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Awaiting the jackpot

<p>This year's Washington Nationals gave us renewed hope for a D.C. winner—and then lost their first two games to San Francisco. Still, columnist Daniel Weltz won't renounce his District fandom. He's hopelessly hooked. </p><p>. </p>

This year's Washington Nationals gave us renewed hope for a D.C. winner—and then lost their first two games to San Francisco. Still, columnist Daniel Weltz won't renounce his District fandom. He's hopelessly hooked. 

If an unhealthy addiction is defined as an irrational fixation on something which is objectively not worth the trouble, then tie me to a chair, send in the shrinks and let the intervention begin. I have a problem.

For the past 13 years, I have invested heavily in a cause so foolish that Bernie Madoff would cringe and say, “Don't fall for that scam!” — if he could give life advice from prison, that is. Because even the infamous financial sham artist would be outraged by the amount of resources I have poured into an enterprise with such feeble returns. I am speaking, of course, of my obsession with Washington sports teams — the “our name is a slur” Redskins, the “what starts with 'W'" Wizards and the “let's not get too creative” Nationals and Capitals.

All four have provided a misleading hint of potential these past few years. The Capitals were perennial playoff contenders, but choked when it mattered most. The Redskins boasted one of the most electric players in the game, only to find getting mauled by 300-pound linebackers 25 times a game was unsustainable. The Wizards appear to be making strides, but the fact that a middle-of-the-pack 2014 finish was their second best in 35 years speaks to just how atrocious they routinely are.

But my vitriol in this column will be directed at the Washington Nationals. By the time this column is published, the team will either be eliminated or will have delayed its seemingly inevitable exit for at least a few more hours. Matt Williams may want to plan on a Monday elimination. That way, the local media will need to divert some of its criticism to Jay Gruden and what I can only guess will be a 77-3 beatdown by defending Super Bowl champion Seattle that same night (would that cover the spread?).

For a team so utterly dominant — the Nationals have had the best record in their league twice in the past three years — two October meltdowns would make any skeptic believe in the “clutch gene” or the “jitters theory,” or whatever it is called these days.

They have not just faltered in the only month that truly matters. They have done so in ways so utterly uncharacteristic and at times unbelievable that it can't be entirely attributed to a small sample size.

Drew Storen blew a second consecutive postseason save Saturday night, cost Jordan Zimmermann a win for the ages and again threatened to derail a once-promising season. The awful encore took the “redemption” narrative that journalists have been pitching and smashed it with authority, just as Pablo Sandoval did to Storen's fastball for the game-tying hit with two outs in the ninth. But Storen wasn't the only one who shrank under pressure. The team's offense, which was second in the league in runs scored in the second half, has now scored three runs in its first 27 postseason innings.

In their past three playoff games, the Nationals have tortured District sports fans more than some Washington teams have in decades. They have done so by creating a sense of false hope. This current collection of Nationals is so utterly likeable and supremely talented that they seem like the exception to the rule that Washington sports teams don't win championships. They engendered belief locally that maybe, just maybe, this team would be different. By all accounts, it hasn’t been.

No Washington team in the four major American professional sports has been different since 1991, when the Redskins claimed the city's last title. That was two years before I was born. Yet like the insatiable addict, the knowledge that the ultimate payoff has been not elusive but utterly unattainable has not deterred my fanaticism. It has hardened my resolve. That I am aware of this fact but lack the motivation to alter my behavior is not a feather in my cap; it is a cry for help.

The relationship I have with my local sports teams can best be compared to the relationship an avid roulette player has to the spinning wheel. Both of us know that the odds are stacked against us, that the chances of hitting the jackpot are remote and that we have no control over the outcome. But both of us are suckered in by the obscure possibility of a grand payout.

We both have full faith that the most unlikely of outcomes is imminent. As each game spins forward as a gaudy, elaborate tease, optimism peaks just before crushing reality hits home. Then we lament our bad fortune and play again. Invest. Hope. Lose. Despair. Repeat. The vicious cycle has no end.

The devious juxtaposition of belief and disappointment maintains the illusion that the jackpot is always right around the corner, a season or a single spin away. It is this misguided optimism which keeps the casino buzzing and fans pushing through the turnstiles, an ageless act that generates profit for the mogul and heartache for the patron.

I wish I could say admitting I have a problem puts me on the fast track to recovery. But recognizing an addiction is not always enough to overcome it. Like a gambler trying to earn back lost chips, I am loath to take my money off the table when I am so clearly due for a big payday.

So if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch game three. Yes, we've hit some rotten luck so far. But a fortunes-turning title could be just 11 games away. The championship seems so close.

And besides — like all Washington sports fans, I have a pretty good feeling about red.

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