D.C. loves Bryce. Since his arrival, Washington’s yearly attendance has averaged roughly 2.5 million. In all that time, I cannot recall a single instance of him being booed (unless you count fans for the visiting team). Bryce will never feel that lasting, warm embrace in fickle New York or even the friendly confines.

He’s a foodie. He doesn’t strike me as someone who eats to live, but rather lives to eat. Why else would someone start their own food blog? The D.C. restaurant scene is burgeoning. This year, two more area restaurants received Michelin stars, joining the eight others already deemed star-worthy. Oh, and let’s not forget the three restaurants that boast two-star status!

How much money does he need? The fictional Forrest Gump said it best: “Momma said there’s only so much fortune a man really needs and the rest is just for showing off.” Call it a gut feeling, but I think Bryce is not entirely motivated by the almighty dollar. I believe if the Nationals make a fair, and I underline fair, offer, Bryce will stay.

Besides, the future is bright for the Nats! Adam Eaton is returning from the DL. Victor Robles shows incredible promise and is likely to be on the big-league roster in 2018. Trea Turner’s potential has barely been realized. Max Scherzer and Stephen Strasburg are signed to long-term deals.

And finally, Bryce is a traditionalist, a student of the game. Early in his career, he was quoted as saying I think he’ll prove to be a man of his word.

In a 2012 interview with The Washington Post, he’s quoted as saying, “You look at Cal Ripken. You look at Derek Jeter. You look at all the greats that played for one team their whole career … I want to be like that. I’ve always wanted to be like that. I’ve always wanted to play with that same team.”

“Having a community and fans like we do in D.C. that love our players, love everything about us, we deserve to give something back to them,” he added. “I want to do that. I don’t want to do anything else.”

I believe him.

The case for the…

Chicago Cubs | Los Angeles Dodgers | New York Yankees | St. Louis Cardinals

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In 1979, I was the perfect mixture of perceived invincibility and real ignorance. That was the year the D.C. area got socked by a surprise Presidents Day snowstorm and the first of many years I would spend risking my neck on the dangerous hill of .

This was no ordinary hill. It was not for kids. It was not for sleds without steering. Every run had numerous built-in risks: moguls, a tree in the middle of the hill and a dangerous jump at the bottom. It was not safe.

Don’t get me wrong. There was a kid’s hill over to the left. You had to go halfway down the hill to get where the kids would sled with their parents watching carefully. It was safe.

For me and my pals it wasn’t enough to tackle this formidable hill in the daylight; we chose to make our high-speed runs by moonlight.

Allow me to explain what a full Battery Kemble run was like back then. At the top of the hill, a huge fire burned. Among its embers, the burned wooden remnants of all the Flexible Flyers whose runners buckled from the impact of Battery Kemble’s moguls.

I will not lie. Even at that young age, there were some among us who sought courage from the bottle.

I should mention one more thing. Because of the heavy snowfall, a slight thaw and then a hard freeze, the hill was pure ICE!

The idea was to get a running start (about 15 yards) and then leap into the air so that you had maximum speed when your runners first made contact with the ice.

The first part of the hill was all moguls. The descent was steep and there were about eight moguls. This made for a bone-jarring, bouncy first 50 yards.

After that, if your sled was still intact, you could enjoy a couple seconds of serenity as the hill flattened for 20 yards or so. Watch out for the large tree in the middle! Then came the real drop.

The next 150 yards were all steep downhill. I don’t know how fast we were going at this point, but I do know that wiping out would have hurt — a lot.

As you approached the bottom of the hill you had two choices.

Avoid a makeshift “jump” and safely proceed for about a quarter of a mile deep into the park on a path wide enough for only one sled. It was like the glide to a halt after a roller-coaster ride and was peaceful chance to catch one’s breath. It was also fun to see who could go the farthest without any additional effort.

The more dangerous option was to go over the “jump.”  Hit the jump just right and you would catch some serious air. This option also required steering hard while in the air, so that when you hit the ground (usually pretty hard) you could steer toward the park trail. Failure meant finding yourself crashing into a tangle of gnarly branches and eventually sliding down into the frozen creek. Success meant the same peaceful ride down the park trail.

The walk back up the hill was an epic journey. The hill was pure ice, which meant tenuous footing and using your sled as a pick-axe of sorts. You also had to dodge the other daredevils coming downhill. After 20 minutes or so of trekking back uphill, it was time to share all the details of your ride with anyone in earshot willing to listen. Then a few swills of liquid courage and another run.

Just to make things a little more dangerous, sometimes we would have four or five of us racing! Anything goes … including grabbing someone else’s sled and throwing them off course. What were we thinking?!

One time I went off course and plowed full speed into a three-foot wall of snow that I could not see in the moonlight. The sled wedged into the drift. My head hit the wall and my momentum caused me to do a flip high into the air. I could have broken my neck. I might have had a concussion. I landed light as a feather in heavy snow flat on my back … safe.

Flash forward 25 years. I’m in my 40s and we’re going to revisit the hill of my youth after a heavy snowstorm — this time professionally, on the clock, with no booze for bravery. I’m enlisting ĂŰĚŇĘÓƵapp reporter Brennan Haselton to do a story on what I consider the ultimate sledding hill in the D.C. area.

