In Search of a Fantasy Football Name
I'm nameless. Eleventh week of the NFL season and I can't conjure up an ironic moniker for my fantasy team. "Blount Force Trauma", "Mendenhalls of Valahalla", "Sir Rodgers Moore", "Plaxico's Lost Step"; weeks of half-witticisms squandered on a .500 winning percentage.
I'm staring at a hideous lineup riddled by the final week of NFL byes. The incessant glow of the computer screen blinds my half awake eyes. If I cannot find a replacement running back in the next hour before games, I can at least re-brand.
I'm not going with "Fire Up the Blount" again. Not this week. I spin my black pleather office chair one hundred eighty degrees to allow me viewing of the television. No reason for me to turn on the torrential babbling of a countdown show. I'd rather sit in silence. Maybe there's soccer on. Chelsea v Liverpool. Done.
My dog raises up from the carpet. Is he looking to go for a walk or is he fascinated with the Liverpool midfield? He sleeps during Barcelona games. He either likes train wrecks or he's insisting on a walk. I digress.
I lean back in the chair, staring at the cracks forming in the white paint of the ceiling. I could use "White Cassel". Have we as a collective society determined a set of naming rules? Do I have to have Matt Cassel on my team? I don't. I wouldn't pick him up off the wire for the name. Besides, it's Tyler Palko this week. Jesus, I remember when the Chiefs were worth watching.
As I glance back at the collision of reds and blues on the television, my dog rests on the carpet. My eyes are closing to the comforting sound of snide English commentary. I'll just use another Tim Tebow joke. It's a means to an end. However, as I wheel my seat around to configure a new title, a thunderous clash sounds in my doorway. Almost thrown from the hinges, my front door clatters against the wooden stairwell in the entryway.
"Whiskey fucker, drink it."
Before I can discern who's collided with the front of my house, I'm forced to catch a bottle of booze hurled towards me with reckless abandon. For the sake of my computer, and face, my fingers latch onto it like a resurgent Steve Smith. Reason dictates that due to the catchability of the pass, the thrower is not Jake Delhomme. It's Mr. Oldham, country songwriter and Sporty corespondent, from the Cardinals vs Mariners Running Diary.
Relieved, yet furious, I greet him in such a manner, "Crap man. What the crap?"
"What? It's Devil's Cut," he is unfazed but my confused anger. "We need to write a theme song for it."
"Can we write a song about the time I had a front door? I have fond remembrances of that era. Besides, you scared the crap out of the dog."
My sarcasm is less than useless. The dog isn't frightened. He has a tennis ball in his mouth and no allegiances toward sturdy wooden barriers. I should probably just get some coke and ice to go with this whiskey.
Mr. Oldham is sitting on the sofa, throwing the tennis ball to the dog, when I return with glassware. "Soccer. Seriously?"
I mix the 90 proof firewater with the gut rotting cola. "Knocking. Seriously." I hand him a glass.
"Don't act like you've never kicked a door in."
He's right. I sip the whiskey. Crap. Now I know why the door is crippled on it's hinges. "Where did you find this?"
"Needed inspiration for a country song. I still don't have a title." He leans back on the sofa. "I figured you can help me."
Spinning my computer chair towards the television I fall in to sit. "Good. I need a football team name."
"London Sillinannies."
"No. Been done."
Mr. Oldham laughs. "No, the guys in blue. That was for them. Can you please change the channel?"
I flip through the cable guide. It's not football time yet. There's nothing on. Damn the NFL's tight grip on broadcast rights. "Look, give me a name and I'll think up a title for a ditty to commemorate this toxic concoction."
"Come on Nancy," he chides, "just use 'Suh Girls One Cup'."
I'm not thrilled. "That's a start. But not satisfactory." Recent pop-culture is not in his wheelhouse. Prior to songwriting, Mr. Oldham made a name for himself doing research on the 1980's for the Smithsonian. Most of his exhibit has yet to be displayed. But it's in storage, crated up by the Ark of the Covenant and Hammer of Thor.
