By Eddie Matz

Friday, October 24, 2008

It's lunchtime on a cloudy June Thursday in Northern Virginia, and Chris Cooley is famished. Sporting a black Guns N' Roses T-shirt, flip-flops and a springy maze of blond-and-brown locks that resembles a giant bird's nest, the 24-year-old bounds out of Redskins Park. "Aw, f-!" he screams, patting the pockets of his army-green cargo shorts. "I left my car keys in my locker." As he heads back inside, the woman at the front desk barely acknowledges him. That's because the Skins' boisterous tight ...

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