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. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, through here.
There are childhood memories that linger in your soul for no discernible reason, and here is one of mine. I was six years old. I was living in Chicago, and playing on a Mites-level youth hockey team. I have no memory of whether or not I was a good hockey player. This was the level of youth sports where you’re essentially dressing up as an athlete without being one yet. You put on your equipment, you skate onto the ice, you do what the coach tells you until you don’t feel like doing it anymore, and then you dick around like the kid you are. A slightly more organized playdate. I remember my skates being super tight, I remember being taught how to loosely stick handle the puck, and I remember my pads smelling like a cadaver after I’d taken them off. The rest is a haze.
Except for the drive. I remember the drive crystal clear. We had to take Lake Shore Drive to practice, following the contours of Lake Michigan. Sessions were always after dark, so I’d sit in the backseat and stare through the window at all of the street lights. All of the apartment buildings, their windows lighting up as commuters arrived home after a long day at work. I remember “Steppin’ Out” by Joe Jackson, a song I still love to this day, playing on the radio. In fact, that song is the whole key to the memory; to a whole section of my childhood that is otherwise out of my grasp.
I don’t remember where the rink was (it was far). I don’t remember any small talk my mom and I made along the way. I just remember the darkness, the glow of the street lamps, and the tinkling of Joe Jackson’s piano. But it’s a perfect memory, as valuable to me as gold. I feel that moment every time I hear that song, or anytime I’m riding in a car or taxi and I see artificial lights whizz by at 50 mph. I don’t have to be in Chicago to feel it. I can be anywhere, in any vehicle, at any time of night. I just have to be along for the ride.
I have three kids, all of whom play sports. Sports means driving. So much driving. At 48, the novelty of driving a car is long gone. All that’s left is the work of it. I’ve driven these kids to swim meets, gymnastics meets, tennis practices, wrestling practices, soccer games, you name it. All at night. All usually right when I’d prefer to eat my dinner and then sit in my chair. Tell me I gotta drive these kids somewhere and I’ll do it, but it won’t feel magical. Maybe it's magical for them. Maybe they’ve seen things out of the passenger side window that’ll stick with them until they’re my age. All I know is that the best nights for me are nights when I don’t have to drive anyone anywhere.
I won’t have to for much longer. Our 18-year-old can drive, and our 15-year-old just got his permit. Thanks to the pandemic lockdown and all of its emptied parking lots, I learned that teaching my kids to drive when they were just 14 was the way to do it. The average kid in 2024 cares more about having a phone than a car, which is why a lot of teenagers are unmotivated to ever learn to drive. But tell a kid they can drive a car when they’re not supposed to, and suddenly the idea appeals to them. You don’t have to nag them to learn. They wanna do the naughty thing.
So I taught the girl how to drive during lockdown by taking her to a barren parking lot and having her execute as many maneuvers as I could think of. I had her drive laps. I had her do three-point turns. I found some dirty traffic cones in the lot and used them to set up driving course, and to arrange crude parallel parking situations. It worked. By the time she got her permit, she was comfortable behind the wheel.
Same went for the boy. He got his permit last month after all of those ad hoc lessons, and I finally unleashed him on the open road. I had to coach him along the way, never raising my voice but still giving firm instruction whenever he needed it.
Don’t follow too closely or the other car will get pissed at you.
Careful hugging the curb too tight.
Don’t slow down. You have the right of way here.
You're doing well. You're driving chill. You're already better at this than I am.
Trip by trip, we expanded his driving radius. First he drove around the neighborhood, then to school, then to the store. He got those circuits down, developing a firm sense of the local infrastructure that connected every part of his life to every other. I told him that he needed to drive anytime he could. Don’t let me drive you places, I said. That’s boring for me and a missed opportunity for you. Drive until driving feels normal.
So it was only natural when, the other week, he agreed to drive himself to soccer practice. Not alone, of course. I’d have to ride shotgun.
We got in my car. Since the boy was driving this time, he got control of the stereo. I always listened to NFL podcasts whenever I drove him, but now he got to blast all of his favorite UK trap artists through the speakers instead. He didn’t need to turn on the GPS to get to the practice field. He already knew the way. He got his seat back and his mirrors in position, gunned the engine, and took us onto the road. I still had to coach him in a few spots, but otherwise he had the basics down.
We got to practice. I could have driven back home, sat there for 45 minutes, and then gone back to pick him up. Instead, I had a more practical idea.
Why don’t I just stay here and you drive us back?
He agreed, and jogged off to the pitch while I chilled out in the car. I reclined my seat wayyyy back, ala my recliner, and watched Netflix on my phone (The Terror, solid show). A drive-in movie for one. When my son came back to the car, he was exhausted. Soccer will do that to anyone. But he got back behind the wheel without hesitation. Back came the music. Back out on the road we went. Again, I barely had to coach him. All I had to say was, “Just drive.”
