There was relief. There was delirium. There was exaltation. There was exhalation. There were exclamation marks, and profanity, and hugs, and at least one dude who sent me a photo of vodka next to a sneaker, evidently with the intention of drinking said vodka out of said sneaker.
My wife, a D.C. sports fan, said there should be a parade, and she was sort of joking, but sort of not, because we all haven’t had terribly many chances for that sort of civic celebration that marks a communal sporting accomplishment, if I can use the royal we loosely for a second. There won’t be a parade, and there won’t be a spontaneous gathering at the White House or on M Street or at 14th and U, because we don’t exactly have the perfect spot for a gathering like that. Something we probably have to think about in the next few weeks, if I’m being honest.
But barring all that, we had this: a community of long-suffering sports fans celebrating, together, at home and with friends and on the internet. With a lot of exclamation marks. And profanity.