#adoptive parenthood looks good on you bradford

[trbl-will-find-me]

Darkness on the Edge of Town

Hello everyone! Welcome to life post-GRE for me. If you’ve left me prompts, I have not forgotten! Just wanted to get this out for Friday the 13th.

There is one lesson every kid knows that every adult has forgotten: here there be monsters.

Sally + Central. Pre- EEAE.

John Bradford has learned not to trust in human decency, that it is a concept wholly dependent upon the existence of civilization and its social contract, a concept that crumbles in the face of the impetus to survive.

So, no, literal white picket fences do not instill in him a sense of confidence.

There is a storm on the horizon, the low rumble of thunder filling the air with the promise of rain. The breeze ruffles the leaves of the trees and something stirs on the edge of the wind.

“It’s gonna be bad,” Sally says. “Can feel it in the air.”

“It’s the south in the summer, Magpie. This is what all storms are like.”

She shakes her head. “This feels different.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You mean trouble.”

She nods. “Think so. Just a hunch.”

He casts a glance down the tree lined street. Officially, the town shouldn’t exist. They are still at least a day’s tree from the nearest haven, and several more outside of ADVENT territory. Still, he can’t dent the obvious signs of non-alien life.

Another roll of thunder sounds in the distance and he feels it in his chest. Sally fidgets with her braid, eyes fixed on the building clouds.

The odds of being struck by lightning are 1 in 3,000, he tells himself. But then again, the odds of losing the woman you love to alien invaders and being made to watch as everything you’ve ever worked for or loved is reduced to rubble are a hell of a lot lower and those events came to pass all the same.

Perhaps testing their luck is not the best idea.

Sally shifts from foot to foot, her eyes darting from heaven to earth and back again. Her hands fidget with the straps on her pack, in search of something to hold.

“I don’t like either of our choices here,” he says.

“How bad could it be? We made it past an ADVENT checkpoint last month. This doesn’t seem half as dangerous.”

“Houses, lights, electricity: this doesn’t seem odd to you?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got two dead people’s memories in my head. I’ve got a pretty forgiving definition of that word.”

He sighs. “Stay close.”

They’ve made it a few blocks into the town when they first notice the posters, faces staring out at them in silent accusation, wrapped around wooden telephone poles.

They’re new, maybe a few weeks to a few months old at most, written by hand and run off on a copy machine. They look like something out of the world that was, the world before the aliens, and a knot forms in his stomach. There are three or four different posters, each in its own distinct hand, with its own distinct face. An uncle, two children, a godmother, and a nephew are all among the lost.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as another, more insistent rumble passes through them.

“This a better fit with your definition of odd?”

She hugs her arms to her chest. “It’s definitely weird, but I don’t think it’s ADVENT. We’re easily 300 miles from the closest city center.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“It’s not gonna matter if we get caught outside when this storm breaks.”

A gust of wind picks up behind them,  blowing the stray hairs from Sally’s braid in front of her face.

He tries to think of something glib, something funny. There’s no way she hasn’t picked up on his anxiety, on his concerns about this place. He wants to find something, anything, to reassure her, to reassure himself.

Lightning splits the sky ahead of them, and rain begins to fall. Maybe he should have taken the 1 in 3,000 odds.

–

They push further into town and the missing posters grow more abundant. They wallpaper poles, fences, front doors, and mailboxes. They stick out from storm doors. They flap in the breeze.

She does not see any people. More importantly, she does not feel any people.

She does not have her mother’s skill with the gift, and certainly not her father’s. She cannot wield it as a weapon, cannot wrap herself in it as a shield. How could she, when she has spent so much of her life learning to contain it.  But she can listen. She can sense.

There is nothing here.

She holds to that, focuses on it.

Something flickers at the edge of her vision, and when she turns her head, the once immaculately manicured lawn of the house is now overgrown, the lights are off, and the shudders hang ajar.

She stops dead in her tracks and turns, surveying the rest of the street. The lamp poles still shown brightly down, but they now illuminate decrepit ruins and creeping decay.

Thunder booms overhead, the telltale sign of the storm’s approach.

“Central,” she says, voice beginning to shake. “Tell me you’re seeing this.”

“Seeing what?”

“This.”

“This is what towns used to be like.”

“You’re not seeing what these houses look like?”

“Magpie, I grew up on a street that didn’t look much different.”

“Shudders falling down? Doors ajar? Cracking sidewalks?”

He wrinkles his brow. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t see it?”