He phrases a statement as a partial question, "I don't understand why you're not using 'Mendenhall and Oates' anymore. I was fond of that." He pauses, lost in thought, a blank stare at the television. "I hired some mercenaries to collect Oates's mustache for the exhibit. It's still in the crate though. After all of that work." Slamming the rest of his beverage he mutters, "Stupid government waste."
"Have to give credit where credit is due on that," I polish off my glass of bourbon. "That was Dan Brown's idea."
"The author of the Da Vinci Code?"
"No. The drummer on 'Escape Plan'."
"Good for him. I was hoping the author wasn't stealing my 80's thunder again." He's topped off his glass. I'm hoping the whiskey doesn't enliven his hatred for his Smithsonian rival. He goes on, "you know Mr. Angels and Demons beat me to the car from Ferris Bueller. He thought that would impress the board of directors." Mr. Oldham shakes his head. "But I showed him. My team secured the master recording of 'The Safety Dance'. It was La Bamba played backwards all along."
"Los Lobos?"
"No, Richie Valens."
I had no idea. I really can't find the words. "I had no idea." The bourbon is tearing at my soul. And my brain. But most importantly at the pit of my stomach. "Well, what do you have for me in the 80's category professor?"
"Who's on your team?"
"Does that matter?"
He tilts his head, greeting my expressionless look with an intense stare. "Are you serious? We have rules. We are a collective society."
"I didn't..."
"Maybe you weren't aware," he descends into lecture, "the exhibit isn't out yet. But they've dedicated an entire wing to it."
I'm puzzled, "fantasy football?"
"Yes. They're preparing for the inevitable constitutional amendment banning it." He grimaces, "You didn't hear that."
I'm through my second glass of bourbon already. "It won't matter." I realize that I've cycled through the cable guide for five straight minutes. "There's nothing on. Should we just play RBI Baseball until the games start?"
"How about 'Skate or Die'?"
I've got it. "Dude, how about 'Skate or Addai'?"
"Yeah sure, if your team sucks enough to have Joseph Addai on it."
I shrug as I spin the chair toward the computer. "It does."
I'm staring at a hideous lineup riddled by the final week of NFL byes. The incessant glow of the computer screen blinds my half awake eyes. If I cannot find a replacement running back in the next hour before games, I can at least re-brand.
I'm not going with "Fire Up the Blount" again. Not this week. I spin my black pleather office chair one hundred eighty degrees to allow me viewing of the television. No reason for me to turn on the torrential babbling of a countdown show. I'd rather sit in silence. Maybe there's soccer on. Chelsea v Liverpool. Done.
My dog raises up from the carpet. Is he looking to go for a walk or is he fascinated with the Liverpool midfield? He sleeps during Barcelona games. He either likes train wrecks or he's insisting on a walk. I digress.
I lean back in the chair, staring at the cracks forming in the white paint of the ceiling. I could use "White Cassel". Have we as a collective society determined a set of naming rules? Do I have to have Matt Cassel on my team? I don't. I wouldn't pick him up off the wire for the name. Besides, it's Tyler Palko this week. Jesus, I remember when the Chiefs were worth watching.
As I glance back at the collision of reds and blues on the television, my dog rests on the carpet. My eyes are closing to the comforting sound of snide English commentary. I'll just use another Tim Tebow joke. It's a means to an end. However, as I wheel my seat around to configure a new title, a thunderous clash sounds in my doorway. Almost thrown from the hinges, my front door clatters against the wooden stairwell in the entryway.
"Whiskey fucker, drink it."
Before I can discern who's collided with the front of my house, I'm forced to catch a bottle of booze hurled towards me with reckless abandon. For the sake of my computer, and face, my fingers latch onto it like a resurgent Steve Smith. Reason dictates that due to the catchability of the pass, the thrower is not Jake Delhomme. It's Mr. Oldham, country songwriter and Sporty corespondent, from the Cardinals vs Mariners Running Diary.
Relieved, yet furious, I greet him in such a manner, "Crap man. What the crap?"
