For Redskins' Fletcher, a Stubborn Streak

When this happens -- and it has happened more than once this fall -- Fletcher nods. He understands.

Still, he worries. This is something his coaches over the years have noticed. The all-consuming quest to be perfect, to show he can do every single thing right, leads him to fret when he makes mistakes. He takes personally another linebacker's failure to be in the right place. This he sees as his fault. When too many of his teammates make mistakes, he admits he won't sleep well the night after the game -- which is why he is so obsessed with his own performance and why he is forever chasing the perfect grade from a coach. And it is why he can still remember every detail of the play that day years ago with the Rams when he received a minus from Smith for pursuing the ballcarrier from the back instead of the front.

It is also how he knew the moment he ran from the back instead of the front that he had done the wrong thing. And that even if the play did work out in the Rams' favor, he nonetheless was bothered the rest of the day by the nagging knowledge that his choice could have led to disaster.

Two weeks ago, with his foot aching, Fletcher, a religious man, asked two teammates to pray over the foot. They obliged. He was becoming anxious. There was a certain professional pride in playing every game of his career, of having a streak of 131 straight starts over 11 seasons. This, too, was part of the perfection.

Then one night, his wife, Charne, watched him working a home treatment on his foot for one of the half-dozen times that week and she said, "It might not be in the Lord's plan to let you play this week."

Fletcher stopped. He had pushed so hard in his chase of perfection, his careful building of his streak that he never pondered how they would collide with his religious beliefs.

"She kind of set me straight," he said. "I had to humble myself a bit."

The streak was forgotten. He made up his mind. He would play last Sunday only if he really, truly could. He wouldn't lie. He wouldn't push something he couldn't do.

Not that it mattered as the game grew closer and the field almost seemed to call to him. He pulled on his uniform, tied his shoes, ran across the wet grass and filed the ensuing pain somewhere else in his mind. He would pay for this on Monday with another week of treatments five times a day. But it was worth it.

He wasn't about to miss a football game.