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 suppose the fact that I was born in October is among the reasons it’s my favorite month and always will be. I remember a lot of happy birthdays. I remember going to a WWF arena show for one of them, getting to curse out Bobby “The Brain” Heenan live and in person. I remember my mom making me my preferred birthday cake: chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, decorated with candy corn (I like candy corn, judge me as you will). And I remember one of my friends spoiling the punchline on my birthday card before I’d opened it. Fucking Jed. I wanted to find out that the grim reaper was only here for the cake myself, thank you very much.
But I’m in my late 40s now, which means my birthday is just any other day to me. October itself, though, is another matter. There are commercial harbingers for autumn, of course: pumpkin spice lattes, variety packs of Halloween candy on sale at the grocery store, and all of the other familiar trappings. But none of those gimmicks can replicate the feel of October itself: the air, the landscape, and the memory of it all. Every October I live through reminds me of all the other Octobers I’ve had, and those memories mean more to me than any stupid birthday present ever could.
Because the Octobers of my memory remain so bright and beautiful. I remember a farmstand that popped up every October along my bus route to school in Orono, Minn. The land near that school has long since been developed into townhouse complexes, but I still remember it being clear and fertile, that little apple stand reminding little me that Halloween was nearing. I remember being excited to go to football practice every October, right when the mercury was in that sweet spot just under 60 degrees. I remember drinking hot, spiced apple cider from a mix, and eating all the caramel off a caramel apple before throwing it away. I remember seeing Pulp Fiction in the theater on opening night, holding my breath with the crowd when John Travolta held that big adrenaline shot needle over Uma Thurman’s exposed sternum. I remember my college campus looking its most college-y every October, the foliage ringing the quad as if a designer had placed all of it there. And I remember walking around Bethesda Terrace in Central Park with my wife, feeling like I was in the middle of a Nora Ephron movie. I met my wife in October. Her birthday is also in October. October fated us to be together.
We had kids, and from them a whole other cache of memories comes wafting through the air: fruitless trips to Spirit Halloween to look for a decent costume, testing out every nearby apple farm outside of town before finding one that was actually cool (Summer’s Farm, just outside of Frederick, Md.), switching over their closets to winter wear. Whether or not my kids treasure October the way I do remains to be seen, but every October they live through is one I get to re-live through them. Every night trick-or-treating. Every repeated viewing of It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Every excuse to make apple crisp (I double the crumble part of the recipe) and then top it with vanilla ice cream. Despite fall acting as the front door to a long, cold winter, it’s the season where I feel most alive. Everyone is back at work. Everyone is getting in their last cookouts, or getting a head start on their Christmas shopping, or tailgating outside of a football game. The world is always doing things in October, and I’m always energized by that bustle.
Sports are a large part of this affection, of course. I love football, and I love postseason baseball. So here’s one more October memory for you. I was watching Game 6 of the 1991 World Series from a rental house in Goshen, Conn. We had just moved to Connecticut from Minnesota, and my parents had to find a temporary place to live while renovating my late grandmother’s house nearby. I lived in Minnesota when the Twins won the title in 1987. Now I was living in a dark, unfamiliar part of New England. I had just enrolled in a prep school, so I had no permanent home of my own to speak of at the time. All I had was my family, my Homer Hanky from '87, and October. Here’s how that game ended:
The Twins would clinch that series the following evening.
This year, where I live, the first of October was decidedly October-ish. The air was properly crisp, enough for me to wear a jacket comfortably. The blue of the sky was just a shade more intense than a summer blue sky. The leaves on the trees hadn’t turned, but you could sense the transition quickly approaching. I took my dog out for a piss late that afternoon and felt the October acutely. If I could still smell, I might’ve picked up the scent of the first crackling leaves on the ground, or the first wisps of fireplace smoke piping out of a neighboring chimney. But I remembered those scents, and that was enough.
I checked my phone. After my folks renovated my grandma’s house in 1991, they lived in their new digs for another 33 years, all the way until my dad died in September of last year. The spring after his passing, my mom decided to put that house on the market. It languished there for a few tense months until, finally, she got a solid offer. Now she was texting me and my siblings to let us know that this morning, the buyers had closed on it. On October 1. She cried when the deal went through, but not all of her tears were sad ones. She had a lot of happy memories in that house. Those didn’t get lost in the transaction. They never could. Like the air, like the leaves, like the apples, and like my dear Kirby Puckett, October is something you get to keep forever.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Chiefs at Jaguars: The Chiefs suddenly have their 2019 offense back, which is annoying because I’d already staked my position that Xavier Worthy sucks. Now I look wrong. Can’t abide that.
As for the Jags, their 3-1 record is surprising because they’re, you know, the Jags. But they’re also flourishing despite the fact that they’re not getting a ton of production out of No. 2 overall pick Travis Hunter, whom a lot of people (me) assumed would be an instant superstallion upon entering the league. Hunter has 13 catches for 118 yards as a WR, and not enough snaps at CB to qualify for PFF’s rankings. He’s probably gonna have to pick a side and stay there. Again, I look wrong. That cannot stand.
