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.
The NFL Draft starts tonight in Pittsburgh, and no one gives a shit. Occupancy rates at both hotels and Airbnbs in the Steel City are falling woefully short of initial projections. Fans who live in other cities are uninterested in paying up to four figures for a single hotel room, and locals aren’t exactly pleased that their public school system was compelled to switch to remote learning for three full days this week just to accommodate the event. The hype for this weekend is at such a low ebb that Fernando Mendoza, tonight’s No. 1 overall pick, has decided not to attend. This draft is deader than your love life, and everyone knows it.
This shouldn’t be the case. Even with a draft class that’s unremarkable by nearly everyone’s standards, the streets of Pittsburgh should still be teeming with drunken yinzers and myriad Jets fans who made the drive just so that they could boo the selection of Arvell Reese in person. Hell, I should be at the draft right now, rocking my Kevin Williams jersey and keeping my eyes open with broken toothpicks so I can stay awake to see the No. 18 pick announced live. Then I could fall asleep in my hotel room and wake up the next morning to enjoy a traditional Pittsburgh breakfast of a scrappleburger with two McGriddles for its bun.
That’s usually how things work when it comes to pro football. Roger Goodell’s NFL has been a charmed league throughout his tenure: a place where the quest for exponential growth has somehow proven to be a fruitful one. Goodell moves the draft out of New York for the first time in 2015, and HEY PRESTO! Hundreds of thousands of people congregate in Chicago’s Grant Park to watch future scrub Jameis Winston go No. 1 overall. Goodell muscles the NFLPA into adding a 17th game to the regular-season schedule in 2021 and HEY PRESTO, again! Viewership doesn’t suffer a lick. Nor did it suffer when Goodell’s bosses expanded the playoff field to an awkward 14 teams, nor when they had individual teams play more than one international game in a single season, nor when they inked a bunch of TV deals that scattered games across multiple streaming services. This is a league that has managed to make an event out of its schedule release, because Americans are so insatiably horny for its product, even when that product is the Cleveland Browns.
So the lack of juice surrounding this weekend’s festivities represents a rare dip in the NFL industrial complex. It’s probably a temporary one, if you go by the larger sample size (or just the salary cap, which has grown by nearly $100 million per team in past five years alone!) But everything on this lovely planet has its saturation point, and growth-aholism comes for all of us eventually. I still think that the NFL will outlive the Earth itself, but this funereal draft is just one potential sign that, at long last, the league’s reach has begun to exceed its grasp. Here are a few more:
An 18-game regular season schedule. Your new NFLPA head is JC Tretter, who resigned from his previous leadership position with the union just a year ago when he stood accused, alongside then union chief Lloyd Howell, of helping the league cover up proven collusion among its ownership. Rank-and-file NFLPA members don’t get a vote in their union head, which is how Howell ended up with the job in the first place. Tretter, elected by the same means, also defended the addition of the 17th game to the press in 2021. So there’s little reason to think that he won’t cave to the league in adding an 18th. Players hate the 17-game schedule for the toll it takes on their already damaged bodies. Fans like me hate it because it’s rendered a lot of end-of-season games noncompetitive, and because the records just look fucking weird. Adding yet another regular-season game will make the numbers more nice and even, but will improve nothing else.
Calendar bloat. In the “you gotta be shitting me” department, the league has also already leaked to the media that it wants to do a Thanksgiving Eve game this fall. There should only be pro football on Wednesday if there’s been a massive blizzard, or because of an incoming nuclear strike. This cursed game arrives on the heels of a full Christmas slate on Netflix, a Friday game in Australia to open this coming season, and the now well-established Thursday Night Football: a product so lousy that even its broadcast team can’t even get excited for it. So who the fuck asked for a game on Thanksgiving Eve, a holiday that doesn’t even fucking exist?
More international games. There were a record seven international games played last season. There will be nine this coming one. Players despise these games, and not just because of the lack of access to lemonade. You try playing a football game after flying 10 hours, waiting an hour in customs, and then downing a full bottle of melatonin to stave off jet lag. Chiefs owner and proven dipshit Clark Hunt is openly salivating at the chance to use an 18-game schedule to expand the international slate even further, and he’s not alone among his avaricious peers. There’s a near future where every team plays at least one international game a year, if not more. The human body wasn’t designed to survive one NFL game, let alone 18, let alone 16 games here plus one in Seoul and another one in Tel Aviv. Tired, burned-out players make for bad football.
