Two Sad Stories.

This One is Sad.

I had pick seven in this year’s draft and I wanted to get Ray Rice. I liked the Raven’s offense and I knew that a new fullback might stretch his value even further. Still though, I knew it was a long shot. Most places were ranking him between 4 and 6, so I knew a few guys would have to take fliers on some stud QBs for me to have a chance.

I had a plan B — LeSean McCoy had done well by me last year, so I trusted him to not completely screw me. Besides, how can you not like a guy with four capital letters in his name. So I wasn’t too worried. I liked the seven slot.

Then it all started to unfold in slow motion. Kelly’s Heroes took that dog killer at 4 and Cutler’s Den nabbed Rodgers at 5. This was better than I expected! There’s no way the sixth team could pass up on Jamaal Charles — the guy was being ranked as high as 2 in a lot of places with the uncertainty surrounding Foster and Johnson. Ray Rice was mine all mine - and Ray, TB12 and I were going to take this league by storm!

Then The Shady McCoys fucked me in the ear.

You know the rest. I couldn’t pass on Charles. I should’ve. I should’ve flipped the switch on the McCoys and taken their namesake. TheSean. Steady. Even keeled. Capitalized. But I didn’t — I took Charles and now he’s dead (to me) and my one week run atop the standings is over. That is a sad story.

This One is Sadder.

My cousin, we’ll call him Josh, is about eighteen and a very good kid. Editor of the school paper. Runs cross country. He hadn’t met the baby yet, so he invited himself over this past Sunday to watch the game. Great idea Josh. The wife and I had it all planned. We hit a few open houses early, picked up some snacks and settled in for a long afternoon of foosballing.

Josh came over as the first round of games ended. My mood had been heading south at that point as I had just seen pick seven get carted off the field. I didn’t really care though. The Pats were about to start and Josh’s presence buoyed my spirits. He’s funny and - whatever, at that point Charles was just a little banged up.

So the late games started and I continued to have a good time. It was one of those crisp early fall Sundays that you Sinister Coasters think you remember, but don’t really. There were snacks. A coupla brews. Some good natured ribbing between The Fops and I (as we are wont to do on a matchup Sunday). The baby and wife were quietly playing Godzeera with some blocks and the Pats were up.

At half time, we all took a walk with the baby around the yard. I took a nice picture of Josh and the baby and thought to send it to his mom, my beloved Aunt. (Pronounced Ahhnt and not Ant.) We’ll call her Christine. Her response, “Your beautiful baby, with my beautiful baby!”

Lovely.

Game on. More snacks. The second round of snacks was serious - there were fried things and dipping sauces and things rolled up with other things. The whole shebang. (Pronounced SHEE-bang and not shi-BANG.) The Pats are rolling and I’m barely even noticing that The Red Hands are getting suh-moked by The Fops.

Barely that is, until The Fops shoots me a note: “Holy crap, Miles Austin has 3TDs!!!!” Now, check this out - he’s already won this thing, so I take minor offense at his rubbing my nose in it. So I respond: “Holy crap, go fuck yourself in the ear.” Then The Fops again, “I am crushing your team!” I check his message and nod, he was killing my team.

And then I notice that my message is not down there in my phone in between the two messages he sent me. Then me, quietly to myself: “Hm, what happened to the message I se—”

A rush of blood to the head and then me, out loud: “Godhelpme!”

Button. Scroll. Scroll. Flop sweat. Fists clenched. There it was — my response to Aunt Chistine’s, “Your beautiful baby and my beautiful baby…”

“Holy crap, why don’t you go fuck yourself in the ear.” Aunt Chris.

I remember the next five minutes more like a dream than anything else. It’s blurry around the edges. I can’t really make out what the other people in the room are saying. I’m hyper focused on my not-nearly-fast enough responses to my own boneheaded filthy message, flowing out of my fingers into the phone. Notes about respect and love, and promises that I am still a good person who would never wish her harm, and my hope that she doesn’t think I would corrupt her perfect son with foul language and horrifying mental images.

So there it is. Week two is in the books. It was the Sunday where The Red Hands fell out of first. It was the Sunday where Jamaal Charles fell out of bounds and never got up.  Beyond all of that though, I know I’ll always remember it as the Sunday I told my dear, sweet, classy Aunt Chris to go fuck herself in the ear.

Bring on Week Three!