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sirkkasnow · 5 years

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08 If You’ve Gotta Fight, Fight Dirty

Ao3 link

07/17/13 Wednesday

Most of the old tools turned up in Soos’ usual closet, packed away into a not-new but well cared for hinged toolbox. The manual-crank drill and a batch of bits came easily to hand. Tracking down the hardware took a little longer. Staying in motion was automatic, his brain whirring all the while, settled by the steady incremental progress of physical labor.

There were a hundred good reasons not to get involved. He counted them off in the back of his head without much regard for keeping track as he sifted through jars of salvaged bolts and screws.

Stan padded down a few steps to the sublevel at the back, an odd space whose roof was too low and too slanted to be good for much of anything but stuffing boxes into. The great purge of last autumn had cleared out an eccentric pile of junk. Potentially useful odds and ends of machinery and materiel accumulated over decades had been rendered moot overnight. Between Soos and the brothers they’d hauled most of it out over the course of a few sweaty days. There wasn’t much left to clear from the center.

He was living the dream right now. Everything was going well and there was no reason to screw with a good situation.

The hand drill bit into wood in near silence. He routed out holes in each corner beam and mounted heavy screw eyes there, twisting until the steel squeaked. Absent, precise twitches of his fingers braided eye splices into the ends of the heaviest nylon rope he’d been able to find. Those got crossed at the corners of the room, bound and padded with strips of salvaged bubble wrap and triple thicknesses of packing tape.

Baltimore might as well be on the moon relative to the places he’d been in the last year and the places he and Ford were planning to visit next.

Stan looped S-hooks into the ropes’ eyes and set it all up, spanning from corner to corner. By the time he finished it was a bare suggestion of a boxing ring. When he leaned into the lines they stretched and shifted, the screw eyes groaning faintly in protest, but everything held to his satisfaction.

Complicating everything right as it was all going well for once should have been the very last thing on his mind. Fuck’s sake, she was just a tourist.

The background rattle of his thoughts ground to an abrupt halt. Stan sat on one of the crates he’d pushed off alongside the door and plucked off his glasses, laying a hand over aching eyes. He knew lies, he knew perfectly damned well when he was lying to himself, and that right there was a thin lie poorly told.

She hadn’t been just a tourist since she’d stuck her neck out for him the night he’d made some reckless choices regarding car repair and home décor and dragged her along for the ride. Hell, that had pretty much gone out the window the minute she started spitting bad lawyer jokes back at him. Dammit.

The thinking had tired him out more than the improvised engineering but he was, at last, worn down enough to snatch a few black and dreamless hours of sleep well after midnight.

Intensifying sunlight through the curtains kicked him out of bed again earlier than he would have liked. Stan managed to get halfway to respectable before he decided coffee pretty much had to trump everything else and dragged himself down to the kitchen. The kids were already up, empty cereal bowls ignored on the table as they bickered out their plans for the day. “Mornin’, gremlins. Anyone else up yet?”

“I think Grunkle Ford is still passed out in the lab,” Dipper volunteered. “At least no one’s gotten around to making coffee.” Stan set up the coffeemaker with fresh grounds and dumped in a potful of water.

“And Clary was here for a few minutes, then said she was heading down to Greasy’s for breakfast. Craving bacon or something.” Mabel’s chin rested in both her hands, her smile uncharacteristically sly. “How did you sleep, Grunkle Stan?”

“Just fine, sweetheart.” Stan reached way up for a mug. Both niece and nephew looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

“You like her.” Mabel was showing teeth in a wide knowing grin. Dipper tapped fingertips anxiously against each other, but nodded in agreement.

Stan leaned against the counter with a groan - god it was too early for this. “That woman’s been nothin’ but trouble, I’ve caused her nothin’ but grief, and if we’re both lucky I’ve got that junkheap of hers fixed enough that she can get the heck outta here and never look back. We both got places t’go and things t’do, kids.”

“Responsibilities,” Mabel sang, syllables stretching out, and Stan’s eyes narrowed a little. “So I guess you didn’t spend half the night running around to do something nice for her.”

“You two were supposed to be asleep.”

“I might have been working in my journal,” said Dipper. “Mabel might have been a little wired on sugar and getting stuff down in her scrapbook.”

All three of them eyed each other, Stan weighing the possible merits of turning this into a lecture on minding your own damn business and discarding the idea as way more trouble than it’d be worth. “All right,” he grumbled. “Yeah, I’m tryin’ t’do somethin’ nice since yesterday went completely sideways. If you wanna make plans for the day that get you the heck outta the house, then I might overlook your total failure t’go to bed on time.”

“Deal,” they chorused, sweeping up phones and notebooks and vacating the table in an instant.

“Library first, Mabel?”

“Yup! I’ve got a couple of confidential stops to make after that.” Mabel shooed Dipper out ahead of her, spun on her heel in the doorway and winked at him on her way out. “Have a swell day, Grunkle Stan! See you at dinnertime!”

Stan grunted in vague assent, pouring a cup of coffee and sloshing in a little milk. Yeah, that wasn’t ominous at all. He killed time collecting the twins’ breakfast debris, finished off the first cup of coffee, then headed upstairs to scrub his carcass a little closer to presentable.

