LaTunaNostra
He Made the Difference
- Messages
- 14,985
- Reaction score
- 4
O Unlucky Dan
By Tony Kornheiser
You're Dan Snyder, and you must be wondering: "What do I do now?"
You spent all the money in the world, and your team is 1-3.
Your team has no offense. Your coach has no timeouts left when he needs them. And your players can't hold onto the ball.
You have the highest payroll in the history of pro football. After four games you have one win, and you haven't even played anybody good yet.
You're Dan Snyder, and you must feel like you're sinking.
From the moment you bought the Commanders you've poured your heart and your money into the team -- your team, the team you worshipped and adored as a child -- and nothing seems to have worked. You brought in big-name players like you were in a Fantasy Football draft. They stunk. You cut them. You brought in big-name coaches. They lost. You fired them.
You inherited Norv Turner, and you couldn't wait to get rid of him. He made the playoffs one time so you had to wait a year or so. Then you bounced him out 13 games into the season -- with a winning record! Who does that? You replaced him with Terry Robiskie on a look-see basis, and after the players wheezed under Robiskie, he was gone, too.
You were sensitive to criticism that you meddled too much into football affairs, so you reached out for a man who was two parts coach, and two parts battalion commander, Marty Schottenheimer.
You gave him total control.
You regretted it instantly.
He took total control. And then some.
You hated him.
You kept wanting to bring in more players. He kept wanting to hire more of his relatives.
The team started 0-5. But you kept Schottenheimer as coach, even though it was plain to everybody who talked to you that you were miserable.
You wanted to show what a patient man you were. You wanted to prove the critics wrong. The team rallied impressively to 8-8, and then you fired him. Go figure.
You hired Steve Spurrier, the coach you'd wanted in the first place. You paid him more money than any coach in the history of the NFL.
Imagine how much you would have paid him if he'd actually coached, say, one NFL game before you hired him. You loved Spurrier. You brought him everywhere.
You told people you were such good friends you were going to take vacations together. This was going to last forever. This guy, Steve Spurrier, was the right guy.
Halfway through his second season you couldn't wait for him to leave. Too many Gators. Too many college coaches on Spurrier's staff. Too many losses. Not enough coaching 'em up.
You're Dan Snyder and you could hear the boos and sense the discontent. You were making money -- you've always been great at making money. But you weren't making friends. You wondered what you could do to turn things around. Bringing in high-priced veterans didn't seem to do it. Changing defensive coordinators every single year didn't seem to do it. Even when you went through the draft and snagged players like Jon Jansen, Chris Samuels and LaVar Arrington, you still weren't winning. How could this be? You loved the team. You opened your wallet. You were the kind of owner every fan should want. Couldn't they all see that? What more could you possibly do?
So you took the longest shot of all. You called Joe Gibbs, who hadn't coached in 11 years. Who had retired from football. Who seemed unattainable.
You said, "Come home."
You're Dan Snyder, and you thought you hit the lottery. You got the coach of your youth, the coach of your dreams -- the one you truly wanted all along, but assumed you had no shot at whatsoever.
You're Dan Snyder, and finally you did something so right it couldn't go wrong.
Now they'd all have to love you.
The press coverage was phenomenal. Everybody lined up to praise you for bringing Joe Gibbs back. Everybody said Gibbs would set things right; Gibbs was exactly what this organization needed. Everybody was in favor of Joe Gibbs. If Bill Parcells could go to Dallas and take a team that went 5-11, 5-11 and 5-11 in the three years before he got there, and immediately coach them to 10-6 and the playoffs, so can Joe Gibbs. Heck, Joe Gibbs can take the Commanders to 11-5 or 12-4. Joe Gibbs has magic. Joe Gibbs has miracles in pocket.
You're Dan Snyder, and it was music to your ears. Everybody loved Joe Gibbs so much and was so optimistic about the Commanders they even bought your obstructed-view seats. You're Dan Snyder, and you were making even more money. And smiling. And everything was great. When people said the words "Super Bowl," you didn't discourage them. In your wildest dreams you were there, holding the Lombardi Trophy over your head as the confetti rained around you and the cheering never stopped.
You're Dan Snyder, and you beat Tampa Bay. That's one.
And now that's it. One. You lost to the Giants, who hated their coach so much they wanted to mutiny. You lost to Parcells and the Cowboys here, at home, on Monday night; oooh, that stung. Then you lost to the Cleveland Browns, who stink, and your big fish, Clinton Portis, the most expensive running back in the league, couldn't hold onto the ball again. The red-flag challenges are lost. The timeouts are lost. The games are lost.
For the first time Joe Gibbs looks like less than an immediate savior. You're Dan Snyder, and there's nothing left to throw at the team, because you threw in the kitchen sink when you hired Gibbs. That was the biggest and best move you ever made.
