Taking It Down a Notch

Posted on September 18, 2007

INT. A LIVING ROOM – DAY

The room is prepped for football. GARY, the host of the party, wears a Colts jersey. JOHN wears a Pats jersey. The doorbell rings. Gary runs to the door and opens it. BILL jumps in, also wearing a Colts jersey. He is also sporting a huge boner.

BILL
Yo, ready for the big game! Bring it in for a hug man, bring it in hard.

He goes to give Gary a hug and Gary ducks away.

BILL
What, no love? Oh, right. My boner. Man it is huge, isn’t it?

JOHN
Why’d you bring it here?

Bill plops down on the couch, leaning back, totally comfortable.

BILL
Man, I popped a Viagra at 10 AM! I already screwed my wife frickin’ twice! She kicked me out, she was so satisfied. So I decided to come over here and hang with the fellas. Well, except this guy.

(laughs at his own joke while Gary and John wince)

Whew! I love this boner!!!

Gary and John can’t hide their looks of terror. FREEZE

PEYTON MANNING and TOM BRADY, wearing their respective jersies, enter the frame, only seen from the waist up.

PEYTON MANNING
If it seems like everyone else in the world but you has erectile dysfunction…

TOM BRADY
You are not alone.

PEYTON MANNING
During this game alone, you will watch 400 commercials for Viagrra, Cialis, Levitan, Dr. Porkenheimer’s Franken Juice, whatever.

TOM BRADY
Because of this media saturation, some people will think it’s okay to show up to watch a game with a boner.

PEYTON MANNING
And that’s unacceptable. So we’ve drawn up a few plays to help you deal with the situation.

TOM BRADY
The first play, I like to call the Counter Slap. If there’s a good play in football, sometimes you slap your bud on the ass.

PEYTON MANNING
I know I do! But on this play…

TOM BRADY
Slap him in the boner.

CUT TO: The same living room comes to life. Gary and Bill jump up to celebrate a play. They slap hands and then Gary swats Bill in the boner. Bill bends over in pain. FREEZE

PEYTON MANNING
A good Counter Slap will cause social discomfort.

TOM BRADY
And hopefully intense physical pain.

PEYTON MANNING
The next play is one of my favorites. I call it the Coverage Sack. But it takes guts.

TOM BRADY
And supreme confidence in your sexuality.

The living room. The doorbell rings and Gary answers it. Bill jumps in with a huge boner. Gary jumps into Bill’s arms.

GARY
Hey sailor, wanna get a room?

Bill pulls away and practically runs out the door. FREEZE

TOM BRADY
It helps if you bang a supermodel right afterwards, just to be safe. I know I do!

PEYTON MANNING
Our last play was some good offense, while the next one is some good D.

TOM BRADY
I’ts called Pin Him In His Own Territory.

PEYTON MANNING
All you need is an extensive collection of both paper-based and Internet porn.

TOM BRADY
And a room with broadband connection!

CUT TO: Gary and John and Bill watch the game, Bill with a huge boner still. Gary and Bill exchange looks. They spring into action, grabbing Bill by each arm and dragging him into a room. They slam it, lock the door, and high five.

GARY
Bill, you okay?

JOHN
Yeah, sorry we had to do that.

BILL
(muffled)
It’s…It’s porn heaven! FREEZE

TOM BRADY
That’ll keep him occupied.

PEYTON MANNING
(Whispering)
So Tom, you ever done Viagra before?

TOM BRADY
And that’s not all. There’s literally thousands of plays, the End Around, Harassing the Pocket, Behind the…

PEYTON MANNING
(hissing and nudging)
Hey, Tom, you ever do it? Ever do Viagra?

TOM BRADY
Line of Scrimmage…

PEYTON MANNING
Vi-ag-ra.

TOM BRADY
No, no I never did Viagra.

Tom looks down. The Camera Cuts Away. Peyton has a huge Boner.

TOM BRADY
But I guess you did.

PEYTON MANNING
It’s so awesome.

Tom Brady rolls his eyes.

PEYTON MANNING
Come on, you know you want it.

TOM BRADY
I’m done here.

He walks off. Peyton Manning follows after.

PEYTON MANNING
Tom, Tom, wait up!

Head Case

Posted on May 17, 2007

Note: Upon hearing the NFL’s continued insistence that there is no correlation between repeated head trauma and long-term cognitive difficulties (including dementia, early onset Alzheimer’s disease, decreased motor function, memory loss, and depression), we at Sport is Stranger than Fiction sent our very own investigative reporter to the home of Dr. Ian Casson– a spokesman-physician for the NFL. His goal was twofold. First, he had to avoid speaking to Dr. Casson at all costs, because, come on, what’s the point? Second, he had to rifle through the good doctor’s records to give us as much background information on his mental state and his other beliefs. We’ve transcribed his report below.

Other Note:In order to protect our reporter’s identity, we’ll just call him J. Greco. No, that’s too obvious– let’s call him Joey G.

