Nobody Brought a Football (rewrite)

While I love football in spite of its glaring flaws, athletic stalwarts are rarely made for acting, and the advertisements that feature these men are oftentimes hard to watch. This sports story stars offensive lineman Brock Walton, a bad brute who didn't get everything he wanted before the filming of his boneheaded local commercial.

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Brock Walton:

OK, OK. That’s enough of the freakin’ eyeliner. Quit giving me the Howie Long treatment, for Christ’s sake. 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 one. It’s what you pony-tailed fairies call a “prop.”

Look at the three of you! You remind me of the fawns I plowed into with my Hummer on the drive here. Quit your dawdling and fetch me a ball.

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

Goddammit, 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, “Bunkley Trucks has the perfect game plan for low prices!”

The nobodies sitting on milk crates in their trailers will 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 fuck does he get off?”

Jesus, why didn’t I bring a football from home? I’ve got like 50 of ‘em, and that's just 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 man who racked-up three pancake blocks against the Cowboys last year. Amateurs! How are the peons supposed to know I’m better than they are if I’m not toting a pigskin? I’m overweight, 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 fat, naked nobody without that pigskin!

...

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

Crisis Averted

This became a very short story during that unforgettable year of 2003 or maybe it was '04--hey, don't quote me on this--as part of my portfolio for a creative writing class.

On TV, the preacher droned on about the Seven Deadly Sins. This was not a topic of interest to the holder of the remote, who was only flirting with the other channels during an infernal commercial break in Sunday's football game. The steady rhythm of his thumb thumping on the channel-up button continued at the sight of the stern killjoy in black. The preacher's saggy jawline ground a condemnation of Sloth and he wanted no part of it.

But the batteries inside the remote had expired between clicks. Still lying belly-up on the couch, he fully extended his arm, pressing the button incessantly now, but to no avail.

The preacher cleared his gravelly throat and turned a page in the Bible and the young man thought, This is like driving through the ghetto and running out of gas!

In a fit of frustration, he spiked the remote against the carpet, but this act reminded him of a football celebration, which resulted in further trauma. The TV, he estimated, was fifteen feet away—a trek not fit for a pants-less youth unequipped with a canteen and a camel. He rubbed the blond stubble on his chin, coarse enough to grate cheese. At last, a faintly buzzing light-bulb flashed atop his disheveled hair, for he had recalled the cordless phone resting on his gut. He dialed his own phone number, hung up, and waited impatiently for his younger brother—who was playing Nintendo in the basement—to answer.

Once I did, I was ordered to hustle upstairs to change the channel back to the football game.

Nobody Brought a Football?!

On the set of a commercial for a local truck dealership, a problem arises. Starting offensive-lineman Brock Walton is quick to voice his concern.

Okay, okay. That’s enough of the freakin’ eyeliner. Quit giving me the Howie Long treatment, for Christ’s sake. 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 starring a football player. It’s what you pony-tailed fairies call a “prop.”

Look at the three of you! You remind me of the fawns I plowed into with my big white Hummer on the drive here. Quit your dawdling and fetch me a pigskin.

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

God-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 toward the camera and say, “Bunkley Trucks have the perfect game plan for low prices”?

The nobodies sitting in on milk crates in their trailers will say, “Who is that asshole dressed like the rest of us lowlifes, not holding a football, telling me where to buy a truck? Where does he get off?”

Jesus, why didn’t I bring a football from home? I’ve got like 50 of ‘em, and that's just in the garage. Actually, I know why I didn’t. Because any dipshit with a camera and a boom mic should know to bring a Pointy Oval to a commercial that stars a man who racked-up three pancake blocks against the Cowboys last year. Amateurs! How are the commoners supposed to know I’m better than they are if I’m not toting a Bo Jackson Rock? I’m overweight, bald as Mr. Clean, and missing a front tooth. You take away my Brown Lombardi and I just look like a bouncer at a hick bar, checking the ID's of the jack-offs that want to see some Poison cover band. I’m a fat, naked nobody without that pigskin!

What’d you say? Oh, that’s rich. In addition to me saying my name and the team I play for, one of your fancy “graphics” is gonna state that I play in the NF fucking L. Well, allow me to dust off my hands and breathe a sigh of relief, chickenshits. I shouldn’t have to introduce myself. Holding the Stitch-y Ditka should do that for me. When I want to skip the line at a fancy restaurant with both of my hot-ass dates, do you think I waste my breath telling the host why I don’t deserve to wait behind Johnny Puss-bag? Shit no, I don’t. I just palm a pigskin two inches from his beak and snarl and then the pip-squeak gets the hint. “Table for three, on three: Hut,hut, HUUUTTT!”

And the graphics idea? Oh, that really makes me wanna drown you in the pit-sweat of one of my headlocks. The people hate to read while they’re watching the TV. You ever see HDTVs inside of one of them lib'ary places? No way. Those bookworm pansies are holding up their end of the deal, and if this here company expects TV watchers to read instead of noticing a football being pumped in their faces, I'm outta here . To hell with your 20-grand. I make that much in three quarters-worth of gruntin’ and shovin’ and spittin' out some gay-bashin'. I got a little thing called integrity. OK? I won’t be no shill for a dealership that’d sooner make their piss-ant customers read than give their goddamn star a Spiked Gronkowski.

Is this the thanks I get for gulping eight Vicadins a day so I can help pave the way for the league's 19th leading rusher, is it? No football to thrust toward the camera while I promise that, “Bunkley Trucks will block your way into the end-zone for big savings”? Give me a break. This is worse than soccer.

Whoa, what have we here? Is that a pencil-necked intern carrying a pigskin like it's a radioactive turd? Dick's Sporting Goods, you say? Well. All right. Then—let's do this! Hey, give me a high-five, pencil-neck; don't worry, I ain't gonna hurt ya. You are the man, little guy! Big savings on one....HUUUTTT!

Jesus! His wrist just snapped like Theismann's leg. Dude, I pretty much Lawrence Taylored that shit--like, you're waving to the ceiling. You should be filming this. Roll on my cue, once I start pumping this here pigskin.