Danny White
Winter is Coming
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I thought I'd throw a punch "below the belt" and dust off this moldy oldie from our Redsk*n friend Om.
Try to read the whole thing... true comedy like this doesn't come along that often. It almost makes me feel bad for them. Nah!
http://www.extremeskins.com/forums/showthread.php?t=122449&highlight=Gibbsian+Moment
Try to read the whole thing... true comedy like this doesn't come along that often. It almost makes me feel bad for them. Nah!
http://www.extremeskins.com/forums/showthread.php?t=122449&highlight=Gibbsian+Moment
The Gibbsian Moment
By Mark "Om" Steven
May 31, 2004
There are three kinds of Commanders fans.
Group One already knows what this piece is about, just for having read the title.
Group Two—a group to which I suspect few will admit belonging—may experience a moment of retroactive clarity; recognition of something that has been there all along, but upon which they simply never have put a mental finger. I know—hard to imagine. But still.
Group Three—for and about whom this piece is ultimately written—are those either too young or too new to the Burgundy and Gold to have fully appreciated the Joe Gibbs Washington Commanders, Act I.
For going on five months now, those of us in Group One have been quietly savoring the daydream that began on January 7, slowly assimilating the concept that the circle really and truly has been closed, and wrapping our minds around the concept that, no, it is in fact not a dream—it’s real. Joe Gibbs Is Back, and all delicious hell is about to break loose.
We’ve probably been a little insufferable about it—wearing those silly Mona Lisa smiles around, refusing to be drawn into the ubiquitous summertime arguments over rosters, draft strategies, front office dynamics, cap considerations and the like—and exuding an unmistakable “I have a secret” attitude. We’ll ask that you forgive us, but the truth is we have found it quite impossible to walk among our fellow man of late without sporting a bit of a ‘tude.
Why? Simple—because we’ve had ours. And we know what’s headed this way.
So we’ve just kind of been living with our admittedly insufferable selves, waiting for everyone else to have theirs ... figuring that when they have, we’ll all gather around the fire, throw back a few too many bottles of champagne, and share a few good laughs at the expense of the rest of the un-assimilated world (and the Two’s—but let’s keep that our secret for now).
Well, that’s what I thought, anyway, until something occurred to me a couple of days ago.
With apologies for being the one to call this to your attention, fellow Ones, I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news. You know that whole thing about us having “had” ours? Well, turns out that’s a double-edged sword. Yes, we still have a few more months to wallow in our smug superiority ... but ... now they all get to have theirs, too—and they get to live it for the first time. They get to live it now. All that stuff about the joy of discovery? ... first love? ... the magic of the first time? They haven’t been writing poetry and singing songs about that stuff since the dawn of Man for nothing, you know.
So I admit it—I’m jealous. More than that, I’m begrudging, covetous, esurient and invidious. Check the eyes ... green. So while the usually magnanimous, adult side of me is happy for them on an intellectual level, and while it’s true that I can’t wait until a few million new brothers and sisters step across the threshold and become Ones with the rest of us, the unvarnished truth is I’m also utterly envious that they are, at some point in the not-too-distant future, going to have their very own Gibbsian Moment.
So, as a self-appointed spokesman of the soon-to-no-longer-be-unique Group Oners who wish to enjoy the Moment again vicariously through all of you Two’s and Three’s, and in the hopes of at least participating in the process to some tiny degree, I intend to plant a couple of seeds here. Hopefully, some day soon, when many of you have had yours—when you’ve recognized it, internalized it, analyzed and personalized it—you’ll think back to the day in the early summer of 2004 that your long-winded colleague “called it” on behalf of those already where you are all about to go. Then we’ll all sit around, drink too much champagne, and share a good laugh.
Group Two is buying.
For most, achieving their Moment it will be a cumulative process; bits of data picked up here and there, until they reach critical mass one memorable day and introduce themselves as, say, Mr. Arrington once did Mr. Aikman. An attention-grabber, to be sure, but for the most part survivable. For others, it will simply rise up suddenly and come out of nowhere—a massive, epiphanous slap upside the metaphoric head. Now while that may sound like fun, do be careful if it should happen to you while driving or making love. Major crash and burn potential there, either way—to say nothing of the threat of sudden and unauthorized lane changes. Bad things, man.
And one hopes, for their sakes, there aren’t too many folks out there able to experience theirs only via a Super Bowl win—because there are simply no guarantees that we’re going there. We’re going in that direction, sure enough, but you probably oughtn’t put all your ova in that one particular basket. If you’re the kind inclined to only celebrate the ultimate victories in life, I humbly submit for your consideration the sage old adage: the key to happiness and fulfillment in life comes in learning to enjoy the journey, not focusing solely on the destination.
So ... enough with the black-turtleneck-wearing, outside-the-coffee-shop-playing-a-lute-image-summoning, surreptitiously-ogling-all-the young-women philosophizing. What about the MOMENT, already?