I’m the type of fan who will gleefully watch pretty much any shitty NFL game you put in front of me, but even I have my limits. Force me to block off a Wednesday to watch Team X play Team Y, and the fandom feels more like an obligation than a pastime. So if I’m on the verge of fatigue, imagine how more casual fans feel about all of this bloat. But the money keeps piling up, only adding to Roger Goodell’s idea that his league is invincible. That’s been true for decades now, but the seams are beginning to visibly burst. You’ll see that, along with Mel Kiper’s hair, on your television tonight. This is what happens when you and I live in a world where less is never more.
The Draft
All draft nights in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Tonight: Wow, that opening essay was pretty fucking bleak. Let’s reset so that I can get properly psyched up for tonight’s festivities. Maestro?
Much better. You too, Joe Schoen, are awaiting the hour of reprisal. Your time slips awayyyyyyyy.
Anyway, the top of this draft indeed sucks heavy balls. The best player in it is probably a running back, and drafting an RB super high is still a really stupid thing to do. The fact that both Arizona (No. 3) and Tennessee (No. 4) are being talked up as landing spots for Jeremiyah Love only reinforces the point, because those franchises don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Our best hope for premium entertainment this evening is Jerry Jones doing something stupid (as rumored) and/or teams trading up and down all over the place because they have nothing better to do. And you know what? I think this league’s GM community is up for the job.
Also, Mel Kiper has Ty Simpson in the top 30 of his big board, which means he’s gonna freak the fuck OUT when that pud drops like a stone into the 19th round, Shedeur-style. Kiper’s draft capsule on Simpson calls him a “battler,” so you just know the guy is gonna be fucking terrible. I bet he has a great personality, too!
Four Throwgasms
Tomorrow night: I’d just like to thank the irreplaceable Mike Tanier for saying it out loud:
I will admit to often starting my draft evaluation journey by watching a prospect’s YouTube highlight reel. This admission will likely get me kicked out of the Internet Ball-Knowers Guild once and for all, even though I’m a co-founder. But a January review of a sizzle reel is a quick way to acquire some basic walking-around knowledge of defenders I may have watched for about nine seconds on autumn Saturdays. A highlight reel can, in fact, contain lots of information. If it’s two minutes long and shows the same sack from three angles, that’s telling you something. If it’s mostly footage of big plays against Prairie Dog A&T, that’s also informative. But if it’s nearly five tightly-edited minutes of SEC offensive tackles whiffing on blocks like they are trying to hit Sandy Koufax’s curveball, that’s also enlightening.
He’s right, my fellow draft perverts. Grinding some YouTube is the way. I don’t need to pore over every single goddamn rep. I don’t need to hire a private dick to interview all of a prospect’s first-grade classmates. I don’t need all of those dopey combine metrics. I played football for 10 years and have been watching it for over 30. Mine is an educated gut. So when I tell you that I only needed to watch two minutes of Kenyon Sadiq balling to know that he’s a fucking fraud, you should believe me.
Three Throwgasms
Saturday: Pats coach Mike Vrabel won’t be in the war room on Day Three, because he has to go pretend to save his marriage:
As I said the other day, I promised my family, this organization and this team that I was going to give them the best version of me that I can possibly give them. In order to do so, I have committed to seeking counseling, starting this weekend.
Could Vrabel have started counseling immediately after the scandal involving him and Dianna Russini broke, given the urgency of the situation? Yes, but that would have caused everyone needless distraction. Much better to save the whole reconciliation thing for the day when a team lets its scouting department make all of the picks. He’s doing it all for you, Mrs. Vrabel. He promises to be better.
OK, let’s get to some random crap to close this section out:
-In case you missed it, the Rams finally got rid of their dirty-laundry white uniforms for the coming season. The jersey numerals still look dumb, but at least they got rid of the [Patrick Bateman voice] bone jerseys and went back to clean whites. Between this and the Titans going back to the Oilers color scheme, there may be hope for the NFL’s fashion sense. My eyes are forever grateful.
