Football Heals
Although I feel comfortable in my hometown of Washington, DC, I have certain misgivings about the place. I think Trump's apparent resolution to bomb it, buy it, and replace it with a hotel seems excessive. “Washington, D.C. has become a dirty, crime-ridden death trap that must be taken over and properly run," Trump said recently, calling to mind his remarks about the Gaza Strip. "Being in real estate, I always kept clean properties. I like clean, clean, well-run, you know, tippy-top. We say, ‘Tippy-top. We want ’em to be tippy-top.’ Well, our capital is the opposite of tippy-top. It’s a shithouse. Horrible. It’s horrible. It’s so horrible."
My problem with DC isn't the litter in the parks. It's the anodyne city center of early-century concrete blocks housing gigantic federal bureaucracies that renders DC different than any other major American city. Well, except maybe Hartford CT, where a similar concrete world houses the insurance industry, or Harrisburg PA, the capital of Pennsylvania, where there appears to have been a century-long competition for worst architecture. (Speaking of brutalism, check out the State Archives of Pennsylvania, which I suspect was designed by Adrien Brody as László Toth during his famous "heroin" period.)
Be that as it may, the moment I felt warmest toward my city was the night of January 30, 1983, after the Washington Redskins, later known as "The Football Team" and "The Commanders" beat the Dolphins 27-17 in Super Bowl XVII. DC became the champion of the world—not in its traditional manner, by bombing other nations until they surrendered, but by decimating the city of Miami emotionally. Bomb American, I say. And that's just what our QB Joe Theisman did.
My brothers Jim, Bob, and Adam and I watched the game with our girlfriends in a bar near Dupont Circle and when the outcome was decided we went out walking around DC, from Adams Morgan to Georgetown. People were driving around honking and yelling and singing "Hail to the Redskins."
Run or pass and score—we want a lot more!
Beat 'em, Swamp 'em,
Touchdown!—Let the points soar!
Fight on, fight on 'Til you have won
Sons of Wash-ing-ton. Rah!, Rah!, Rah!
Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old D.C.!
The main thing I thought about old DC at that time, having made my way through its public schools and streets for 25 years or so, was that it was the most racially-divided city this side of Johannesburg. But that night, the apartheid vibe was pointedly compromised. The hugging and high-fiving practically amounted to city-wide miscegenation. I think people were conscious of this and taking a particular pleasure in it, pointedly bonding across racial lines (admittedly, the fact that the team's name was a slur against a third ethnic group was one of the unifying factors: we sons of Washington are still Americans, after all).
I felt the same Sunday night in Philadelphia, minus the slur. After the Eagles' victory, in which they smashed, crushed and humiliated the dynastic Chiefs, making KC fans groan and whine, my wife Jane and I walked around the Northern Liberties and Fishtown neighborhoods, though we avoided the big celebrations on Broad Street and at Frankford and Cottman. But there were lots of happy rowdy people everywhere, pouring out of the sports bars and beer halls, embracing and setting off fireworks, yelling "We did it!" All over, people were flapping their arms, floating through the streets singing "Fly Eagles Fly."
It amazed me how little America has changed since 1983. Lots of people were waving cell phones around, but otherwise this could’ve been then (though Philly, I hasten to gloat, wasn’t in a position to win the Super Bowl in the 1980s). Cars were honking. People were howling "E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles!" as they weaved around the city. Groups of black and white fans seemed to be taking particular pleasure in recognizing one another.
Philly is also still a pretty racially-divided city. It didn't seem that way Sunday night at all, and though Northern Liberties and Fishtown are regentrifying neighborhoods, they're also racially diverse. "White boy DeJean!" we heard a black guy yelling, referring to Cooper DeJean, the rookie cornerback who had a pick 6 in the first half. This made drunk white girls laugh delightedly.
There are many reasons to be concerned about our nation, and probably reasons to be concerned about your own particular city as well. This isn’t a solution available to Hartford, Hereford, or Harrisburg, where hurricanes and happy city-wide celebrations hardly happen, but if you want to see your city at its tippy-top, I suggest you win the Super Bowl.
—Follow Crispin Sartwell on X: @crispinsartwell