Cue the Chuck Mangione

Wow. Last night, sometime close to 1 AM, when I was holding my fists in the air, yelping with glee, and generally acting like a dancing nancy in front of my television, I realized the benefit of never having let my allegiance to the team waver. Yep, I loathe the owner with all of the venom of any good fan. Sure, I realize the squad is mediocre, having wagered a case of beer on their finishing with 7 or fewer wins this season -- and still feeling safe. But at no point did I even pay lip service to the notion of reducing my 100% all-in fan status, unlike some of my esteemed colleagues. I can't actually say I blamed them, but it really shouldn't be an option. (I learned that during baseball season.) So when last night's win appeared out of nowhere -- and make no mistake, in an otherwise dreary season, a win like that can make the season -- I reveled in the moment like it was 1999. (The last time the Washington Redskins made the playoffs, duh.)

Because the Redskins' last decade has made me a spiteful, bitter shell of my former self, I had begun compiling a list of F-U's to be issued this morning, from the Cowboys [who, as Joe Gibbs said, were treating the Skins like a Homecoming patsy, what with retiring the numbers of "The Triplets" (appropriately candy-assed moniker) at halftime] to Madden & Michaels for their one-sided telecast for 56 minutes, to the legion of columnists and reporters who mocked the Ramsey/Brunell exchange and treated Coach Gibbs like he was a confused old man who belonged somewhere other than a football sideline. I had ill will for all of these people, but then I remembered that up until the last four glorious minutes of ball last night, they were right. So I pocketed my nastiness and decided to simply smile about the outcome.

And I'll be doing that all day.