Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season. Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it.
I’m on my hands and knees, working in the backyard. I rarely engage in any sort of gardening work, and by “rarely,” I mean never. I still have bitter memories of being forced to do yard work at my parents’ house as a kid, grabbing at the little weeds sprouting out of the cracks in the front walk, feeling the sweat gush out of me as I yanked and pulled and twisted. Every weed I uprooted just made me think about the countless more I still had to deal with. I knew many people who adored tending to their land, my mother included, but I was not among them. All I ever wanted to do was go back inside and watch MTV. The only satisfaction I got from doing the job was when parents paid me after the fact. Even then, they’d still point out all of the weeds I’d missed. Gardening was a hobby for the sadistic, I believed.
Three back surgeries later, I had an all-too-convenient out to save myself from every getting my hands dirty again. My wife and I now have a nice-sized yard that requires care, and for the past 20 years, that work has been handled either by landscaping pros, my green-thumbed mother-in-law—who would often come by our house unannounced just to garden—or my wife. I myself never bothered going out there. After all, I had a bad back: a legitimate alibi that men like me love nothing more than to abuse. I used to mow our law myself right after we moved in 20 years ago, but with only a push mower at our disposal, I quickly deemed that job far too taxing.
So for years and years, I sat gaily in my precious recliner while the women in my life toiled outside. I never questioned the arrangement. After all, I did what I considered my fair share around the house: cooking, cleaning, dealing with the kids, making money, all that shit. But every husband thinks he’s doing his fair share, and husbands like me think we do more than our fair share simply by not being total deadbeats. I never cheated on my wife. I never blew our life savings on cocaine. I voted Democrat. I was one of the good ones.
Such thinking breeds complacency. When you’ve been married as long as I have (24 years and counting), you assume that love will take care of itself. In the meantime, the weeds outside keep sprouting, blotting out your view of something that was once clean and beautiful. Sitting in my chair and staring at my phone, I had become the husband in every '90s beer ad. Even worse, it didn’t seem to bother me all that much.
One day, it finally did. I’ll spare you the details that led to this epiphany, because you’ve already read too much bourbon bastard-style self-flagellating up above. Needless to say, I finally realized it was time to do my share, not merely what I believed my share to be. It was time to address my numerous spousal blind spots, and it all started out in the backyard.
Which is why I’m here now, rooting through the dirt with gloved hands. The back border of our property is lined with leafy pachysandra, which provides low-maintenance ground cover all year long. Lately, that ground cover has been overtaken by wild ferns. I know that ferns are generally thought of as nice houseplants (actually, I don’t know if people think that, because I know nothing about botany), but certain fern species can be invasive. I dunno which species the wild ferns in our backyard are, but they’re invasive as all fuck. They have to go, and this is where I have chosen to begin putting in more labor of love.
I’m not confident when I begin. I’ve taken every garden tool out of our shed to aid me in the weeding process: a shovel, a different kind of shovel, a pitchfork, a hoe, and anything else that has a long handle. I’m not going to try to uproot these plants with my bare hands; young me still remembers coming away with all shoot and no root when attempting that gambit. I’m going to sift through the low-lying pachysandra vines to find the root bulb of each fern, then dig it up and chuck it into the yard waste bin I’ve brought out with me. Quickly I find a bulb, then use one of our 50 garden weasel-like tools to dig it out. The first bulb comes out easy, but I don’t trust that the others will be as submissive. I move onto a fern frond nearby, and follow one of its ribs down to the next bulb. I really have to dig to get at this fucker. When I’ve unearthed a big enough divot, I reach underneath it with my hand and give the clump a big ol’ pull. Eventually it comes free. I have defeated you, fern. You ain’t such hot shit. Who else wants a taste of me?