Her heart begins to beat a little faster. She can feel something prod at her mind, and she tries to quiet her thoughts. She does not want to lose whatever small advantage she has.

“What?” “That,” she says, wrapping her hand around his forearm. “All of this.”

He blinks once, twice, and she can feel a slow wave of confusion emanating from him. “The hell?”

“You see it now, right?”

“Yeah, Magpie. I see it.”

The drizzle begins to gain strength.

“I don’t … I don’t think we should be here.”

“Until this storm passes, we don’t have much choice.”

“We could take our chances.”

“You and I have sucker’s luck. We’d both get hit.”

“Yeah, but this smacks of psionic bullshit,” she says. “And that scares me a lot more. Getting struck by lightning is one and done.”

“Very comforting.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll take a quick death over a slow one any day.”

“The fact that you’ve thought about that …”

“Oh, come on,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “No way you haven’t.”

“I’m older.”

“And I’m pragmatic.”

Thunder cracks above them.

Sally feels something beginning to pull at her again, the same unknown force from earlier. She sees the world around her begin to distort again, melting back into the same façade of suburban perfection, and responds with a hearty mental shove. The street snaps back into sharp focus around her, and she feels the hair on the back of her neck begins to rise.

“Something’s here,” she says. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know who. But it’s not ADVENT.”

The rainfall graduates to a downpour, sticking her braid to her neck and threatening to soak through the outer lining of her pack. Every instinct she has tells her to get out, to leave while they still can.

“Can’t go on that long. We’ll let it pass and get back on the road.”

She really wishes she were strong enough to drag him out.

They push further towards the town square. Missing posters litter the ground, the sidewalks, the street. There are so many, more than she will ever be able to count. It doesn’t seem possible for so many people to have disappeared from one town. On the green, the gazebo’s roof has caved in, exposing rotted boards and disintegrating shingles.

“Why is this part of town okay?” He asks.

“You’ve got a funny definition of okay. Look at the gazebo.”

“So, it needs a new paint job.”

“And a new roof?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s collapsed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There!” She gestures.

“I don’t know what you’re —“

From the corner of her eye, she sees something advance.

“Central,” she says, cutting him off. “I’d love to have this conversation with you, but we have to get out of here.”

“In this? We’ll be walking into flooding.”

“Then let’s at least get out of the open, alright?”

“Agreed.”

–

He knows something is wrong. He doesn’t know what, but something is amiss. In the almost three years he has traveled with her, he has learned that Sally doesn’t spook without reason.

Yes, the town is empty, and that’s unsettling. The fact that everything looks as if it’s been perfectly preserved, left aside by a populace that’s collectively left for dinner, does, indeed, add another level of alarm. And yes, there are a lot of missing persons posters, but for god’s sake, it’s been fifteen years and he’s altogether too used to the sight of them to think twice.

But Sally? He can’t explain Sally. He can’t explain why her hand rests on the revolver at her side, readying it for a fight.

They’ve bunkered down in one of the houses off the green, their packs left by the door. Normally, she’d settle down; four solid walls and a roof tend to ease both of their minds.

Not today, though.

Outside, lighting splits a tree and she jumps. “Fils de pute,” she mutters.

“Language, Magpie.”

“You swear,” she retorts, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m older.”

“I might not get that chance.”

He glowers at her. “Don’t even joke.”

“Who’s joking?” She asks, her eyes darting around the room.

“Alright, I give up. What’s going on?”

“There’s something here,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s getting closer.”

“ADVENT?”

She shakes her head. “Worse.”

“Worse? You wanna elaborate?”

“You don’t see this place for what it is.”

“Magpie —“

Skinny fingers wrap around the exposed skin between his sleeve and his glove, flesh and bone and the metal of mismatched rings pressed against his wrist. His vision warps and distorts, as buildings stretch and squash like a fun house mirror, then snap back into shape. Something moves near the window behind Sally.

“See?” She asks, a frantic edge to her voice.

“How’d you do that?”

“That’s … it’s … something else is here.”

The lights flicker and her grip tightens. The world warps again and he can almost make out the gazebo, now ruined, before the perfect, empty vision snaps back into place.

Outside, the rain runs down the street in small rivers.

His head spins and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel a headache coming on, not a migraine and not a hangover and not withdrawal, but something else entirely.

“No, no, no, no, no,” someone says and he’s pretty sure that someone is Sally. Pretty sure, but by no means certain. The world feels wrong, slow and sepia, and there’s a nausea settling in his stomach. He knows he should get up, should find out who’s upset and what’s wrong and.