Four Throwgasms
Broncos at Eagles: Someone near me will complain about seeing ads on their phone and I’ll say, “Just put it in Reader Mode.” Then they’re like, “What’s that?” The second they prove ignorant of Reader Mode’s existence, I am ready to STRIKE. Teaching noobs about basic tech is where I really get to shine (in my own mind). So if you, fair reader, are also unaware of Reader Mode, consider this a brief PSA. Open Safari on your iPhone and click on an article. Tap the icon on the lefthand side of the address bar. It should give you an option that says READER MODE. Press that and VOILA. No more ads on your page. I’ve taught this lesson to loved ones of all ages, and they’re always like, “Oh wow, how I did I not know this existed?” The dad high I get from this is always an elite one.
In fact, if you fuck around with a combination of Reader Mode and private browsing, you can sometimes you can even skirt a paywall (don’t do that to bypass Defector’s wall, or else I’ll cut you down). It’s not foolproof, because this is the 2025 internet. So sometimes entire paragraphs of an article are missing, or you only get the first few grafs of a paywalled article, because they know what you’re trying to pull. But generally speaking, Reader Mode saves your eyes a lot of time and damage. Plus, the smugness you feel from showing it to other people is nigh impossible to match.
And if you’ve been reading this column in Reader Mode the whole time, go ahead and allow yourself a cunning smirk.
Bucs at Seahawks
Three Throwgasms
Commanders at Chargers: I’ll regret floating this idea, but it sure as hell looks like Quentin Johnston is, like, good now. He’s top 20 in PFF grading, and ranks third overall in yardage. More important: whenever they cut to a Johnston highlight now, it’s because he actually caught the ball and not because he dropped it. Apart from being a normal human being, there’s nothing Jim Harbaugh can’t do.
49ers at Rams
Cowboys at Jets
Patriots at Bills
Two Throwgasms
Giants at Saints: I know he hurt himself on this play, but check out Jaxson Dart winding up for the big overhand stiffarm:
I’m sold. Between Dart and psycho RB Cam Skattebo, the Giants are kinda fun now. It’s disorienting, to say the very least. John Mara is deeply concerned at the joy levels on display inside of his stadium.
Raiders at Colts: It happened again!
That’s Colts WR Adonai Mitchell about to house a touchdown and then fumbling the ball because he got his celly on too early. This fuckup happens at least once a season, and it’s utterly mystifying. Mitchell’s own teammate did it less than a year ago! DeSean Jackson used to do it all the time! Did Mitchell learn NOTHING from these bloopers? Did anyone? All you gotta do is cross the plane before you bust a move. Couldn’t be simpler to execute when you’re running with the ball in an open field. And yet players keep doing it!
You don’t have to be a boomer to be appalled by this. From now on, any player who pulls this shit has to wear a cone-shaped Guardian Cap for the rest of the game.
(Mitchell would later ruin a game-altering Jonathan Taylor house call by holding on the play. He deserves prison.)
One Throwgasm
Titans at Cardinals: While we’re on the subject of Guardian Caps, I have no beef with any player who chooses to wear one. But if I’m a defender and you’re wearing a Guardian Cap, I’m gonna tackle you jusssst a little bit harder. All that extra padding is too good for me to pass up.
Dolphins at Panthers: I am unreasonably giddy over the new Rivalry uniforms the league is busting out here and there all season long. The majority of these getups still comply with Nike’s ongoing monochrome fetish (that company won’t stop until every team is playing in a union suit), but they’ve got actual design behind them. And bitchin’ color schemes, too! I’m picky about my alts, because I’m old and annoying. But the NFL’s sartorial landscape has been so bereft of ideas for so long that I’m now willing to embrace pretty much anything that looks different. Fuck it, let the Jaguars wear an all-plaid uniform next year if they’re game for it. Let’s see how far we can take this.
Texans at Ravens
Vikings at Browns (London)
Lions at Bengals
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Just As The Day Was Dawning,” by Big Business! From Byron:
This is just some outstanding stoner sludge in the vein of the Melvins. In fact, they played jointly with the Melvins for a bit.
They earned the right.
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 2025 chopping block:
Brian Callahan**********
Zac Taylor*
Mike McDaniel
Brian Daboll
Aaron Glenn
John Harbaugh
Kevin Stefanski
Pete Carroll
(* - potential midseason firing)
I genuinely thought that the combination of Pete Carroll and Geno Smith would make the Raiders respectable. It appears I failed to account for the fact that Pete Carroll is 74 years old, and that Geno Smith is Geno Smith. I feel like such a child.
Jim Harbaugh’s Lifehack of the Week!
“What do I look for in a woman? That’s easy: GOD. A good woman not only worships God, but also understands what GOD stands for: Goodness, Obedience, and Determination. Now some feminists out there might take issue with that second one. But in my experience, the strongest kind of woman is one who’s willing to be obedient. When I think about how my wife—as powerful and intelligent a woman as you’ll ever meet—irons my chinos every morning without complaint—it’s just … my gosh!”
