Born in Pennsylvania, where greater portion of my extended family still live today, football was a huge part of our lives.  At the collegiate level, Penn State was the one team we all universally agreed on, but when it came to the NFL, there was definitely a few different opinions.

Philly was the choice of my cousins and uncles, my grandfather was a huge fan of Landry's 'Boys, and my mother, for some reason I still don't understand, had a thing for the Oilers. There were a few others who liked Pittsburgh, and I remember one other uncle that nobody really liked who always pulled for the Jets. Who nobody really liked either.

At 6 years old, I was at the age when I was beginning to understand the rules of football, the thrill of competition, and most importantly, the overwhelming joy of cheering for a team that wins a close game, especially if they beat the team that the guy next to you is rooting for and even more so if that guy happens to be an obnoxious older brother or snotty cousin who talks way too much smack for his own good.

Naturally, I supported Penn State, but I felt too emotionally torn at age 6 to commit to a pro team. The majority of the family liked Philly, but, despite being only 6 years old, even I knew the Eagles sucked in the early 80's. I loved my grandfather, and part of me wanted to be a Cowboy fan just to please him, but Dallas was, understandably, the most hated team of just about everyone but him. Pittsburgh was another option, as was my mother's Oilers, but neither of those two teams really 'did it' for me.

Meanwhile, during this off season in 1985, my father got a new job in Richmond, forcing us to move. And during that fateful 6-hour drive, I would finally make my decision.

I was taking a nap in the back seat, hoping to pass the time asleep as opposed to being awake with 2 other agitated siblings in a packed car on a pretty boring interstate.

When I awoke, I sat up, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and noticed something that was surprisingly delightful.

That thing was blissful silence.

The rest of my family was dead asleep, except my father who was driving. It was a silence that was both unexpected, and amazingly perfect. Needless to say, the move itself was quite stressful and hectic, and we were all, in one way or another, pissed off about it. But in this moment, while everyone slept, the moment was just right. I awoke without saying a word, and simply started out the window, appreciating the peace, the quiet, and whatever landscape I-95 was kind enough to offer. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't thirsty. I wasn't tired. I didn't need my mother. I didn't need my father. I didn't need to be entertained. This moment may have been the first time in my life where I truly felt 100% at peace and content with the world.

It was in that moment of serenity, when I saw it. And it saw me.

"Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"What is that?"
"That? Um... pretty sure that's RFK Stadium." [quick look at map].  "Yep.  It's RFK".
"Who plays there?"
"The Redskins."

As I marveled at the first NFL stadium I had ever seen, I made a public declaration, both to myself, to my father, and to the world.

"The Redskins are my favorite team."



-- Edited by Aston on Friday 3rd of April 2009 05:38:58 PM

The year was 1972. I was an eight-year old punk who liked the color blue. I was watching a certain game with the blue team beating up the red team. They were up 13-0 and my Dad was no longer speaking to me. When Larry Brown caught a 19 yard TD pass, I saw a smug look in my Father's eye and asked him why. He told me that our team was the Washington Redskins and we had just scored. The second half found me pulling for the red team now. I almost cried when all of a sudden we were down 20-7. Brown then popped off a 30+ yard TD run, Curt Knight hit a 42-yarder (back then a 42 yard kick was just 8 yards into the opponents territory) and we were in business. The winning drive was a thing of beauty and our defense shut Dallas down. By Christmas, I was a die-hard!

No special story here, really.

I was born into it. I remember being a little tyke watching the games on my grandpa's knee every Sunday. By the time I was five Joey T was my hero and John Riggins was the best player in the league.