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.
It’s the mid-2000s. I’ve just moved to the D.C. area. My wife is from here. I am not. My wife has friends here. I do not. My wife has a job. I do not. Every day, I have to boot up a PC we borrowed from my brother-in-law and scroll through listings on Monster that are either fake jobs, or jobs I’ve already seen listed 500 times before. In the meantime, my wife is the breadwinner, working a cubicle job she hates in a suburban office building she may hate even more. We only have one car—a champagne Honda Accord her parents let us have—so I’m her ride to and from work. I have to pick her up every day just after five, but sometimes her work runs a little bit long and I stay in the car to wait. I don’t mind this wait, because while I don’t know anyone in this town, I do know that everyone here (at least, for now) loves football, and their football team in particular.
That means that I can hang out with local sports talk radio while I’m temporarily stranded in an anonymous parking lot. I usually listen to 980 AM, a station owned by the already infamous Dan Snyder, featuring a lineup of local sports legends who come off as has-beens anytime they start yakking into a microphone: John Thompson, Rick “Doc” Walker, John Riggins, Brian Mitchell. But at 4:00 p.m., the station cedes airtime to actual, capable radio hosts in the form of Andy Pollin and Steve Czaban, who host a drive-time show called The Sports Reporters (no affiliation with the old ESPN panel show).
The Commanders, going by another name at this time, are fucking miserable. But their misfortune is a feature for me, not a bug. I get to hear Czabe and Andy lash out at the team, and I get a Tony Kornheiser phone hit into the show at 5:00 p.m. sharp. This was back when I liked Kornheiser, so the whole affair counts as a treat for me. So I don’t mind when my wife takes a little too long to come down to the car. I don’t mind waiting. I don’t have my favorite team here. Given that large-scale podcasts and social media have yet to be invented, I also have no way of following my favorite team as closely as I’d like. But I do have a team to check in on. So I’m happy to spend time in the Commanders media universe. They’re awful, but in a way that’s almost addictive in its brazenness, especially when contrasted against the three Lombardi trophies they won the century prior.
That contrast would only grow.
The more that Snyder fucked with the Commanders, the more shocking it felt that they were EVER worth a shit. But they were. I remember. I remember that Doug Williams Super Bowl. I remember Mark Rypien’s 1991 Pro Bowl season, which he would never again duplicate. And of course, I remember Joe Gibbs: founding father of the tape-grinding movement and a man who won multiple titles by harnessing the power of his sad little office cot. That 1991 season ended with a championship, played in the Metrodome, of all venues. The Buffalo Bills were desperate to atone for Scott Norwood’s missed FG in the Super Bowl prior, but they were helpless against Rypien and Gibbs. Most teams were.
Those were the good days, and they were the only thing that Snyder’s Commanders subsisted on during his ownership. I have lived in D.C. for most of that time: through the cheerleader scandals, through Steve Spurrier, through “we will NEVER change the name,” through Sherman Lewis getting hired out of a bingo parlor to call plays midseason, through RG3’s knee folding up like a wedding chair, and through “Kurt.” I saw all of it. At one point, I was even invited by Czabe and Andy on The Sports Reporters to join in the hogpile, because I had cultivated a sort of anti-fandom for this team that had me eager to watch them humiliate themselves in new and extraordinary ways. When Snyder refused to change the old name of the team, he was unwittingly replacing all of the winning that nickname once implied with losing, racism, losing, incompetence, and losing. He was saddling his beloved plaything with the same baggage that America itself has acquired throughout its dubious history. I loved to hate Snyder’s team. I was a rabid anti-fan.
Then Snyder abandoned the old name, first in favor of no name at all, before finally settling on the most anodyne nickname possible: one that of his asshole kids likely picked out of a hat. Then Snyder was forced out in favor of a more optics-friendly billionaire, who only needed one season cleaning up Snyder’s mess before refashioning the Commanders into a shockingly capable NFL organization. The Commanders now have an actual general manager (Adam Peters), an actual coach (Dan Quinn), and an actual quarterback (Jayden Daniels). Save for their lousy stadium, they in no way resemble the franchise that Snyder once owned. They feel like an expansion team, which I assure you is more of a compliment than an insult. Washington HAD to kill its past to get here. Even with the Super Bowls, the franchise’s history had become sad at best and harmful at worst. No longer. Everything about this team feels new.
And I like them. That’s also new. I was like everyone else a week ago in hoping that the Detroit Lions would finally win some cool shit. But then Daniels started carving the Lions up on their home turf and I found myself, against my conscious judgment, wanting the Comms to win. I loved Daniels working through a muddy pocket like defenders weren’t even there. I loved Mike Sainristil conjuring up images of his old college self by picking off Jared Goff not once, but twice. I even loved Dan Quinn rocking the backward hat. I didn’t pray for the Comms to lose just so that I could hear everyone on 980 give them both barrels the next day (I stopped listening to that station ages ago; Pollin was laid off, Czaban now has a local show in Wisconsin that follows the Packers … et tu, Czabe?). The team with the racist name was some other team that I once hated. These Commanders were a different beast altogether.
