On Saturday, there will be a memorial service for a good friend of mine by the name of Rick Snider, who passed away a little more than a week ago.
That it comes on the same weekend the Washington Commanders play their opener has not been lost on me.
Washington has always been my favorite pro football team, and having watched hundreds and hundreds of games over the years, I know a little about the team and its history. Rick (@Snide_Remarks on X) had covered the team for more than 40 years, so while we were both libraries of information, I was the bookmobile sitting out in the grocery store parking lot, while Rick was the main branch downtown.
When we’d talk about the Redskins (and yes, we always called them the Redskins) I’d talk about memories from the vantage point of sitting on a sofa and watching on a color TV, while he’d speak of the games from the perspective of actually being there. We’d both talk about the team as if it were a family we were part of, with the notable exception of one 24-year period starting in 1999.
During the early years of the team, we both had incredibly fond memories of guys like Sonny Jurgensen, Jack Kent Cooke, Joe Gibbs and a whole host of others. For every memory I had, it seemed like Rick had several stories to go with that memory, and he reveled in telling them. They were fun times and warm remembrances.
But when the stories turned to the last 20 years, the tone changed. It had always been a dream of mine to have season tickets to the Redskins, and in 2001, I finally got two of them, right on the 50, on the first row of the upper deck.
Over the next decade it seemed like the prices kept going up, services kept going down, and the team wasn’t very good. One Monday night, when Michael Vick and the Eagles torched the Redskins from the very first play, I found myself walking to the parking lot, thinking about how high the concession prices were, there were no longer any ushers around if you needed any help, there was trash all over the concourse, and how the owner was just playing us all for one big fat sucker. I did not renew my tickets the next year.
As I told this story to Rick, he chuckled. Turns out the disrespect the owner showed to the fans was pretty universal. The owner didn’t like Rick and the feeling was mutual. “He tried to insist all of us call him Mr. Snyder,” Rick said, showing just how petty and eaten up with “little man’s disease” the owner was. “I refused.”
We both acknowledged that liking a team while hating the owner was probably a little like being part of a big family, then mom decides to remarry and the new stepfather is a flaming jerk. You still enjoy the comradery of the family, but nevertheless feel a bit more distant from them with each passing day.
When the team was finally sold, Rick almost immediately liked the new ownership. He said they were professional. Respectful. Decent human beings. All the things the previous owner was not.
It’s why I have to admit I got a little choked up when after Rick’s death, the team put out on social media an announcement acknowledging what a career Rick had in following them. The next day Commanders general manager Adam Peters even remembered him in his opening comments to the press.
Gracious. Kind. And very first class, much like the days of Jack Kent Cooke. It felt like a family once again, honoring one of its own.
To the Commanders and Adam Peters, thank you. I know it meant the world to me to see it. I’m reasonably sure it would have meant the world to Rick too.
I only wish he were still here so I could talk to him about it.
Rest in peace, brother…
