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Gameday at the Fozz Compound
As most of you may know, I have three sons. They are the centerpiece of my life. I love each more than bourbon. I mean, really quality bourbon. Like any three people, they have personalities that can be described as easy going, fierce, and loving.
Sundays during the NFL season around my house are like a prison riot where the participants have been fed a volatile mix of mescaline, crystal meth, home-brewed gin and pizza. Then armed with their choice of authentic medieval assault and melee weapons.
It’s that bad.
Mrs. Fozz knows as much about football as Andy Reid does about restraint at the buffet line down at Ozzie’s Emporium of Meat, Gristle, and Fat.
She is not allowed to enter the room because after 22 years of our relationship she still asks these types of questions:
- Do we have the ball?
- How many downs do you get?
- Does everyone have to curse so much?
- Why is that guy spitting on the turf?
- Do you think that team with the matching colors will win?
She also has a passion for Gronk. I mean, she gets all fluttery when his big dumb mug is on the screen. At a recent party she admitted that if given a free pass he would be it.
I said for me it would be Daphne from Scooby Doo, that little minx. Plus, she is a redhead, and that’s my weakness.
Here are the cast of characters, and I’m using real names because by now, I trust you pack of degenerates, for some unknown reason.
- Jack, Age 17. Has a Rain Man like memory of everything related to the NFL and the rest of the world. He thinks I am dumber than a bag of bricks. He is correct.
- Michael Age 14. A berserker Viking in a past life, he is a fucking Force 11 hurricane. An utter trouble magnet, he has blue eyes and a smile that will make me a grandfather before I am 60. He is built like a battering ram.
- Christian Age 7. Laid back and skinny, with the eyes and coloring of my Sicilian ancestors. He idolizes Jack and is wary of Mike. He can also throw punches with the best of them.
- Kona. Seven months. A batshit crazy chocolate Labrador whose days are fucking numbered.
The Setting
My living room. It has an L-shaped sectional couch, nice stuff on the walls, and a few black marks on the ceiling that no one has ever admitted to leaving there. The food is common fare and ranges from cereal to nachos to sections of meat and snack foods that are crumbled to a fine powder by halftime.
Gameday
No one is sitting down. Everyone is yelling and there is a scrum over who gets to sit where. I have my seat. They know it. Once in awhile they will challenge this turf, like cubs trying to sit on the top of Pride Rock. Fuck off, kids. My life is a hollow shell but this is my fucking seat.
Jack demands NFL Red Zone. I fucking hate Red Zone. It is garbage and designed for assholes with attention span disorders. I want to watch the game, to get the ebb and flow. After five minutes of touchdown highlights on Red Zone, I am clawing out my eyes. I know that a millenial came up with this idea. I just know it. Whoever it was, you’re a dick.
Ravens game starts with the C-level announcers. If it’s a Sunday night game, I am warned that continued abuse of Colinsworth has grown old and makes me sound “violent.” Again, fuck them. My house, my rules.
Conversation
The following conversation, though not verbatim, is shockingly close to what goes on in my house.
Jack (who is watching the game, monitoring his fantasy team on a laptop, and listening to Tik Tok on his phone. Editor’s Note: If I find the fuckwit who created this pile of aural and visual shit, I am ramming an entire roll of barbed wire down his or her throat. And then right up the old poop shoot. Everyone on Tik Tok should be rolled in honey and staked out on top of an anthill. They are human garbage.)
Jack: “Dad, remember when you drank six beers during a Raven’s game and then a glass of bourbon and mom said you had a drinking problem?”
Mike: “God that was funny. You had beer cans hidden under the couch, so I bet it was more like 12! (Editor’s Note: It was 14 beers over the span of five hours. That’s fucking Amateur Hour drinking in my opinion.)
Fozz: “Get me a beer. And shut up.”
Christian: “I want to watch the Simpsons!”
All three of us: “Get out now.”
Fozz: “God dammit Roman you are the worse fucking OC ever! Go eat a fucking sweet roll dipped in cyanide.”
Jack: “You hate everyone.”
Mike: “Jack, did you know that your face is ugly and covered with pimples?”
Jack: “Mike, did you know that you’re a fat idiot who eats everything he sees?”
Mrs. Fozz pokes her head in: “Are we playing?”
Mike: “MOM GET OUT OF THIS ROOM! YOU’RE SO ANNOYING!”
I smack him on the back of the head, make him apologize. Also ask my wife to go shopping or something.
[Onscreen is a commercial featuring the scrumptious AT&T lady. I stop breathing for a second.]
Mike: “Dad, it’s the girl with big boobs who you like! She does have big boobs.”
The game continues, highlights include an impromptu wrestling match that knocks over a full beer. The dog laps it up.
A bag of Doritos is opened incorrectly and the chips fly across the room, the dog devours them. My sons eat a few, right off the floor.
Conversation snippet:
Jack: “Come on you fat fuck run the ball! FUUUUUUCK!”
Fozz: “One more word and I swear to Christ I’m throwing you out of the house.”
Mike: [decides to put on football helmet for no reason] “I’m gonna run through that wall and piss off mom!”
[Onscreen Greg Roman calls a slant pass on 3rd and 15. Mark Andrews gets clobbered. We gain 1 yard.]
Fozz: “Jesus, I’m going to Mexico where no one can find me. You fucking kids will have to deal with your mother.”
Christian walks across the back of the sofa and jumps into my lap, crushing my cojones. He whispers, “I just took a big poop and now the toilet is all stuffed up.”
Mrs. Fozz [running into the room like a ferret was attached to her ass] “THE TOILET IS OVERFLOWING AND IT’S DRIPPING INTO THE BASEMENT. HAVE YOU HAD THAT MANY BEERS?”
[On screen the Ravens secondary gives up its third 20+ yard play of the day.]
I fix the toilet, listen to my sons screaming about Tucker. I head downstairs to mop up shit water and cry.
Jack: “You missed an unbelievable field goal!”
Mike: “Ha! Dad smells like shit.”
The Ravens game ends. The dog is outside barking and Mrs. Fozz calls me and asks for help unloading the car. We buy groceries by the shit ton because my sons snarf up food like they’re about to head off to war.
Fozz: “I need help.”
My sons run so fast they leave scorch marks on the rug.
Mrs. Fozz: “Are you drunk? And who is cleaning up this living room? And you need to take a shower, you smell like shit. My parents are coming over for dinner.”
Sunday is over. My head hurts. I had to listen to my mother-in-law explain, in detail, how the people who stormed the Capitol are heroes. That JFK Jr. is alive. That vaccines are only for liberals.
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