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.
It’s August and my mom is moving. My dad passed away a little less than a year ago, and after a slog of a winter living in the house they once shared, Mom decided that she wouldn’t tolerate another one. So she found a townhouse close to my sister’s house: small, airy, and bright. It was perfect.
It was also empty. So Mom hired a moving company to pack up all of the shit that we didn’t throw out, and truck it 40 minutes due east to her new abode.
I’m here in the old house now, and it’s been virtually emptied. All of the heavy furniture is either gone or draped in moving blankets. All of the tables are barren of décor. The pantry contains nothing but a couple of boxes of cereal and Mom’s beloved Oreo Thins. The only sign that my family used to live in this house is the stairway leading up to what used to be me and my brother’s old bedroom. When my parents moved in back in 1991, they decided to decorate this stairway with dozens of framed action shots of themselves, their children, and eventually their grandchildren. They christened it the sports wall.
On moving day, the sports wall is still there. I see the history of my family loosely written all over it. There are Mom and Dad, hoisting up a big ol’ fish they reeled in on a deep sea fishing trip. There’s Dad leisurely skiing down a mountain next to 1960s Olympic champ Jean-Claude Killy. There’s my brother, Alex, rowing at the Junior World Championships in Hungary. There’s my sister, Amanda, standing with her friends and drenched in weeks’ worth of sweat after she and her crew canoed all the way from the Boundary Waters to the York Factory on the Hudson Bay. She’s holding up her oar, which has been freshly branded with a giant Y to commemorate the feat.
And there’s me in my high school football uniform. My ass looks big, and not in the way that NFL scouts rave about.
I have walked past this wall hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I know this’ll probably be the last time I do so, but I’m not losing my shit over it. In fact, my foremost thought staring at all of the pictures is These need to come down. Because my mom wants this house to sell, and our lingering presence inside of it isn’t something that the average buyer wants to encounter. They want to see themselves inside this place, not us. The sports wall, nice as it is, has to go.
But not today. Today is for moving all of the big, cumbersome shit. Mom will return here in a day or two to perform a sweep of all the remaining items so that this house, a house that she lived in for 34 years, can be a blank canvas for whoever tours it. If the prospect of that emptiness makes her sad, it doesn’t show. She’s mourned plenty already. We all have.
The moving truck is now packed and ready to go, which means that so are we. Along the way to the new house, I pull over at a gas station to eat half an Italian sub I’d saved from the night before. Plus a Chipwich. For energy.
We meet the moving truck at Mom’s new house. I don’t have to do any of the heavy lifting today, but I’m still tired despite the Chipwich. I have long been told that grief can take many forms, and yet I thought I had a solid grasp of what forms my own grief would take on: Crying. Disaffection. Anger. Self-medication with food. I was ready for all of that to hit me, and I absorbed the blows with relative grace. What I didn’t expect was the weariness. I’m not fatigued. I’m not unable to get out of bed in the morning, as one suffering from clinical depression might. I can get up and go, but it’s just a little bit harder than it was before. A little more taxing. I feel like a table with one of its legs knocked out from underneath it.
Because while I had long ago learned to live on my own, my subconscious still feels Dad’s absence acutely. A member of your family dies and you have to assume part of the load they once carried, even if that load isn’t visible to the naked eye. I was already a somewhat clandestine workaholic before Dad died, and still am. I know that what I do for a living is fun, but it’s also work. Ask any successful writer and they’ll tell you that this is a 24/7/365 job. Even when you’re not writing, you’re writing. I might look like I'm listening to you when we talk, but chances are my brain latched onto an idea and is twirling it around in the saucepan.
So I carry that burden with me at all times, probably against my better judgment. I also have to help raise my family, and to assist in keeping a home. This year, I’ve had to do all of that with one less person at my proverbial side. The collective burden feels heavier than it once did. I feel the weight of my family on me. I also feel more of the weight of the world than I once did. I don’t want that weight on me, not with the world in its present condition. It’s too much.
Mom is the one who kicks my ass into gear. She wants this move to be over so that she can finally settle into her new life. She was married to my dad for 60 years. I worried about how she’d live with him being gone, but she clearly has a plan in place, and she now wants it executed. She’s a naturally exacting woman—I’m the same way with my work—but she wants to loosen her grip a bit in the coming years. So this move represents her final big project before she settles into a new, more easygoing chapter of her life.
