There were dozens of reasons I might have never formed a friendship with Rick Snider. I worked on the team side, while he sat on the beat. When he was reporting on the move out of RFK Stadium, I was on the other side of the country taking my first steps. As someone who doesn't eat gluten, I couldn't connect with him over his deep, nuanced love of pizza.
Our interest in the history of Washington football superseded it all. When I talked to our football PR department about starting a historical podcast nearly two years ago, Rick was the first person they suggested I connect with. In our first meeting, he was funny. His passion and expertise were apparent. Most of all, he was kind. Rick made me feel like what I was trying to create was important and, coming from a guy who had covered the team for over 40 years, it meant everything to have that little boost at the time.
The stories he told me that day and all the other days after dropped my jaw ("There are fans ashes spread over there!") and made me laugh ("They used to cater McDonalds to the cafeteria"). If it was an open practice day and I got a "come out to recess" or "you late for work??" text, I knew I was about to go to school.
Like learning any kind of history helps us understand where we are now, Rick's knowledge gave important context to the Washington football world in which I operate. His enthusiasm for team history fueled my own, and the unique details of his tales made me want to be a more scrupulous, thoughtful researcher and writer.
Nestled in between tidbits about journalism and reflections on training camp "in the old days," Rick -- in ways he maybe knew and maybe didn't -- shared lessons that went deeper than work and football. I remember when he learned I was getting married. I was vague with answers to his questions to avoid saying I was marrying a woman. I had made assumptions about him and about beliefs he might hold. I was wrong. Don't judge a book by its cover, as the old saying goes.
Perhaps the biggest piece of wisdom I gleaned from Rick was imparted during that first meeting several months ago. Kindness can make a serious impact. Rick showed me the importance of lifting others. This text from last summer I believe captures his intentionality around that value:
"Following up on this morning, I can see your soul in the writing. Maybe 1% of writers around sports do that and they always move on to bigger things. Keep your eyes open cause people won't truly appreciate you at our level."
After responding with my gratitude, he replied:
"You're welcome. My role now is village elder, especially in a business that fired everyone over 50 in the pandemic. I've been a beat writer and top dog, but now I'm an old columnist who hopefully helps a few young writers before fading away."
Rick's legacy will not fade. For me, carrying it forward will show up in sharing a random historical fact with a co-worker and digging up a good story. It'll be there in a compliment given to someone figuring out their path.
Thank you for all you were and all you taught me, my friend. Rest in peace.