More bad guys step forward, ready to get their asses kicked. I see another fern bulb sticking out of the ground and excavate it with extreme prejudice. Then another. Then another. I’m sweating my ass off now: all over my glasses, all over my clothing, all over my hearing aid. Not fun, but the cost of doing business. I’m in a rhythm, especially since I’ve discovered that my wife’s hand trowel is the best tool for clearing all of these ferns. Three weeded-out plants become dozens. There are still hundreds more to go, but I am undaunted. I am your worst nightmare, ferns. I’m a 50-year-old man with a hand trowel and everything to lose. YOU ARE FUCKED.
Along the way, I realize that, against my long-harbored instincts, I’m enjoying myself. Making a game of it, even. Every weed that goes into the waste bin triggers a slot machine cha-ching in my head. I become so familiar with the fern roots that I can identify them even with fallen leaves obscuring the view. The bulbs are hideous to the naked eye: dirty, lumpy, misshapen. Like a tumor. I think of all of my loved ones who have had or do have cancer, and I imagine that every root I tear out is a tumor I’m excising from their body. This is real catharsis.
This is what all of the garden perverts have been talking about this whole time, my wife included. With every fern I rip out of the dirt, I'm imagining the endless days she's spent out here, living inside her experiences, re-forging bonds between us that I had let wither. She's the one inside this time, because she's earned it. But even out here alone, I feel closer to her.
And stronger. Everything I knew previously about the joy of gardening, I learned from the extended cut of The Fellowship of the Ring. But it’s a whole other thing to understand that joy firsthand. I feel in the zone. Nothing else in the world matters except for me and this little patch of earth I call home.
My back is starting to complain, and I know my limits. I won’t be able to get rid of all these stupid ferns today. But once I get up and wipe myself off as best I can, I see that at least a third of the backyard has been rendered presentable again. As always is the case with manual labor, there’s deep satisfaction to be had in stepping back and seeing the visible impact of your work. It’s a satisfaction I’ve always felt while mounting a new TV (no one's ever needed to ask me to do any work that involved me and my bro shit), and it’s been available to me this whole time. This is what I've been missing while sitting on my candy ass all these years. This is what I could've been doing instead. I feel a deep regret, the kind that only arrives in the back half of life. But I also feel a certain amount of gratitude.
And determination. I’ve banished a third of these ferns to hell, but I’m not satisfied in the least. Once I’m rested up and my lumbar is ready for it, I’ll be back out in this backyard, ready with trowel. I won’t be there out of obligation. Even after I've cleared all of them away, they'll come back. That's what weeds do if you let them. But when they do, I won't sit on my ass. I'll be ready to fight.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Packers at Patriots: I suppose it’s too early to call it, but let’s consider the case of one A.J. Brown, who will probably not be suiting up for this game. The Pats traded a 2028 first-round pick to the Eagles for Brown, in one of the more painfully drawn-out transactions of this past offseason. The trade made sense on its face. Brown and the Eagles despised one another. Pats QB Drake Maye needed an elite long-ball tracker so that he could prosper once his team inevitably reached the playoffs again. Who better than Brown for that role, right?
Well, we’re now eight games into this thing, and Brown has played in just three games, with a grand total of nine catches for 101 yards. That statline used to be one that Brown could throw down before halftime. It seems he’s just as washed up and disinterested playing for his new team as his old one. The Eagles, accelerated cap hit and all, won this trade. Howie Roseman, you wily sack of shit, you’ve done it again.
Bills at Vikings: “Kyler Murray could be fun!” my friends told me before the season. I suspected they were just humoring me then, and now I know they were.
Four Throwgasms
Raiders at 49ers: Grading on a curve this week, if you hadn’t noticed. This slate is more depressing than Vivek Ramaswamy’s election night party.
Three Throwgasms
Bucs at Bears: I know you people don’t like me making predictions, but I cannot help myself. Write it down: Tampa Bay will not win this game if they complete zero passes again. Sorry if I jinxed you, Bucs fan.