The movers empty the truck and we arrange Mom’s new home in the image of her old one. The old living room is reborn as the new family room, with all of the accompanying chairs and end tables. The old TV room is reborn as the new TV room in a lofted area above. And mom’s old bedroom is reborn as her new one. She has me hang the pictures over her bed exactly as they hung in the old one. Once I’ve got those set, she goes rummaging through one of the many boxes, finds her favorite framed picture of Dad, and sets it by her nightstand.
“There,” she says. “Now I’m happy.”
And she is. I sense no weariness from my mother. I sense only contentment. Even after all she’s endured in the past few years, she’s been able to map out an after for herself. She could have let herself wither after Dad died, but that was never her style. She knew she had more life ahead of her, and she had no interest in wasting it. I look at her face and I sense a weight lifting off me. I also sense that she’s gonna put up a new sports wall in this place sooner rather than later. My teenage love handles will once again be on full display for all to behold. Everything old will be new again.
We order a shitload of Thai food to celebrate.
Football season starts today, and I’m excited. I have no right to be excited, given my team’s personal history of disappointing everyone. But all of that disappointment was in the before. What comes next is the after, a prospect that never fails to excite me. “There’s always next season” is a cliché that connotes resignation. It’s gallows humor; next season will be just like the last one, and you’ll feel like a sucker for ever believing otherwise.
But that’s not true. No next season is ever just like the one that came before it. Every team is different in some way. Every game will have a box score as unique as a fingerprint. Everything this season will be new, even if that new isn’t as pleasing as one might hope. I never want to grow into the kind of cynic who disdains the new before it’s even revealed itself, and so I’m just as excited to see my team this week as I have every season past. I'll even be able to watch some games with Mom in her new house. That excites me too, because there is always an after, and it’s always worth embracing. Life depends on it. I’m Drew, and this is your Week 1 NFL Jamboroo for 2025. Hit the music:
Let’s get moving.
2025 NFL Picks
I do this every year, just so that I can brag if I get two or three things vaguely right. Let’s see what I’ll be 8 percent right about this season!
NFC North
Detroit 11-6
Minnesota 10-7*
Green Bay 9-8
Chicago 7-10
NFC South
Tampa Bay 11-6
Atlanta 8-9
Carolina 6-11
New Orleans 3-14
NFC East
Philadelphia 14-3
NY Giants 10-7*
Washington 9-8
Dallas 5-12
NFC West
San Francisco 10-7
LA Rams 9-8*
Seattle 9-8
Arizona 9-8
WILD CARD
Detroit over LA Rams
Tampa Bay over NY Giants
Minnesota over San Francisco
DIVISIONAL
Detroit over Tampa Bay
Minnesota over Philadelphia
CHAMP
Detroit over Minnesota
AFC North
Baltimore 12-5
Cincinnati 9-8
Pittsburgh 9-8
Cleveland 3-14
AFC South
Houston 8-9
Jacksonville 7-10
Tennessee 7-10
Indianapolis 4-13
AFC East
Buffalo 12-5
New England 9-8*
NY Jets 8-9
Miami 4-13
AFC West
Denver 12-5
Kansas City 12-5*
LA Chargers 9-8*
Las Vegas 8-9
WILD CARD
Kansas City over Houston
Denver over LA Chargers
Buffalo over New England
DIVISIONAL
Buffalo over Denver
Baltimore over Kansas City
CHAMP
Baltimore over Buffalo
SUPER BOWL
Baltimore over Detroit
If I fucked up the math here, our commenters will let you know 30 seconds after this blog has published.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Ravens at Bills: At some point, either Lamar Jackson or Josh Allen has to finally do this shit, especially now that the Chiefs are so washed and boring. And only one of those quarterbacks is coached by a man who’s actually won a title before. The other is coached by a glorified construction site foreman. Ravens get their third Super Bowl.
Lions at Packers: As for the NFC, I was gonna pick the Rams as the conference’s Super Bowl entrant, but that pick relies on Matthew Stafford’s already injured back holding up over the course of 20-plus games. This man is constantly on the verge of spontaneously coming apart like your Honda after 250,000 miles, and his engine light is still on. I’d rather zag on the Lions, who are forecast for some mild regression. But honestly, who gives a fuck about losing your coordinators if the dude who was shrewd enough to hire them is still around? This team is still loaded, and they’re not Green Bay. I’m gonna pick ‘em.
Four Throwgasms
Chiefs at Chargers (Sao Paulo): FYI, this game is available to watch exclusively on YouTube. And it’s on Friday night! Take it away, Bill Medley:
Three Throwgasms
Giants at Commanders: Here’s your Tom Brady game, if you’re keen on avoiding his color commentary. Brady was an unmitigated disaster in the booth last season, and I already know that I’m gonna come across a story soon—probably at The Athletic—about how Brady used that criticism as motivation to become the greatest color guy the world has ever known. He will still suck heavy balls.