"What? It's Devil's Cut," he is unfazed but my confused anger. "We need to write a theme song for it."
"Can we write a song about the time I had a front door? I have fond remembrances of that era. Besides, you scared the crap out of the dog."
My sarcasm is less than useless. The dog isn't frightened. He has a tennis ball in his mouth and no allegiances toward sturdy wooden barriers. I should probably just get some coke and ice to go with this whiskey.
Mr. Oldham is sitting on the sofa, throwing the tennis ball to the dog, when I return with glassware. "Soccer. Seriously?"
I mix the 90 proof firewater with the gut rotting cola. "Knocking. Seriously." I hand him a glass.
"Don't act like you've never kicked a door in."
He's right. I sip the whiskey. Crap. Now I know why the door is crippled on it's hinges. "Where did you find this?"
"Needed inspiration for a country song. I still don't have a title." He leans back on the sofa. "I figured you can help me."
Spinning my computer chair towards the television I fall in to sit. "Good. I need a football team name."
"London Sillinannies."
"No. Been done."
Mr. Oldham laughs. "No, the guys in blue. That was for them. Can you please change the channel?"
I flip through the cable guide. It's not football time yet. There's nothing on. Damn the NFL's tight grip on broadcast rights. "Look, give me a name and I'll think up a title for a ditty to commemorate this toxic concoction."
"Come on Nancy," he chides, "just use 'Suh Girls One Cup'."
I'm not thrilled. "That's a start. But not satisfactory." Recent pop-culture is not in his wheelhouse. Prior to songwriting, Mr. Oldham made a name for himself doing research on the 1980's for the Smithsonian. Most of his exhibit has yet to be displayed. But it's in storage, crated up by the Ark of the Covenant and Hammer of Thor.
He phrases a statement as a partial question, "I don't understand why you're not using 'Mendenhall and Oates' anymore. I was fond of that." He pauses, lost in thought, a blank stare at the television. "I hired some mercenaries to collect Oates's mustache for the exhibit. It's still in the crate though. After all of that work." Slamming the rest of his beverage he mutters, "Stupid government waste."
"Have to give credit where credit is due on that," I polish off my glass of bourbon. "That was Dan Brown's idea."
"The author of the Da Vinci Code?"
"No. The drummer on 'Escape Plan'."
"Good for him. I was hoping the author wasn't stealing my 80's thunder again." He's topped off his glass. I'm hoping the whiskey doesn't enliven his hatred for his Smithsonian rival. He goes on, "you know Mr. Angels and Demons beat me to the car from Ferris Bueller. He thought that would impress the board of directors." Mr. Oldham shakes his head. "But I showed him. My team secured the master recording of 'The Safety Dance'. It was La Bamba played backwards all along."
"Los Lobos?"
"No, Richie Valens."
I had no idea. I really can't find the words. "I had no idea." The bourbon is tearing at my soul. And my brain. But most importantly at the pit of my stomach. "Well, what do you have for me in the 80's category professor?"
"Who's on your team?"
"Does that matter?"
He tilts his head, greeting my expressionless look with an intense stare. "Are you serious? We have rules. We are a collective society."
"I didn't..."
"Maybe you weren't aware," he descends into lecture, "the exhibit isn't out yet. But they've dedicated an entire wing to it."
I'm puzzled, "fantasy football?"
"Yes. They're preparing for the inevitable constitutional amendment banning it." He grimaces, "You didn't hear that."
I'm through my second glass of bourbon already. "It won't matter." I realize that I've cycled through the cable guide for five straight minutes. "There's nothing on. Should we just play RBI Baseball until the games start?"
"How about 'Skate or Die'?"
I've got it. "Dude, how about 'Skate or Addai'?"
"Yeah sure, if your team sucks enough to have Joseph Addai on it."
I shrug as I spin the chair toward the computer. "It does."
Posted by W.H. Patton at Sunday, November 20. 2011 
Categories: Tales from Sporty's World, A Sportyng Laugh, Helmet to Helmet
Categories: Tales from Sporty's World, A Sportyng Laugh, Helmet to Helmet
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