Nobody Brought a Football *final*

 This is the final version of 'Nobody Brought a Football.' I rewrote it many times over the years and finally got it right. Now I'm done with it.

I have an episode of this story on Spotify. It's #45 of Who Needs More Content?

Brock Walton:

OK, OK. Enough. That’s enough of the damn eyeliner.Gimme my face back, makeup lady. Solid gameplan on my cheekbones, but never tell anyone I wear makeup. OK, let’s shoot this thing already.

Oh yeah, and one more thing: where’s the football? Come on, don’t play dumb with me. Everybody knows you bring a pigskin to a commercial like this. It’s what you wimps call a “prop.”

Look at you three! Deersez in headlights–jeez. Quit your dawdling and fetch me a ball.

What? You’re shittin’ me. Nobody brought a football? What in the hell, guys?!

Dammit, how are the people gonna recognize me if I’m not clutching a football? It’s bad enough that I’m not wearing pads and a uniform. Now you don’t even have a Manning Missile for me to palm while I nod at the camera and say, “Buckley’s got the perfect game plan for low prices!”

The nobodies sitting on milk crates in their trailers are gonna say, “Who is that asshole dressed like the rest of us bums, not holding a football, telling us where to buy a truck? What does he know about game plans? Just where in the shit does he get off?”

Jesus, why didn’t I bring a ball from home? I’ve got like 50 of ‘em in the garage. Wait, I know why. Because any dipshit with a camera and a boom mic should know to bring a Brown Lombardi to a commercial that stars a football player! I got two pancake blocks against the Cowboys last year and this is the thanks I get. Amateurs! How are the losers supposed to know I’m better than they are if I’m not pumping a pigskin? I’m straight-up fat, bald as Mr. Clean, and missing a front tooth. You take away my Dick Butkus Bomb and I look like a bouncer at a hick bar, checking the ID's of the jagoffs who want to see some Poison cover band. I’m a flabby, naked nobody without that pigskin!

What’d you say to me? Oh, that’s rich. I just say, “I’m Brock Walton, one of J-Ville’s gridiron guys.” Then some fancy ‘graphic’ is gonna state that I play in the Goddamn NFL. Well hot damn, allow me to breathe a sigh of relief. 

Only kidding. Panic mode! Brock panic, OK? You know how Hulk smash? Well, Brock panic!   

I don’t want a graphic to have to introduce me. OK? I want a football to do that for me. I want to thrust that Stitchy Ditka right at the camera and say, “Buckley blocks you from owning bad trucks, just like I block for J-Ville’s starting quarterback.” And I want it to mean something, because I am sincerely holding Mr. Stitch-face Spheroid.  

Pumping footballs in people’s faces is a way of life for me. When I want to skip the line at a nice-ass steakhouse with a hot-ass chick, I go right up to the podium guy and pump a football in his face. 

“Table for two, on three, jabroni. Hut, hut, huut!” 

And it worked two times! One time it got me arrested, but I still had a winning record of doing that!

Now, let’s talk about your cute little “graphics.” I’m against the yes-to-graphics yes, no to real-pigskin game you nerds came up with. I’m not gonna do it, but I just had the urge to put one of you in a headlock. 

Look, people don’t wanna read if they’re watchin’ TV. That’d be like if I went to the library and started asking “Hey, where’s the TV?” 

If I don’t get a damn football in five minutes, I’m outta here. I’ll walk out. I can make like two-grand every time I blink and I have a deal with Red Lobster to fall back on. From the bottom of my heart, you need to recognize that I’m an artist, truck dealership ads are my canvas, and I need a football to be an artist. So… just help me be an artist, you bunch of chickenshits. 

Well, I guess this is the thanks I get for blocking that one guy that one time when good stuff happened. I’m not bitter. I just wish I had a Gronk Spikerino to point at the camera when I deliver the line, “Buckley trucks will block the linebacker standing between you and the touchdown of big savings.” 

That line brought a tear to my eye, the second I wrote it. Hell, I gave up a few G’s to have full creative control, so all of this BS now is a pain in my ass. 

Ugh! No football.... Give me a break. This is worse than soccer. 

Whoa! What have we here? Is that pencil-necked intern holding a pigskin? Yes, finally! Where’d you get this, kid? Dick’s Sporting Goods, eh? There’s one across the street. The prop department didn’t mention it. The head of the prop department is me, Brock Walton. You left the moment I started my unhinged rant. 

Aw heck. You know what? “Unhinged rant” is a fair point, intern. Maybe I did overdo it. Tell you what, I’m gonna tone it down a notch and try to respect people better. Let’s celebrate with a high five.

Thank you for this pigskin. High five on the count of one. Huuut!  

Sigh. OK, I didn’t mean to break your wrist with that high five. I didn’t mean to make you scream in pain and wave hand-up at the ceiling right now. It’s just, I do my high-fives at 110% and I don’t hang out much with dudes who weigh like a buck-thirty. What I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry, intern. 

We’re gonna get you to the hospital. But first we gotta shoot the commercial with me holding this football. Don’t worry, I’ll get it on the first take.