Vikings at Bears: I’m so hyped for this game that I could fucking puke. Somehow I doubt that you feel likewise.
Bucs at Falcons
Texans at Rams
49ers at Seahawks
Two Throwgasms
Cowboys at Eagles: This matchup was already a dubious choice for premiere night before the Double J went and traded Micah Parsons to Green Bay for some knives and lint. Imagine being a player in the Dallas locker room and hearing, a week before the season, that your best teammate is no longer your teammate at all. Jerry Jones may as well have personally torn Parsons’s ACL in front of his own team. If the Eagles don’t win this game by 30 points, something is wrong with them … for exactly one month.
Raiders at Patriots: Chip Kelly is back in the NFL as the Raiders offensive coordinator after winning the national title as Ohio State’s OC last season. And guess who just made Arch Manning look like a Detmer brother last Saturday afternoon? Why yes, that would be new OSU defensive coordinator Matt Patricia. Are you a disgraced ex-NFL head coach who doesn’t wanna slum it in the UFL? Give Ryan Day a buzz, and watch your career rebound like Manning’s head off the turf.
Titans at Broncos: Speaking of Arch Manning: after the OSU loss, I texted condolences to an old friend of mine who went to UT and still roots for the Longhorns. He texted back that Steve Sarkisian’s play-calling showed that the Texas head coach had no faith in Manning against a good defense. If you also take into account that Manning couldn’t unseat Quinn Ewers (who sucks) the season prior, then you have to ask yourself (if you’re bored) … what if Arch Manning just blows? And what if Sark has always known it, and has no idea what to do about it? What’s he gonna do, bench royalty? Everyone will think he’s drinking again. I’ll be keeping an eye on this line of inquiry until Manning throws for 400 against a bunch of lower-class teams and becomes the Heisman favorite again.
Steelers at Jets: For the people who are new to this column, I don’t write up every single game every week. Sometimes I leave the game entry blank, or I use the space to talk about random bullshit. For example, the chocolate Oat Crunch Cheerios? Oddly disappointing compared to the Cinnamon ones.
Panthers at Jaguars: Travis Hunter automatically makes any Jags game one throwgasm better than it would be otherwise.
Bengals at Browns
One Throwgasm
Cardinals at Saints: Oh my god ew. No.
Dolphins at Colts: Jesus H. Christmas, this one is even worse!
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Sultan’s Curse,” by Mastodon, in tribute to singer/guitarist Brent Hinds, who died two weeks ago when a car ran a red light and smashed into his motorcycle. Hinds had actually left Mastodon not long before his death, due to burnout/differences/band shit. I didn’t have the chance to write a formal obit of Hinds last week, so this space will have to serve that purpose.
Hinds wasn’t just the most recognizable member of Mastodon; he also possessed the most distinctive singing voice among the three members of the band who shared vocal duties. That singing voice sounded wizened, as some majestic rock formation that housed an ancient spirit had come to life. He could also shred like an absolute motherfucker. I know because I saw him do it in person. Twice. If you ever saw Hinds with Mastodon live, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The man was a true rock star in a time when rock stars are in woefully short supply. So drive carefully out there. You don’t wanna end up killing a legend.
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:
Zac Taylor
Brian Schottenheimer
Shane Steichen*
Mike McDaniel***************
Brian Daboll*
Mike Tomlin
Brian Callahan
Bill Belichick
(* - potential midseason firing)
It was fun seeing Bill Belichick’s Tar Heels get absolutely walloped on their home field the other night. But for my money, the best part was when the ESPN broadcast cut to a shot of UNC general manager Mike Lombardi sitting up in the box. Lombardi was doing his best to look like Howie Roseman or some other actual GM, and not like our foremost sports boob. In this effort, he failed. Three UNC players have already announced they’re transferring to my son’s high school to improve their NFL prospects. Lombardi finds their de-committal to be morally offensive.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Matthew sends in this story I call THE BIG QUEASY:
My family is from Louisiana. I spent the first decade or so of my life in Lafayette. I don't get back to Louisiana much anymore outside of New Orleans, which is creole not cajun. Cajun food is a little different. It’s also impossible to get outside of the state. A couple of years back a work opportunity comes up that put me in Lafayette for a couple of days. I'm excited. Fly in the night before, rent a car, drive past the old house/school, and then it's time to eat. I am hungry.
