Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Redskins--Week the sixth

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So the Redskins notched a toughed-out victory over the Chicago Bears at Soldier Field, and the less said about Soldier Field, the better: I once maintained that the stadium looked like it had been anally raped by a spaceship from a Michael Bay movie, and I swear to you, the description is yet apt.

The big story is that the Redskins defense continues to do most of the heavy lifting for the team, which is no small feat considering they are still without LaVar Arrington, Michael Barrow, mad-tackling freak Matt Bowen and DT starter Joe Salave'a. We're mighty impressed by the week-in, week-out playcalling of Gregg Williams--but we remind you of a piece of Easterbrookian wisdom--big-blitz dependency spells late season doom. The Skins D, did a good job of holding rejuvenated former Wahoo Thomas Jones in check.

And the less said about those Wahoos, the better. Sweet mercy. Lead me not into Doak Campbell Stadium. A UVa squad that was a decent punter away from victory at Scott Stadium looked absolutely lost in Florida as FSU stomped and romped and humiliated the Cavaliers, leading to a Richter-Scale shocking boom as everyone simultaneously leapt off the Virginia bandwagon.

But I digress. Clinton Portis and the running game seemed to get back on track this week, creating the space necessary for Clinton to run all over a usually formidable Chicago defense, tallying 171 yards.

The cause was greatly aided by Chicago's QB, Jonathan Quinn. Since the lucky Jim MacMahon fell upwards to success on the strength of a cocksure smile, snarky headband and hit single, Chicago QBs have been a dispiriting group, usually falling into one of three categories: aging and forgotten free agent castoffs, hyper-needy first round bonus babies, and ragtag reserves prone to shellshocked confusion (I once urged Chicago: "Ride! Ride the Moses Moreno train as far as it will take you!"). Jonathan Quinn, who frequently reminded the viewer of Martha Quinn or Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, and sometimes Terry O'Quinn (now featured on ABC's Lost!), did very little to impress, his balls falling limply on the grassy plain.

However, Mark Brunell, our own ersatz quarterback, continues to give cause for concern. Many of his passes began in Chicago, intended for a receiver in Chicago, only to be overthrown to Evanston. It was a performance that rightly called Brunell's competence into question. Ultimately, I see the Redskins future--nine in the box. DCist speculates that the demand for a change may grow deafening very quickly as Patrick Ramsey, who performed gamely and with skill while being sacked mercilessly all last year, sits wasting on the pine.

I, personally believe the answer is not with Ramsey. Think about it DC: we were denied the Babe Laufenberg era, denied the Sage Rosenfels era, denied the Gibran Hamdan era. The district sleeps tonight, dreaming of Tim Hasselbeck.

Speaking of DCist, I would have loved to have been party to any inter-IST blog trashtalking that went on before the game. I'm betting it was pretty subdued. I prefer to imagine DCist and Chicagoist, lamenting the sports-related state of affairs in their respective cities, comforting one another with sympathy, cursing the luck and fortune of their sister Gothamist, and not letting SFist play with them because while they're down--they still talk about Bonds and Montana as if they were minor deities. LAist, of course, doesn't watch football because there's no team, and, even if there were, everyone's too busy trying to staple a tracking device to Mischa Barton's ear to notice.

The Redskins get a bye next week. We're picking the Redskins to win their bye week on a last second field goal. After that is the home game against the Green Bay Packers. If you are an English major/philosophical type who dares to imagine an underlying, if quirky, pattern to the universe, you probably go into this game with the belief that the presidential election, and by extension, the fate of the Western World, depends on this game. If you are a scientist/engineer who prefers to think of the world as bound by statistics and unforgiving a priori causal relationships, you probably think we English majors are tweaking. Fine. Be That way. Just remember, if it weren't for our romantic poetry, none of you gearheads would ever get laid.

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