Moseley Getting the Boot Was Inevitable

The firing of Mark Moseley was the inevitable final scene in the play that began in last November’s Monday night Redskins-Giants game, a watershed in the careers of the Redskins’ most celebrated players: Moseley, John Riggins and Joe Theismann.

That was the beginning of the end for each of them. Theismann went out in a heap, his right leg gruesomely tangled. For Riggins and Moseley the foreshadows were less dramatic, but no less symbolic: Riggins, having fumbled twice, zipped up a red nylon windbreaker and watched the Redskins nurse a two-point lead with Keith Griffin running the Riggo Drill; Moseley, having missed an extra point to jeopardize the lead, stood on the sideline in lonely anguish.

All three are gone, each one cut from the team. Riggins, Theismann and now, finally, Moseley. When you toss someone away like this in midseason, like some downed, splintered branch after a thunderstorm, you’re telling him in the most specific, personal way possible: It’s you we don’t want. Go away.

And the lesson in this, of course, is that professional sports is--first, last and always--a business: This isn’t high school. You’re not out there on your own time. We’re paying you to perform a particular task. When you can’t do it, you’re gone.

Isn’t that--the conflicting emotional tug between personal loyalty and organizational purpose--what Joe Gibbs was trying to balance when he opened a door to tell reporters how much he appreciated Moseley, even as Mosley was standing there? Gibbs had just cut him. And Moseley would stay cut. That’s business. But what of the family? That’s real life.

Gibbs was Moseley’s staunchest ally in the Redskins’ upper management. Jack Kent Cooke hadn’t been enamored of Moseley since 1983 when Moseley filed a grievance against the Redskins over the interpretation of a bonus clause in his contract, which Moseley claimed awarded him the bonus each successive time he added on to his NFL consecutive field goal record. It had to be particularly hard for Gibbs to cut Moseley; Moseley kicked Gibbs to the Super Bowl. Perhaps in appreciation Gibbs had allowed Moseley to become a luxury on today’s NFL roster--a kicker who doesn’t do kickoffs or long-range field goals.

Moseley closed last year missing 8 of his final 15 field goal attempts. This year, Moseley not only had missed five of his last six, but four of five from 40 yards and out. The Redskins already preferred Steve Cox from 50 and out. (Moseley thought he was the kicker up to 52 yards, but was informed before the Dallas game that the boundary had shrunk to 50.) So if, as it appeared, Moseley’s accurate range had dwindled into the 30s, when could the Redskins unhesitatingly call on him other than when they had driven almost inside their opponent’s 20-yard line, virtually to the goal mouth? And here he was missing extra points! Moseley became a luxury even Gibbs couldn’t afford.

The end came ingloriously, with Moseley maintaining he still can kick, and the Redskins replacing him with another Zendejas: Max, cousin of Tony, whom the Redskins had hoped would bump off Moseley two camps ago. (Had Cox been able to kick accurately from anywhere inside the Beltway, Moseley would have been cut before this season began.) The Redskins probably would have been wiser cutting Moseley and keeping Tony Zendejas in 1985; Zendejas moved on to Houston where he hit 21 of 27 last year, and eight of 10 this year. But Moseley clearly defeated Zendejas in camp, a duel that served as a microcosmic look at Moseley’s tungsten will and his ability to gather himself against all odds.

With the power of incumbency at his back, Moseley came to camp physically and psychologically ready to do combat. And he rose to the challenge, breaking Zendejas’ spirit, sending him off to Houston like a spanked child. Moseley repeatedly found great strength in the crucible. In 1980, when he was in a two-for-10 slump, and yahoos were screaming for his head, he vowed, “I’ll be back, and they’ll all go through the middle.” The next game, he hit five field goals.

Until recently, Moseley was a supremely confident kicker. “I never go out there,” he often said, “thinking anything other than I can make it.” As terrifying as attempting that long, last-second field goal can be, Moseley burned for the chance. They never had to send a search party for him with the game on the line; he was out there. Although some of his teammates thought he was self-absorbed, there wasn’t a Redskin who ever played with Moseley who didn’t believe he would deliver three points. He was a gamer, like Theismann and Riggins, who also were more respected than beloved.

Cut twice before he came to the Redskins, challenged year after year while here, Moseley’s is an inspiring story because it speaks to a man’s indomitable spirit and the instinct to survive. He thrived in football because he wouldn’t take no for an answer--which explains why he chose to be cut rather than retire. He had surfaced so many times before. Why wouldn’t he surface again?

Age finally may have caught up to him. No matter how many pairs of socks he wears, they may not be enough; the magic may be gone. So if this is the last we see of him, let us remember that in his den there is a photograph of a football he once kicked--frozen forever at the precise moment it split the raised arms of the goalpost. And let us think of it as a cathedral to Mark Moseley’s artistry.