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.
Before we get to the other kind of football, we begin with soccer. I have a 16-year-old son. He has played soccer longer than he’s had a functioning memory. We still have photos of the boy from when he was 3 and going to daytime soccer camp to help us burn the clock. This was soccer only in the loosest sense. The kids had jerseys (t-shirts), they had a ball, they had miniature Pugg goals to fire shots at. But since preschoolers are too young to grasp concepts such as “rules,” the boys and girls spent most of those sessions playing soccer-themed games like Stuck In The Mud. It was very cute, as was the coach. A few team moms would show up to practice just a little more cleaned up than they might have otherwise.
A decade later, the sport was no longer cute to the boy. It was serious business. All he cared about, really. He was so obsessed with moving up in soccer that he, without my wife’s or my knowledge, bulled his way onto a local club team (one a level or two above the club team he was already on) by contacting the coach and showing up to team practices without an official roster spot. Impressed by his display of [Dan Campbell voice] grit, the coach gave him one. He started most matches at left back, surrounded by teammates who were just as cutthroat as he was. This league didn’t fuck around. Its matches had all of the competitive accoutrements: real jerseys (with real price tags to go with), real refs, real standings, real coaches who yelled real loud. You wouldn’t mistake these matches for some local pickup action.
Except if you went looking for a scoreboard, because there wasn’t one.
In all my time as a soccer dad, I never had the luxury of a scoreboard to glance at. I drove countless hours, filmed countless games on the boy’s phone at his request (my kingdom for a tripod), and endured countless matches where the weather was 40 degrees with gale-force winds. Yet every time I went to an official league match, I had to either ask other parents what the score was, or keep my own mental track of it. Sometimes I kept track accurately. Other times, I’d watch the other team celebrate at the final whistle and say to myself, “Hey wait, I thought they were tied!” Or I’d have to open the dreaded TeamSnap app, click out of the ads, and then check a live scoreboard that was updated by God knows who or what. Minus a visible clock, I also had no fucking idea when the halves would end, or when stoppage time would begin. Even when the refs shouted, “Five more minutes!” it felt like the teams played for another 15. It was like watching soccer with one eye closed.
Just over a year ago, the boy went out for his high school team. He didn’t make it. He also didn’t make JV. This is a big high school, in a competitive district: one that sends a number of its varsity players to DI college ball. Making JV represents a legit accomplishment here, even if you’re an upperclassman. So the boy, then a sophomore, was only so crestfallen that he got cut. He had his club team to go back to, after all. Another year of tightly contested matches where ascertaining the time and score required a light scavenger hunt.
A month ago, the boy went out for the high school team again. This time, he won a JV spot. The boy is as quiet as his father is loud, so I have to read his body language to intuit how he’s feeling at any given moment. When he got back home that day and told us the news, that body language was set all the way to FUCK YEAH: erect spine, puffed out chest, big fat smile. Years and years of work, and he’d finally made the big time.
He spent most of his first match on the bench. My wife attended that one. I got to chaperone him to match No. 2, a home contest that took place this past weekend. I drove to the high school football stadium. The boy had spent thousands of off-hours on this field over the years, getting in a few touches with his friends before getting shooed away by an official school team that needed the space. He also played a club game or two in this stadium, but never with the scoreboard illuminated.
This time, though, the scoreboard was alight. I didn’t have to awkwardly ask other parents who was winning. I didn’t have to open TeamSnap to check the game clock. It was on display, for all to see, just beyond the end zone. And I didn’t have to bravely chase down errant shots that had flown over the goal and rolled into the street. Officials had fresh balls ready to put into play for those moments. Shit, they even had a PA announcer working the match. As real as the boy’s club matches had been, this felt even realer. More official.
The scoreboard was a big reason why. If you’ve played sports, you understand the weight that a scoreboard carries. You understand that “Scoreboard” is the ultimate counter to any opposing taunt, because there’s no comeback for losing. You understand that the closer a game looks to a professional one—with a scoreboard, a timekeeper, a full officiating crew, real uniforms, freshly painted turf, etc—the more it feels like one. I felt that back when I was a high school football player who’d moved up to varsity from JV. That’s because my varsity team got scoreboard privileges. Illuminated numbers carry an authority that mental ones don’t, just as printed words carry more heft than those read on a screen. When you see your team’s score up there in the sky, that makes the game part of the historical record. Permanent.
With the home team up 3-0, the coaches executed a mass substitution, my son included, for the last 15 minutes. At first, I couldn’t find him on the pitch. This was because I was scanning the back line, where the boy had been playing for nearly the entirety of his career. Then I spotted a thatch of blond hair up near the opposing net and realized they’d put him in at forward. Five minutes later, my son had a goal disallowed because he’d been whistled offside. Because he always played defense, he’d never scored a goal at the club level. We’re talking a span of years here. I never scored a touchdown in my competitive football career (hard to do so when you play offensive tackle), so I was secretly crushed that my son wouldn’t get to have the star turn that I’d never had.