-And now, a heartwarming photo of two decrepit sex maniacs sharing a moment together:
Jerry Jones’s asshole kid also told the press that the Cowboys won’t be negotiating an extension with WR George Pickens this offseason. And how could they, when the bossman and our horniest ex-president have another trip to the mile high club on their immediate agenda? Priorities matter.
-My kids made fun of me the other night when I asked them, at the dinner table, “You guys wanna watch a flick after this?” They were like, “What the hell is a flick?” And I was like, “It’s a movie! I didn’t time travel here from 1922, you little bastards! DON’T KNOCK ME FOR USING LONG-ESTABLISHED SLANG TERMS!” They kept making fun of me anyway. Well, that’ll change tonight when I wear a jersey to watch the draft! Who’s the weirdo now, gentlemen?
Draft Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Metal Demolition” by Oklahoma Blood! I’m never against Oklahomans bleeding. From reader Tony:
Their whole album “Plasma” rips, but this one hits like an F5 tornado tearing through a wildcat oilfield. It’s 3:41 of riffage with no vocals to get in the way. The rest of the songs have singing if you need words in your metal. They’ve got live videos on YouTube, but the production values look and sound like they spent all their money on 30 racks of PBR and weed (not a criticism), so I went with the studio version that features the album cover set to motion with a FreeWare version of the SE7EN filter.
Works for me. Also, I did check out the Oklahoma Blood tracks that feature vocals, just to make sure they didn’t have a Cookie Monster singer like every other small-time metal band. To my relief, these guys have real vocals, with real melodies and everything. It ain’t Rob Halford wailing behind the mic, but it’s good enough for me (pun intended).
Get In Shape With Dr. Cam Skattebo, A.S.U.!
“I eat a pound of bacon for breakfast every morning. That’s because nothing has more protein in it than fat. That’s 100-percent facts. You eat the fat, and then your body metastasizes it into protein, which then releases Baltic acid into your bloodstream. BOOM. You get bigger, faster, stronger within days. DAYS. Fucking let’s ride.”
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:
-Mike McCarthy
-Dave Canales
-Zac Taylor
-Todd Monken
-Brian Schottenheimer
-Kevin O’Connell
-Dan Campbell
-Shane Steichen*
-Andy Reid
-Klint Kubiak
-Aaron Glenn*
-Nick Sirianni
-Todd Bowles*
-Dan Quinn
(*potential midseason firing)
Every time I put Zac Taylor on this list (pretty much every week), someone in the replies is like, “You fucking asshole! They’ll never fire him while he’s still under contract!” I am well aware of the fact that Mike Brown will never eat a contract if he doesn’t have to. However, this list is not binding. It’s for all of the dreamers out there who yearn for better coaching. So while you Bengals fans are stuck with this dodo bird as your head coach at least through 2027, I’ll never stop using this space to offer you guys a bit of false hope. It’s what you deserve.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Brandon sends in this story I call FANNYSHACK:
Golf trip with my pals. Played 36 holes on Friday that included almost that many beers, then I housed wings and other fried foods afterward, washing down with many more beers. I'm generally healthy, so this was a shock to my system.
Got up at 6am for another 36 and felt fine jumping into the car for the 20-minute drive to the course. Halfway there I felt an immediate, urgent pain that forced my ass-clenching muscles to hang on for dear life. Panic, flop sweat, the whole nine yards. This was a country road in the middle of Wisconsin and there was a 0% chance of a gas station on the way, so I squeal-swerved off the road at like 45mph, screeched to a halt, and straight-leg sprinted directly toward an evergreen. The last few steps, I spun around and ran backwards to hike my shorts down, and then, while still moving, fire-hosed what felt like 10 pounds of liquid shit directly into the side of the tree. It was over after about 20 seconds. My feeling of relief turned to pure dread thinking of what came next. Also, it had started raining.
I'd grabbed my golf towel to clean up. Once that was soiled to oblivion, I used my boxers to finish the job. When those were also destroyed, I pulled up my shorts, waddled back to my car, and found some disinfectant wipes for my hands and thighs. It was like cleaning up a baby after a blowout, except the baby was me and the parent was also me.