He was well into the second cup of coffee half an hour later and getting restless when his phone, stuffed into a back pocket and forgotten, buzzed. Startled, he fumbled it out for a text message from Mabel - a contact, he realized after a moment’s confusion - CLARY trailed by a bunch of winged hearts and smooches. After a few false starts he stabbed enough buttons to save the thing to his tiny contacts list. It twinkled there at the top, above DIPPER and FORD and then MABEL.

Indecision made his fingers twitch. Finally he punched the number and jammed the little chunk of a phone, thick in its waterproof case, up between ear and shoulder.

After two rings he got a reply, all cool professional velvet. “C.J. Merrick.”

For a long second that didn’t compute at all. “Uh, Clary?”

A startled pause hung there before she replied, voice warming. “Why, Mr. Pines. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

That voice did things to him. He shoved the thought down. “Listen, I know you’re out but I’ve got a surprise for you back here at the Shack. Can y’wander back in when you’re done with breakfast?”

“Sure. I just got done, actually, let me settle up and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“So you know, it’d be worth your while to get out those tennis shoes again. And maybe a t-shirt.”

She chuckled darkly, a low rumble that made his toes want to curl. “If this is another round of errands, I’m out.”

“Absolutely not, we’re stayin’ on house grounds this time.”

“Thank mercy. See you at the Shack, then.”

Stan shoved the phone back into its pocket and paced the kitchen for a minute, knowing he needed something else, trying to remember it and finally settling on a plastic pitcher full of water and all the ice he could scrounge out of the freezer. By the time he rounded up that and a couple of glasses, he’d heard the door and footsteps heading off towards her room. In another minute or two Clary stuck her head in at the doorway. His jacket was draped around her shoulders and she looked amused as hell about something. “Good morning, Stan.”

“G’mornin’, Clary. You doin’ all right? Got some sleep?”

“I did, thanks. I was pretty worn out last night. What’s up?” She shrugged out of the jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. Today’s kerchief was some kind of patterned yellow. The bike shorts, tennies and faded t-shirt she’d changed into - this one read ‘REAL MEN PLAY GAMES’, right under a crudely rendered 38-sided die - would do fine.

“You’ll see.” Stan handed off the two glasses and led the way back through the house, pitcher heavy in his hand. “How was breakfast? You look like you enjoyed it.”

“I met a man from Washington state,” she said, and he looked away because he didn’t trust himself to keep a straight face. “His name’s Mike, he has a lovely new speedboat, and you wouldn’t believe how glad he was to talk to someone who isn’t a local. His SUV is stuck at Gleeful’s while they fix a flat tire.” There was a tiny wicked smile curling a corner of her lips. “He has been having a little trouble making friends in town.”

“Damn shame, that.” Stan tugged open the storage room door with a flourish and she swanned past him only to come up short against the rope lines a couple feet inside. He eased in after and set the pitcher down on a crate, then plucked the juice glasses from her nerveless fingers to put them alongside. “So I was baskin’ in the glow of my shiny new Klouneng, thinkin’ about last week….”

“You weren’t kidding,” Clary murmured, looking over the sketched-out boxing ring.

“Well, no, of course not! Anyway, you said - uh.” Stan put an awkward hand at the back of his neck, watching her carefully. Her expression had gone flat neutral. “I know a few things about how t’stand and fight, you know? Thought I’d show you how to throw that punch.”

The silence stretched for one or two seconds too long, one of her hands absently flexing. He was beginning to think he’d really stepped in it when she bent and slipped between the ropes. “Let’s do it.”

“All right.” His chuckle was half relief as he scooped up the spare handwraps and the old gloves, ducking in to stand beside her. “Gimme the right one, let’s make sure you don’t go bustin’ a knuckle here.” Clary laid her hand into his, the other tucked behind her back. He started binding across the palm, then between the fingers, with a bit of exaggerated care he couldn’t seem to help. She watched him all the while from behind downtilted lashes. “So this’s all about protectin’ the little bones. Whole thing goes under the gloves. Not that you’re gonna do a lot of hittin’ here, but these are your livin’, so….” The end of the wrap sealed off neatly at her wrist. “Next.”

“I could probably type with a pencil clutched in my teeth if I had to.”

“Let’s make sure y’don’t have to.” The outside fingers of her left hand twitched delicately as she gave it over into his grip and he frowned down in brief confusion. There was a notch in the outer edge of the palm, a long-mended scar from some deep, sharp cut. Stan wrapped her up with the same precise care he’d given the right hand, watching the pinky and ring finger twitch again as he cut between with the wrap. “This gonna be a problem?”

“It hasn’t been. The nerves never quite came back.”

“You’ve seen the handwraps before?”

“I did take self-defense classes for a while. Never boxing.”

“I can tell. You can’t hit worth a damn. I’m just gonna step behind you,” which he did, letting the thump and creak of his steps telegraph his position.

Clary huffed a soft laugh and he felt a bit of the tension ease. “The whole principle was to let gravity and concrete do most of the work, then run like hell. Besides, you were singing a different tune the other night.”

“I was tryin’ to make you feel better about bloodyin’ my nose!”

“Liar.”

“Prove it.” Stan tapped Clary at back and hip and wrist with the bare pads of two fingertips, guiding her gently as he explained the stance. She actually had a little understanding of the basics, weight well distributed, pivoting to let force flow all the way from core to knuckles. There was some wiry strength to work with in that square-shouldered frame. A lot more leg than arm, he absently noted, his bicep brushing hers as he reached to straighten her wrist. “Elbows in, that’s it. Snap it back.”