When I arrived at Dr. Casson’s house, I was disturbed to learn that your promised diversionary tactics– standing under his bedroom window at night and making spooky ghost sounds in order to scare him away– had failed miserably. The house was occupied by Dr. Casson, his wife, two Pomeranians, and some guy with a mohawk. Working on the assumption that the mohawked man was there to work security, I took it upon myself to sneak up on him and choke him with piano wire (you’ll note that I’ve attached a bill for the wire, and for the Purell hand sanitizer I used to clean the spittle off of my hands) and hid his body in a garden shed. I noted that inside the shed Dr. Casson stored several items, including multiple sacks of mulch, a pair of paint-splattered boots, and a ziploc bag full of assorted screws that didn’t seem to fit into anything in particular. Conspicuous by its absence was a lawnmower. As I later learned, however, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning a lawnmower and having shorter grass. This, it seems would be an appropriate time to note that Dr. Casson’s yard is so overgrown that a few weeds tickled my beautiful nose, which, as Kevin Gonzalez knows, is a nose that does not like to be tickled. I stomped through the yard and back toward the house.

I then proceeded to sneak into the family room (a job made easier by the fact that, as I later learned, Dr. Casson does not see any correlation between owning– not to mention locking– doors and deterring intruders), inciting a whirlwind of Pomeranian yippiness that was only quelled when I stopped to pet the dogs. My original plan had been to distract the dogs with a chain of sausage links, but I was hungry and saved the sausage for myself. Once satisfied with my petting, the dogs wandered off and promptly disappeared in the thicket of the backyard. I’m not sure if they ever returned.
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I am so proud

Posted on May 3, 2007

My wife just forwarded me this image:

What a day to be a WVU alum. Sad that this is the first thing that I put up on the ol’ sportfiction site, but as much as it pains me, this is funny. At what point in the recruiting process, during practice, sometime, didn’t the coaches or assistants…somebody…see these two guys names and say, “Yo Johnny, Scooter, your names together make a funny word that has something to do with toilet paper stuck in the ass crack. Don’t stand together.”?

As a native West Virginian, I am both appalled and amused. They’re both defensive backs too, if memory serves. I can’t wait to see the 3-3-5 Dingle-Berry stack defense.

Ugh.

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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The Two Loneliest Men in the World

Posted on May 1, 2007

[Tom Brady dials Randy Moss’ phone number after getting word that the Patriots have traded for him, and Moss answers after 19 rings.]

Moss: If you’re calling to invite me to that surprise party for Al Davis, I already told you– I ain’t going!

Brady: Hey, Randy, I heard we traded for you.

Moss: [inhales deeply, as if smoking] Who’s this?

Brady: Tom Brady.

Moss: Like the Brady Bill, with the guns and all?

Brady: No, like three Super Bowls Tom Brady. Best quarterback in the league Tom Brady.

Moss: [coughs painfully, as if forcing a golf ball from his throat] Doesn’t ring a bell.

Brady [sighs]: The dude who knocked up Gisele.

Moss: Oh, Tom Brady! I know how that is. I’m on the hook with four kids—she get you for all the babymamma money yet?

Brady: Not yet. [scratches chest with receiver so Randy can hear the manly bristling of his chest hairs, which are going prematurely gray, but no one knows that except for Andruzzi, and he’s sworn to secrecy.]

Moss: She got me man… draining me, dude.

Brady: How much you paying?

Moss: I don’t know—I don’t pay no attention to that shit. I just go by the house with a sack full of nickels. You know how it is— when you’re rich you don’t write checks, right?

Brady: Yeah, I guess. Coach B holds my money for me. [yanks his empty pockets outward into Hoover flags like a cartoon cat who can’t afford to buy the ukelele he’s set his eyes on, and then remembers Randy can’t see him, and then smacks himself in the head for being so stupid, and then wonders if Randy heard the smack on his forehead.] He promised he’ll give it to me when I retire.

Moss: How you know he ain’t spending it?

Brady: Have you seen how he dresses? He looks like my retarded cousin after a shopping spree at the thrift store.
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A press release from Kyle Korver and Kevin Curtis regarding racial inequalities in professional sports

Posted on April 17, 2007

With the full support of their families and friends, NBA forward—and Ashton Kutcher body double—Kyle Korver and NFL wide receiver Kevin Curtis are proud to announce the founding of the Alliance for the Preservation of White Athletes (APWA), a civil liberties watchdog group that intends to fight unfair hiring practices in professional sports.

It is common knowledge that the number of white athletes in the NFL and NBA is diminishing rapidly, and the APWA is very concerned about this trend. “I just don’t feel comfortable being stuck in a locker room with all those black guys,” Korver says. “I mean, it wasn’t long ago that there would have been two, maybe even three American whites on the floor at once, and now we’re lucky to see that a couple times a year.”

