A lot of people have asked me lately why I haven’t penned a sweet little ‘ticle. The simple answer is that no story has grabbed my fancy. Ya see folks, I come from sportswriting royalty. I have high standards for my column—I wouldn’t write about just any old mishegas. So while old Surely could have written somethin’ sweet, the peach would be rotten before it even fell off the tree if you catch my drift.



This is a trait I’ve inherited from my father, Shirley Povich. Like myself, dad could only write stories that spoke to his soul. To not do so would be like a death sentence to him and in many ways this was true. Back in dad’s day if you wrote a shitty column they’d send u to Korea. And not the nice place where Dennis Rodman hangs out either, I’m talking about M*A*S*H Korea. A great show but a terrible war. Seriously folks!



Speaking of horrible tragedies that make me wanna jerk-off relentlessly, I had the opportunity to watch this Redskins team Monday night and it wasnt purdy. I tell ya, this team is two pieces of bread short of a shit sandwich. I mean, what are we gonna do with this team right here, eh?



“It’s an abomination—a travesty. This entire team is an unwanted turd…flush it twice,” said my Oriental housekeeper, after the game.



It pains me to say that I can’t help but agree with Sun-Xi. Indeed, the stench surrounding this team brings to mind the great Wootton Parkway Tuberculosis outbreak of 1996. Which brings me to last night, when my almighty ‘Skins took on the assbags from San Francisco.



But we have to rewind the VCR a little bit to give you an idea of what game day is like as a member of sportswriting’s first family. For a Povich like me, game day is like a religious experience. In order, the two holiest places for a Povich are FedEx Field and Adas Israel.

The day begins at 4:45 in the AM. I have my Activia and then get to work in the kitchen on my famous seven layer dip, the staple centerpiece of Surely’s Tits-Up Tailgate. The recipe is a beaut and a true original—your first layer is pretty standard fare, a big bag of North Bethesda Marching Powder spread across a Redskins helmet shaped serving platter. Next up…a few more grams of coke…the third layer, a bit cliche, is more cocaine. Fourth layer: coke, Fifth: blow, Sixth: dash of snortsky…the seventh and topmost layer…a generous dollop of lowfat sour cream. This ingredient is key. It takes the edge off in a big way…DO NOT SKIMP ON THE SOUR CREAM!



After the dip is made, I go upstairs and get dressed. In my closet sits the vintage Billy Kilmer jersey and Zubaz pants I’ve worn to every home game since 1991. I add a winter cap because it’s cold out and find some hand warmers to stuff in my pockets before venturing outside around 5:30 to the beat up Buick Regal owned by my tailgate partner extraordinaire…Sun Xi’s 18 year old, Sing. The kid is happy today as he just got into one of the Ivys, don’t ask me, I forget which one, on a full ride piano scholarship.



“Hit this!” Sing demands, proferring the one-r I bought him for Hannukah.



I toke up as my possibly illegitimate son takes off down Wisconsin and turns onto the Beltway. There is nary a car at this hour as we make our way towards FedEx.



Sing Xi’s Buick rolls into the Green Lot around 6:30 am.



“T-minus fourteen-and-a-half hours ‘til kickoff!” I exclaim, to a vacant lot.



Sing does not reply and opens the trunk to fish out his charcoal grill. We eat sausage sandwiches before relaxing on a pair of trashbags we stuff with leaves from the forest behind the stadium. After a four hour nap, we grab Sing’s grass and hot box the port-a-johns adjacent to the Buick. It’s 2 pm and we’re stoned as hell when Sing starts talking about this girl Molly. I say I can’t wait to meet her and Sing laughs in the way that Maury laughs after a bottle of Mad Dog. Maybe I can get on lil’ brother’s show…do a paternity test and find out if it really is true. He has the eyes of a Povich, I can tell ya that much. Nah!



As it turns out, Molly is not a woman at all but in fact a pill that Sing gives me that makes me feel real dandy.



“I feel 45 years old again!” I exclaim licking the sides of the port-a-john.



The main tailgaters get into the lot around 5 pm. It’s at this point that I am jonesing pretty hardcore for the seven layer dip. I only usually make it to the fourth layer but goddammit today is a new day!



Sing’s already picked himself out a cute little birdie and like the Povich he may or may not be, is already in the back of the Buick, balls-deep in some 38 year-old paralegal from Gaithersburg. What a prodigy!



“Is that you Surely?” asks a man.



I turn around and see a familiar face—none other than Chief Justice of the Supreme Court John Roberts.



“Ay, Johnny-boy!” I exclaim, greeting my old friend with a giant bearhug.



“Good to see you,” says John. “I haven’t seen you at a tailgate in a few weeks. I was starting to get worried.”



“I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’m starvin’. You bring food?”



“Of course! Of course!” he says. “How bout you? Did you make the dip?!”



I don’t answer him and instead reach into the front passenger seat and pull up the tinfoil covering Povich’s patented seven layer shitshow. Sing berates me for interrupting but I don’t give a shit and hand him two lambskins.



“I hate you!” Sing screams from the back of the car.



“This dip is the only thing in the world that makes this team palatable,” says the most powerful Judge in the United States.



“What a parking lot Danny-boy has constructed out here in Raljon, eh?” I ask, rubbing a bit between my gums.



It’s around this time that some Niners fans begin coming out of the woodwork and a bunch of them start bein real salty to us, particularly Judge Roberts. Some Pelosi staffer shoots off at the mouth about Citizen’s United and how great tempeh is when Roberts drops his crab cake sandwich and lets him have it right in the gut. Sing gets out of the car and jumps into the scrum and it ends up being a real San Francisco beatdown. This guy will be back in Nancy’s office on Tuesday with a black eye and a whole lotta regret.



After the beating, the three of us play some beer pong and cornhole as Sing does another rail. We’ve made it to the seventh layer! Incredible! I smoke some more of Sing’s grass (way more potent than back in my day) and head inside. Anyways, onto the game.



I refer to FedEx Field as football’s Mecca. I sit in section 436 for free, of course, as Mr. Snyder has been generous enough to grant the Povich family free season tickets for as long as we live. In my section, I’m treated like a king. A real Povich. Sportswriting royalty. I get free reign there and am great at leading all of the chants, the fight song especially.

I should also add that I’ve made it with just about all the broads that come in and out of section 436 but today, the row above me is full of StubHub people and by the end of the first quarter, I’m going at it with some Niners’ fan’s wife in the third stall of the Men’s Bathroom. Life is good.



We get back from the humpfest and I get into it with the husband for a little bit. I buy him a beer and he seems to calm down after the Niners go up double digits. From what I recall, the game got pretty depressing after that. Full discretion, I pretty much just blacked the fuck out after the first quarter, mostly because of the cocaine. That’s why you always need a designated driver who’s a little less fucked up than you are. Thanks again Sing! I owe ya big time!



The ‘Skins are done for the year at three and eight and as we approach the holidays, we must reflect on the season; after all, with a healthy RG3 this team was supposed to be SuperBowl bound. But what will happen next year? Will Coach Shanahan be retained? Will Robert Griffin improve after a lackluster sophomore season? And what of the Redskins name? Will it be changed? Am I Sing Xi’s true father?



Honestly, who the fuck knows. I’M AN OLD MAN! I don’t have many more seasons left to go. All I know is that I am a Povich and will support this team to the bitter end. Hannukah is around the corner. After so many seasons, I have come to embrace the randomness of success in this league. The NFL is one big dreidel spin and this year has been a real Shin. Let’s hope for a Gimel next year. It’s our turn.