A few minutes after that, he scored again. This time, he wasn’t offside. This time, it counted. I know because the scoreboard went to 4-0. Then the PA guy dryly announced the goal to the whole crowd. Holy shit, they said my kid’s name out loud! Not only was it my son’s first goal, but it was a scoreboard goal. I was so astounded that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I just threw my arms up and screamed his name in exultation, looking like a fucking dork. I didn’t care. It may have been a JV game, and it may have been garbage time, but the kid had scored his first goal, and it counted. That’s all that mattered. Scoreboard.
10 Things I Think I Think
Just kidding.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Lions at Ravens: Here’s your Monday Night game, and it’s an elite one. Ever since ESPN yoinked Joe Buck and Troy Aikman away from Fox, Monday Night Football has overtaken Sunday Night Football as the weekend’s true showcase game. But there’s one secret factor also working in ESPN’s favor, and that’s amusingly named rules analyst Russell Yurk. Whenever there’s a disputed call on the field, Yurk comes in quickly, says That’s a good call or They shouldn’t have thrown the flag on that, and then goes away. He’s almost always right, and he’s not annoying. It’s a miracle. This is now a Russell Yurk appreciation blog.
Rams at Eagles: Greg Olsen brought up something last week that hadn’t occurred to me, which is that the new kickoff rules will have/have had a noticeable impact on fourth down decision-making in the red zone. Do you really want to boot a field goal if the other team can easily start its next possession so much closer to midfield? Both Sean McVay and Nick Sirianni are the type to have an answer to that question right away. Mike Vrabel, not so much.
Four Throwgasms
Broncos at Chargers: Here’s Bo Nix getting spicy with Sean Payton on the sideline during last week’s loss to the Colts. You know that Sean Payton likes his quarterback if that quarterback snaps back at him in tense moments. That gets the ol’ coach nice and hard.
Three Throwgasms
Chiefs at Giants: Here’s your Sunday Night game, which will end either 35-34 or 6-3. Matthew Berry is one weird looking motherfucker. I’m not sure that gets widely discussed enough.
Cardinals at 49ers
Two Throwgasms
Jets at Bucs: “System quarterback” is both a dated insult and an inaccurate one, so I’m gonna try to rework the vernacular using Baker Mayfield as a stand-in. You’ll hear analysts talk about quarterbacks playing “within structure.” The structure they’re referring to is any play as it’s drawn up in the playbook. Bucs OC Josh Grizzard discovers a way to scheme a wideout open, he brings it to Mayfield, they get it down in practice, and then BINGO BANGO, the QB executes the play exactly as both men envisioned it, within structure.
Any QB who can successfully execute this way is a really good quarterback. You can’t just say that any other random QB could do the exact same thing if they’ve been airdropped into the exact same situation. Quarterbacking doesn’t work that way. To effectively operate within structure means that you have your timing down, you know your reads and how to progress through them, and you can make the throw. Think about how many QBs you’ve watched who have fucked up at least one part of that equation on a routine basis. Just because you have the plan doesn’t guarantee that you can actually see it through. Good structure quarterbacks can.
But let’s say that your QB is also a terrific athlete, like our Baker Mayfield here. That athleticism serves your QB well anytime he has to operate “out of structure.” The original play, as drawn up, has gone haywire because the O-line fucked up a blocking assignment, or because no one is open downfield, or because a blade of grass got stuck in your eye and you got blinded for half a second. Whatever. The point is that you now have to improvise. You probably gotta take off out of the pocket. Your receivers might have to break off their routes and go hunting for open space. What was once a painstakingly designed play is now playground shit. That’s working out of structure.
You already know the QBs who excel at this style of play; they’ve ruled the AFC for the bulk of this decade. But if you have a QB who can ONLY operate out of structure—that would be Caleb Williams after the 15-play opening script has ended—then you’re fucked. You need a QB who can execute the basics, but then create plays when those basics aren’t available to them. Lamar Jackson can use his feet to work out of structure, whereas guys like Tom Brady could do it without moving around much at all. It doesn’t matter how you improvise, only that you do it successfully.
So instead of saying that this guy or that guy is a “system QB,” we can be 10 percent more informed. If you have a guy who can execute plays as drawn up but has zero ad libbing skills, that’s an inside QB. If you have Caleb Williams, you have an outside QB. And if you have Baker Mayfield, who now deserves to be considered legit, you have an inside/outside QB, which is the best kind of QB to have. That is my little Thomas Friedman lecture for today. Thank you for attending.
Texans at Jaguars: We’ve had so many memorable doinks over the first month of the season that it made me wonder if doinks were a recorded stat. Sadly, they are not. Someone please ask Jon Bois to get to the bottom of this if he hasn’t already.
Falcons at Panthers: Seeing Jennifer Garner in every other ad gets deeply annoying in a hurry. Seeing Parker Posey in every other ad? Now that’s more like it. Parker Posey is cool as shit.
