An Insider's View

It has been 25 years since I was in Anacostia and the area along the river by RFK stadium. I used to walk the neighborhood with a medical bag making house calls to impoverished home-bound people. I remember a Catholic University law student once asked me if I was “too young or too stupid" to be afraid of the ghetto. The answer was neither. I had a healthy respect for Anacostia’s challenges. Apparently so did my patients. The first time I called on a patient I was surprised to find the elderly woman in bed, wizened and small, and flanked by two hefty men in their mid 20s. She informed me that they were her grandsons and they would walk me to my next appointment. A couple of blocks over I was left in the hands of another big man who was my patient’s nephew. He handed me off to a man and a woman on my final visit and they accompanied me back to my car. Unlike the burly men who walked with me earlier in the day, they were slightly built. They made up for their lack of size by being armed and they were quick to let me and others know it. I thanked them for their consideration as I got into my car and they shrugged. “We need you to come back,” the woman said, “This is how we make sure you do.” It was a simple system. Each time I made a house call there was a security detail present that made sure I made it safely to the next patient. The walk between visits was usually short but long enough for conversation. And as you know, I love conversation!

So what does an Irish Catholic New Englander talk about to an Inner City Zion Methodist? The answer: the latest events at RFK. The stadium stood on the margins of the ghetto and served as a constant reminder to the residents around it of unattainable affluence. Baseball had left the city a decade before, but the NFL still had a solid presence. This meant that we often talked about Joe Theismann and the Redskins. Along with an interest in Theismann, my body guards and I also had another thing in common: none of us could afford a ticket to see him play in person. When we walked past the stadium we talked about what we had heard it was like inside or what we had seen of it on television. None of us had actually been past the main gate.

Twenty five years later, I finally made it inside. The neighborhood around RFK Stadium has gentrified. A security detail is unnecessary. The row houses are meticulously kept with manicured gardens that beckon you. Expensive cars line the streets. The wizened old lady and her grandsons are gone. Now the stadium is neglected rather than the houses it towers over. It no longer mocks the struggles of the people who live in it's shadow with a glimpse of wealth on game day. To the contrary, the neighborhood’s wealth mocks the impoverished stadium. The Redskins left years ago. The Nationals will move out next year to a brand new ball field. The stadium is tired and shows its age, but that doesn’t matter to me as I approach the main gate.

A voice in my head shouts, “I’m going inside! I’m going inside!” A louder voice drowns it out with, "PROGRAMS! Getcher PROOOO...GRAMS!" As my ticket is scanned I have two things on my mind. First, to find the bathroom. Second, to find the beer guy. From there I will work my way out into the sunshine and find my seat. Soon it will be time to play ball! But first things first...

Tomorrow: The view from inside.
Slainte!