How do you beat Eli Manning and Joe Flacco and their defenses once, Tony Romo twice and not lose with a rookie backup quarterback starting in relief? Without Kirk Cousins, the magic of Sunday night never happens.
How did Mike Shanahan, at a forgettable 14-27 more than halfway through his five-year contract two months ago, reel off seven straight victories and become the first coach since Tom Coughlin with Jacksonville in 1996 to take a team that started 3-6 to the NFL postseason?
Redskins running back Alfred Morris talks about giving back to the community at a charity drive at FedEx Field.
Really, how is a guy in a Santa Claus suit, Riggo jersey and dangling cigarette right now begging, between puffs, for a sixth-round draft pick’s autograph in the FedEx Field parking lot at 12:20 a.m. on Dec. 31?
Let’s be clear: Two months ago, the Redskins were RGIII and little else. Overriding theme? Shanahan got it right with Griffin but by surrendering so many picks it would be several years before Washington could draft enough quality talent to put around its star. And would the architect even be around to reap the reward of his patient build?
This is one of the more memorable in-season comebacks in not merely Washington but all of recent American sports. It’s a remarkable turnaround from the vantage point of everyone, including the longest-tenured Redskin.
“Since I’ve played here, I haven’t been part of a culture that thought they were going to win a football game every single week — a part of a team that said, ‘It’s about us this week,’ ” Chris Cooley says. “Obviously, we’ve prepared for everyone else. And we’ve prepared for each game. But we’re into [this] with the feeling, ‘It’s about us.’ And that’s the first time I’ve ever felt that.”
Meantime, Morris is still looking for his people in the parking lot.
As he scanned the scene, he kept signing, smiling for pictures. He stood there in a purple gingham button-down shirt, turquoise designer headphones around his neck, purple-suede Toms Cordone shoes and a gray backpack in tow — but still no jacket.
“Great game, baby!”
It was 12:27 a.m. when another fan recognized him. A crowd went from three to seven to 10 to 20 and then two dozen in a matter of two minutes.
As Alfred Morris kept signing it became clear he didn’t walk out into the biting wind and cold Sunday night; he walked into the warmth of his own dream, into the middle of already the most gratifying, majestic season around here in 21 years.
“It’s past my bedtime,” he says. “I’m tired.”
Might as well stay up, kid, for nothing you could imagine asleep could possibly be better.
For previous Mike Wise columns, go to washingtonpost.com/wise.
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