Raiders at Commanders
Steelers at Patriots
One Throwgasm
Packers at Browns: It’s easy to watch Joe Flacco get pounded on every snap and wonder what the fuck he’s even doing still playing football. The man has a Super Bowl ring, plus all the money anyone could ever want. The only possible reason he could willingly serve as journeyman to some of the worst teams in football is because he loves the game just that much. For that, he gets my lasting admiration.
Also, I’ll gladly accept that the Packers are the best team in the league right now. But the white helmets are a tragedy.
Dolphins at Bills: Wanna see some cool-ass shit? Here’s some cool-ass shit:
I dunno how long this “running backs really DO matter!” era will last, but it never gets old seeing one of those backs bust one off. The next time I see the Chiefs have a run like this will probably be in like 2038.
Bengals at Vikings: You are no longer obligated to notice either of these teams unless, by magic, they somehow force the issue months from now.
Cowboys at Bears: I know that Caleb Williams played mildly acceptable football last week (the Bears defense, not so much), but I’m still gonna go ahead and declare our man’s seat hot:
And you’re gonna say to me, “But Drew, the only guy behind Caleb is Tyson Bagent.” Never underestimate how much NFL coaches like players who do exactly as they’re told. Tyson Bagent is an inside QB through and through. Ben Johnson probably invites him over to his house for dinner twice a week.
Saints at Seahawks
Colts at Titans
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Teeth,” by Speed of Light! The story of how reader Sam discovered this band is a terribly endearing one, so I’ll let him take it from here:
My 13-year-old daughter and I saw these guys when they opened for Bad Religion this fall. I had never heard of them, and was excited for my daughter to see a female singer at a mostly male show when they walked out. Then, holy shit, the frontwoman started fucking wailing and screaming. My daughter was way into that. A little pit opened up in front not us, and my kid looked at me and asked, “What do I do?” “Shove them back!” was my reply. Then the singer got off the stage and started screaming/singing in the pit with everyone else. We’ve been listening to them since.
Not sure why I wrote a whole family bonding thing at the top of this post when Sam’s little tale has me beat. You never forget your baby’s first mosh.
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:
Mike McDaniel***************
Brian Daboll
Brian Callahan*
Ben Johnson
Kevin Stefanski
Dave Canales
Andy Reid
DeMeco Ryans
Kellen Moore
Kevin O’Connell
Zac Taylor
(* - potential midseason firing)
This could very well be Mike McDaniel’s last game as Miami’s head coach, and just in time, because our man has finally run out of good one-liners:
Once you begin sounding like Mike Lombardi, the Reaper is right around the corner.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Andrew sends in this story I call A REAL PAIN:
I suffer from migraines, and one spring my doctor gave me a new drug to try. It was an injectable that I had to inject into my thigh. One of the side effects was possible constipation. I was on it for about three months. I did suffer constipation, but it was a weird kind, because I went from zero to I'm about to shit my pants in three seconds. There were numerous times I had to hurry to the bathroom. I would feel felt this pain and gurgle in my stomach and know that I was about to blow.
So during quarantine, my wife and I were taking the dog for a walk in one of the parks close to us. The area we walk him is usually busy, but luckily this time it wasn't. I felt that pain and gurgle in my stomach and I looked at my wife and said, "I gotta shit." Problem was, I was in the middle of a field. There was no way I was gonna make it back to the car and home in time, and all the restrooms were closed due to COVID. I had no choice but to find a log between the path and the river, in a sorta of wooded area, and proceed to take a wet loud shit while sitting on that log. Luckily no one else was around. But I then had to walk back to the car with my wife, my dog, and my lack of dignity.
Needless to say, I stopped taking that medication after that.We still walk the dog in that same place. Whenever we go past my shitting spot, my wife says, "Remember when you had to shit in the woods?"
I bet you do.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Week
“Dad dad dad, you gotta give me the password to the team’s X account. My buddy Shotz and I came up with a killer meme for Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension. We’re gonna own him so hard he’ll have no choice but to kill himself lol.”
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Cezka! Oh yeah, let’s find about some more this bad boy, courtesy of reader Eagan:
While Costa Rica has some perfectly good and widely available cheap beers, they also have Cezka. At about $.70, a can the price was such that I had to veer off from the established brands and give one of these a go. One pull was all I needed to confirm why the only guys I ever saw drinking this stuff were living under a bridge.
You got Cezka’ed, my friend. This can looks like it wants to break my jaw, and I bet it could.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Dolphins Fans
Ford v Ferrari, which I had never seen until this year. Authorities are rushing to confiscate my dad card as we speak. Anyway, this really is a primo dad movie; far superior to Michael Mann’s Ferrari, actually. Christian Bale is allowed to play a charming person for the first time in like 20 years, and the racing scenes are tight as shit. I’d watch this movie again in a heartbeat. Three and a half stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“When cat burglaries start, can mass murders be far behind? This reporter isn't saying that the burglar is an inhuman monster like the Wolfman, but he very well could be.”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
