(Free x2 media claim)
The sound of an analog alarm clock echoed throughout the empty condo as the sound waves bounced and reverberated off of bare walls. Stripes of late afternoon sunlight graced the vinyl wood flooring through closed venetian blinds. The air was thick with stale cigar smoke from the night before, and in the living room the DVD menu of Remember the Titans played it’s endless loop of the same 30 seconds of music--a triumphant classical piece meant to inspire greatness in even the most humble of viewers.
Reposing on the couch with his feet propped up upon an oversized pillow was one such humble viewer. Though at first glance he might have seemed awake, those who knew him would have recognized his half-lidded eyes as his peculiar way of sleeping--eyes always half open. This, combined with his predilection for smoking cheap cigars in poorly ventilated rooms led to his perpetual bloodshot eyes. When he slept on the couch in this manner, with his short legs elevated above his head, his face took on a purplish hue from the redistribution of deoxygenated blood. He continued to lie there, asleep with eyes half open, amidst the DVD music, the ringing bell of the alarm coming from the bedroom, and amongst a scattering of half eaten potato chip bags and melted Ben and Jerry’s containers for an additional hour after the alarm began. Even his mightiest snore was drowned out by the pandemonium.
“AH NO! AHHHHHHH NO!” Coatsmith Goate exclaimed immediately upon waking, already knowing he’d overslept on the couch again. On today of all days, such oversleeping could at best be an embarrassment, and at worst get him fired from his position as the Co-GM of the Minnesota Grey Ducks. He went to immediately sit up, but found that the position he was lying down in, with his feet elevated so, meant that any attempt to sit up forced his prodigious beer belly into his upper thighs and wholly restricted his movement. After rocking back and forth like a turtle for a few seconds in the overwhelming din of the alarm bell, Goate managed to swing himself upright enough to slide off the couch and clatter onto the floor amidst a heap of crinkly snack bags. He tried to stand up quickly but bumped the back of his head off the coffee table. He howled, cussed, and rubbed his head as he shuffled to the bedroom to shut off the alarm.
“Gotta get movin’! Gotta get MOVIN’!” He said to no one in particular as he made his way to the bathroom, disrobing a sky blue silk kimono in his haste. Typically the water from the shower in his condo took exactly 3 minutes to heat up, which would be far too long of a wait given the circumstances. He turned the hot water all the way on exclusively, and jumped under the frigid water.
“OOH MAN, OOH BOY that’s COLD!” He said, again, to no one in particular. He feverishly washed himself with Old Spice Swagger body wash, and was just getting set to rinse the Organix Coconut Milk shampoo out of what was left of his hair when the three minutes elapsed.
The water reached a near boil almost instantaneously.
“AHHHH!” He shouted as shampoo got in his eyes. He pressed himself against the wall of the shower and out of the scalding water as he groped around for the cold water dial. His hands searched and searched until they made purchase with his quarry and soon the water was tepid once more.
If the cigar smoke and his odd sleeping habit were not enough to redden his eyes, the shampoo really pushed things over the edge. In the mirror, he thought he looked like the T-1000 Terminator as he quickly shaved. Inevitably a few nicks were had as he tangled with and tamed the coarseness of his three day old stubble. He splashed his face gratuitously with his favorite aftershave, Drakkar Noir, and placed tiny pieces of toilet paper over the nicks in his face. He was starting to calm down until he picked up his phone to check for messages. There were 11 missed calls, and on the notification screen was one text from a contact simply named “MINNY GM.” It was a simple message. It read:
“WHERE ARE U? ? ?”
“BAHHH, I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” He spoke aloud as he pulled on his one good suit he had retrieved from the back of the closet. It was his draft day suit, his wedding suit, his funeral suit, and his first date suit, and it hadn’t been used once since the last draft day one season ago.
As he was heading out the door, he stopped in the foyer of his condo for just a moment to admire his collection of football accolades from his days as a younger man playing fullback for Wake Forest. He smiled as he recalled him breaking the school record for pancakes in his senior year with 71--ten more than any offensive lineman on the squad that season. His diminutive size and stocky nature led to a low center of gravity, and he always had a powerful punch when blocking linebackers and protecting the runner. He was really good once, but those days were long behind him. His phone made a ding noise. It was another text from MINNY GM. It simply read, “WE’RE ALL WAITING FOR YOU.”