The recorded story was fine. It was fun. But the headline for me was my one ride down the hill.

This was my chance to relive my youth. I still had the same Flexy Flyer from my teenage years (they don’t build them today like they used to).

The difference? This time it was daylight. I did not get a running start and I did not get airborne. The awful truth is that the 40-something me dragged his boots almost the whole way down in an effort to slow down the ride. When I got off the sled, the toes of both my boots were worn thin and I came to a sobering realization: I no longer thought myself invincible, but I did think myself smarter.

Flash forward again to the present day. I still have the sled. The boots I had to throw away. As I stare at the window at the snowfall from our recent storm, I realize either Battery Kemble has become a spectator sport for me or I need to buy some new boots before my next ride … and some booze.

This hill ain’t for the light of heart. But for you thrill-seekers and sledding connoisseurs out there, it’s definitely worth the trip to Northwest D.C. So, if you get the chance before this snow melts, try it out. And then, let me know: Did you decide to drag your boots or pick those feet up and go on the ride of your life?

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WASHINGTON — Playoff baseball was finally back in the Nation’s Capital.

This incarnation of Major League Baseball in Washington D.C. was an infant by most people’s standards. It was only born in 2005 and was already going to the playoffs in 2012.

I planned to go to every home game possible, however many there would be (through a weird, one-time only quirk in scheduling the series would start with two games in St. Louis, then finish with the final three in D.C.).

I bought “standing room only” tickets and considered them a bargain at 50 bucks a pop.

Game 3 was a blowout. I will not waste another word.

Game 4 became an elimination game with the irritating Cardinals up 2 games to 1 in the best of 5 series.

It took some hunting, cunning and patience, but me and my two buddies finally found a good spot up the first baseline to camp out. We even had a perch for our food and beer. This was about as good as “standing room” can be.

Ross Detwiler (arguably our weakest starter) was on the mound. Stephen Strasburg (arguably our best pitcher) wasn’t even on the postseason roster.

Things started well. Adam LaRoche homered in the second inning. But the Cards matched that run in the top of the third on a sac fly by Carlos Beltran.

And then the tension set in.

Casual baseball fans cannot appreciate the slow heartburn and stomach knots that form over the course of a 1-1 ballgame. Make it a playoff elimination game and the effects are magnified.

In playoff elimination games, everyone is available. But I think manager Davey Johnson caught everyone off-guard when he brought in Game 2 starter Jordan Zimmermann to pitch the seventh inning. It was the first time in Zimmermann’s career that he would be called upon to pitch in relief.

The righty had been rocked for five runs in just three innings in Game 2 three days earlier, but threw only 63 pitches. Besides, this would be his normal day to throw on the side.

The move still seemed risky. But Zimmermann’s performance was sublime. He struck out the side on 12 pitches, each strike raising the decibel level of the crowd with his final effort lighting the radar gun aflame at 97 mph.

In a game so memorable in Washington Nationals lore, that moment is overlooked. And I believe shifted the delicate momentum of the game in the Nationals’ favor.

Zimmermann bridged the gap to the one-two punch of Tyler Clippard and Drew Storen. Clippard struck out the side in the eighth and Storen shut down the Cards in the ninth. When all was said and done, the Nationals’ bullpen had struck out eight batters in three innings to keep the score level.

Then came the bottom of the ninth. Jayson Werth strode to the plate, with flamethrower Lance Lynn on the mound. Lynn got two quick strikes on Werth, but could not finish him off. Foul, after foul, after foul, after foul … it would turn into a marathon at-bat. Between defensive swings to stay alive, Werth showed his keen eye, letting offerings off the plate pass. Eventually, he worked the count full.

Let me pause for a moment and take you to the bottom of the 13^th inning of the Nationals’ game against the Reds on Friday the 13^th of April of that same year. Jayson Werth singled with the bases-loaded for a walk-off win. I know, because I was there.

Now, I ain’t superstitious, but I was born on the 13^th and I’ve always considered 13 my lucky number.

Back to the bottom of the ninth. , Werth said deep into his at-bat he stepped out and looked at the scoreboard and saw that the pitch count was already at 12 and had to do a double-take to make sure that was correct.

Any avid baseball fan knows what comes next. Werth rocks pitch number 13 out of the ballpark and into the Cardinals’ bullpen. Right hand raised in triumph. Helmet flip. Giant leap. Mob scene at the plate. Pandemonium in the stands.

No one wanted to leave. The explosion of collective hysteria slowly waned into a loud, sustained buzz. After about 15 minutes, fans reluctantly turned their backs on the field and trudged into the stadium’s guts.

And this is where the party raged on. I have never high-fived and chest-bumped so many strangers.

I’m no fan of The Bullpen, the beer garden across the street from the center field gates, but that night we followed the throng into that cramped parking lot with its plywood bar stands and line of porta-potties to get our fill of crappy, $10 beer.

Standing in that dingy parking lot was better than sitting on any leather bar stool in the city. The air that night was sweeter than any ocean breeze. Everyone wearing Nats gear was my best friend, and the cheap beer tasted like Champagne.

The party would go on well into the night and all the details cannot be revealed.

I’ll never forget that game for as long as I live, and my liver will never forgive me for the postgame celebration.

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