“It’s sad,” Curtis says. “White kids in the suburbs used to have role models they could believe in. Steve Largent, Fred Biletnikoff, Ed McCaffery, that McConkey guy who played for the Giants, I think. Now, there’s just me and a handful of others, and I include guys like James Thrash who probably aren’t even white, but they could pass for it if you looked from really far away. The point is, there aren’t enough white guys in the league, and, frankly, I think it’s wrong.”
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The NFL Countdown Crew Predicts the 2012 Super Bowl

Posted on March 28, 2007

Chris Berman: Welcome back to NFL Countdown everybody! As you know, it’s the off-season for the NFL, but we don’t get an off-season here.

Tom Jackson: That’s right, Boom!

Berman: Thanks, Tom.

Jackson: No problem, Boom!

Berman: I love this guy! Anyway, as you know, TJ, Steve, Mort, Mel Kiper, Bill Parcells, and I just started a new project for ESPN last week, in which we predict the outcomes of every Super Bowl for the rest of the century. Let’s get a recap from Steve “Only the Good Die” Young!

Steve Young: Well, in 2007, the Lombardi Trophy was returned to its rightful owners when the New England Patriots beat the Dallas Cowboys by a score of 23-16. Adalius Thomas would have won the MVP trophy if not for Tom Brady’s heroics, as he threw for nearly 200 yards and would have thrown at least 2 touchdown passes if they hadn’t been scored by other players. The game effectively ended when Terrell Owens dropped a pass, then fell to the turf in tears and was called for consecutive delay of game penalties while he pounded his fists against the turf. Then, in 2008, the Patriots dominated the regular season, only to struggle in the playoffs, where they barely won all of their games, but still won the Super Bowl, thanks to Bill Belichick’s superhuman intelligence—

Berman: You’re going too slow! Faster, faster!
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Coach Tim Krumrie Tittyfights Michigan Standout DT Alan Branch: The Real Story

Posted on March 21, 2007

From ProFootballTalk.com/rumormill.htm: KRUMRIE BEATS UP BRANCH

Word trickling out of the Michigan Pro Day is that Chiefs defensive line coach Tim Krumrie roughed up defensive tackle Alan Branch in one of Krumrie’s one-on-one slap fights.
Per a league source, Branch looked winded before he even got to the patented Krumrie spanking machine. At one point during his session with Krumrie, Branch appeared to be ready to quit.

Gil Brandt of NFL.com corroborates this in his Pro Day updates: “Tim Krumrie worked Branch hard during the position drills, and the scouts there said Branch did not look like he was in very good shape.”

Krumrie, better known to most fans as the guy who got Theismanned during Super Bowl XXIII, is a legend in league circles for the no-pads hand-fighting test, to which he subjects many of the linemen he is scouting.

“It’s Gladiator stuff,” said one league source.

For Branch, who is projected by many as a top-ten pick, the end result apparently was thumbs down.

Rumors may be trickling at the Rumor Mill, but here at Sportfiction there’s a virtual torrent of speculation at what actually happened. One extremely well placed source described the incident for us in intricate, immediate detail. His account follows.

Coach Tim Krumrie and top defensive tackle prospect Alan Branch stand alone in a gymnasium.

Coach Tim Krumrie: Slap me, big fella!
Alan Branch: Huh?
Coach Tim Krumrie: I said slap me!
Alan Branch: Why?
Coach Tim Krumrie: You want to get drafted, slap me!!
Alan Branch: Okay.
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A Transcript of the Press Conference Announcing David Beckham’s Decision to Play Football in America

Posted on March 16, 2007

(Begin transcript. For a proper understanding of the goings-on, imagine David Beckham talking like an “English” person.)

David Beckham: You there, the George Wendt-looking fellow.

Peter King: David, David, Peter King of SI here. As you know, I’ve covered the NFL beat for Sports Illustrated for quite some time, and am featured on HBO’s Inside the NFL. I have a regular column on SI.com called Mundane Morning Quarterback in which I assiduously detail my airport and coffee experiences and my daughters’ softball games. From what I am given to understand, it looks like I’m in denial that my daughter Mary Beth is a lesbian, a fate she in fact could never avoid because of a distressingly close resemblance to me.

David Beckham: And what’s your question?

Peter King: Oh. Right. Well, do you think you will be playing kicker, and for what team?
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Results

Posted on March 15, 2007

Dear Coach Tyrone,

Usually I don’t go in for letters. The whole idea of writing down my thoughts and feelings and then licking a stamp and waiting by the mailbox for a reply? I’ll be honest, it feels a tad womanish. But when I tried to get your attention at last week’s Mid-Season Awards Banquet and Fish Fry you pretty much had your hands full with that suck-ass Bud Gindry, who I can’t even be in the vicinity of without wanting to sock him right in the eye.

Unlike Bud Gindry, I’m not a man in favor of useless yammering. What I am in favor of, Coach T, is Results. Results like winning ballgames by double-digit margins and going deep into the playoffs and causing opposing ballcoaches to think about whether they should just fire up the team bus at halftime instead of sticking around for two more quarters of painful helmet-to-helmet tackles and pancake blocks and post-touchdown celebratory taunting.
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