Defense came easy to her. Getting her out of the shell was clearly going to be the problem, so he coaxed and cajoled and got her to take swings at empty air - decent jab, he decided, but hesitant on anything stronger - until she was just bored enough with it to stop thinking so damn much, then reached for the gloves. “Not bad! So now you get to actually hit somethin’.”

Clary’s glance skittered around the mostly-empty room, then back to him, narrowing. “What, you?”

“You can try.” Stan dangled the gloves, read the doubt sketched in broad strokes across her features, and considered. “I’ve had a lot of practice at this, Clary. You just tag me real light - “ He held up a palm, and at the expectant sidelong flick of his eyes, she grudgingly jabbed him there. “Yeah, like that, easy. I can read you like a cheap paperback.“ She snorted, and he laughed, keeping it light. “Okay, okay, you’re a terrifyin’ enigma in all other ways, don’t worry ‘bout that. But you are not gonna hurt me.”

The flicker of her expressions was complex, but after a moment she released a held breath and offered her right hand. “Attagirl. Now, this won’t be so bad, I promise, you’ll learn somethin’. Just think of it as a dance.”

“With fists.”

He pulled the laces on the first glove wide and eased it over her fingers. “Sure, with fists. You watch me, I watch you. A shift in weight, a twitch in the shoulder or the eye, you can see where your partner’s goin’ an’ react. Get enough practice an’ it’s reflex, straight from the gut.” The gloves were a little too big, no shock that, and Stan took his time snugging down the laces. Clary flexed the right hand, testing the glove’s give, then offered him the left. “Not that one round of practice is gonna get you the reflexes.”

When he was done he looked her over. She’d been silent the whole while, watching with teeth set lightly into her lower lip and a line drawn between her brows. Stan enfolded her wrist in his hand, a fleeting squeeze of reassurance, and her smile flickered for a bare instant. “I’ve had some practice in taking an opponent’s measure, you know.” Clary stepped back to give him some room. “Go on, Stan. Wrap up. Let’s give this a try.”

“Right, right.” His own wraps took a minute to slap into place, fingerless sparring gloves over those since he wasn’t expecting to hit anything. Relaxing into the familiar half-coiled posture was almost comforting. “Come an’ get me.”

She was stiff as hell at first. Reluctance dragged at her limbs, and it took a good few minutes of him catching or deflecting her tentative strikes before that began to improve. The worry on her features chipped away with each swing, replaced by furrowed focus as sweat began to bead at her temples.

Dusty sunlight tracked along one edge of his improvised ring. By now it must have been close to lunchtime, the room heating up.

“I know you can put a little more force into it than that.” Stan caught another jab. “You don’t have to move quite so much. If you’re gonna run, then run, that’s the right response sometimes an’ you’re fast, but if you gotta stand up an’ fight you’ve gotta commit to it. Conserve your energy, ‘cause you’re gonna need it to hit.” He held up a hand to signal stop and left her standing there while he retrieved cold glasses of water for both of them. “Drink up.”

“Thanks.” Clary clutched the glass between both gloved hands and sucked the water down in long, relieved gulps, dumping the last couple tablespoons over the crown of her head. “I think I’ve got one more round in me before I collapse.”

“Tough bird like you, worn out so soon?”

“Mmhm. How’re you holding up, old man?” She licked her lips and grinned up at him, all brass despite the sweat and her obvious weariness.

Stan plucked the glass out of her awkward grip and dropped it off back on its crate. “Old age an’ treachery will beat youth and enthusiasm every time, kid.”

“I’m not that young.” Clary came at him warily at first, then loosened up - he almost felt it as something clicked behind those grey eyes. Damn it, she was younger and probably a little more fit and she’d finally figured out how to get her legs into it. One solid swing whiffed way too close as she poured her weight in from toes clear up to knuckles. It was an overextension and he had ways to counter that weren’t strictly fair, but she took advantage of his hesitation and followed up with a couple of well-angled jabs that forced him back a step.

They were both breathing in hard gasps at this point. She still had some juice in reserve, not much, but enough to push him back once more. When he caught her next blow it was a sharp, stinging impact, and he grinned to see her satisfaction. “All right,” he got out, catching her other fist as she lunged in to follow through. Momentum nearly smacked her into his chest; she pulled herself up short just in time. “Whoa, easy! Nice work - you could maybe get decent at this if you wanted to.”

“We done for now? Because that’s about all I’ve got.” Clary backed off a bit, which was just as well because cripes she was close, and Stan remembered to let go of her gloves.

“Yeah, we’re done before one of us keels over of heat exhaustion or somethin’.” He beckoned and she gave over the right hand, tugging with her teeth at the laces on the left glove while he worked on the other. Once those and the wraps were off they both collapsed gratefully onto the couple of crates by the door.

“Thanks for taking it easy on me.”

“Didn’t take it that easy. Your instincts aren’t bad.”

“So how’d a - “ He watched her sift through words, lips half-shaping a few options until he chuckled at her struggling to be tactful. She canted a brow at him in reproach. “How’d a showman of your caliber pick up all this expertise in fisticuffs anyway?”

