I moved up to New England in January of 2007, after living in New York City for about six years, and let me tell you, the Monkey in My Mind wants me to jump up on on the bandwagon that is New England sports in 2007. What a time to move here if you’re into the game: the Patriots are currently undefeated, the Red Sox seem to have put the curse behind them for good, the Celtics own the best record in the NBA, and Boston College is in the mix over at the BCS, ranked 11th in the nation.

Like the Monkey, my wife, who was raised in the Boston area, often wonders why I don’t just adopt the Boston teams and abandon the frustrating lot in life that is being a fan of a losing ball club. I mentioned I moved here from New York, but prior to that I was an army officer stationed in Vicenza, Italy, and before that, an Army brat growing up all over the map.

And yet, during those globetrotting years, I forged a connection with a professional sports franchise that endures until this day.

And it all began with a lunchbox.

Burgundy in color, trimmed with gold and white piping, and emblazoned with a logo depicting the mug of a stern-looking Native American. I’m talking about the Washington Redskins and I carried that lunchbox every day to school during the late 70’s, defiantly enduring the ridicule of my school chums, who were all aboard the crowded Dallas and Pittsburgh bandwagons and couldn’t understand my steadfast loyalty to a team that wasn’t a contender.

Later, when my dad was reassigned to the Pentagon, I got to marry my love for the Skins with bonafide success on the field, as they won their first Superbowl during our first year in the DC area. If I had any doubts about my loyalty to the Skins during the lean years, the deal was definitely sealed when my brother and I took the day off school to attend the Redskins Victory Parade in Washington, DC.

Nearly a quarter century later, I am still that little boy who marveled at The Riggo shaking off a Miami defender enroute to the go-ahead touchdown in Superbowl XVII, even when the local boys are killing my team, like the Patriots did 52-7 back in Week 8.

Recently the Monkey has insisted that I flirt with the possibility of dropping my beloved Redskins, squawking, “What have they done for you lately? Look at the handsome Tom Brady, the evil-genius coach, and the long-armed Randy Moss. Wouldn’t you rather cheer for a winner? Your Sundays will be yours again!”

No kidding, my wife literally rolled over the in the middle of the night last night, knowing the Monkey was playing reruns of the Redskins latest heartbreaker, mumbling, “You really should at least think about becoming a Patriots fan,” before trotting down the hallway to retrieve our crying one-year old.

I awoke this morning and told my wife (and the Monkey) that my loyalty to theRedskins reflects my loyalties in my personal life. My loyalty to my beloved. My loyalty to my daughter. My loyalty to my values.

My relationship to the team that I love is a lot like my relationship to people whom I love. I might get frustrated. I might get angry. They might let me down and I might do the same. But I’ll always be there. Sometimes defiantly, sometimes petulantly, sometimes suspiciously, sometimes reluctantly, I’ll be there. With my burgundy ball cap.