Justin Jackson knew North Carolina wouldn’t be able to escape the word all year. At least they could try to own it.
The Tar Heels had just started to get together for the new season a few short months after being on the wrong side of Kris Jenkins’ historic national championship buzzer-beater. The first thing they needed was a fresh players-only group text, one without departed stalwarts Marcus Paige and Brice Johnson and with this year’s freshman class.
The past twelve months for the Washington Redskins have been as bizarre as any for a professional sports team. Robert Griffin III has gone from questionable rookie-star, to world-beater, to injured, to being a diva for rushing back too quickly, to division champion, to symbol of Dan Snyder’s incompetence, to the medical equivalent of learning a country’s geography because we’re bombing it, to cornball brother, to diva, to being Back, to a complete and utter indictment of Dan Snyder’s decision to give up another fortune of draft picks. (Whew.)
Now we’re back where we started; a Redskins team at 3-7 and playing for their jobs.
The team is basically an inferior version of the 2007-2010 Indianapolis Colts, but with a racist nickname. One good pass-rusher, a terrible secondary, Pierre Garcon, a good running back, and a superstar under center. It’s a painfully average team that has found itself in the midst of a thousand stupid story-lines over the course of the last year, but the melodrama surrounding everything that Robert Griffin III says puts them all to shame.