Stan winced, peeling off his handwraps one by one. “You know Jersey. Town didn’t have much goin’ for it other than the boardwalk. Neither one of us fit in real well - I mean, you’ve seen Poindexter in action, an’ he’s always been like that, maybe worse, so focused on whatever that big brain can get goin’ that he loses track of the practical end of things, y’know? So it was my job to protect the both of us. Somebody had to be the tough one, and it’s what I was good at, ‘til Ford an’ I - “

He caught himself, swallowing words that’d just be too much - man, they’d both really worn themselves out, his guard was down - and when he continued it was with more caution. “When I left home I spent a fair few years on the road. I was a worse trouble magnet than you are. Knowin’ how t’fight is what got me through. I mean, it wasn’t all bad - “

Clary watched him with a sort of quiet weight, like maybe understanding, which made no damn sense. He tugged up the shoulder of his damp shirt and dabbed uselessly at his upper lip. “It wasn’t all bad, you stay tough long enough and you kinda forget how not to be - and hell, at least I was in the right place to run into you - “

Stan stiffened in his seat, blinking. “Oh,” he said. “Damn. That’s what I forgot. Towels.” He made to rise and bolt to the kitchen. That’d buy a minute to clear his head, because he really needed to shut it. “I’ll be right - “

Clary pressed something into his hand. Distracted, he stared down at it, registering yellow, then plucked at the fabric. Tawny gold, a soft and heavy weave, patterned with tumbling circus strongmen and their tiny barbells. Her kerchief.

Stan shook it out, patted down his neck, and only then ventured a glance.

Clary sat on the edge of the crate with elbows braced on her knees, hands loosely interlaced. The scar was…not so bad, as clean-cut and faded as the one in her palm, until she turned her head away and a little tension made its twisting length and angle along the left slope of her throat clear. The worst of it stutter-stepped to cut sharp and deep over the sheltered thrum of her carotid artery.

That had probably come close to killing her.

Something protective and furious sparked behind his breastbone.

He tilted his chin to indicate his focus, and saw her eye swivel to track him.

“That of a piece with the hand?”

“Yes.”

“Plate glass?”

“Yes.”

“Accident?”

“No.” Clary straightened where she sat, watching him with subtle apprehension.

“There a face I should be lookin’ to break?” he said at length.

“He’s dead. He’s been dead a long time.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I punched a dead man.”

Her lips parted. She blinked twice, then dissolved into low shocked laughter. He smoothed the fabric of her kerchief between his fingers and felt his heart lift a little. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“Oh no. I believe you completely.” Her hand slipped into his for a quick squeeze that lingered. “You’re a treasure. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He squeezed back lightly and found he didn’t feel like letting go just yet. “What’cha doin’ after dinner?”

“Didn’t have any plans, really.” A faint tired smile softened the line of her mouth. “Got something in mind?”

His throat was dry, her hand was still linked into his and come on he’d been done with being nervous over this kind of crap when he was like fifteen. “Movie?”

A huff of surprise caught on her teeth and she tipped back until her shoulders hit the wall. “Yes,” after a still moment. “Sure. Please.”

Stan let out a half-held breath, pressed the kerchief into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “G’wan now. That’s enough dancin’ for one day. You should go get a shower, drink as much water as you can stand, get some aspirin because you are gonna be feelin’ it by nightfall, I can tell.” He waved shooing hands at her. “I’ll handle cleanup and it’s someone else’s job to cook tonight, you got it? Go get a nap or read a book or actually make like it’s vacation. I’ve put you through the wringer enough the last couple days.”

She didn’t argue. Clary snapped out the kerchief and tied it loosely around her throat. Habit lent precision to the process - she centered the widest part over the scar, brought the ends around, offset the knot to the left without a hitch. “I can tell I’ll barely be able to move tomorrow.”

“After our fishin’ trip, I’m surprised you got outta bed.”

“Places to go. People to see.” She came to her feet with a sigh and pressed his shoulder in passing. “That nap sounds like a great idea. Thank you, Stan, that was fun and educational.”

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Clary doesn’t say a word and doesn’t look back at you, studying her hands, vulnerable with her neck bared.

At least you got out alive!

Is there someone I can punch?

Silent support.

#gravity falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #OClicious #fanfic

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junker-town · 7 years

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NFL Dad, Week 12: An unfortunate chain of events

One dad’s diary of balancing two young children with seven hours of RedZone channel. How much could possibly go wrong? (A lot, if you’re Alex Smith.)

A successful day of parenting has two qualities: (1) good logistics and (2) getting the hell out of the house. They work in tandem, and the farther you go, the more logistical planning you need.

For example, I know that my kids need to be down for their nap by 1:30 p.m., so any morning excursion needs to end with us back at our apartment by 1:15. Except my 18-month-old son sometimes tires out by 12:30 or 1:00, so earlier is better. And they need to eat lunch by noon, or sometimes 11:30, so we need to pack lunches or plan a stop for food. Plus snacks. Plus the diaper bag. Which stroller are we going to take — the unwieldy double? Or the collapsible one? Are we taking the subway? Does the subway stop we’re going to have an elevator, or should I plan on throwing my back out carrying a stroller up the stairs again? I swear the invasion of Normandy had fewer coordinating instructions.

This is the kind of planning my wife and I put into a Saturday excursion to a French bakery to get macarons (my three-year-old daughter has a fascination with Paris). We put my son in the foldable stroller for the short stroller ride, and counted on our daughter to walk most of the 10 blocks from subway to fancy cookies.

It went swimmingly! The kids were overjoyed to be in a new neighborhood, our scheduling was stellar, the macarons were light but rich in flavor — and then the wheels fell off. Or, more accurately, a nut fell off a screw holding the stroller together, and half the frame collapsed.