He did. We repeated the routine for the next practice, and the next. Ride by ride, my coaching faded away. You coach people until they know how to coach themselves, and the boy was now correcting himself before I could even pipe up. He understood the work of driving now, which is no small thing. Cars are an inherent scourge on the landscape, but you should still know how to work one. Because a car takes work. What is a commute if not just more hours tacked onto a workday?
If you’re growing up, you should have an inherent understanding of that work: the controls (including bit ones like the brights and the wiper fluid trigger), the roads, the cues you intuit from other cars on that road, and the tedium of the whole process. You learn not to be blinded by the wonder of controlling a $30,000 piece of metal. You also come to appreciate the power that driving affords you. Suddenly your reach extends hundreds of miles instead of just a few. You can go anywhere. Do anything.
The boy was no longer blinded. He mastered the drive to practice and back in no time, so much so that I could let my eyes wander along the ride. I stared out the window and basked in the view of softly lit windows, colorful traffic lights, and homes coming to life for the evening. I was the passenger again. The child athlete. What used to be the most annoying part of my week was now the best. The kid was in control, and he’d earned it. “Steppin’ Out” played on a loop in my head.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Ravens at Chargers: Lifehacks in this column are normally reserved for Jim Tomsula, but I’ve got a real one for you. I had to go to the dentist the other day. They had to take X-rays. I fucking hate dental X-rays, because I have a sensitive gag reflex. You tend to gag when another person is cramming a piece of vinyl-coated cardboard into the back of your throat. So I warned the hygienist, and that’s when she instructed me to lift my leg—the one opposite whichever side of my mouth that was being X-rayed—during the X-ray. She explained that my brain would be so distracted by the leg thing that it wouldn’t think to gag. She was right. It fucking worked. I was astounded. That’s something for the Chargers to keep in mind next time they choke away a lead.
Four Throwgasms
49ers at Packers: If you’ve watched any NFL games lately, you’ve noticed a strange uptick in facemask penalties going uncalled. My team’s QB has been hit in his big stupid head a half dozen times, somehow all without the refs noticing. But this is as harmless a place as any to make a predictions, so here’s one from me: the league knows about the problem and are poised to engage in a wild bout of overcorrection. In the coming weeks, if a defender so much as says the word “facemask” to a QB, he’s gonna get flagged and then placed under arrest. An important game will be decided because of this. Probably one involving your team. They’ll be the one that gets fucked over.
Eagles at Rams
Three Throwgasms
Cardinals at Seahawks: I’m a grown man with three kids. Do I still say “crack kills” anytime someone’s asscrack is peeking out from their waistband? You know I do.
Vikings at Bears
Two Throwgasms
Patriots at Dolphins: Drake Maye is legit. I’d tell you that this enrages me, given my longstanding distaste for Boston sports teams. But it doesn’t. Maye is cool as shit, and all of the things that once made the Patriots despicable—including their fans, who lost all interest in 2020—are gone. This is a normal team to me, with a fun-ass QB running around back there. I doubt this feeling last forever, especially if Secretary Of Saturdays Dave Portnoy invites the team to the White House should it win another Super Bowl. But for now, I’m content to let Drake Maye cook.
Broncos at Raiders
Lions at Colts
Titans at Texans
One Throwgasm
Steelers at Browns: OK, this game blows. Thursday Night Football is finally back to serving discomfort food. I couldn’t be more excited.
Chiefs at Panthers
Bucs at Giants
Cowboys at Commanders
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Triple Threat,” by Gridiron! Well now, isn’t that name fitting for this space. From Jeff:
A band called Gridiron. Like the NFL, this is some straight up CTE dumb-dumb shit. Unlike the NFL, it’s extremely self-aware and fun. A bunch of dudes in other hardcore bands started this during the “uncertain times” for shits and giggles. Now they make music to laugh and assault your friends to.
That’s my kinda music, kiddo. Blast this out of your car.
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 2024 chopping block:
Robert Saleh—FIRED!
Dennis Allen—FIRED!
Doug Pederson—STILL NOT FIRED WTF
Todd Bowles
Brian Daboll
Dave Canales
Kevin Stefanski
Mike McCarthy*****
Matt Eberflus******!!!****!!!!!!!!****!!
Antonio Pierce*
Brian Callahan
Zac Taylor
Mike McDaniel
(*potential midseason firing)
I know there’s stiff competition for the honor, but I watched the Titans last week and they were the worst coached team I’d seen all year. Motherfuckers barely looked like they even practiced together, and their head coach blows his stack on the sideline every 15 minutes. This is what the state of Tennessee deserves of course, because it sucks. But for the casual viewer, it makes for unpleasant television. Please grab an acoustic guitar and smash it over Brian Callahan’s head. If anything it’ll make him smarter.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Trey sends in this story I call BROWNSTONE:
Cody, Wyoming, the closest town to Yellowstone and the Rodeo Capital of the World. I worked for the largest hotel empire in town and, at the ripe age of 18, was promoted to front desk manager. This came with several perks, such as being able to get my best friends and family members jobs during the coveted tourist season, where tips flowed like Old Faithful.