Friend, I went hard. Gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice. I'm not holding back. We're getting seconds. Are we drinking whiskey on the side? Absolutely. Bread pudding for dessert? Fuck and yes. Next morning I wake up and I'm hitting the local donut spot. I am drenched in food nostalgia and childhood delight. Today is going to be a good day. I am alone, away from my wife and children, expensing everything and living my best unencumbered life. Do I take a two-hour drinking lunch break with an oyster po boy? Yes, of course.
I finish up work in the afternoon, celebrate with a dinner of red fish smothered in a sauce heavy on crab. Flight's in the morning. Life is good. For my final act, I'm going to hit the ice cream shop my mom used to take me to as a kid. I'm about two blocks out when I make a turn and encounter one of Louisiana's many pot holes. Louisiana consistently ranks 49th or 50th in road quality. If it's not 50th, that's just because Mississippi exists. Out goes the tire. I pull into one of those old school food store type places and go to change it.
It hits me in about ten minutes: furious, roiling pain. I offer the man behind the counter $20 cash to let me use the restroom. He declines, because if someone is offering you $20 dollars to use their bathroom, you're not going to like the results. I am angry, but I respect the decision. I walk two blocks to the ice cream shop, but they're closing. Once again, I am unable to bribe my way in. I return to the grocery store and double my offer. No dice. Triple. This man is too smart for that. Smug bastard doesn't want me to wreck his toilet.
Slippage has begun. It's decision time. I survey my options. Across the street is a vacant, but well lit, lot adjoining a small office building. Maybe some coverage behind the dumpster. To the right, a small church. Dark. Shadows. Otherwise it's residential on every side. I grew up Catholic. That makes it's ok, right? I can cash in a few years of altar boy service for a moderately well concealed public shit. That's what I tell myself, because I am going to defile this space.
I amble over, the AAA driver watching me, find a bush by the curb on the darkest part of the lot and proceed to let it all out. It's everywhere. I barely get my pants down and it catches them anyway. It is unholy. I ride it out until I can stand up again, pull my shit-tinged pants up, and walk back over to my car. The AAA guy is still working. I reek of shit. I think he saw. No, I know he did. The post repair exchange is as awkward as any involving a man you just saw shit in a church parking lot could be. I drive back to the hotel and take a long shower, punctuated by bathroom breaks. Toss the clothes.
Do I make better decisions in the morning? No. Cajun Eggs benedict, ample andouille. I can shit on the plane. It'll be an improvement.
Crawfish not being season may have been the only thing that saved me.
So much to admire here. Not sarcasm.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Week
“Dad, we gotta meet with the training staff. They’re doing it all wrong. I was just watching a podcast about this. Treating injuries with ice can actually make them WORSE, because they cut off the plasma flow. But they said there’s this one supplement called Subliq that works better. It’s sold only in Iceland, but this guy Dr. Paxx was talking about how it’s the only treatment that adds muscle while healing. We gotta put Justin Fields on this shit, Dad. It’ll make him in to the next Josh Allen but, like, better. That’s cool, right? It’s so fucking cool! LET’S FUCKING GO!!!"
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Easy Rider! Is that a wild boar I see on the front of that can? And does that wild boar have a mountain range for a spine? That looks like a quality beverage to me, my friends. Reader Noe has more:
We recently moved and picked this up from the corner store. $6.99 for a six pack, which is cheap in our town. We drank it on the porch with the cat.
If ever there were a beer to drink on your porch with your cat, this is certainly one of them.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Saints Fans
Wind River, written and directed by Taylor Sheridan before he became Red America’s favorite purveyor of prestige television. Prior to creating Yellowstone, Sheridan also wrote Hell or High Water, a.k.a. redneck Heat, so we’re not talking about a guy who lacks chops here. HOHW kicked major ass, so I happily ordered up Wind River hoping for more of that goodness.
What I got was a lowkey Western that initially comes off as a fairly standard police procedural set on an Indian reservation. Jeremy Renner is the taciturn Fish & Wildlife agent investigating the possible rape and murder of a Native American woman. Elizabeth Olsen is the newbie FBI agent who isn’t ready for a case this intense. Most of the beats are familiar until you get to the end of the movie and Sheridan shows you what really happened to the victim and her boyfriend. It’s fucking brutal. I wasn’t ready for that shit, and you won’t be either. This one is a slow burn, but worth it. Three stars.
(Fun fact: Sheridan later claimed that this movie got laws regarding sexual assault on Indian reservations changed. He was almost certainly lying.)
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Burns! Yer scurvy schemes will earn ye a one-way passage to the boneyard!”
Enjoy the games, everyone. Football is back.
