From the Sidelines: The Game

Everybody is talking about it.


The game.

• The two U.S.C.G.C. Station Juneau D17 Fast Response Boat Alaska Region career swabbies on the dock share sea shanties of The Game.

Coastie 1: “You had better get used to the loss now because I sure don’t want to see you crying on Sunday.”

Coastie 2: “Why do you have to crush my dreams?”

• The assorted mismatched ties and suits, cigarette smoking, bring my five cars into Juneau, 27th Alaska Legislature Second Session bombastic pompous’ talk the talk of The Game.

Senate snorer 1: “We will have chips and salsa in the Chambers for a victory celebration!”

House of ill repute 1: “You don’t have enough chips and salsa to drown the sorrows about to befall your misguided associations with such an ill-fated attempt to befuddle the Alaskan fan into voting for that very notion of inconceivability.”

• The District Attorneys’ Office in the Square Tower of Notting Good atop the scentless urinals of State Capitalism Avenue and City Power Street are abuzz about The game.

The prosecution: “I have no comment on whom or why will win.”

The defense: “I have no comment on whom or why will not win.”

The judge: “I see a plea bargain before me on your agreement as to whom or why will win or not win.”

• If you are a fan of The Game, you know whether or not you are older than Su(insert trademark protected wording here)per Bo(see former insertion)wl XLVI.

To Romans worldwide that translates to 46.

Latin ‘Nova Roma’ is all Greek to me.

46 to me means the number of seconds Thunder Mountain’s Thomas Riley takes to pin an opponent, the number of points JDHS’ Gabi Fenumiai will score in a half if she stays out of foul trouble, the seconds it takes Lance Ibesate and Tony Yadao to get from their homes into the locker room and into Crimson Bears uniforms and out onto the playing court;

46 is the number of times TMHS coaches John Blasco and Tanya Nizich leap off the bench per quarter, 46 is the poundage weight of the Mitey Mite skier on Eaglecrest that slalomed past me in perfect Olympic tuck.

S.u.p.e.r. B.o.w.l. XLVI.

I have tried to be a fan of The Game.

I have bobble heads that take steroids.

I have downloaded football apps that turn my cell phone into a Glade air freshener emitting Eau de Toilette Locker-room when recharging. The scent does not linger as long as Eau de Parfum of Towel Boy but features various fight songs on an accompanying website.

I have even purchased the hoodie-and-sleeper-in-one pajamas of various over-priced professional characters.

VII years ago, after XX seasons of pestering, my peers finally let me join their fantasy football league.

XX years.

I toiled, I bartered, I begged. I wore the pajamas!

They scoffed.

My draft picks were ridiculous they said.

But it was a fantasy league I countered.

Why could I not have the Swedish bikini swim club on my roster, heck as my entire roster?

No, I haven’t won a game in IV seasons… but my buddies teams all have some hefty paternity suits in the works. Messing with my babes!

The Game.



46 is the number of draft picks I need to recall all my swimsuit models for my fantasy basketball team.

Yep, my buddies invited me to join that league this year as well.

Everybody is talking about my team’s fantasy uniforms.

We are the 46ers.

It is emblazoned across the chest and our uniform numbers are all in Roman numerals.

The referees are perplexed.


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