Post-Draft Blues
Posted on May 3, 2007
Toby came downstairs and stepped right over me as I laid there, my face buried in the carpet like I was grazing. I heard ice cubes clatter into a glass, and then he opened the fridge to pour himself a drink. The fridge didn’t close, but his bare feet scraped slowly across the rug. I pictured him walking like a zombie, arms outstretched and eyes vacant, and then I felt a kick in my ribs.
He toppled over me, a knee driving into my kidney and his glass dropping onto the back of my head. It didn’t break, but it hurt like hell. I thought I might be bleeding, but the run-off on my cheeks tasted like orange juice, and I knew I was okay. I turned my head so that my right cheek was pressed against the floor, and I could see Toby, now lying across me so that we looked like a lowercase T.
“I’m laying here,” I said.
“Didn’t see you,” he said, his voice muffled by the carpet. “Did you catch my OJ?”
“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said, and tried to smack him on the back. I barely grazed him.
“What a terrible day.”
“You wanna get off me?”
“I will,” he said, but I knew he wouldn’t. He turned his head to look back at me over his shoulder. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
“Nothing to do.”
“Guess we could move.”
“Like that’ll help us get over this draft,” I said. I unleashed a showy sigh so that he could feel my disapproval in my breath on his cheek. “It’s too late, man. Everything’s already ruined.”
“How the hell could they draft a quarterback?” He slapped his palm on the floor. “They already have McNabb! Why not take a linebacker?”
“Could we not talk about it?” The Eagles had blown another draft just 6 hours before, and my season was ruined before it had even started. I wished I was dead, if only because it would keep me from having this same conversation for the fifth time today. “Just get offa me and leave me alone.”
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Filed Under TMC, Football, Philly Sports, Sports Media, Kevin Kolb, Donovan Mcnabb | 1 Comment
Thank God for AJ Feeley
Posted on March 4, 2007
Gus pushed through the door to The Lucky Shamrock, and was surprised to see that his old stool was free. In the adjacent stool, a tired woman sat, nursing her drink and wasting the seconds before she had to go home. He’d never seen a lonelier woman in his life, but there was aggressiveness about her loneliness that told him she wouldn’t bother him. It was too dark to tell if she was pretty, but she looking worn-out, and he already could smell her—she smelled like cigarettes and lemons.
As he sat down, he felt a strange warmth envelop him, the kind he’d felt as a child being tucked into bed. Sean stood behind the bar, just like he always had; it was like Gus had never left. The only difference was that Sean was bald now, and his nose looked like it had been dipped in bleach.
“Hey, Gus,” Sean said. “I thought you’d got cleaned up?
“I did.”
“Kitchen’s closed. You want a soda or something?”
“Michelob,” he said, slapping a twenty on the bar. “And a Jameson.”
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