Now, instead carrying my daughter on my shoulders while my wife pushed our son in the stroller (read: walking at an adult pace), my wife carried my daughter while I slung the collapsed stroller over one shoulder and carried my son in my other arm. He is the approximate size and shape of a 27-pound kettlebell, minus the convenient handle. It was slow going.

When we finally got on a subway home, I looked at the stroller, the conveyance that made the trip easy until one tiny lost part turned it into dead weight and gave us extra things to carry. This is where, if I were concerned about making this a football metaphor, I would talk about injuries and the difficulties of replacing a star player mid-season in the salary cap era.

But I’m not. I just wanted to complain.

EARLY GAMES, FIRST HALF

— Here is my ranking of early slate games based on anticipated entertainment value to me. NOTE: I have weird tastes and strong grudges.

Bears-Eagles. The Eagles are fun to watch, the Bears are an entertaining disaster, and I love blowouts.

Bucs-Falcons. Mike Evans and Julio Jones.

Bills-Chiefs. Both teams are in freefall, I picked the Bills to cover today, and I’m an ardent supporter of Tyrod Taylor, Competent Starting Quarterback.

Panthers-Jets. The Jets are trash but I kind of love them? For not sucking as hard as they should? Love is weird, man.

Titans-Colts. A pleasing array of blue uniforms.

Dolphins-Patriots. I have Rob Gronkowski on a fantasy team.

Browns-Bengals. No to this much orange. No to this much Ohio.

— Speaking of Browns-Bengals, my daughter pooped on the toilet just before the games started. Three more poops on the toilet, and she gets to watch her first movie: Moana.

I’m familiar with the schools of thought that say you shouldn’t incentivize potty training, and that’s how we started off, too. Then my daughter started holding in poops for several days before struggling to crank out the hardened rock in her butt, and we implemented a multi-tiered system of bribes that would put FIFA to shame.

— The kids come and kiss me before naptime as Tom Brady hits Gronk on a 3rd and 7. The Pats are already up 7-0 after running a fake punt on 4th and 9 deep in their own territory, and they soon double their lead with a TD to Gronk. I’m fine calling this one over.

— Tyrod Taylor finds Zay Jones on a drag route across the end zone (NOTE: as always, when I cite the route that was run, any inaccuracies are due to not paying attention and lack of replays). The Bills are up 7-0 at the end of the first quarter, and Alex Smith has looked VERY shaky to start the game. So I guess that’s why they don’t hand out actual Quarter-Season MVP trophies.

— In a bang-bang flurry of cuts, RedZone shows three straight touchdowns: Mohammed Sanu hits Julio Jones for a 51-yard touchdown bomb from the Wildcat formation; the Dolphins scoop up an errant snap to score a defensive TD; and Cam Newton runs it in on a bootleg on 3rd and goal at the goal line.

I will now embed the best of those three plays.

Look at that cool head despite the bobbled snap! I am prepared to declare Mohammed Sanu better than at least five starting quarterbacks in the NFL.

Also, I called that a Wildcat formation, but the Wildcat really seems more a principle at this point: “We have replaced our quarterback with someone more athletic for one play. He can’t really read a defense, but we’re not necessarily counting on him to. Are you ready? ‘Cuz this is gonna be an adventure for us, too.”

— Nelson Agholor flips into the end zone, and the Eagles are up 14-0 over the Bears. This game is as good as over, but I love that there’s so much more to come. THRASH THE SCRUBS.

— Alex Smith has started 1/6 for 3 yards. Chiefs Twitter is embroiled in a bitter civil war between fans who want Pat Mahomes to start and fans who blame the play-calling, or the line, or ... buddy, I don’t see how this is on anyone but Smith. He seems like a very nice person who’s gone through a lot of professional hardship, but at this point I a benching would be an act of mercy.

Also, I crave Pat Mahomes bombs. LET PAT COOK!

— On Saturday, when we’d gotten back on the subway after the stroller broke, I said to my wife, “It reminds me of that saying, “For want of a nail, the shoe was lost...”

She gave me a puzzled look.

“You know, ‘For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost,’ then the rider was lost, then the message, and so on until the war was lost.”

Her face was still blank. Had she really never heard this common proverb about logistics in war? I shrugged and offered meekly, “My parents used to say it.”

“You and I had really different childhoods,” she replied.

— Julio Jones had one touchdown in the first 11 weeks of the season (proof that football is flawed). He now has two in the first half against the Bucs.

http://pic.twitter.com/FWGgJ8bdXi

— ALSO, KEITHFUJIMOTO (@vineydelnegro) November 26, 2017

RIP, those ankles.

QUESTION: Hey, what about the ball coming loose after Jones hit the pylon? There have been repeated rulings that players haven’t been established as a runner despite taking several steps while making a catch, so if Jones lost the ball going to ground, shouldn’t that be a touchback? Or at least reviewed with closer scrutiny than it got?

ANSWER: SHUT UP NERD. Did you see that cornerback fall down or what?

— Alex Smith update: He is 2 of 8 for seven yards. The Bills’ Steven Hauschka misses a 52-yarder, so the Chiefs will have good field position to try to get their first first down of the day as the clock approaches the 2-minute warning.

OK, we have a first down! But it’s still not great for the Chiefs. It feels like every replay features the color commentator circling the open receiver that Smith didn’t see. Still, KC gets its first points of the day with a Harrison Butker field goal, and the Bills hustle to answer before the gun: Hauschka is good from 56 yards, and the Bills lead 13-3 at halftime.