Cardinals at Seahawks
Bengals at Falcons (Madrid)
Broncos at Panthers
Two Throwgasms
Jaguars at Ravens: Is there a petition yet to make the Jags' alt uniforms their regular uniforms? Holy shit, what a difference. I bet even Jags players are stumping for them. No one wants to run out onto the field clad in a uniform that looks like their grandma made it.
Rams at Commanders
Browns at Saints
Lions at Dolphins
One Throwgasm
Cowboys at Colts: Michael Irvin is on the sidelines for every Miami game, and every time they cut to him during the telecast, it looks like he’s done more cocaine than he’s ever done before. This man is quickly approaching Bobby Brown levels of “How the fuck is he still alive?”
Jets at Chiefs: Emmett Johnson has already reached the “Why didn’t MY team draft that guy?!” level of unheralded rookie excellence. He’s also one of the few Chiefs players who hasn’t attempted to murder anyone! Good guy.
Texans at Chargers
Giants at Eagles
This Week On All Ball
Sometimes I check out the YouTube comments for our show. Let’s see what this week’s ep got:
@Killem-Dafoe
18 hours ago
That outro music is FUCKING LOUD
Sounds like you’re soft, Killem. IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME.
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Mad Care” by Drug Church! I would go to services at a drug church. From Joel:
As best I can tell (30 second search on Defector dot com) they've never been featured here and it's long overdue. If ever there was a band that was designed in a lab to churn out Brick Wall Songs, it's Drug Church. Their riffs are heavy as hell and pair perfectly with singer Patrick Kindlon's growly vocals. You could honestly pick any random song of theirs and it'd be a great pre-game song, but I'm going with "Mad Care," the lead song of their newest album. After a short intro of some studio tinkering, the band drops the hammer and comes at you at full speed. It fucking rips. Honorable mention from Drug Church is "Weed Pin" which is their biggest hit and probably the greatest middle finger to your boss song ever.
Gonna pull weeds to this next time I’m out in the yard.
And Now, Let’s Go Down To The Sidelines To Check In With Michele Tafoya
“Drew, I just called Senator-elect Peggy Flanagan to congratulate her on a hard-fought election win on Tuesday. She told me that she always knew she would win because her opponent was a ‘phony,’ and ‘I’m not even sure she knows why she wanted to run.’ When I told Flanagan that I was her opponent, Peggy told me, ‘Yeah, I know.’ She said she knew that I’d be stupid enough to try to make nice with her after embarrassing myself, and that, ‘Shouldn’t you go get a job working for Newsmax or something?’ When I reached out to Newsmax for comment on that possibility, they declined to speak to me on the record. I’ll get back to you if we hear more, Drew.”
Thank you, Michele.
Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we’ll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year’s end or sooner. And now, your potential 2026 chopping block:
Jim Harbaugh*
Nick Sirianni*
Aaron Glenn*
Shane Steichen***************
Todd Bowles
Robert Saleh*
Dan Quinn
Brian Schottenheimer*
DeMeco Ryans
Kevin O’Connell
(*potential midseason firing)
I don’t believe that Kevin O’Connell is in any danger of being fired, nor do I even want him fired. But when you’ve made as many atrocious decisions at quarterback as this man has over the past year and a half, I have no choice but to give you the side eye. How about you run an offense that players can actually understand there, Kevvo?
Gameday Cookin’ Corner
James offers a pasta all’arancia recipe in tribute to his late mother. Grab a tissue before you read this one.
My mom’s last words were not about her impending death. She was telling a home health aide, in sentences she was too scattered to finish, what it was like to be 17, newly graduated and just married, and ready to leave girlhood and Oklahoma behind. Mom was off to see the big wide world. The Air Force sent them to Salina, Kansas. Even compared to Oklahoma, Salina is not a step up. Mom was not impressed. I think these were her last words. Not a goodbye or an expression of love. Just a quiet chuckle about how awful Salina, Kansas was. Neither of us knew death was minutes away.