I know this is true because late in the fourth quarter of last week’s game, when the Commanders’ victory was assured, the TV cameras cut to an aging Joe Gibbs yukking it up on the sideline with Commanders owner Josh Harris. Gibbs was the face of this franchise, and often its only means of cover, for decades. But when I saw him on the sideline in Detroit on Saturday night, I didn’t think about Mark Rypien, or Dan Snyder, or of picking my wife up from work in that stupid Accord. All I could think was That guy doesn’t belong here. Washington’s football past is dead. Its future is anything but.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And for the playoffs, I PICK the games, because doing so makes me strong and brave.
Five Throwgasms
Commanders (+6) 35, Eagles 30. You and I know that this has been a season in which Establishing The Run has returned to being a winning strategy rather than a stock meme. That fact would superficially appear to favor the Eagles, who possess a fully armed and operational Saquon Barkley, and who enjoy passing the ball about as much as 1999 Jeff Fisher did. But here’s a metric for the NFC title game that you may not have expected: The Eagles rank 11th overall in rushing success rate. The Commanders? Second.
Aiding Washington here is the fact that their running QB isn’t collecting injuries at a Nordberg-like clip. No rookie quarterback has ever led a team to the Super Bowl, but Jayden Daniels is a breed apart from the Bo Nixes of the universe. Our silky smooth hero just laid down a whoopin’ on the top seed, after all. No reason he can’t do is again this week, especially if/when Jalen Hurts’s transmission finally blows out.
Then again, God has a nasty habit of denying you and me the Super Bowl we want. So…
Chiefs (-1.5) 20, Bills 16. I don’t like it anymore than you. I’d much rather see Josh Allen in the Super Bowl than a Chiefs team that’s become the sworn enemy of suspenseful football. Any NFL team piloted by Patrick Mahomes should never be rough on the eyes, but the 2024 Chiefs are practitioners of fancy Martyball, bailing themselves out all game long and staging nothing but stultifying, 17-play drives on offense. It’s miserable, and I’ve had more than enough of it.
Given all of Kansas City’s close shaves this season, you and I have been waiting for the other shoe to drop on them. But that’s a foolish expectation to carry when they possess the best quarterback, the best head coach, the best DC, the best interior pass rusher, the best interior O-line, the best linebacking crew, the best kicker (ugh), and one of the best cover corners in the sport. No team that boasts all of those amenities can ever be fraudulent. It can only be annoying. And America, these Chiefs are annoying as SHIT. Sunday will be their masterwork. I’ll be dead asleep by the time they get saved by a horseshit roughing call.
Last week: 1-3
Overall: 5-5
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Woman on the Screen,” by Boris! From reader Sean:
Boris is a Japanese trio who have released 20 or so albums since the late 90s. This is from 2005's "Pink," which had kind of a hipster moment around its release, but the shit is still dope today.
That it is. Also, 20 albums is too many. You’re verging into Guided By Voices territory when you release that much material, leaving me unsure of where to even start with your catalog. But I’m being too persnickety here. This song brings the riffs, and that’s all I ask.
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 current 2024 chopping block:
Robert Saleh—FIRED!
Dennis Allen—FIRED!
Matt Eberflus—FIRED!
Doug Pederson—FIRED!
Jerod Mayo—FIRED!
Antonio Pierce—FIRED!
Mike McCarthy—FIRED!
In case you aren’t up to speed on the offseason hiring news, allow me to sum it up for you as best I can:
-The Bears hired Ben Johnson, who will either prove to be a genius or one of those coaches who spends all day drawing up schemes and forgets about the whole “You have to know how to talk to people in order to do this job” thing. I remain stunned that Chicago didn’t hire Ravens OC Todd Monken, who looks so much like a Bears head coach that I can hardly stand it.
-Tom Brady was not so secretly conducting the Raiders’ coaching search before Johnson gave him the Heisman, so he’s probably gonna let new Vegas GM John Spytek—yes, I laughed at his name for the same reason you did—pick the coach and then tell everyone that calling games poorly for FOX is where his heart’s been the whole time.
-The Patriots spent exactly one year attempting to refresh the stale culture inside their building and are now content to win nine games a year with Mike Vrabel doing dumb Mike Vrabel shit.
-The Jets hired Aaron Glenn, presumably after he aced his interview with the team by successfully completing the cinnamon challenge for Brick Johnson.