— Robby Anderson makes a RIDICULOUS catch in double coverage for a touchdown. This marks his fifth straight game with a touchdown.

.@youngamazing9 beats double coverage with EASE. #Jets http://pic.twitter.com/uAtifOZIVW

— NFL (@NFL) November 26, 2017

One of my co-workers offered Anderson to me as part of a trade package last week — “Anderson’s been really good lately,” he said — and I reacted like he’d offered me a plate of dog crap. Look, I enjoy the scrappiness of the Jets, but I don’t want them on my fantasy teams.

— With less than 10 seconds left in the half, Matt Moore gets picked off in the end zone. Instead of trailing by just one score, the Dolphins will go in to the locker room trailing 21-10.

Not that it matters, of course. Miami’s lone touchdown is a chance defensive score on a bad snap. They’ve already gotten their breaks for the game (they also snatched an INT from Brady, just his third of the season), and they’re losing anyway. I’m not sure why I framed a potential one-score game as potentially affecting the outcome; I blame the announcers.

— Alshon Jeffery, working out of the slot in the red zone, puts Eagles up 24-0 with five seconds left in the half. The score, his seventh of the season, triggers a $250,000 performance clause in Jeffery’s contract, as well as an extremely good celebration.

BOWLING FOR EAGLES http://pic.twitter.com/RXEYdmuiU9

— Clay Wendler (@ClayWendler) November 26, 2017

EARLY GAMES, SECOND HALF

— Albert Wilson slips through several defenders to score the Chiefs’ first touchdown. KC has some life, and now trails 13-10.

— Holy hell, what a play by McCown to Anderson for 50-plus yards and the TD. The Jets now lead 17-12.

"GO DEEP!" - @JoshMcCown12 And that's exactly what @YoungAmazing9 did. Another @NYJets TD! #Jets http://pic.twitter.com/Gdi31ZUDG0

— NFL (@NFL) November 26, 2017

I would like to issue an apology to Josh McCown. Before the season, I said the only job he should have at age 38 is as a backup for a good team, and that he had no business starting. That was wrong: He has completed more than 67% of his passes for 17 touchdowns (both career bests) while throwing eight interceptions in 11 games. That’s totally serviceable! I’d take McCown over Joe Flacco any day.

— Ummmmm...

How does Chris Myers think burping a baby works? http://pic.twitter.com/lwYCec5jxg

— Mike Tunison (@xmasape) November 26, 2017

Look, announcers have to say a LOT of words every game, and the right phrase isn’t always on the tip of your tongue. Chris Myers saw Delanie Walker performing CPR on the football, and the words that came out to describe it were “burping the baby.” I don’t think he doesn’t know know how to burp a baby. It’s not like he’s fending off lawsuits for crushing infants’ chests while babysitting, you know?

— My daughter wakes up from her nap. “Can I watch football too, Daddy?” she says. My heart gushes. I doubt that this is anything approaching an original thought, but I think the reason I’m so madly in love with my daughter is that she’s a little copy of the woman I love the most, but with flashes of my own DNA. So she’s a combination of my most selfless love with the egotistical love I have for myself, and those feelings happening at the same time is more powerful than any other emotion I’ve felt.

My son? Oh yeah! He’s great too. Love that little dude.

— Jonathan Stewart scores for the Panthers, but the two-point conversion comes up short. Carolina takes an 18-17 lead.

— My wife goes to get our son up from his nap, but he rejects her presence. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” I go in and play peekaboo with him, and he cackles maniacally. It’s my laugh, in toddler form. Let the record show that I love him as much as my daughter.

— With the Chiefs trailing and less than three minutes left, Alex Smith throws off-target on 4th and four. The pass was closer to being intercepted than it was to being completed. The film session for this game isn’t gonna be fun for him.

Wouldn’t it suck to have to sit through critical replays of your job? “Here’s where your Powerpoint went off the rails, Johnson. What was this chart supposed to accomplish? Look at the clients’ eyes here: They’re completely glazed over! You lost your audience!”

— After a Jets field goal, the Panthers take the lead on a fumble recovery that goes for six the other way. The two-point conversion gives them a six-point lead, and my precious 4.5-point spread looks in trouble.

— Trailing 16-10, the Chiefs have one last chance to mount a game-winning drive, and Alex Smith ... throws an interception. Tradavious White returns the ball all the way to the Chiefs’ 10-yard line, and boos rain down on Smith. Poor guy. Poor Chiefs fans, too, but I’m still allowed to feel bad for a nice guy who sucks at his job.

— The Panthers return a punt for a touchdown, and the Jets have now COMPLETELY Jets’d this up. They allowed consecutive defensive and special teams touchdowns to go from winning this game to having no chance to cover. I can’t WAIT to go back to not caring about the Jets.

— The Eagles defense, thinking they’d intercepted a Trubisky pass late in the game, perform the Electric Slide. But the call is overturned, so they intercept Trubisky again, and perform the Electric Slide again.

Eagles making an Electric Slide music video this time out http://pic.twitter.com/q4RTtlXYZC

— CJ Fogler (@cjzero) November 26, 2017

The celebration only counts if the play stands.

LATE GAMES, FIRST HALF

— Totally biased late slate entertainment rankings:

Seahawks-49ers. Here is my weekly apology for being a Seahawks fan. If I could stop, I would.