I threw the wipes, boxers and golf towel under the tree where I hoped they were allowed to disintegrate without detection. I hopped in my car, drove to the course on one butt cheek, bought a new pair of shorts in the pro shop, and made my tee time by about a minute. I won my match while going commando. The victory earned me legend status among my pals, but I'll be having nightmares about that crime scene being discovered for the rest of my life.
Shit-covered boxer shorts are biodegradable. Unless you bought them from Amazon Basics, in which case, uh oh.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Draft
“Jerry wants to do a deal with us, Dad. This is our chance. Let’s milk the old geezer for all he’s worth! I want both of his 1s, I want next year’s 1, and I want a cut of his Pepsi deal … What do you mean, you can’t force him to alter his Pepsi deal? I just did this same deal in 30 seconds over on Madden. Paid in HormuzCoin, too. You gotta think outside the box here, Dad. Hehehehe, I said ‘box.’ Epic.”
Cheap Beer Of The Draft
Champagne Velvet! The velvet champagne of beers! From Andrew:
One of my local haunts had Champagne Velvet on tap recently. I recalled discussing it in the comments of a Jamboroo past, so I figured I'd submit it for consideration. The can claims it as "The Beer with the Million Dollar Flavor," and the label seems to be mostly unchanged from the olden days. The look and taste should remind you of another beer that purports to be champagne but is better, in my estimation. Upland Brewing says someone found the original 1902 recipe on a scrap of paper, and they've been making it according to that recipe for a couple years now. If the 1902 timing is correct, it also pre-dates Miller High Life by a year. Find it in Indiana and surrounding states for a serviceable time.
Oh wow, and I can find it on tap?!!! Sign my ass up (I won’t sign up)!
Draft Night Movie Of The Week For Packers Fans (no first-round pick)
Hamnet, which would have been my choice for Best Picture if I had been an Academy Awards voter last year. This movie has stuck with me ever since I first watched it, and not merely because it tore my heart out of my chest and stomped all over it. It’s because Hamnet is such a well-made piece of art, I have a hard time finding any flaws in it. There’s a scene where William Shakespeare himself (Paul Mescal) comes up with the opening lines to the “To be or not to be” soliloquy in a moment of suicidal depression—a moment which isn’t in Maggie O’Farrell’s novel—and even that somehow works when it should be corny as all fuck.
That’s a credit to Mescal, but also to director Chloe Zhao, who never takes her finger off the intensity button during this film’s two-hour running time. There are no quick cuts or swooping pans in Hamnet. Zhao puts you in the story and, to the detriment of your tear ducts, never lets you out of it. When Jessie Buckley’s Agnes gives birth to twins on screen, Zhao never cuts away. When one of those twins, young Hamnet, dies in Agnes’s arms, Zhao never cuts away. She keeps the camera inside the Shakespeares’ dumpy little house in Stratford-upon-Avon and keeps it there until you know that house’s architecture as intimately as its inhabitants do. You, the viewer, are right there with Buckley as she endures unspeakable horror inside that house and then, at the film’s end, a fit of unexpected, rapturous catharsis outside of it.
Agnes’s catharsis is hard-earned. Her husband has taken the death of their child and used it to write a stage tragedy based on their shared loss. It’s an act by William that outrages Agnes at first, before she attends a production of Hamlet at the Globe Theater and realizes that, within her husband’s play, their son can live again. And again and again and again. I’m not sure I’ve ever watched a better testament to the power of art than this film. I admired it so much that I watched it a second time because my wife hadn’t seen it yet. It was just as impressive on that second viewing, if not more so. That’s probably my limit on Hamnet viewings, but what a film. Four stars.
Also, when the movie was finished, I turned to my wife and told her, “You see? The work I do as a writer really IS important!” Then she kicked me in the nuts.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Oh no, he's going over the falls!”
“Oh good, he snagged that tree branch.”
“Oh no, the branch broke off!”
“Oh good, he can grab onto them pointy rocks.”
“Oh no, them rocks broke his arms and legs!”
“Oh good, those helpful beavers are swimming out to save him.”
“Oh no, they're biting him! And stealing his pants!”
Enjoy the draft, everyone.
