlemen’s sport.

Interesting then that the mature counterbalance to this collection of pompous gray-bearded scoundrels that ought to know better is two youngsters not quite at the dawn of their professional careers.  That dawn will arrive with the first two picks in the upcoming NFL Draft when Andrew Luck and Robert Griffin III (RGIII) are selected - likely in that order.  It seems the Colts and ‘Skins, holders of the first two picks, will acquire the rarest of NFL assets: an ultra-talented young quarterback without a blemish on his character resume.  In the intense spotlight of today’s sports coverage (one I’m glad won’t illuminate my past), both young men consistently say and do the right things and, given the absence of dirt on either one, apparently have always done so.  They are remarkable and refreshing young lads, particularly considering the behavior of the aforementioned stooges (all apologies to Larry, Curly and Moe).    

After two miserable decades of very sporadic success and bad quarterback play, RGIII’s likely arrival in D.C. has ‘Skins fans in a full lather.  Anticipating his diverse skill-set in burgundy and gold has inflated the hope-meter to levels not seen since Joe Gibbs returned – and rightfully so.  RGIII behind center, in this quarterback-dominated era, raises the possibility that the ‘Skins will become something they haven’t been since Gibbs’ first tenure: perennial contenders.  Gasp!  I know, right?  Crazy talk.  The ‘Skins have had good quarterbacks…long, long ago…but never anyone with the skills of this guy.  RGIII is more mobile than Joe Theismann, has a deep ball as sweet as Mark Rypien’s, appears to have Sonny Jurgensen’s bravado and is as unflappable in the moment as Doug Williams (I’ll withhold any comparison to Sammy Baugh until I see him punt and play cornerback). 

With that said, I’ll offer this plea: pump the brakes on the expectations sled.  The hysteria makes it easy to forget RGIII will arrive as a 22-year-old rookie with a lot to learn and, despite his poise, no comprehension of ‘Skins nation’s justifiable desperation for a franchise savior.  The adjustment will take him, like any new arrival to a team or organization, time.  Permit him this.  Be patient.  Create an environment that promotes his comfort and growth.  Ignore the radio and print sharks that will inevitably pick him apart like the great fish in Hemmingway’s Old Man and Sea.  RGIII will succeed – his talent and intangibles are too great not to – as long as our expectations don’t overwhelm him.  

Steelers Football: Savage Amusement

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in Dec 2011

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Assemble all NFL teams together and, like every schoolyard, you’ll find a sample of styles covering the entire athletic continuum.  The awkward and uncoordinated (the Colts and ‘Skins), the talented but unfocused (the Cowboys), the naturally gifted and elegant (Green Bay) and even the bullies are represented.  There are many teams claiming territory in this latter group, but there’s only one true NFL playground thug: the Pittsburgh Steelers.

No sports franchise personifies its city more accurately than the Steelers.  The franchise’s name and logo were, obviously, derived from the local trademark steel industry, but the team’s cultural connection with the region is far deeper than these superficial indicators.  Western Pennsylvania is synonymous with Appalachia, rugged, resilient Americans and steel.  Similarly, as far back as the early 1970s and the famed Steel Curtain defense, Pittsburgh has proudly been one of the NFL’s tough guys.  Stingy defenses, hard hits and blue-collar, no-nonsense players have been the hallmark of Steelers football for 40 years.  The organization long ago adopted a successful formula that, like a good family recipe, they’ve stubbornly maintained without compromise.  They draft and develop their own players and have little use for free agents who’ve been corrupted with another, non-Steelers culture.  They seek out “steel”-minded, hard-nosed coaches that embody the “Steelers way “, show them uncommon loyalty – they‘ve had but three coaches since 1969 – and empower them to run the football operations.  It’s a business model, a franchise and a style of play I’ve admired for many years.  That admiration, despite the team’s on-going success, is starting to wane. 

Violence, an innate aspect of football, is under assault.  League rules regarding hits on quarterbacks and defenseless receivers has been redefined; the powers-that-be in the NFL have absolutely zero tolerance for helmet to helmet hits and NFL head-hunters who lead recklessly with the crown of their helmets.  As one might suspect, such violence legislation and its enforcement has been met with great resistance from fans and players alike.  Every Sunday fans erupt over perceived dubious personal fouls and players cry to their union over league-levied fines for illegal hits.  Ground zero for this battle between old school football ops and the new school neutering of defensive aggression is Pittsburgh, PA. 

