Excerpts from Overtime of the NFC title game and its aftermath10:04 PM: Pack win Coin Toss, I draw up plays in the sandbox we had installed on the sideline
10:05 PM: I take another pill with a shot of Jack for good luck before heading out to the huddle
10:06 PM: Man, I can’t feel my face.
10:08 PM: SIXTY SLANT RIGHT *yawn*
10:09 PM: It’s alright, it’s alright. The Giants aren’t gonna march downfield on us. Besides, how can I be disappointed with all this serotonin artificially pumping into my brain?
10:13 PM: Deanna, cancel my plane to Phoenix.
10:14 PM: I go to shake Eli’s hand, but Corey Webster cuts off my path
10:17 PM: Back in the locker room, I shake the hands of my great offensive linemen and invite all of them to come pig ropin’ down Miss’ippi way in the offseason. Nobody RSVPed just yet.
10:19 PM: That hack McCarthy questions my decision making in the 4th quarter and Overtime. I told him if he had a moustache and glasses like a real coach, we’d have gone 18-0 and be 20 point favorites over the Pats.
10:24 PM: I went into the Giants’ locker room to congratulate Tom Coughlin on the win. I sneak out with a few bottles of champagne. Don’t think anyone saw me.
10:26 PM: Checking my voice mail…from Deanna…deleted…from Mom…deleted…John Madden. Ah, exactly what I needed to comfort me in these times of shame. Apparently I looked like I was 25 again. He’s right, I was having a lot of fun out there.
10:30 PM: Standard press conference bullcrap. These fancy newspaper people keep asking me about the INT. Listen, Driver misread the sandbox diagram. He was supposed to curl left at the pebble, but he posted right at the twig. How’s that on me?
10:32 PM: Is this my last game? As long as my pharmacists are operating in their suburban Green Bay offices and road game hotels have mini-bars(all expenses paid), Brett Favre is going to play football on Sundays.
10:35 PM: Whatever. This works out well for me anyway. I don’t have to do these media days and whatnot in the next week and a half. I can’t even tell you what number Superbowl this is anyway. Ecks Ell Eye Eye Eye? They didn’t teach us this Greek Letter-Number hogwash at Southern Miss.
10:45 PM: They tell me I’m not fit to drive home, whatever that means. Chad Clifton and his wife offer me a lift back home. His pickup only has four seats, and I’ve got Rodgers to carry my bags, so I tell the wife and kids they’ll have to hitch if they want to sleep at home tonight.
11:30 PM: We arrive home, but when we get out of the car that loser Rodgers drops my pads. I cuss him out and make him take a run to the liquor store for me.
11:33 PM: Check the answering machine, just some nonsense from the wife…God, she’s so dramatic, using words like “stranded” and “frostbite”. Delete.
11:50 PM: Rodgers gets back, I make a vicodin daiquiri and get out my DVD set of the Jeff Foxworthy Show. I drift off to sleep, ready to face a new day in the complicated world of the NFL offseason.
10:05 PM: I take another pill with a shot of Jack for good luck before heading out to the huddle
10:06 PM: Man, I can’t feel my face.
10:08 PM: SIXTY SLANT RIGHT *yawn*
10:09 PM: It’s alright, it’s alright. The Giants aren’t gonna march downfield on us. Besides, how can I be disappointed with all this serotonin artificially pumping into my brain?
10:13 PM: Deanna, cancel my plane to Phoenix.
10:14 PM: I go to shake Eli’s hand, but Corey Webster cuts off my path
10:17 PM: Back in the locker room, I shake the hands of my great offensive linemen and invite all of them to come pig ropin’ down Miss’ippi way in the offseason. Nobody RSVPed just yet.
10:19 PM: That hack McCarthy questions my decision making in the 4th quarter and Overtime. I told him if he had a moustache and glasses like a real coach, we’d have gone 18-0 and be 20 point favorites over the Pats.
10:24 PM: I went into the Giants’ locker room to congratulate Tom Coughlin on the win. I sneak out with a few bottles of champagne. Don’t think anyone saw me.
10:26 PM: Checking my voice mail…from Deanna…deleted…from Mom…deleted…John Madden. Ah, exactly what I needed to comfort me in these times of shame. Apparently I looked like I was 25 again. He’s right, I was having a lot of fun out there.
10:30 PM: Standard press conference bullcrap. These fancy newspaper people keep asking me about the INT. Listen, Driver misread the sandbox diagram. He was supposed to curl left at the pebble, but he posted right at the twig. How’s that on me?
10:32 PM: Is this my last game? As long as my pharmacists are operating in their suburban Green Bay offices and road game hotels have mini-bars(all expenses paid), Brett Favre is going to play football on Sundays.
10:35 PM: Whatever. This works out well for me anyway. I don’t have to do these media days and whatnot in the next week and a half. I can’t even tell you what number Superbowl this is anyway. Ecks Ell Eye Eye Eye? They didn’t teach us this Greek Letter-Number hogwash at Southern Miss.
10:45 PM: They tell me I’m not fit to drive home, whatever that means. Chad Clifton and his wife offer me a lift back home. His pickup only has four seats, and I’ve got Rodgers to carry my bags, so I tell the wife and kids they’ll have to hitch if they want to sleep at home tonight.
11:30 PM: We arrive home, but when we get out of the car that loser Rodgers drops my pads. I cuss him out and make him take a run to the liquor store for me.
11:33 PM: Check the answering machine, just some nonsense from the wife…God, she’s so dramatic, using words like “stranded” and “frostbite”. Delete.
11:50 PM: Rodgers gets back, I make a vicodin daiquiri and get out my DVD set of the Jeff Foxworthy Show. I drift off to sleep, ready to face a new day in the complicated world of the NFL offseason.
To be continued...?
*This work is satire*
