Monday Night Lights

Only eight yards or a single reception stood between them and victory.

He passed one of the empty lockers. Graffitied on the door in what appeared to be peanut butter was GRONK WUZ HER. And one of those peeing Calvin decals, except a cutout of Gronk’s face had been taped over Calvin’s, and the figure was pissing on a handwritten “D2”. It was a good trade, Coach Lord reminded himself, but I do miss the big lug.

He surveyed the Island of Misfit toys that his roster had become, again incredulous at how they had managed to win even one game. He approached Ameer Abdullah, who was firmly absorbed in bedazzling the back of his Jordache Jeans jacket.

“Ameer-”

“I don’t know which way to go, Coach.”

“Ameer, we’re–” He cleared his throat and took another deep breath. He could already feel the frustration rising in his chest. “We’re just–” Ameer interrupted him.

“Baby, I’m movin’ way too slow.”

“Well, yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, but I’m not sure about you calling me ‘baby’–”

“Straight up, Coach, now tell me, do you really want to start me forever?”

“Absolutely not, Ameer. You’re a band-aid at best. Eight yards. Or one reception. That’s all.”

“So I take two steps forward and I take two steps back?”

Jesus fucking Christ. Coach Lord looked away, massaging the space between his eyes. As Abdullah continued to babble nonsense and get increasingly high off hot glue fumes, Coach Lord noticed some of the other guys. Marlon Mack was busy cutting Frank Gore out of all their photos together. Kenny Stills was making his way through a gigantic stack of scratch tickets, his fingers caked in metallic dust. Also, his lips. When he smiled and spoke to Coach Lord, his teeth were flecked with the same.

“I gotta hit one eventually, Coach! Am I right?!”

Coach Lord nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Of course, Kenny.” Let’s fucking hope so.

No one had seen DeVante Parker in weeks. He had mumbled something about going out to buy some cigarettes for Jay Cutler and hadn’t come back since.

Chris Ivory sat in the corner, chanting and torturing what could only be a Leonard Fournette voodoo doll. Ivory’s eyes met his and Coach Lord’s stomach dropped. They were full black. Not a single space of white. Good god. His voice was a deep, monotonous echo, as though he were speaking in chorus with five or six others. It was very unnerving.

“IF WE WIN THIS CONTEST YOU WILL DELIVER US THE PRETENDER,” spoke Ivory, placing equal emphasis on every word. It wasn’t exactly a question, but it wasn’t exactly not a question. In the time they’d been speaking his locker had begun to weep blood. He really needed to trade that guy. Maybe Coach Bauch likes hieroglyphics appearing on his skin at night.

Coach Lord shuddered and turned his attention to the window. Looking out at the field he could see Drew Brees and Bilal Powell taking some reps. No matter how many times Drew tried to get the ball to Bilal, it would just sail past him and land in the open hand of Matt Forte, who sat nearby rocking back and forth on the bench, drooling and clutching his genitals with the other hand. Josh Gordon sat next to him, giggling madly and shoving his face with ketchup-flavored Doritos, which he somehow managed to eat in 4.3 seconds.

On the other side of the field, the Ravens D, dressed in black cloaks and wielding medieval pikes, had surrounded Ben Watson and Jeremy Maclin. As the two receivers stood back to back, they tried and failed to dance around the poking and stabbing motions of the pikes. Sammy Watkins stood on the sidelines, helmet in hand, gazing longingly at the scene. Coach Lord could tell he just wanted to be included.

Coach Lord retreated into his office. Danny Woodhead was already at their shared desk, excitedly reviewing and annotating something on a clipboard. When Coach Lord sat down, it was clear that there wasn’t anything attached, Danny was just drawing directly on the clipboard. It was also clear that he was sporting a massive erection.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Davante Adams, the newest member to the team, stood at the doorway, looking very much like he had met everyone already. Welcome to the club.

“Welcome to the club!” exclaimed Coach Lord with as much feigned enthusiasm as he could muster. Davante seemed confused. “How was it meeting the rest of the guys?”

“Uh, well your security guard seemed pretty insistent I read this,” Davante gestured at the brochure he has holding. Coach Lord could make out BEAUTIFUL TIMESHARES AVAILABLE printed on the front.

“Oh, that was Mike Gillislee. Don’t mind him, he’s been giving those out to everyone ever since he fumbled.” Davante left, uncertain of which way to go.

Coach Lord followed him out, giving Danny a small wave. He made his way back through the locker room, where Josh Gordon handed him an open bottle of champagne. Coach Lord started to explain that champagne was for after the game, but thought better of it. Not like Gordon was ever going to play.

Much like the parents of children born in war-torn nations, Coach Lord harbored a massive guilt at bringing an innocent individual into this shithole, but it was what it was. Davante would find his place on the team. Probably.

He had made his way to the arena parking lot, welcoming the crisp air of the fall evening. Though the sun had set, he could still see Matt Bryant running around and deliberately tripping over things.

He checked his phone. Well, fuck me. Fifteen yards already. Ameer did it. Who knew — maybe this rag tag bunch could actually escape the Harrer Cup. It was nice to think about. Damn, he really wanted a cigarette. He should have bummed one off Gordon when he gave him the champagne.

Headlights as a car pulled in. No, a pickup truck. The driver side door opened to the faint sound of country music on the stereo.

“Hey Coach,” DeVante Parker said with an embarrassed smile as he stepped out of the truck. “Long line at the store.”

Coach Lord smiled too, coughing back tears. “I’m just glad you’re back. Bum a smoke?”

They changed the radio over to the game, and the two friends sat there in the night on the back of DeVante’s pickup, smoking cigarettes and drinking champagne.

In the background, they could hear that Ameer had scored a touchdown. When they heard he had fumbled later, they were already too drunk to worry about remembering.