It could happen, conceivably, as early as training camp, assuming of course that you’re fortunate enough to attend a session or two. Not likely, mind you, because the team won’t be teeing it up in anger or anything, but if you’re there and watching closely—paying attention more to the football than the smokin’ babes in halters and/or righteous dudes without shirts (we are equal opportunity sexists here) in the stands—you may pick up some early sign. You won’t really know you’re having it just then, of course, but it could be a down-payment—one you look back at some point down the line, and realize, “yup, by dang, that’s when it started.”
It could come in something as subtle as taking notice of the manner in which the team carries itself, as it streams out of the big white building, down the steps and onto the field ... or the manner in which they move smartly from drill to drill—as if everyone knows precisely where they’re supposed to go, and what they’re supposed to do when they get there. Perhaps it could come from the comfortable, natural tenor of the hollers, catcalls and trash talk ... or from watching and listening to Joe Bugel, in all his bigger-than-life, blue-collar magnificence, as his charisma radiates across the grounds with equal or better impact than the 100 degree heat. Could be some amorphous, gestalty combination of all of the above.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll catch yourself, subconsciously, thinking, “hey, now this is how an NFL practice is supposed to be run.”
It could happen, conceivably, come preseason ... when even though you know in your head that the team hasn’t game-planned anything, and that it isn’t concerned in the slightest with “winning” on the scoreboard, you still notice that even this early—this preposterously early, given the sea changes—the various units are getting on and off the field smoothly. That the players are lining up where they’re supposed to, as one; that the motion man is timing his break up field just so as the ball is snapped. That sideline decisions are being made timely, and translated with seemingly effortless efficiency to the field. And you may even hear your inner voice wryly noting, “man, that other team sure has a long way to go.”
You will definitely process these things, but in the heat of game battle, you probably won’t consciously think about them. Too soon. But “man, you know what?” some barely-audible voice in your head will whisper, “this is how a professional football team is supposed to look in preseason.”
It could happen, conceivably, in the season opener, when by the end of the first half—even as the team takes on a solid, veteran defense in the Buccaneers, and considering this is the first live game situation this particular team has seen—you have not once reacted to a play call by asking everyone in your immediate vicinity, “what the hell was that?!” Or that, win or lose, blowing out or being blown out, you aren’t walking back to your car after the game with the bitter taste in your mouth you used to get from knowing the other team didn’t really have to beat yours—yours didn’t really make them have to.
It could, quite possibly, come as mine did some twenty years ago, as you watch a Commanders game among fans of the opposition. You may find yourself at a friends’ house, or a crowded bar, and catch yourself noticing that one dude in the wrong-colored jersey across the room. You’ll watch him unconsciously shaking his head, slowly, back and forth—face a mask of utter disgust, as he watches his team seemingly unable to do anything right. You’ll know what he’s thinking—you’ll feel it ... and it will all seem so familiar ... so incredibly, distastefully, painfully familiar. “Oh sure,” you’ll hear him thinking, “the Commanders manage to save a crucial time out at the end of the half to get the field goal, why the hell can’t we? And what’s with the freakin’ false starts? And why, for chrissakes, can’t we stop that #&%$*!! counter trey?”
You’ll look away, a somehow familiar, silly little smile playing across your lips, as it all starts to make sense. You'll turn slowly back to the screen, and your beer will taste as good as you can ever remember. “Hey brother,” you’ll think with an amused, almost Olympian detachment, “ain’t no thing—that’s just the way the game is supposed to be played.”
Do be patient, though ... because it’s quite likely that your Moment won’t really come until sometime late in the next season or two, when enough data points have finally accumulated. When one Sunday afternoon or Monday Night in late November or December, when the team faces a national game with huge playoff implications, and, during the pregame shows, you notice that all the talking heads are expounding on what the other team has to do to “stop Washington.” And when they talk to the opposing head coach, that they’re spending the entire segment solemnly asking him what it’s like having to “prepare to play the Commanders.”
And when they say that word, for the first time in as long as you remember, you’ll actually be able to hear the capital “R.”
That's when you'll know.
Bottom line, my dear Threes ... it’s coming. And when it does, know that you will not be alone. We Older Ones will be right there with you—happy and jealous—wishing like hell we could glom onto just an echo of your Moment. We’ll be there with you when you smile that first quiet little smile, and come to Truly Know Something that the rest of the great less fortunate football world does not. And we’ll understand why you won’t need to say a word.
May you revel in your Moment, and use the lifelong power it confers upon you for good.
One last thing. When it does come—even as you inwardly laugh, cry and scream—you may find yourself, almost instinctively, carrying on outwardly rather like you’ve “been there” before. Don’t be surprised—that's simply how Commanders fans are supposed to act.
Hail.
