Blow the whole thing up. Demolish Redskins Park with a wrecking ball. Don't bother
changing the team nickname. Just shutter the entire franchise, every bit of it.
End the madness and torture. Washingtonians have suffered way, way too long. This
sad and sordid story smells. From all corners of all things Redskins, fungus fumigates.
Convert Fed Up Field to a weekend rodeo venue.
Bury the team's uniforms at Arlington National Cemetery. Get Norv Turner to give a
boring eulogy. Be done with it. Turn the Redskins page to the one that reads "The
Hire a team of Navy Seals to invade the office of Dan Snyder. Physically, aggressively and unapologetically remove him from his throne. Seize his assets. Freeze his bank account. Rip off his sunglasses and shatter them into a thousand pieces. Send him back to sixth grade where he can annoy those children, who are his contemporaries.
Write an op-ed for the Washington Post explaining why this frivolous and farcical franchise began its 22-year demise when it fell for the notion that Norv Turnercould be a head football coach. Stress that that decision started an all-out avalanche of darkness and despair. On the day he got hired the franchise lost its soul.
Twenty-two years ago as I sat in my office about to start work, I thought to myself: "If
I don't go downtown to Washington, D.C., today to watch the Redskins celebrate their Super Bowl parade, I may regret it the rest of my life. They may never win another Super Bowl."
I bolted out of my office and stood amid some 30,000 fans and watched Joe Gibbs and Wilbur Marshall stand on a stage with the rest of the team. "Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur," I chanted along with the crowd. Two days earlier the Skins had whipped the Buffalo Bills to capture their third Super Bowl title.
There have been no Redskins Super Bowl parades since. Since then, it's been a never-ending
sky-dive into football abyss. Not even the most pessimistic Redskins fans could have believed on the day of that last Redskins parade that the franchise would fall as far and shamefully as they have. Over the past 20 years this team has won 33 percent of its games. Only three or four teams have lost more games over that time period.
Forevermore and longer than that, they will inhabit loser-ville.
Everybody knows that. They make national news these days for all the in-fighting and back-stabbing between head coach Mike Shanahan, quarterback Robert Griffin III, and owner Dan Snyder.
Last weekend they fell behind the Kansas City Chiefs 31-0 in the middle of the second quarter. It's tough to allow that many points in so little time. But the Skins gave up a huge amount against the Eagles in the season's first game, setting the tone for this season's sickly play. They're capable of mind-boggling poor play.
On Sunday many fans didn't show up. Those who did left early. A bad product turns away even the most loyal customers. I thought the Skins had reached the bottom many other times during these two decades of turmoil and tumult. But last weekend everything came apart like never before.
They hit the ocean floor and are stuck there, breathless, beaten.
There is no hope for this franchise. There is no future. There is no strategy. There is no reason to believe. There is no John Riggins. There is no Monte Coleman. There is no Chris Hanburger. There is no Art Monk. There is no Larry Brown.
There is nothing left of the Redskins. They have died. And so have their fans.