Why NFL Great George Starke Knew How to Reach the DC Kids Everyone Gave Up On

From Cut to Captain

I was the leader of the Hogs — the offensive line that carried the Redskins to back-to-back Super Bowls.

My career started with rejection. Drafted in the 11th round in 1971 by the Redskins, cut two weeks into training camp.

Headed west to Kansas City, fought through camp with the Chiefs, made the squad — until Hank Stram made me the last cut before the season started.

In ’72, I went to Thousand Oaks to chase a shot with the Cowboys. Six weeks later, I was gone again.

Then, unexpectedly, the Redskins reached out. Sometimes the road turns in a way you didn’t expect, and you follow it.

A year later, I cracked the Redskins roster. Started on the taxi squad, worked my way up, and by mid-’73, I was starting at right tackle.

I was part of George Allen’s “Over the Hill Gang.” By ’79, under Jack Pardee, I was offensive captain. In ’81, a young crew of linemen formed. They became “The Hogs.” I was ten years older, and they called me the “Head Hog.” Funny thing about football — you keep showing up, and suddenly you’re the old guy in charge.

I played in three Super Bowls — won one, lost two. I retired in ’85 during camp. You work long enough at something, you learn when to step away.

Life throws you away sometimes — and sometimes it throws you back. My career was built on second chances. Moral? Don’t quit.

Life After the Hogs

When I retired in September ’85, I went from Redskins captain to hosting PM Magazine and Redskins Saturday Night with Pete Wysocki. Then came Hometeam Sports, ESPN college games, and CBS NFL broadcasts with James Brown.

Redskins Saturday Night won several local Emmys. In ’89, I launched Head Hog Premium Beer which turned into Head Hog BBQ.

Then I opened a Ford dealership. Selling cars showed me the bigger problem — there weren’t enough trained mechanics in D.C. Too many young men were headed for prison instead of a paycheck.

By ’96, I’d had enough of watching kids get written off as criminals when the truth was, they were unemployable.

When Guns Turned to Wrenches

Kids in D.C. couldn’t read, so they couldn’t work, so they hustled.

If you can strip a car in five minutes, you can fix one. Guns to wrenches — that was the plan.

I opened the Excel Institute. Two years of learning, living skills, and auto tech. No one paid a dime. If you wanted in and were over sixteen, you got in. In 2010 I left after more than 500 graduates.

Inside the Street Code

I understood the mindset of these young men. Crime isn’t the exception; it’s the way of life.

The only way to win is to claim what’s yours, no matter the cost.

You have to be fast. You don’t think, you act. You walk the streets. There’s tension like a fight waiting to happen. Life doesn’t wait. You either take what’s there, or you get nothing.

In the alleys and under streetlights, you learn respect doesn’t come from kindness, but fear, from the ability to take what you want and to leave nothing behind.

Prison or Power?

It’s not about the car. It’s the power, the control, the sense of being above the law. Power is fleeting.

In this world, you don’t rise. You either sink or fight to the top.

Carjackings happen in an instant. It’s not personal. Sometimes, it goes further. A quick flash of a weapon, a life taken. The law is a distant thought; getting caught is a roll of the dice.

It’s not about the car. It’s the power, the control, the sense of being above the law. It’s a commodity in a world where everything feels out of reach. For the young thief, the repercussions loom — maybe the police will chase, maybe he’ll get caught. But he’s numb to risk. In the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t about survival; it’s power. And power is fleeting.

The streets are rough. The car’s there, the gun’s in your hand, just do it.  If you get caught, there’s a concrete room waiting for you.

You rob someone, carjack them, kill them— the more you do it, the less you care about consequences.

You live in a world where violence feels like the only way to make something of yourself. Carjackings are just the start.  You steal what you need, hurt those in your way.

A Wrench Instead of a Glock

I knew this world. I’d seen it in my own neighborhood. I’d built a house in Columbia Heights during my playing years — my sanctuary.

In Columbia Heights, young men had their own kind of education — stealing cars, breaking into them, learning a trade that led to prison.

I sold cars but couldn’t find enough men to fix them. The answer was simple and human, and in my heart I knew it would work because people can surprise you if you let them – hand them a wrench instead of a Glock.

I built the Excel Institute. I took kids who couldn’t read, couldn’t write, never had a steady schedule. I told them: “I’ll give you $80,000 worth of training, literacy, a skill, and a shot at a real future.

Fixing More Than Engines

Here’s the funny thing about teaching kids to fix cars — the real challenge isn’t fixing the cars. It’s getting them to show up on time.

You can teach a man to fix a car in months, but to teach him to respect the clock takes years.

That’s why I made it the rule — no absences, no lateness. If you can master a clock, you can master a carburetor.

One’s just a machine. The other’s your life.

It wasn’t just about fixing engines. It was about fixing habits.

The One Real Choice

Kids aren’t born carjackers. They’re made that way by poverty, bad schools, no options. Throw in drugs — to numb the pain or make a buck —you’ve got a perfect factory for future inmates.

Parents gone, schools failing, nothing but bad choices around them. I thought if I could give them one good choice —they’d take it.

I’d tell them: You think you’re a big shot slinging weed or coke? You’re just another sucker in somebody’s pyramid scheme. You want to be a boss? Learn how to fix a damn engine. Then you’re in control of your paycheck and your life.

And with DC erupting in crime –I want to suggest it again for anyone who dares: Guns to wrenches.

George Starke

George Starke

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