This snapped him out of his reminiscing, as he shook his playing days out of his head. He reached up and touched the poster above his accolades that hung on the wall. It was a picture of a Duck clinging to a clothesline with its bill. The text read, “Hang in there!” Doing so was part of his daily ritual to manifest success. With that, he flung open the front door and began power walking as fast as he could to his champagne 1996 Toyota Tercel.
As he was driving through downtown Minneapolis to the team headquarters, he swerved through heavy traffic. This was due in large part to him being in a hurry and running late, but also because he’d managed to get his cassette tape of Madonna’s self-titled first album stuck in his tape deck. He fiddled and futzed with it before giving up and deciding to give it a listen again for what had to be the 10,000nth time. Another ding from his phone meant he’d received another text, but he didn’t bother looking this time. At this point, he was running late and there was nothing he could do about that. Besides, he was now making pretty good time. It was 5 o’clock, and there was still an hour left until the draft began at 6pm CST.
Then his stomach gurgled. He licked his lips, tasting the minty freshness of the dried toothpaste that lingered on his mouth. He knew that he shouldn’t stop, being that he was already so late, and yet he also was unsure if there would be any suitable refreshments available in the war room at the team headquarters. Last draft there were light concessions such as pretzels and pop and little candies, and he’d made a spectacle of himself by complaining loudly that the draft wasn’t catered. There was no guarantee that things would be different this year, however, and so his hunger mixed with panic as he tried to think clearly. That’s when he saw it: A beacon of deliciousness and satisfaction loomed a few blocks ahead of his car. He began to salivate Pavlovian as the Golden Arches came closer and closer into view.
“Ehhhhhh, I can have a LITTLE somethin’ here to hold me over. . . “ He mumbled as he swerved through four lanes of traffic, nearly pancaking a helmetted bicyclist, to approach the drive through--the man on the bicycle must have bitten their lip, for in the rear view mirror Goate could have sworn he saw the man smile a toothy bloody smile.
Within minutes Coatsmith had recited his usual dollar menu order of two McDoubles and two McChickens, which he fully intended to combine into two beef and chicken sandwiches that he referred to as, “McDanks”. Coatsmith Goate was notoriously frugal, and lived very cheaply in spite of his million dollar salary. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t touch his salary money at the moment--it was all tied up in a sizable Dogecoin investment.
He received his food through the takeout window and held up the line of cars as he removed the buns from the McChickens and messily inserted the chicken in between the beef patties. Cars were angrily honking as he drove away, mouth full, waving a McDank out the drivers window as he shouted out apologies behind him. Simply put, he was a mess, but at least he wouldn’t be hungry.
He arrived at the Minnesota facility with a full belly and a spot of ketchup on his left cheek. Already an intern was quickly walking towards him and his car with a clipboard in hand.
“Mr. Goate! Mr. Goate! I have your draft notes right here, and here is a copy of our draft board, this sheet here is the draft order and this last page is a list of all the prospects and their phone numbers for reaching out to them. Everyone else is expecting you right now in the conference room. The draft starts in thirty minutes, but if you haven’t eaten there is a charcuterie board and pizza rolls in the war room, as per your request last season, sir.”
“Ah, shit!” Goate exclaimed, knowing himself to be too full for his favorite snacks.
“Beyond that, sir, I think everything else has been taken care of. We have the other DSFL GMs on standby should a trade opportunity arise, and if you need anything, anything at all, sir, just say the word and I’m your man!” The young man continued as they strode down the waxed floors of the Minnesota facility, stopping just short of the double-doors marked, “WAR ROOM.” His eyes lingered on the words for a minute as he swallowed nervously. This was going to be an extremely important draft for Minnesota, and he knew it. He hoped he was prepared.
“Sir? Are you ready, sir?” The intern asked. There was another pause before Coatsmith broke the silence with a chuckle.
“Hmpf! Are you kidding? I’m always ready! Let’s boogie, baby!” He said as a waft of Old Spice Swagger filled his nostrils. He reached down and flung open the doors, not only to War Room, he hoped, but into the DSFL history books as well.
