Football Sucks

When Democratic Mayor Irwin Gladden opened the blinds to his office window, what he saw shook him to his very core. Protesters. Lots and lots of protesters wearing football jerseys and helmets. All of them shouting incoherently at the top of their dragon-like lungs. Some of them with signs that said, “Football doesn’t suck!” and “Impeach Gladden!”. Most of them with Photoshopped pictures of the Mayor in a Nazi uniform or a turban with a bomb strapped around his body.

Being new to the job, Mayor Gladden obviously wasn’t used to this kind of violent treatment down on the streets of Paulson City. His blood was chilled. His jaw was quivering. His hands were vibrating. He had a knot in his stomach the size of a cannonball and a lump in his throat the size of a watermelon. All of these normally fine young citizens came together through their mutual hatred of this newly-elected official.

Though he wasn’t one-hundred-percent prepared for a day like this, he could think of a good reason why it was happening. The football paraphernalia, the firecrackers going off, the trumpets blasting everywhere, they could only mean one thing. These citizens were protesting because Irwin Gladden wanted to convert their beloved football stadium into the city’s largest public library. If that wasn’t “sacrilegious” enough, the thirty-something Mayor actually had the balls to say, “Football sucks!”

His balls weren’t feeling so big anymore. In fact, as soon as he saw a firecracker zooming towards his window (only to veer off at the last minute), Irwin snapped the blinds shut and cowered in the center of his office. How could so many people be so zealous and ignorant over a game of football? It made no sense.

Mayor Gladden’s day went from bad to worse when his front door hastily opened, causing him to spring backwards in fear and sit on the edge of his desk. He thought he was going to get mugged by these protesters. Instead, it happened to someone else entirely. Irwin’s personal bodyguard, Fred Jacobs, had stumbled into his office, slammed the door behind him, and collapsed on the floor while coughing up blood.

Irwin and Fred could not be more physically different from each other. The bodyguard was a hulking bad black man in a brown suit and tie while the Mayor was only this gray suit-wearing, skinny twig who barely filled his counterpart’s shadow. Fred Jacobs didn’t look very intimidating at that moment. Rolling over on his back and spewing up more blood didn’t help create that kind of image.

The frightened politician rushed over and knelt by his bodyguard’s side and asked, “Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?! Where are the goddamn paramedics?!”

After coughing up a splash of blood, Fred explained, “The protesters are blocking the streets from all angles. They’re not going to move even for first responders. What kind of shit storm did you cause out there, buddy?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” said Irwin defensively. “It’s just a stupid arena! More taxpayer money goes into that stadium than anywhere else on the budget! We could have used that money to improve roads, hire more teachers, feed our poor, cure our sickly, and instead it’s going into this big ass stadium so that more athletes can end up in the hospital or even dead! Tell me my logic is wrong! I dare you!”

“Alright, dude,” said Fred as he sat up and looked his boss in the eyes with fiery zeal. “Your logic is wrong! There, I said it! Do you want to fire me now?!”

Irwin stood up in disbelief and backed up slowly. “What are you talking about? This makes perfect sense. Instead of going out there and giving people concussions, we could turn the whole stadium into a public library and actually improve their brain power for once.”

“That’s exactly how fucked up you are, Mayor!” Fred Jacobs stood up and spit a wad of chunky blood on the ground. If he was dizzy before, he wasn’t showing it at this moment. “A library? Really? You actually thought people would be onboard with that? This is Paulson City, damn it! People here don’t know whether to scratch their watches or wind their asses! They don’t give a shit about literature! You’re basically forcing your personal tastes on these poor people!”

Just like his bodyguard, Irwin Gladden suddenly found his testicle power when he snapped, “No! I’m not forcing anything on anybody! It’s called tough love! If these people won’t educate themselves, it’s my job and my responsibility to push them along!”

“Alright, man,” said Fred as he snorted blood up his nose and swallowed in a massive gulp. “I didn’t want to have to tell this story, but if it’s the only way to get through to your sorry ass, then goddamn it, it’ll have to do. You want to know how I got this big ass body? I didn’t get it through sitting on my ass eating Cheetohs and watching The Simpsons. I played football all throughout high school and college. That’s right! I was a quarterback for the Paulson City Warlords!”

“You’re kidding me,” said Irwin when he folded his arms.

“Back then they called me Freddy the Barbarian. They would have called me Inmate Number Blah-Blah-Blah if it wasn’t for football. It was either football or gangs and drugs for me. I lived in a poor neighborhood, my friend. A neighborhood that the previous Republican mayor promised to fix. Instead, all we had was more drugs, more gangs, and a shit load more police brutality. I joined the Paulson City Warlords to get away from all that disgusting crap. So the next time you say football sucks, think of this big ugly face staring you down!”

The big ugly face was indeed staring Mayor Gladden down and it was more frightening to look at than a dark fantasy demon. The politician’s body language showed it all: a trembling body that barely managed to stay seated to the edge of his desk. For the longest few seconds, Irwin and Fred didn’t say a damn thing to each other.

And then the Mayor screamed like a girl and ran into his bodyguard’s arms when he heard a cacophonous bang shattering his window and ripping his blinds. One of the firecrackers from the demonstration exploded against his window and went out in smoke.

Mayor Gladden had every reason in the world to piss his Armani pants and cry into Fred Jacobs’ Men’s Warehouse jacket. It was a tempting offer, but instead Irwin was red-faced with anger. He got down from his protector’s arms and stomped over to the phone. When asked what the hell he was doing, Irwin said, “I’m putting an end to this right now. Screw the riot police. If they’re not coming to my rescue, then I’ll declare a state of emergency and get the National fucking Guard! I’ll even tell them to bring AK-47’s instead of those wimpy rubber bullets. And real grenades too instead of that tear gas shit!”

“Put down that goddamn phone, Mayor Gladden!” screamed Fred, to which the Democrat slowly and shakily did. “Look at you, man! It’s your first week on the job and you’re already cracking under pressure! That’s not the Mayor I signed up with! You’re supposed to be this caring progressive who thinks of others! And now look at you! You’re actually considering killing those protesters with AK-47’s all because a firecracker got launched through your window!”

No arguments there. Irwin had snapped big time and all he could do was plop in his chair and try to block out the cacophony going on outside. It was doubtful another firecracker would make its way into his office again; that last one was a lucky shot. The city official just held his face in his hands and wept. “I can’t do this, Fred. I can’t do this. I want to step down.”

“No, you don’t,” said the bodyguard after putting a comforting hand on his boss’s shoulder. “You came here for a reason and that was to clean up Paulson City. You have the chance to do that right now by phoning the riot police. There are people down there who need you whether they know it or not. Do the right thing, Mayor. If the riot police won’t come, then you have my permission to get the National Guard. Just please, none of that AK-47 and real grenade crap this time.”

Irwin took a few deep breaths in and out, calming himself down in the midst of the outside chaos. “You’re right, Fred. You’re absolutely right. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And if football made you the man you are today, I doubt it could suck that badly.”

Fred Jacobs smiled and patted Irwin on the shoulder before leaving him alone to make the phone call. Just a few minutes ago, this ex-football player was dizzy and bleeding. Now he was toughing it out like a pro and that was inspiring to Irwin, who then picked up the phone and made this announcement: “Send them in. It’s an emergency.” The call for help was placed and all Irwin and Fred could do at this point was ride out the storm.