My brother secured a job as a bellhop, lugging bags bigger than him up and down the stairs in a hotel without an elevator. One day, when the heat was extra brutal, we were oversold on all three properties by 20%. Each bus averaged 50-60 bags weighing over 50 pounds, so by the third bus, you were absolutely gassed after lugging each upstairs.
A smaller tour group was attempting to check in, but due to the difference in European date formats, they had booked for 6/7 rather than the July 7/6. This resulted in me trying to explain to a very angry Spaniard that we had no rooms, our other properties were sold out, and that there were no hotels in a 50-mile radius had vacancy. As I was being verbally berated, my brother, drenched in sweat, tapped me on the shoulder and said we had a very urgent issue.
Before I could step away behind the desk, he whispered in my ear, “I just had to throw away my underwear in the bathroom, I need you to grab a fresh pair on your lunch break.” Before I had time to register the direness of his situation, one of the tour group members burst out of our lobby bathroom and declared, “There is a MASSIVE shit in the loo, it’s like a baguette poking out of the water!”
I quickly turned to my brother and nodded, before breaking out in laughter. This did not go well as I was trying to find accommodations for a group of 30. The Spaniard demanded to see the manager, as I pointed to the “Manager on Duty” sign, then to my name badge and pimple-adorned face. He stormed off to the bathroom, oblivious to the loaf my brother left. Not a moment passed before he raced back to the desk shouting, “CACA! CACA!”.
I radioed our poor maintenance team to deal with the damage, trying to keep a straight face. After about ten minutes, I received a radio confirmation. “Maintenance to Front Desk, come in? We have sunk the Titanic.”
That month/date swap that Europeans do always fucks ME up, too! Oh, and ewww the poopy.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline And Check In With Charissa Thompson
“Drew, you might have noticed Bronny James, son of LeBron, wearing a Pet Shop Boys T-shirt on his way to the game the other week. I asked him about the shirt. He said, ‘I just love them!’ He said he loves how cool and English they are. And while Bronny’s friends sometimes make fun of him sometimes for liking such an old band, his dad told him, quote, ‘Do you, son.’ That’s exactly what Bronny is doing. Back to you, Drew.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Paradise Park! The first beer that looks like the worst motel you’ve ever stayed in. From John:
The case said there was "good beer inside." And for $9.99 a 15 pack at my local Kroger, why would BIG BEER lie to me? Brewed in both Houston and New Orleans, it had all the effervescence of a Houston refinery and went down as smooth as Bourbon Street hot dog water. It pairs perfectly with watching my Panthers get their nuts crushed by the rest of the league. I foresee these generating a Great Moment in Poop History before Week 7 of the NFL season. I would've lost the $10 at the sports book anyway.
That beer looks genuinely awful, enough for me to hope I never encounter it in the wild.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Raiders Fans
Castle Falls, an excellent little DTV action movie that I never would have heard of had I not stumbled onto this story over at Nü Gawker (since shuttered; Gawker will now be resurrected and killed off once every two years) extolling the virtues of star Scott Adkins, whom I had also never heard of. Adkins is a beefy Englishman who talks like Jason Statham and looks like Ryan Reynolds but with visible pores. He’s not Anthony Hopkins, but he’s highly skilled at looking hurt (very important) and at fighting bad guys. This man is officially on my radar now, and I’m happier for it.
As for this movie, it was produced and directed by Dolph Lundgren, and co-stars Lundgren as well. If you only remember Lundgren as the bad guy in Rocky IV, this might be a dealbreaker. But it’s worth reminding you that Lundgren might be the most interesting man in the world. That makes it less surprising that this movie, Lundgren’s seventh behind the camera, is better directed than most action movies that get a theatrical release. The location shots of Birmingham look good and dirty. The fight scenes are coherent and move fast. And the dialogue is kept to a healthy minimum, 80s style.
The story, which boils down to Die Hard in an abandoned hospital, is more convincing then is has any right to be. Adkins plays a down on his luck former MMA pro (I have now accepted that this will be an established stock character in future movies going forward) who takes a job as a day laborer at a hospital scheduled to be torn down, only to discover $3 million in cash secreted inside one of its walls. Lundgren plays a prison guard who gets wind of the stash from one of his inmates and realizes it’s his best shot at paying for a life-saving surgery for his kid. And Marvel stuntman Scott Hunter plays a psychotic dickhead who also knows about the money and has a whole crew with him to go claim it. Three parties go into the hospital, mayhem ensues. I was wildly entertained for 90 minutes. Castle Falls even tosses in a fire hose stunt just to goose the Die Hard-iness of the whole thing. I didn’t roll my eyes. I couldn’t, because this movie was so well done. Three and a half stars. I will delve further into the Adkins canon shortly.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Hi, I'm Bart Simpson. I was incredibly moved by your reading. I don't think God's words have ever sounded so plausible.”
“Thanks, Art. Um, I have to go over here now.”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