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader AJ sends in this story I call ONE SHART AFTER ANOTHER:
Last winter, I was playing late night pickup at an indoor facility about 30m from my house. I've made extremely questionable dietary decisions today, namely Mexican for lunch, Indian for dinner, and an old leftover cupcake on my way to the game. I feel fine running around for two hours, but ten minutes into a half hour drive, the rumbles begin. Only now do I notice I've entered a work zone on the highway just before the Beltway bridge I'm about to cross. It's too late to move over, so I clench and assume I'll make it.
Traffic slows down dramatically, then abruptly ceases to move entirely. An overnight work zone. I begin to sweat. I'm literally in the middle lane between two 18-wheelers. No chance to pull over, and even if I did, traffic is not passing quickly and every other driver would witness my shame in intimate detail. Ten minutes go by, I've moved maybe a half-mile. I can clench no longer, and a lone fart escapes. A crack in the dam. More farts. I'm now actively punching my own thigh, trying to force my brain to focus on anything other than shitting myself. It is 19 degrees outside. I would shit hotbox my own car.
Finally after ten minutes that feels like two hours, the traffic opens up. A momentary reprieve. I cross the bridge and then more traffic. Fuck you Marlyand and Virginia, two separate work zones is too much. I resume farting, much to my chagrin, and no longer have confidence they remain gaseous only. I drive with my back braced against the seat and my ass up, hoping to minimize the long term damage. I finally make it home, thirty minutes late, and nearly fall down the stairs getting to the bathroom, then have only enough time to half-spin before I shit, literally before I can sit down. It's horrible and takes eleven wipes. I dispose of my sharty underwear, and immediately shower. I curse my dietary choices, the state of Maryland, and my traitorous asshole. I will learn nothing from this experience.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Week
“Dad, the locker room’s out of blue Gatorade! What the fuck, man? Me and my boy Jackknife were thirsty as fuck, and our stupid football team’s run out of the best flavor? Why don’t we just have Gatorade on tap, like probably Japan has? I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS SHIT! YOU AND MOTHER NEVER LISTEN TO ANY OF MY IDEAS! Do you guys want me to take one of the Jags and drive it off the GW? Is that what you really want? Because I’ll fucking do it, Woody. I’ll drive that car right into the Hudson and then you’ll have to deal with having TWO dead kids instead of just one. WOULD THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE?
“Also, I need some cash for Chick-fil-A.”
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Timisoreana! From Definitely Not America! Reader Kurt tells the story:
Sometimes you roll the dice and come up a winner. Timișoreana is a perfectly fine beer. The label proclaims, "The story goes on." The story here is that Ursus Breweries donates to preserve habitat for Carpathian bears, some of the few wild bears left in Europe, which is something we can all drink to. This pilsner is crisp, clean, and goes well with salty snacks. The only complaint is that it's very fizzy, but that just means you can produce loud bear-like belches. Makes you feel powerful.
This is almost too wholesome of a beer to include in this space. Better drink a 12-pack and then smash one of the bottles over my head to make it properly dangerous.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Dolphins Fans
One Battle After Another, which has already won trophies for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Roach Clip Gag. I’m not gonna get into what this movie says about The World We Live In Now, because there are already 50,000 reviews at your disposal if you’re looking for that sort of thing (here’s one of the best of them). I just want to use this mini-review to say how much FUN I had watching it. I saw OBAA at a morning screening, but walked out regretting that I hadn’t braved the crowds to see it in a packed auditorium. I don’t normally associate director Paul Thomas Anderson with crowd-pleasers (neither do you), but fuck me if he didn’t use all of his fancy auteur skills to get you cheering in your seat. I bet the opening-night crowds were bananas.
This is a fairly simple action movie at its core. Leo DiCaprio is a former revolutionary turned aimless stoner (the role he was born to play) living in Witness Protection with his daughter (Chase Infiniti, who is a person and not the name of a low APR cash card). But one day, his cover is blown and he and his kid get separated while on the lam. Leo has to rescue his daughter before the bad guy (Sean Penn, whose character is the exact kind of Trumpist weirdo that you and I have to deal with on a daily basis) gets to both of them. Mayhem aplenty ensues. I’m leaving out dozens of other plot elements, but all you really need to know is Dad Saves Kid. Just like Taken, only not at all like Taken.
And for the climactic car chase, PTA toys with the vanishing point on the horizon in such a way that you’re left feeling like you’re behind the wheel yourself. It’s an all-timer of a scene, and it’s one of the reasons you’re already hearing some people declare this one of the best movies ever made. Four stars. More PTA car chase movies, please.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“You know, my course can help you with every personality disorder in the 'Feel Bad Rainbow.' Let's look at the rainbow; what's in there? Depression, insomnia, motor-mouth, darting eyes, indecisiveness, decisiveness, bossiness, uncontrollable falling down, geriatric profanity disorder (or GPD)...
"...and chronic nagging ... nagging ... nagging...”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