(1773 words)
The sound of an analog alarm clock echoed throughout the empty condo as the sound waves bounced and reverberated off of bare walls. Stripes of late afternoon sunlight graced the vinyl wood flooring through closed venetian blinds. The air was thick with stale cigar smoke from the night before, and in the living room the DVD menu of Remember the Titans played it’s endless loop of the same 30 seconds of music--a triumphant classical piece meant to inspire greatness in even the most humble of viewers.
Reposing on the couch with his feet propped up upon an oversized pillow was one such humble viewer. Though at first glance he might have seemed awake, those who knew him would have recognized his half-lidded eyes as his peculiar way of sleeping--eyes always half open. This, combined with his predilection for smoking cheap cigars in poorly ventilated rooms led to his perpetual bloodshot eyes. When he slept on the couch in this manner, with his short legs elevated above his head, his face took on a purplish hue from the redistribution of deoxygenated blood. He continued to lie there, asleep with eyes half open, amidst the DVD music, the ringing bell of the alarm coming from the bedroom, and amongst a scattering of half eaten potato chip bags and melted Ben and Jerry’s containers for an additional hour after the alarm began. Even his mightiest snore was drowned out by the pandemonium.
“AH NO! AHHHHHHH NO!” Coatsmith Goate exclaimed immediately upon waking, already knowing he’d overslept on the couch again. On today of all days, such oversleeping could at best be an embarrassment, and at worst get him fired from his position as the Co-GM of the Minnesota Grey Ducks. He went to immediately sit up, but found that the position he was lying down in, with his feet elevated so, meant that any attempt to sit up forced his prodigious beer belly into his upper thighs and wholly restricted his movement. After rocking back and forth like a turtle for a few seconds in the overwhelming din of the alarm bell, Goate managed to swing himself upright enough to slide off the couch and clatter onto the floor amidst a heap of crinkly snack bags. He tried to stand up quickly but bumped the back of his head off the coffee table. He howled, cussed, and rubbed his head as he shuffled to the bedroom to shut off the alarm.
“Gotta get movin’! Gotta get MOVIN’!” He said to no one in particular as he made his way to the bathroom, disrobing a sky blue silk kimono in his haste. Typically the water from the shower in his condo took exactly 3 minutes to heat up, which would be far too long of a wait given the circumstances. He turned the hot water all the way on exclusively, and jumped under the frigid water.
“OOH MAN, OOH BOY that’s COLD!” He said, again, to no one in particular. He feverishly washed himself with Old Spice Swagger body wash, and was just getting set to rinse the Organix Coconut Milk shampoo out of what was left of his hair when the three minutes elapsed.
The water reached a near boil almost instantaneously.
“AHHHH!” He shouted as shampoo got in his eyes. He pressed himself against the wall of the shower and out of the scalding water as he groped around for the cold water dial. His hands searched and searched until they made purchase with his quarry and soon the water was tepid once more.
If the cigar smoke and his odd sleeping habit were not enough to redden his eyes, the shampoo really pushed things over the edge. In the mirror, he thought he looked like the T-1000 Terminator as he quickly shaved. Inevitably a few nicks were had as he tangled with and tamed the coarseness of his three day old stubble. He splashed his face gratuitously with his favorite aftershave, Drakkar Noir, and placed tiny pieces of toilet paper over the nicks in his face. He was starting to calm down until he picked up his phone to check for messages. There were 11 missed calls, and on the notification screen was one text from a contact simply named “MINNY GM.” It was a simple message. It read:
“WHERE ARE U? ? ?”
“BAHHH, I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” He spoke aloud as he pulled on his one good suit he had retrieved from the back of the closet. It was his draft day suit, his wedding suit, his funeral suit, and his first date suit, and it hadn’t been used once since the last draft day one season ago.
As he was heading out the door, he stopped in the foyer of his condo for just a moment to admire his collection of football accolades from his days as a younger man playing fullback for Wake Forest. He smiled as he recalled him breaking the school record for pancakes in his senior year with 71--ten more than any offensive lineman on the squad that season. His diminutive size and stocky nature led to a low center of gravity, and he always had a powerful punch when blocking linebackers and protecting the runner. He was really good once, but those days were long behind him. His phone made a ding noise. It was another text from MINNY GM. It simply read, “WE’RE ALL WAITING FOR YOU.”
