Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season (except when the season starts on a Wednesday; kiss my ass, Goodell). Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it.
I turn 50 a month from now. Hold your applause. About the only notable thing about hitting 50 is that I will no longer be eligible for a midlife crisis, seeing as how my life will officially be well past its midway point. I can believe in a Singularity-aided immortality all I like, but the facts remain what they are. There’s more behind me than there is ahead of me now, and what’s behind me isn’t always easy to keep track of. It’s getting harder, if I’m being honest.
Because there’s a LOT of life to remember when you’re on the cusp of 50. Sometimes I find myself quietly aghast at some of the stats. I’ve been a parent now for 20 years, a stretch of time that defies my comprehension even though I was there for all of it. I’ve been cooking for our household for an even longer period of time, to the point where I can pour out a cup of rice perfectly without even looking at the measuring lines. Ta-fucking-da.
And work! I have been a member of the workforce for nearly 30 years. I remember searching job listings in my 20s and seeing requirements like “must have five years experience,” then saying out loud, “Pfft, no one has five year’s experience. That’s deranged.” It is no longer deranged. It’s a cup of coffee for this 49-year-old. I have a new (to me) car that’s five years old. I have a recliner that’s 16 years old, and probably counts as an antique at this point. And the renovated portion of our house is now over a decade old, with the basement walls so thoroughly abused by our children that they bear the scars of walls twice that age.
I remember a good amount of these vast expanses of time. But not all of it, and certainly not in a tidy order. A fun game my wife and I play sometimes is, “When did we see [X person] last?” We don’t always win, because the pile of memories only grows larger. Harder to sift through.
And I’ve got the two decades and change before meeting my wife that I also have lying around up in the attic, gathering dust. I don’t remember any of the football games I played in. At least, not in the way that many former football players do. A lot of players, especially great ones, have war stories for days. Maybe those stories have taken on a few dramatic embellishments over time. All good stories do. But listen to any NFL retiree talk about the glory days and they’ll often be able to recall an exact moment from an exact game at an exact time. I have no such gift of recall. Part of that is because I only started a handful of games, but another part is that my mind simply didn’t bother to keep those particular memories crystallized.
Instead, what I remember about my playing career, from eighth grade to junior year of college, is more like a dream than a documentary. I remember lying face down on the grass with my helmet on, staring at the blades of grass poking through my facemask and tickling my nose. I remember the clickety-clack of my cleats on the pavement as we walked out from the locker room to the practice field. I remember that practice field being dusty as hell in August. And I remember how two-a-days left me and my teammates nearly unable to walk down a flight of stairs at the end of every camp day. Walking up the stairs was easy. But I can still feel every muscle in my body ache when I recall the times I dared to walk down those same stairs to watch TV or get a candy bar from the vending machine. The details of every snap are long gone. All that’s left now is the feeling, which comes on strong every time Labor Day comes up on the calendar.
That’s not a matter of deterioration, although that too will be unavoidable as I continue on, but of storage capacity. Fifty years is a lot to remember, even when those years are your own. I have lived so much life now that I cannot help but forget some of it. Faces fade. Moments disappear. I see pictures of my mother-in-law’s old dog and can’t remember him looking like that. I’ll cue up an old movie scene that I thought I remembered note for note and it’ll play out differently on the screen, with me silently insisting that I must be watching a different cut. Sometimes I try to remember the lyrics to an old song I’ve heard a thousand times, something that I could do with ease until only recently, and find myself having to concentrate really, really hard. And when I have to cue the song up to remember precisely how it goes—not just the lyrics, but precisely how those lyrics are delivered, along with the exact beat and melody behind them—I feel the slightest tinge of grief.
In that grief, I feel the urge to fiercely hold onto whatever memories I can before all of them finally go dormant. I always said I’d rather look forward to what I’m going to do than what I’ve already done but, at 49, that urge is ebbing. As I round the bend of my existence, I am surreptitiously turning into just another old man living in his past. I don’t always choose what I remember vividly (this ad will inexplicably remain in my daily mental rotation until I’m gone) but I do try, often to my detriment. We all have our glory days, and I latch onto all of mine, or to any outside stimulus that will spark them. If I listen to an old song, it’s to evoke the memory of the first time I heard it. (I remember listening to Poison’s Flesh & Blood for the first time on my Walkman while riding in back of my mom’s Volvo station wagon, thinking to myself, “This is the greatest album ever made;” it was not.) If I want to watch a hot sex scene now, it’s mostly to remind myself of the time when I was both a decent lay and, in contrast to my fallow teenage years, a prolific one. If that sounds like a brag, it becomes less so when we’re talking about encounters that happened nearly 30 years ago. Nowadays the Viagra doesn’t even always work.