-The Titans hired a general manager who won’t be allowed to general manage everything.
-The Cowboys are probably going to hire Brian Schottenheimer, who is the Dave Shula of Kyle Shanahans.
-The Jags just fired GM Trent Baalke because all of their prospective coaching hires said to them, Wait, you’re not actually gonna keep this asshole in the building, right?
-The Saints will hire someone who makes no difference whatsoever.
This has been your Carousel Update. Now let’s talk pooping.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Brett sends in this story I call CADDYSTACK:
My dad, older brother and I went golfing when I was in middle school. At some point, for some reason, my dad had to take a shit and went off in the trees and did his business. He told us not TO tell Mom. When we got home, Mom asked how golf was. Being the snarky teenager I was, I said that it was great and that, "Dad was a real bear on the course!" Somehow my mom immediately knew that meant he had shit in the woods, and she admonished him. To this day we quote, "Dad was a real bear on the course" whenever we golf together.
Something tells me that this wasn’t the first time your mother had gotten wind of your old man doing that.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline And Check In With Charissa Thompson
“Drew, I had a chance to talk with Saquon Barkley before Sunday’s game, and I asked him how much it meant to him to run for over 200 yards a week ago against the Rams. He told me that he doesn’t care what his statline says, so long as his team ‘gets the dub.’ ‘I just wanna win,’ he told me. He said that rushing for big yards, ‘just doesn’t give me the kind of pleasure I get from destroying my opponent, watching the blood drain from his face as he realizes how pathetic and weak he is, and how he’ll never be able to look his children in the eyes again after knowing that I ripped out his soul and then feasted on it, tearing into his flesh with my bare teeth and leaving nothing but bones and sinew on the turf beneath me.’ Saquon also told me that he plans on treating his offensive line to a showing of Wicked before Sunday’s game. Back to you, Drew.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Inselburg! No, it’s not a charming little ski town in the Eastern Alps. It’s a gross-ass beer! From Scott:
My wife and I went on a trip to Cyprus earlier this year. First trip without our children since 2011. It was a little nerve wracking to think of my 78-year-old dad caring for them while we were 10 time zones away, so I went looking for cheap swill to distract me. Insëlberg fit the bill. A tidy €0.90 for 500 ml of, well, shitty beer. Was its flavor impacted by sitting in our rental car all day in 90° (sorry, 32°) heat? Maybe. But from what I heard after talking with locals, probably not by much. I did kinda like their main beer, Keo. Ice cold Keo while sitting on the beach and gawking at all of the Russian and British tourists was a great time.
I believe you. I love me some people watching, especially while sedated.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Titans Fans
Alone, which looks like a standard-issue horror movie until you realize that it was directed by John Hyams, who is apparently the greatest filmmaker I’d never heard of until a year ago. There is no one in this movie you’ve ever heard of, unless you’re a huge fan of David E. Kelley repertory member Anthony Heald. There is nothing about this movie’s plot—a grieving woman (Jules Willcox) is abducted by a serial killer (Marc Menchaca) and has to escape—that you haven’t seen elsewhere. Without proper context, Alone is just another thumbnail image you blow by on the Netflix menu. Even the trailer above doesn’t give you a proper indication of what you’re in for.
So you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that this movie is fucking incredible. Hyams never cuts away from our heroine’s plight. He never cuts to scenes of a world-weary cop getting wind of something naughty happening out in the forest. He never uses flashbacks. The only time Hyams cuts away from the action on the ground is to splice in a few gorgeous aerial shots of a barren forest, just to emphasize how screwed our heroine is. You don’t get any rest from this movie, but you don’t get any dumbass torture porn, either. Instead, you’re locked in for 90 intense minutes as Jessica uses every resource she can find (there ain’t much) to get the fuck away from a deranged asshole. And buddy, did I ever want her to. I wanted Jessica to be free and happy.
Alone goes from horror movie to survival tale to action flick without any hiccups, and that’s because Hyams keeps the story so lean. Every shot is tight, and there’s zero exposition. There is just a crisis on film. This is in line with Hyams’s other work (which includes Black Summer and Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning), all of which is equally intense and immediate. Part of me wishes that Hyams would get tapped to direct either a tentpole flick or some expensive piece of Oscar bait, but another part of me knows that he’s probably best off working in the VOD realm, where he can make movies his way without studio accountants micromanaging him into hackery. Let’s keep his astounding talents our little secret for now, so that he keeps the ownage coming. This movie is perfect. Four stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Son, a woman is a lot like a... a refrigerator! They're about six feet tall, 300 pounds. They make ice, and... um... Oh, wait a minute! Actually, a woman is more like a beer. They smell good, they look good… you'd step over your own mother just to get one. But you can't stop at one. You wanna drink another woman!”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