No team has gotten more publicity for its blackout hits and fines than the Steelers.  The new rules fly in the face of everything the Steelers are and team and fans are united in their angst.  I was with them for a while.  Now my answer to Black and Gold nation’s gripes is “too bad.”  The truth is violence follows the Steelers.  If you watch a team against any other opponent and then watch them against the Steelers, you’ll see two different brands of football.  The Steelers are like the attitude-laden co-worker who brings out the worst in everyone around him or her.  Watch a Steelers game and you’re probably going to see someone from the other team knocked senseless and stagger off the field.  And for the most part, football fans – Steelers fans or otherwise – love it.  That is sad commentary on the lack of basic humanity pervading society and stands on Sundays.  Our ignorance of the long-term impact of concussions is long gone.  There should be a collective intolerance for players who blatantly and habitually hit opponents high and disgust, not barbaric celebration, when someone’s husband, father or son is knocked senseless.  For whatever reason, such play follows the Steelers and in this battle of wills, the NFL will, thankfully, prevail.  The Steelers will conform…eventually.  Their style represents football’s past, the league’s approach its sustainable, safer future.

In the movie Gladiator, an enslaved Maximus continues to win the favor of his captors and fans for his victorious acts of violence in arranged battles.  In a poignant moment, Maximus, irritated by the blood-thirst of spectators seeking savage amusement, hurls his sword at his captor’s perch.  The act was met with catcalls and prompts an annoyed Maximus to yell, “Are you not entertained?”  In that moment Maximus, as the great human conscience, captures exactly how I feel about Steelers football.  Am I entertained by Steelers football?  Not anymore.  

The Hangover

As published in The County Times (http://countytimes.somd.com) in Nov 2011

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

At any moment, everyone is dealing with some combination of positive and negative issues in their lives.  Such is life, and the psychological approaches to deal with the variables of human existence are many.  Once such theory suggests that when the opposing forces of good and bad are unbalanced, when life is oddly smooth or nearly unbearable, something will happen to reset our world – a life reboot if you will – to snap us back to the middle. 

I don’t buy it…not completely, anyway.  It dismisses an individual’s ability to chart his or her path, to influence their life’s course.  Karma is real, and we all control far less than we’d like to think, but we’re not simply blowing in the wind and riding it to whatever pleasant or dark destination it takes us.  There’s at least some fraction of this great journey we can influence.

Regardless of what approach you’ve adopted to negotiate life’s fickle ways, this much is universally true: every decision unfurls opportunities and bears the opportunity cost of the path not taken.  There’s the school we attended, the person we married, the children we had, the career we pursued…and those we didn’t.  In that substantial population of un-traveled paths reside great consequences.  Sometimes the consequences can be assessed, but more often they are poorly estimated at decision time, revealing themselves some time later, if at all, and only to those with the tendency to seek an explanation of the present by considering the past.  I’m guilty as charged of such nostalgic wiring.

With that long-winded, marginally comprehensible dribble having run dry, the pathetic state of D.C. sports and its stark and previously unexplainable contrast to the period between 1978 and 1992, makes a lot more sense.  What is there to say about the home teams?  The NBA lockout may be ending, which only means that the Wizards can begin anew their annual quest for a ticket to the NBA Draft Lottery.  The once mighty Terps, with coaches Gary Williams and Ralph Friedgen gone, have barely over a handful of scholarship basketball players (and were trounced by Iona…IONA!) and a football program in complete disarray.  How long ago 2002’s national championship in basketball and ACC championship in football seem now.  The ‘Skins, who are difficult to speak about, are as bad as they’ve been in my lifetime.  The Caps, the one bright spot in recent years, are imploding after a 7-0 start and Coach Bruce Boudreau’s days have to be numbered.  Far more serious than these nauseating on-field escapades is what has befallen the Nationals this off-season.  Wilson Ramos, their starting catcher and member of a bright young core, was kidnapped…kidnapped…in his home country of Venezuela.  Fortunately he was found unharmed.  

It’s hard to remember, but it wasn’t always this bad.  Between 1978 and 1992, D.C. won its lone NBA championship (’78), saw its adopted baseball team – the Orioles – win the World Series (’83), enjoyed the Caps’ annual trips to the NHL playoffs and celebrated three Super Bowl wins.  It all seemed so easy.  Winning was common.  All our teams were good and the ‘Skins were regular title contenders. 

Being an early-70’s baby and member of a sport-crazed clan, I can – thank goodness – remember this success vividly (if you can’t, I’m so very sorry).  Winning is all we knew, though, so making sense of the last 2 decades of nearly exclusive losing has left me perplexed and downtrodden; but I have it figured out now.  At a fork in the road – a decision point - years ago, a horned beast propositioned us.  This wasn’t a fiddle challenge for a golden fiddle or our soul, as the song suggests, but an offer to win - briefly - beyond our wildest dreams followed by an inadequately considered period of abysmal darkness.  We took the deal and it produced a Mardi Gras-like period followed by its apparent consequence: a 20-year and running raging hangover.  Perhaps I’ll subscribe to the aforementioned “natural order” theory – the one that suggests excessively good or bad times will self-correct – and await the goodness.  Just in case I’ll keep the aspirin nearby on game day.