Saints-Rams. This should have been flexed into Sunday Night Football. I reject Brett Hundley from primetime.

Jaguars-Cardinals. The Calais Campbell/Blaine Gabbert revenge game! Also, Blaine Gabbert versus Blake Bortles reminds me of one of my favorite tweets.

Broncos-Raiders. I appreciate the bad blood, but “Paxton Lynch versus Marshawn Lynch” doesn’t quite move the needle when both teams have losing records.

— It’s rainy and windy in Santa Clara, and on the first play from scrimmage, Russell Wilson ignores a short throw to a wide-open J.D. McKissic in order to throw to a blanketed Jimmy Graham. Eric Reid picks him off.

— For a couple of blissful minutes, my kids play together peacefully without any involvement from their parents. Is this ... Could this be a glimpse of what we hoped for when we had kids 19 months apart? Like, OF COURSE, they’ll fight over toys, but the mere NOTION of entire minutes where I don’t have to actively parent one or both of them makes my heart sing.

— After a Seahawks drive stalls, Blair Walsh is wide left from 48.

“He only missed PATs for one season.”

— Saints-Rams is finally underway. The Rams put together an impressive drive and go up 7-0 on a short slant to Sammy Watkins.

— RedZone’s first look at Broncos-Raiders is a knock-down drag-out fight between Michael Crabtree and Aqib Talib on the sidelines, and on the field, and across the field. Both players — as well as Gabe Jackson — are tossed from the game.

It started the play before, when Crabtree punched Chris Harris in the stomach. On the next play, Crabtree blocked Talib, and the cornerback took the opportunity to snatch the Raider’s chain for the second year running.

I know that fighting is bad, especially given that players are already trying to murder each other within the rules on every play of the game, but ... this was all WILDLY ENTERTAINING. Like, Marshawn Lynch escorting Talib out of the game is only the fourth- or fifth-most intriguing part of this.

Marshawn Lynch escorted Aqib Talib out of the game. http://pic.twitter.com/D2Cci6Ks3c

— Will Brinson (@WillBrinson) November 26, 2017

I’m so bummed that this is the second Broncos-Raiders game of the year. I want another one!

— Bobby Wagner straight up ROBS a man of a catch, and the Seahawks get the ball at 14. Two plays later, Russell Wilson’s read-option fools the camera man (and everyone else) as he scoots in for the touchdown.

After review... It's a @Bwagz54 INT! #Seahawks http://pic.twitter.com/HQTT7JFBqO

— NFL (@NFL) November 26, 2017

.@DangeRussWilson will do it himself! #Seahawks http://pic.twitter.com/GbC1G1o1g8

— NFL (@NFL) November 26, 2017

— Alvin Kamara breaks a 74-yard run for a TD. Holy crap. The Saints cut the Rams’ lead to 10-7.

He. Is. GONE. 74-yard @A_kamara6 TOUCHDOWN! #GoSaints http://pic.twitter.com/EhnZE2cAFX

— NFL (@NFL) November 26, 2017

I will never forgive myself for not getting Kamara in any of my fantasy leagues. All of the excitement at the beginning of the season for Kareem Hunt and Tarik Cohen has faded, and it’s Kamara who’s the real truth. I love that dude. (NOTE: I have no idea what he looks like without a helmet.)

— We get my parents on a Facetime call so they can see the kids. I say “see” and not “talk with,” because conversing with the kids through the screen is almost impossible. My son only wants to get close enough to touch the screen (he constantly hangs up on family members), while my daughter becomes hyperactive, running from room to room, posing in downward dog, and crawling through a collapsible tunnel we’ve laid out. After each trick she runs to the iPad to make sure she’s still being watched, shriek-laughs, and runs off to do something else.

— Even though Talib got the better of Crabtree, the actual football game has been all Raiders, thanks mostly to Paxton Lynch. Jared Cook makes a nice catch in the back of the end zone, and the Raiders lead 14-0.

wow that stat http://pic.twitter.com/C6lZQIwgN5

— Harry Lyles Jr. (@harrylylesjr) November 26, 2017

— ENDORSEMENT: The frozen mini chicken tacos from Trader Joe’s. They’re one of the rare foods that both of my kids will eat every time without complaint.

— The Jags get on the board with a field goal before the half; they trail 13-3. Nothing about the Cardinals’ lead feels safe, yet Blake Bortles isn’t exactly the man I’d choose to lead a comeback. The Jags will need a defensive or special teams TD to get back in the game.

LATE GAMES, SECOND HALF

— The 49ers open the second half with a big dose of Carlos Hyde, who batters the Seahawks D and carries the Niners into Seahawks territory. A field goal cuts the Seahawks’ lead to 7-6.

— One of my daughter’s pretend games is a spin on the Sleeping Beauty/Snow White plot: She puts me or my wife to sleep with magic, we fall asleep, then she wakes us up with a kiss. When she comes to work her magic on me, I fall asleep very slowly, yawning as I watch Russell Wilson convert a 3rd and nine by hitting a leaping, twisting Doug Baldwin downfield. She kisses me awake before the next play, another shot downfield to Tanner McEvoy. The quick drive ends with a Nick Vannett TD and no other magical comas.

— RedZone shows clips of Calais Campbell reuniting with his former teammates before the game. And yet no mention of the respect Jaguars players surely have for Blaine Gabbert. What a shame.

