Do you ever get so bogged down in the football opinions of “experts” (or your own, if you consider yourself an expert) that sometimes, you just need to take a step back and breathe in the fresh, untainted air of someone who is essentially clueless? Now and again I wonder how much cleaner and happier my mind would be if it were not flooded with years upon years of football knowledge, opinions, and pain. Soon after I ponder the idea, I remember that my brain would be pretty empty if this were the case, so I’m thankful that football gives me a way to fill up all that squishy pink stuff.
Nevertheless, today’s post-football weekend blog will be brought to you partially by a woman I know well… maybe a little bit too well. One thing she does not know very well, however, is football. She’s going to be annoyed at me when she reads this, thinking I am bashing her, because she happens to have given birth to me. This courageous action is something for which I can never repay her, and this blog certainly will not get me trending in that direction. I will, though, give her credit where it is due: she has gained a fair amount of football knowledge throughout the years, with my help… ok so never mind, credit to me instead.
Every year, without fail (since the Patriots won’t stop reaching the god damn Super Bowl), she hops on that Tom Brady bandwagon as fast as she can. Thankfully, hopping does not require her to use her bad shoulder — her “dog arm,” as she calls it (old people, am I right?) — or she’d fall and land somewhere near the muddy puddle of pundits who tried to convince us that Kirk Cousins is a competent NFL quarterback instead. I’ve heard it’s not a fun place.
Besides the fact that he is undoubtedly the greatest of all time, she’s also drawn to Brady because he is “hot,” a term I refrain from using, since I am done with objectifying men in 2019. It’s shameful to hear, but I’ll try not to hold it against her, because of the whole “giving birth” thing that I mentioned before.
Now, without further ado, I present to you some of the finest and most thought-provoking texts I received from my mother on this Championship Sunday.
Sup, Melinda?
Jared Goff is nice to look at:
Wow, surprise! Typical Melinda, objectifying innocent men right off the bat. Bit of a cougar vibe this time too, but she can pull it off, as she looks about thirty years younger than she actually is. Apparently, she would like for me to marry Jared Goff, something I would also not be opposed to — because I admire his mind and personality, obviously.
Unfortunately, when Goff was calling “Halle Berry” audibles earlier in the season, he made it loud and clear that he is into older women, forcing me out of the running.
My lack of a chance at marriage certainly has nothing to do with the fact that she’s a rich/famous/talented/beautiful movie star and I am not. Goff would probably also prefer my mom (who I have heard is cooler and more fun than me) to my 24-year-old self. But I appreciate where her head was at. It was a decent start to the day.
This was all she had to say about the NFC Championship, however, as she needed to focus most of her energy on her boy Tommy B. later that night.
Brady could’ve starred in Bird Box:
Throwing in a reference to Bird Box, a movie that she kept threatening to stop watching the entire time it was on our television, my mom flipped the narrative on its related jokes. Usually, a Bird Box joke consists of a blinded Sandra Bullock, or other character, and carries some sort of negative connotation with it.
Melinda, however, has a very innovative take with her idea that Tom Brady could be blindfolded, while rowing a boat, and he could still lead that game-winning drive that you just know is inevitable. Bird Box jokes are slowly dying down, but she may have single-handedly revived them, while simultaneously ruining the entire movie for me by tying it into Tom Brady being ridiculous. It was a fun couple of weeks, but I must now join the large majority of viewers that (wrongly) deemed Bird Box as flaming garbage.
Hunt’s should dump Mahomes:
Although king of brands Darren Rovell did not provide me any clarification, my mom gave me all the insight I needed.
While the AFC Championship Lamar Hunt trophy is not in any way connected to the sub-par brand of ketchup that Patrick Mahomes has aligned himself with, the identical name was enough to ruin the sponsorship (oh, darn). Tom Brady left Kansas City with Mahomes’ trophy, and Hunt’s would be wise to dissociate themselves immediately.
As pointed out by Melinda (not that it was breaking news), Heinz is the clearly superior brand. Mahomes’ best business move would be to jump aboard their ship. However, I could see this creating a conflict with Pittsburgh, as they play at Heinz Field.