Mom always wanted to travel. She explored most of the western and southern states, and loved Hawaii, the closest thing to a foreign land she could visit without leaving America. She desperately wanted to try Europe but was afraid of the language barrier, especially after Dad died. I had been to Rome, so Mom enlisted me as her personal tour guide. I knew where to go.
Our first night, I took her on the passagiata down the Via Nazionale, weaving with the crowd downhill, and in some spots downstairs, to the Forum. To our left, the Colosseum glowed in the floodlights. To our right, the theater where Caesar died brooded in the dark. Above us stood the church where Peter and Paul had been chained. Ahead, amid the other ruins, was the circular footprint of Vesta’s temple, Mom's mom’s namesake. Mom did a full Julie Andrews twirl at the Forum, she was so giddy.
Then we had to climb an exhausting mile back up the hill and the stairs to dinner. I took her to the best place I knew of, a trattoria across from the stage door of the opera house, so you know it’s good. I insisted Mom try something I already knew was excellent and not available at any other restaurant: tagliatelle all’arancia. It’s pasta in an orange juice and cream sauce. It should not work. The dairy should curdle in the citrus acid. The only other place we encounter these flavors is the Creamsicle. Mom was suspicious but placed the order. Our waiter ceremoniously pulled an orange out of a display cabinet and took it to the kitchen. Then we had to wait. And wait.
That’s when Mom said her famous last words: “I don’t think the food here is all that good. I think you’re just hungry from climbing up and down hills all day!” I didn’t disagree with her, I never could. I just waited for her dinner to arrive. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she had that first bite. Her amazement, her pleasure, her realization that yes, the food is just that good in Italy. She loved every meal. I wish I could take her all over again.
We worked to piece together an approximation of the recipe. This is the best we could do. It’s simple and offers a different vegetarian (but not vegan) option than tomato or mushroom sauce. It’s not quite the same as Italy’s, but we could make it and dream of going again.
PASTA ALL’ARANCIA:
1 orange
1 1/2 cup orange juice
4 servings angel hair pasta
1/2 cup cream
Olive oil, salt, pepper
Zest the orange and pull as much pith and membrane off the segments. Start the pasta cooking. In a large skillet, bloom the zest in a little olive oil. When fragrant, add the segments, juice, salt, and pepper and let warm. When the pasta is cooked, add the juice to the skillet. Boost the heat and let cook until most of the liquid is absorbed by the pasta. Add cream and stir one minute without letting it boil. Turn off heat and serve immediately. While you eat, tell your mom you love her.
I love you, Mom!
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Spiler Cherry! It’s not cheap, but it IS Hungarian. That’s good enough for our purposes. From Margaret:
I had the good fortune to visit Budapest with friends earlier this month, and had a Spiler Cherry beer at the Spiler Biergarten. I couldn't find out much about Bela Spiler except that he traveled around the world, including a trip to Oktoberfest in Munich, and decided to recreate a German biergarten in Budapest. As you can see from the picture, it is a lovely deep pink color. It tastes like sweet cherry juice mixed with beer. The price is 2,480 Ft, or $7.51, about what you'd pay for a beer at a stadium or theater. I rinsed out the bottle and took it home: it should make a cool Halloween decoration with a light in it.
I unashamedly like fruity beers, so gimme this bad boy.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Chargers Fans
Marty Supreme, which fits neatly into the canon of the Safdie Brothers’ (only Josh worked on this one) “this main character is driving me up the fucking wall” stories. Like David Roth, I also deeply appreciate any movie, new or old, that depicts a dirty-ass New York City landscape accurately. I got an unreasonably big kick out of seeing Marty go down on Kay right there in Central Park. That’s just the kind of wastoid New York behavior I wanna see on the big screen. This is also one of the better sports movies I’ve seen in a while. Three and a half stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Ach! 'Tis no more than what God gave me, ya puritan pukes!”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