And if I watch football, which you better believe I’m about to, it’s often to remind myself, and to be reminded, of all the games I’ve ever watched or played in. The memories don’t haunt me so much as they nag at me, as if warning me to savor them before they’re gone.
This bit of self-prescribed nostalgia can prove isolating. Because only I have these exact memories, and only I have access to them. You can spend so much time inside Remember When that you ignore the now, and the people who are living in it. Lord knows I’ve been guilty of that, sequestering myself inside my own head while my wife and kids are pleading for my attention. I’ve had the classic marriage problem where you ask each other, in one form or another, Why are we the way we are now instead of the way we were? That’s just how life goes, but it’s also how the fondness of memory can render the present, in your eyes, inadequate. I am far more guilty of this sin than my wife is, and I am working diligently to disabuse myself of the habit.
But the temptation grows profound. You can shape the past any way you like, especially when age leaves holes in your memory that you can fill any way you please. After all, there’s a reason that President Trump, an abominable man, rose to success on the back of the slogan Make America Great Again. The great America he’s selling to people is one that never existed, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a dream of the country’s past, of your past, that he’s offering to resurrect. No wonder so many are unable to resist it. I’d like to think I’m immune to such charms, but while Trump’s pitch is one I’ll never buy, I do possess an inner drive to make my life great again. To recreate all of the good times exactly as they were, in a sort of reverse-engineered daydream. It’s not the right way to go about things, and it makes me lonelier than it does happier. I know that now. I also know it takes both will and wisdom to get myself out of that rut. Most of all, it takes living. It takes being here, right now, and making the best of the time I have.
That means giving myself permission to forget, to accept that the loss of a memory is not tragic but necessary, to make the twilight of my existence as indelible as what preceded it. So my faded memories aren’t merely an issue of bandwidth. Rather, it’s my brain telling me to get the fuck over it. “You don’t need this shit anymore, Drew. You’ve been there and done that. Now go find me some fresh material to work with.”
Maybe that’s why fall is my favorite season. Fall is heavy on the reminders—that first day of school, the smell of fallen leaves—but it’s also an annual kickstart to so much of the American routine. I went to back to school night at our sons’ public high school last week and marveled at all of the new (to me) ways our kids were learning things, and all of the new (to me) tools their school had its disposal to teach them those things. I went to my son’s first varsity soccer game and watched his team hold on for a win that I’ll remember much more vividly than any football game I played in.
And, of course, I’ve started watching football again. Sports are an effective means of memory preservation, and not merely because they’re televised and then replayed a million times over. It’s the visceral nature of sports that makes them so indelible. In fact, I could argue that sports represent the last place in 21st century society where humans act fully human around one another. The sensory overload, the physical contact, the raw displays of emotion, the feeling that you’re participating in something along with the rest of the world, even if you’re just watching this shit from home: there are few more human, more present things you can do with your time in the iPhone age.
Sports leave plenty of room for wallowing, of course. Lord knows my favorite team invites it. But it’s the prospect of seeing something I haven’t seen that keeps me tuning in. It’s hope, which is a dirty word in sports but is also the very thing that makes the future worth living through, even at my age. There may be a lot of good behind me, both real and fabricated, but there’s more of it ahead. And it’s worth forgetting what was to make room for what will be. This is life, and this is your Thursday Wednesday afternoon Dick Joke Jamboroo. Hit the music.
Fuck and yes, baby. It’s football season again.
2026 NFL Predictions
I make these picks every year, and every year they are wrong. Fade accordingly.