If you ask me, that field is way too shoddy to ride the coattails of this prestigious brand name. Patrick Mahomes, on the other hand, has become an instant star in this league that is fully deserving of such an association. Rename the field Hunt’s Dump. It even rhymes! I don’t care that Heinz is headquartered in Pittsburgh. They are no longer deserving, and my genius of a mother agrees.
Befuddled by overtime rules:
Ah, she now dives into one of the controversial topics that arose on Sunday night. Overtime in the NFL is not perfect, but neither is college overtime, and neither is life (that got deep quickly). Oddly enough, everyone seemingly ~forgot~ that the team who won the overtime coin toss in the NFC Championship lost the game!!! So crazy how that happens on occasion, when a defense can make a single stop on third and long with the season on the line.
But I digress. This is about the woman of the hour.
It did not take my mother more than a few simple texts to conclude that OT in the NFL sucks, and she just learned very recently that quarterbacks have speakers in the helmets, and aren’t just trying to soothe a pounding headache. To be fair, she questioned this visual while watching Big Ben play, so there’s always a good chance he is playing concussed.
Additionally, you may notice that within this text exchange, which fits into a single screenshot, Melinda carelessly tossed out “wtf” three times, and tacked on a “shit” for good measure. As mothers do, she finds joy in asserting her dominance over me by telling me to cease my incessant swearing. Interestingly, I remained completely clean while discussing a hot topic as she recklessly infected my eyes with foul language. What a terrible example to set for your sweet daughter who is working tirelessly to become a better person. This isn’t a locker room, Melinda. Get your shit it together.
Brady = God:
Here, my girl breaks the news to me that the best quarterback and coach to ever exist are “amazing.” You can see where I get my in-depth analytical skills from. This stat blew me away.
She also gives a nod to how cute Brady was to acknowledge his family on television. I too, thought it was sweet, but not as sweet as when he left Bridget Moynahan high and dry for now wife, Gisele Bündchen. Oh yeah, she was carrying his unborn child too. Fucking adorable. *heart eye emoji*
Ah shit, I swore again, just as I did in response to her texts. What I learned from this snippet of conversation is that I should not start my own family any time soon, because I cannot stop swearing (hate when Mom’s right) or seem to appreciate Brady’s “nice” “family-oriented” sentiments.
Melinda loves to spend money:
Since Mondays aren’t brutal enough, the first text Melinda sent me to start my week was a screenshot of a shirt that Barstool Sports is selling to celebrate yet another Patriots Super Bowl berth. At this point I have been utterly demoralized by my fake fan mother, and the realization is setting in that I don’t care about either of the two teams remaining.
As it stands, with absolutely nothing left to lose in this NFL season, I am not above milking her “fandom” for some free clothing. Nothing in my closet will ever bare that stupid chiseled champion’s face — that I promise you. But, if she wants to throw me a shirt displaying this beautiful head of hair that sits atop the head of one of the brightest futures that football has to offer, I would not complain. Thanks in advance, mom — you’re the best!
Bonus hip Dad text:
I hate to break it to you all this late in the blog, as I have gone on this long giving you a glimmer of false hope, but there is a Mr. Melinda in the picture. His name is Brian, and he is the only person in the household who can humor me with an intelligent conversation about football. He’s also 53 years old and would still scare the jockstrap off a defender if he was running a crossing route over the middle.
While I consider both of my parents relatively “hip,” my dad dabbles mostly in the realm of hip hop references, and for that I appreciate him as well. As much as I detest looking at Belichick and his grumpy-cat face and his ludicrous fashion choices, I’m kind of into this nickname. Mostly the “boogie” part, but into it nonetheless. A boogieman that is eternally engulfed in an oversized sweatshirt is probably going to win another ring and there’s nothing we can do about it.
Football breaks my brain, my heart, and my soul, but at least I can take solace in knowing that I have some pretty cool parents to keep me upright. I love you crazy people.
(please send cash)
Sup Caroline? 