This snapped him out of his reminiscing, as he shook his playing days out of his head. He reached up and touched the poster above his accolades that hung on the wall. It was a picture of a Duck clinging to a clothesline with its bill. The text read, “Hang in there!” Doing so was part of his daily ritual to manifest success. With that, he flung open the front door and began power walking as fast as he could to his champagne 1996 Toyota Tercel.
As he was driving through downtown Minneapolis to the team headquarters, he swerved through heavy traffic. This was due in large part to him being in a hurry and running late, but also because he’d managed to get his cassette tape of Madonna’s self-titled first album stuck in his tape deck. He fiddled and futzed with it before giving up and deciding to give it a listen again for what had to be the 10,000nth time. Another ding from his phone meant he’d received another text, but he didn’t bother looking this time. At this point, he was running late and there was nothing he could do about that. Besides, he was now making pretty good time. It was 5 o’clock, and there was still an hour left until the draft began at 6pm CST.
Then his stomach gurgled. He licked his lips, tasting the minty freshness of the dried toothpaste that lingered on his mouth. He knew that he shouldn’t stop, being that he was already so late, and yet he also was unsure if there would be any suitable refreshments available in the war room at the team headquarters. Last draft there were light concessions such as pretzels and pop and little candies, and he’d made a spectacle of himself by complaining loudly that the draft wasn’t catered. There was no guarantee that things would be different this year, however, and so his hunger mixed with panic as he tried to think clearly. That’s when he saw it: A beacon of deliciousness and satisfaction loomed a few blocks ahead of his car. He began to salivate Pavlovian as the Golden Arches came closer and closer into view.
“Ehhhhhh, I can have a LITTLE somethin’ here to hold me over. . . “ He mumbled as he swerved through four lanes of traffic, nearly pancaking a helmetted bicyclist, to approach the drive through--the man on the bicycle must have bitten their lip, for in the rear view mirror Goate could have sworn he saw the man smile a toothy bloody smile.
Within minutes Coatsmith had recited his usual dollar menu order of two McDoubles and two McChickens, which he fully intended to combine into two beef and chicken sandwiches that he referred to as, “McDanks”. Coatsmith Goate was notoriously frugal, and lived very cheaply in spite of his million dollar salary. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t touch his salary money at the moment--it was all tied up in a sizable Dogecoin investment.
He received his food through the takeout window and held up the line of cars as he removed the buns from the McChickens and messily inserted the chicken in between the beef patties. Cars were angrily honking as he drove away, mouth full, waving a McDank out the drivers window as he shouted out apologies behind him. Simply put, he was a mess, but at least he wouldn’t be hungry.
He arrived at the Minnesota facility with a full belly and a spot of ketchup on his left cheek. Already an intern was quickly walking towards him and his car with a clipboard in hand.
“Mr. Goate! Mr. Goate! I have your draft notes right here, and here is a copy of our draft board, this sheet here is the draft order and this last page is a list of all the prospects and their phone numbers for reaching out to them. Everyone else is expecting you right now in the conference room. The draft starts in thirty minutes, but if you haven’t eaten there is a charcuterie board and pizza rolls in the war room, as per your request last season, sir.”
“Ah, shit!” Goate exclaimed, knowing himself to be too full for his favorite snacks.
“Beyond that, sir, I think everything else has been taken care of. We have the other DSFL GMs on standby should a trade opportunity arise, and if you need anything, anything at all, sir, just say the word and I’m your man!” The young man continued as they strode down the waxed floors of the Minnesota facility, stopping just short of the double-doors marked, “WAR ROOM.” His eyes lingered on the words for a minute as he swallowed nervously. This was going to be an extremely important draft for Minnesota, and he knew it. He hoped he was prepared.
“Sir? Are you ready, sir?” The intern asked. There was another pause before Coatsmith broke the silence with a chuckle.
“Hmpf! Are you kidding? I’m always ready! Let’s boogie, baby!” He said as a waft of Old Spice Swagger filled his nostrils. He reached down and flung open the doors, not only to War Room, he hoped, but into the DSFL history books as well.
(1773 words)
![[Image: 016p.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/TPx2k2wr/016p.png)