NFC North
Minnesota 10-7 (go ahead and laugh it up)
Chicago 10-7*
Detroit 8-9
Green Bay 8-9
NFC South
Tampa Bay 9-8
Carolina 8-9
New Orleans 7-10
Atlanta 5-12
NFC East
Philadelphia 13-4
Dallas 10-7*
Washington 7-10
NY Giants 6-11
NFC West
LA Rams 14-3
Seattle 12-5*
San Francisco 7-9
Arizona 3-14
WILD CARD
Seattle over Tampa Bay
Philly over Dallas
Chicago over Minnesota
DIVISIONAL
LA Rams over Chicago
Philly over Seattle
CHAMP
LA Rams over Philly
AFC North
Cincinnati 12-5
Pittsburgh 10-7
Baltimore 9-8
Cleveland 3-14
AFC South
Tennessee 10-7
Houston 10-7*
Jacksonville 9-8
Indianapolis 6-11
AFC East
Buffalo 10-7
New England 10-7*
Miami 6-11
NY Jets 4-13
AFC West
LA Chargers 12-5
Denver 11-6*
Kansas City 9-8
Las Vegas 4-13
WILD CARD
Houston over Cincinnati
New England over Tennessee
Buffalo over Denver
DIVISIONAL
LA Chargers over Houston
Buffalo over New England
CHAMP
LA Chargers over Buffalo
SUPER BOWL
Rams 45, Chargers 21
Yes, I know that picking the Chargers to win the AFC is stupid. But the AFC is awash in mediocrity, and at least I didn’t pick those chumps to WIN the Super Bowl.
This Week On All Ball
Arif Hasan and I started us a new NFL podcast this week, and it’s also gonna be available on YouTube every time a new episode drops. In order to get the video right, Defector sent both Arif and me a special key light to better illuminate our gorgeous faces. When mine arrived in the mail, my 14-year-old asked, “Dad, is that … is that the influencer light?” I’m not sure if he was genuinely curious or if he was simply owning me. In either scenario, mission accomplished. I assembled this light right before we started recording our first episode, which was a mistake on my end. The key light really accentuates the sweat glistening off of my hammy face. The life of an influencer isn’t as glamorous as they make it out to be.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Patriots at Seahawks: I left Sam Darnold off the list of 10 QBs I want to watch this season (CORRECTION: No I didn’t!), and that was an egregious mistake. Not only is Darnold the field general for the DVOA Super Bowl favorite, but he also happens to be one of the most enjoyable QBs in the entire league to watch. What’s more fun than watching a guy say Fuck it, I’m throwing it downfield every game, and being GOOD at it? Nothing! In fact, tonight’s opening tilt features arguably the two finest mad bombers in the entire league. And Drake Maye has A.J. Brown to chuck it to now! I’ve already got goosebumps on my scrotum.
Broncos at Chiefs: The theme of Week 1 is players coming back wayyyyyy too early from catastrophic injuries they suffered during last season. So here’s Chiefs legend Patrick Mahomes, fresh of an ACL and now staring down the best defense in his own division with only the husk of Travis Kelce to throw to. God forbid Andy Reid feed Justin Fields to the wolves to buy his franchise QB some extra healing time.
Bills at Texans: Oh look, here’s something I never wanna see again.
That’s SNF countrybot Carrie Underwood covering Limp Bizkit, but self-censoring out the bad words because she doesn’t wanna upset her fellow churchgoers. I will not be sad if another 9/11 happens on Friday.
Four Throwgasms
49ers at Rams (Melbourne): Everything I know about the city of Melbourne I learned by watching that one Anthony Bourdain episode about the city, and from Romper Stomper. So if you want some of the best Asian food in the world AND you aspire to be a neo-Nazi who lives in utter squalor, Melbourne is the place for you!
Three Throwgasms
Packers at Vikings: I had a flying dream the other night. I’ve stopped being annoyed, upon rousing, that I can’t actually fly. All flying dreams kick ass, and are therefore welcome in my subconscious. But this one had a twist: I was flying on an airplane when I was flying. When I wanted a Coke, I would fly out of my seat and through the cabin (it was a very large cabin) to go grab it. Flying while flying! CRAZY SHIT!
And no, that’s not some veiled allegory for this game. The Packers are ripe to be beaten, which means my team will shoot itself in the dick somehow.
Ravens at Colts: If you’re new here, please note that I don’t write up every game. It’s too much work, and some of these games really suck on paper. Like this one. The Colts actually extended Daniel Jones this offseason. The Irsay kids must like drugs as much as their old man did.
Bucs at Bengals
Bears at Panthers
Two Throwgasms
Cowboys at Giants: Future ATV fatalities Jaxson Dart and Cam Skattebo are starting this game, so enjoy them while they last. Because a month from now, it’s just gonna be weekly reruns of the Jameis Winston And Tyrone Tracy Show.
Commanders at Eagles: And Jayden Daniels too! Enjoy him before his old-ass football team gets him killed!
