SPORTS FEATURE STORY
By Bland Fat Folksy Sportswriter
It’s a dewy morning in Bluff Sucks, Washington. I’ve just returned from snorting hemp-infused coffee grounds at the local breakfast emporium, and quarterback Dirk Throwdick greets me at his front door. He’s been up all night signing autographs for elderly shut-ins because this young man is not just a great player, he’s a fucking pillar of the community.
I sit down with my bag of breakfast and micro brews and start chewing the fat with the rookie. Turns out we both love “Breaking Bad.” Huh, go figure. It’s a small world, folks. “Fuck you, bitch!!” shrieks Dirk, doing a great send-up of Jesse Pinkman, one of the show’s protagonists. Too funny.
We agree that we could carry on like this all day, but Throwdick has a playbook to learn. It’s not all fun and games in the League Football Nation.
And I’ve got a story to write. “I just open my veins and bleed all over the laptop,” I quip to Throwdick. He’s too young to get the Hemingway-via-Red Smith angle of my humor, but that’s OK. This kid can throw the rock.
We drive to practice at the team’s facilities, where I watch Throwdick handle the media like an old pro. It’s a regular bull session in the press room. “Wow,” I mutter as I wedge three protein bars into my cakehole.
“Secret Garden” by Bruce Springsteen (“the Boss,” as I like to call him) plays on the radio as crumbs dangle off my mouth and onto my steno pad. I’ve been using steno pads since I was a cub reporter at The Daily Error in Portland.
Anyway, the Boss is so great. His best material? If you ask me, the Boss’s best era was 1987-through-the-present. Darkness on the Edge of Town? Too sparse, too bleak. Born to Run? No thanks, friendo. Give me “Human Touch,” gang.
I happen upon Throwdick after practice. He and the offensive linemen are headed to the mall. We all hop in center Freddie Widmer’s SUV. Widmer’s teammates have given the nickname “Bag of Dicks” to the fourth-year pro but I’m not privy as to why. Throwdick cracks wise about how Widmer frequently and inadvertently “falls” on items that lead to late-night emergency room visits. Boys will be boys.