You're Dan Snyder and you must be wondering, "Now what?"
By Tony Kornheiser
You're Dan Snyder, and you must be wondering: "What do I do now?"
You spent all the money in the world, and your team is 1-3.
Your team has no offense. Your coach has no timeouts left when he needs them. And your players can't hold onto the ball.
You have the highest payroll in the history of pro football. After four games you have one win, and you haven't even played anybody good yet.
You're Dan Snyder, and you must feel like you're sinking.
From the moment you bought the Commanders you've poured your heart and your money into the team -- your team, the team you worshipped and adored as a child -- and nothing seems to have worked. You brought in big-name players like you were in a Fantasy Football draft. They stunk. You cut them. You brought in big-name coaches. They lost. You fired them.
You inherited Norv Turner, and you couldn't wait to get rid of him. He made the playoffs one time so you had to wait a year or so. Then you bounced him out 13 games into the season -- with a winning record! Who does that? You replaced him with Terry Robiskie on a look-see basis, and after the players wheezed under Robiskie, he was gone, too.
You were sensitive to criticism that you meddled too much into football affairs, so you reached out for a man who was two parts coach, and two parts battalion commander, Marty Schottenheimer.
You gave him total control.
You regretted it instantly.
He took total control. And then some.
You hated him.
You kept wanting to bring in more players. He kept wanting to hire more of his relatives.
The team started 0-5. But you kept Schottenheimer as coach, even though it was plain to everybody who talked to you that you were miserable.
You wanted to show what a patient man you were. You wanted to prove the critics wrong. The team rallied impressively to 8-8, and then you fired him. Go figure.
You hired Steve Spurrier, the coach you'd wanted in the first place. You paid him more money than any coach in the history of the NFL.
Imagine how much you would have paid him if he'd actually coached, say, one NFL game before you hired him. You loved Spurrier. You brought him everywhere.
You told people you were such good friends you were going to take vacations together. This was going to last forever. This guy, Steve Spurrier, was the right guy.
Halfway through his second season you couldn't wait for him to leave. Too many Gators. Too many college coaches on Spurrier's staff. Too many losses. Not enough coaching 'em up.
You're Dan Snyder and you could hear the boos and sense the discontent. You were making money -- you've always been great at making money. But you weren't making friends. You wondered what you could do to turn things around. Bringing in high-priced veterans didn't seem to do it. Changing defensive coordinators every single year didn't seem to do it. Even when you went through the draft and snagged players like Jon Jansen, Chris Samuels and LaVar Arrington, you still weren't winning. How could this be? You loved the team. You opened your wallet. You were the kind of owner every fan should want. Couldn't they all see that? What more could you possibly do?
So you took the longest shot of all. You called Joe Gibbs, who hadn't coached in 11 years. Who had retired from football. Who seemed unattainable.
You said, "Come home."
You're Dan Snyder, and you thought you hit the lottery. You got the coach of your youth, the coach of your dreams -- the one you truly wanted all along, but assumed you had no shot at whatsoever.
You're Dan Snyder, and finally you did something so right it couldn't go wrong.
Now they'd all have to love you.
The press coverage was phenomenal. Everybody lined up to praise you for bringing Joe Gibbs back. Everybody said Gibbs would set things right; Gibbs was exactly what this organization needed. Everybody was in favor of Joe Gibbs. If Bill Parcells could go to Dallas and take a team that went 5-11, 5-11 and 5-11 in the three years before he got there, and immediately coach them to 10-6 and the playoffs, so can Joe Gibbs. Heck, Joe Gibbs can take the Commanders to 11-5 or 12-4. Joe Gibbs has magic. Joe Gibbs has miracles in pocket.
You're Dan Snyder, and it was music to your ears. Everybody loved Joe Gibbs so much and was so optimistic about the Commanders they even bought your obstructed-view seats. You're Dan Snyder, and you were making even more money. And smiling. And everything was great. When people said the words "Super Bowl," you didn't discourage them. In your wildest dreams you were there, holding the Lombardi Trophy over your head as the confetti rained around you and the cheering never stopped.
You're Dan Snyder, and you beat Tampa Bay. That's one.
And now that's it. One. You lost to the Giants, who hated their coach so much they wanted to mutiny. You lost to Parcells and the Cowboys here, at home, on Monday night; oooh, that stung. Then you lost to the Cleveland Browns, who stink, and your big fish, Clinton Portis, the most expensive running back in the league, couldn't hold onto the ball again. The red-flag challenges are lost. The timeouts are lost. The games are lost.
For the first time Joe Gibbs looks like less than an immediate savior. You're Dan Snyder, and there's nothing left to throw at the team, because you threw in the kitchen sink when you hired Gibbs. That was the biggest and best move you ever made.
You're Dan Snyder and you must be wondering, "Now what?"