— I have the TV muted while we listen to a Beatles playlist. I’ve never cared much for the Beatles, but their work holds up as children’s music. The Beatles are like if Raffi had an edge and more instruments.

Now, some people might be angered by that take, but I’m not trying to be incendiary. Revolver and Sgt. Pepper are two of the best children’s albums ever made, and I’ll take “Yellow Submarine” over “Banana Phone” any day. Well, almost any day. Banana phones are pretty funny.

— Both defenses in the Saints-Rams game have stiffened — no points in 3rd quarter, and not much in the way of drives, either.

— Bork Birdles scores on a bootleg. The Jags trail 16-10.

— Jimmy Graham scores a touchdown on a short slant. With the ball on the left hash, the Seahawks lined up five wide receivers -- three on the left, two on the right. Then they motioned Tyler Lockett to the left, leaving Graham isolated on the wide side of the field. A fade was the obvious call, which is probably what made getting open on the slant so easy.

I wrote all of that out because it took the Seahawks TWO YEARS to figure this shit out, even though the Saints printed money with plays like that for five years.

— Let’s check in on Paxton Lynch:

Paxton Lynch is 7-of-12 for 35 yards, 0 TD and 1 INT. Vs. the NFL's worst defense. It's more than halfway through the third quarter.

— Frank Schwab (@YahooSchwab) November 26, 2017

— With the kids in the bath, my wife has switched to a Christmas music playlist. My daughter splashes my wife after being told not to do so, so I come in to levy the punishment. I pull my daughter out of the bath, and she starts screaming. It takes some of the enjoyment out of Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Only some of it, though. That song is a fortress of good cheer.

— After my daughter calms down, I put her in her pajamas. “What was your favorite part of the day?” I ask. “Was it splashing in the bath?”

“Yeah,” she says, though not with conviction.

“Was it playing with Evan and eating my breakfast sandwich?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it going to church with Mommy?”

She pauses. “No.”

— With the Saints down by 13 at the beginning of the fourth quarter, Alvin Kamara adds “hurdling guys” to his repertoire.

This just in: Alvin Kamara is extremely talented #Saints http://pic.twitter.com/uobNEKP6R0

— Clay Wendler (@ClayWendler) November 26, 2017

On the same drive, the Saints go for it on 4th and five at the edge of field goal range, and Brees again goes to Kamara, which sets up first and goal. But the drive stalls, and the Saints kick a field goal like a bunch of cowards. They’re gonna lose the game now.

— While I sing “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” to my kids, Calais Campbell scoops up a fumble and runs it in to give Jags a 17-16 lead. I love how predictable the Jaguars are. NOW GIMME SOME BORTLES IN CRUNCH TIME.

— With about a minute and a half remaining, the Niners lose C.J. Beathard to an injury after a hard hit from Michael Bennett. IT’S GAROPPOLO TIME.

Down 24-6, Jimmy G calmly steers the Niners a whole 19 yards, culminating in a touchdown on the final play of the game. Just a really thrilling ending for the Niners faithful who stuck around, and a devastating turn of events for the heroes like me who had the Seahawks defense in fantasy.

— Strangely, the Broncos scoring points has coincided with Trevor Siemian replacing Paxton Lynch, who left the game with an injury.

This @TrevorSiemian TD pass... #DENvsOAK http://pic.twitter.com/0HDLVieQKl

— NFL (@NFL) November 27, 2017

That score makes it 21-14, and the Raiders will need a first down or two to kill the clock.

— Late in the fourth quarter, with the game tied at 24, Jacksonville intercepts Gabbert, and Scott Hanson actually says, “Blake Bortles getting a chance to be a hero...”

Come on, now. We know better than this. When Bortles is in charge of a two-minute drill, don’t frame it in the positive. At the very least, be noncommittal. “Let’s see what the Jaguars do here.” “We’re heading for an interesting finish.” “Surely both sides are nervous here.” Hedge your bets, man.

On 3rd and six, at the outer edge of FG range, Tyrann Mathieu intercepts Bortles.

— On 3rd and eight, deep in his own territory, Derek Carr hits Cordarelle Patterson deep to kill off the Broncos’ hopes for a comeback.

Oh my, @ceeflashpee84! 55-yard gain on the pass from @derekcarrqb! #RaiderNation http://pic.twitter.com/ahy06MkyFl

— NFL (@NFL) November 27, 2017

— Alvin Kamara gets in for another score, and it’s back to a one-possession game with 1:45 remaining. It is unfathomable to me that Kamara only got 11 touches in this game (for 188 yards and two touchdowns). I understand that he’s not built like a workhorse, but Sean Payton may want to revisit that decision after this game.

The onside kick is no good, and the Rams win.

— The Jaguars have gotten the ball back with the game still tied. Once again, Blake Bortles has a chance to be the hero, which is to say: He throws another interception. Phil Dawson kicks a 57-yard field goal and the Cardinals win.

— As the games wrap up, I knead the mixture that will become tonight’s meatloaf. I won’t go into my mother’s full recipe — although putting a recipe at the end of 4000 words of derivative bullshit would make this a typical internet recipe — but the combination of ground beef, ground pork, raw egg, bread crumbs, and various sauces and spices is less than pleasant.

It gets better as I go, though, and after I shape the loaf and wash my hands, I put the pan in the oven and watch RedZone’s touchdown montage. It goes on a little too long, but then, so do most things about the NFL.

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