Falcons at Steelers
Saints at Lions
One Throwgasm
Browns at Jaguars: That Callaway driver ad that pissed off the free world wasn’t merely offensive because it condoned bullrushing innocent women. It also offended me as a former copywriter, because the ad itself sucks. The writing is shit, the editing is shit, and the acting is even worse. First-year film school students could make better a golfsploitation spot than this. This is what you get when you hire an influencer agency instead of a proper ad firm. I should know. I have the influencer light to prove it!
Dolphins at Raiders
Cardinals at Chargers
Jets at Titans
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“The Vanishing,” by Mastodon! Mastodon just released their first album without the late Brent Hinds, and it’s your typical post-Crack the Skye mixed bag. But the guys get super weird and proggy (a good thing) in the back half, with this track serving as arguably the best of the lot. The vocal effects are a deliberate ringer for Black Sabbath’s “Planet Caravan,” and the opening bass riff is played by none other than Geezer Butler himself. I miss Hinds’s singing voice—for me, it was one of the band’s defining qualities—but the surviving members of Mastodon sure as shit didn’t half-ass the new material.
Get In Shape With Dr. Cam Skattebo, A.S.U.!
“My buddy who’s a cop told me that he nearly died of a fentanyl overdose just from banging a chick that was high on it at the time. So watch out for that. The only contact high you should like is when you lower your helmet into an oncoming safety!”
Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we’ll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year’s end or sooner. And now, your potential 2026 chopping block:
-Mike McCarthy
-John Harbaugh
-Dave Canales
-Todd Monken
-Brian Schottenheimer
-Kevin O’Connell
-Dan Campbell
-Shane Steichen*
-Andy Reid
-Klint Kubiak
-Aaron Glenn*
-Nick Sirianni
-Todd Bowles*
-Dan Quinn*
(*potential midseason firing)
Yeah I got Johnny Harbaugh on here. You know why? Because that old turd is in it for the dough, just like Pete Carroll was in Vegas. The Giants’ whole bullshit class façade isn’t gonna fool me. We’re three months away from Kalyn Kahler reporting that Matt Nagy was having his kids call 100 percent of this team’s offensive plays.
Cookin’ Corner
Veteran Jamboroo readers are used to seeing this space in the column occupied by Great Moments In Poop History. But now that this column is in its 20th year of existence(!), I’ve published pretty much every fecal mishap conceivable. Also, most readers just skip the poop story anyway. So I’m gonna posting recipes in this space instead. Go ahead and send me your favorites. Please do include proper credit if you got those recipes from an outside source. Anyway, here’s our family recipe for chocolate chip banana bread, which is really a chocolate chip banana cake.
INGREDIENTS:
-1/2 cup vegetable oil
-1 cup sugar
-2 eggs
-1 tsp vanilla
-2 cups flour
-1 tsp baking soda
-1 tsp baking powder
-1/2 tsp salt
-3 mashed bananas
-1/2 cup sour cream
-1 cup chocolate chips
-1 cup chopped walnuts (if that’s your thing)
Preheat the over to 350. Mix everything together in a big mixing bowl. Grease a loaf pan and pour the batter in, then bake for 50-60 minutes or until golden brown. Reduce the cooking time to 25 minutes if you’re doing muffins. VOILA.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Zip! From Turkmenistan! Reader Dan fills us in on this can of liquid arsenic:
I’m a Foreign Service officer, and I am currently serving in Turkmenistan, which is below North Korea on the world freedom index. I could probably supply you with beers to cover a season’s worth of this particular gimmick.
There are two breweries here: Zip and Berk. This is the one I’m on now. It costs about 20 manat, which at the black market exchange rate comes out to roughly $0.55. I know what you’re thinking. “Wow, what a value.” You should taste it before you make that assumption. I’m here to tell you, that’s about what it should cost.
That’s a warning I’m more than willing to heed.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans
The Foot Fist Way, the low-fi indie comedy that ushered Danny McBride into the cultural consciousness. Pretty much every Danny McBride project since this one has taken on roughly the same form: cocky American idiot gets a life lesson that he usually chooses to ignore. And you know what? That formula never gets old. Every sports movie should star Danny McBride and feature old ladies getting their shit ruined. Three stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Careful of the apple pie on the seat.”
“Uh-oh!”
“Grampa, are you sitting on the pie?”
“I sure hope so.”
Enjoy the games, everyone. We’re back! We’re back!