No. No no no. This is wrong. He knows this is wrong. 1 in 3,000 odds and they should have taken them. Quick death beats a slow one. The door bangs and he wants to yell, wants to remind her We live in a house, not a barn, Magpie.

A house. A house. What house? Low slung brick in the Kansas sun, sunflowers off the back porch. Bright brick and brighter shudders, a house with history, a house with ghosts, her ghost, her ghost on the floorboards, the floorboards that have probably rotted, could have, should have, don’t die wondering, her voice in his ear.

Magpie. Magpie. Little bird, little girl, gone. All gone. Young and small and vulnerable and shouldn’t have let her go, promises to keep, promises that can’t be kept, never could be. Little girl, flash of blue, make it quick for her, come for you next.

This is always how it ends. Can’t protect one; can’t protect the other. One dead and the other soon to follow, a whole army of ghosts to follow you down. Can’t fight, can’t win, surrender now, make it quick for her if you —

Not real, another voice comes in. Not real, not real, not real.

He can’t think, not well enough to place it, but it’s familiar. Not her, and not Steph, but there’s someone he’s forgetting. Someone who he can almost think of, whose name is on the tip of his tongue. Red hair and a flash of blue and.

Sally.

–

Not real, not real, not real. She holds to the thought, clings to it. It is now as much her weapon as the gun in her hands, as the knife in her boot.

Not real, not real, not real.

There are things she knows. Her name is Sally Élise Royston. She used to answer to Punch. She still answers to Magpie.

Not real, not real, not real.

Her parents are dead. They were XCOM operatives, and they both gave their lives in an attempt to stop the aliens.

You don’t know that Papa is dead, some other voice, one not quite her own, offers. You never got —

Not. Real. Not. Real. Not. Real.

Her name is Sally Élise Royston. Her parents are former XCOM operatives. They are dead. She is alive.  She is here and whole and alive and she needs to get out.

Not real, not real, not real.

She needs to get out and she needs to get him out because he is the last, closest thing she has to family and she will be damned if she loses him too.

Rain pelts down on her, soaking her through. She spares a moment to be thankful it is the dead of summer, not winter, shuddering at the memory of being too cold, too cold, can’t go further, just let me, just—

She shoves at the presence clawing at her thoughts.

Not real, not real, not real.

She forces herself to focus on her surroundings, on the way the boards rot and the sidewalk chips. The missing posters littering the ground curl and warp under the force of the deluge, the insistence of the water. She focuses on the feel of it in her boots, against her skin, soaking her socks; of the cold grip of the gun in her hands. She refuses to look at whatever flickers at the corner of her eye, the almost glimpses of someone else’s memories.

If she’d just turn her head, she’s sure she’d know whose.

But, no. No. She knows a trap when she sees one, knows temptation when it’s flashing right in front of her. She has a job to do. She cannot falter; she cannot fail.

But you were scared, no? She’d once asked her mother.

Of course we were, but, you can’t run forever, came the response. Eventually, it catches up with you. Better to fight on your own terms. You wanna squish the spider in the bathtub or when it’s crawling up your leg?

She will not be trapped. She will not run. She will end this.

XCOM’s gone, Central never fails to remind her. You’re a few years too late to the party, Sal. Can’t be second generation anything if it doesn’t exist.

Past. Present. She doesn’t care.

Her name is Sally Élise Royston, but she answers to Magpie. Her parents are gone, but her family is not. She is terrified, but she is XCOM; she will not waiver.

Vigilo confido.

Her mark appears almost in front of her and she stops short. He looks barely human, caved-in chest, long fingernails caked with what she suspects to blood, and an almost skeletal face. He reaches for her, and she stumbles backwards, keeping the gun pointed straight ahead, even as her arms shake. She pulls the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder, but it does nothing to stop his advance.

She considers the possibility that she’s going to die here, in the skeletons of the so-called American Dream, a whole town rotting as her tombstone. She’d like to laugh, to find some irony in it, which is what she’s almost certain Central would do, but can’t. There’s a sort of terror creeping up her spine, and a lump in her throat. She thought she’d be braver than this.

A shot rings out from behind her and, instinctively, she dives for the nearest cover

The man — no, the thing grabs her by her wrist and yanks her to her feet, sending her gun flying.

She thought she had a few more years before she’d be staring down the barrel of an assault rifle pointed directly at her.

–

He is not drunk.

He is confident in that knowledge.

There are two Sallys, one dragging the other. One is shouting, the other silent. One is armed, one is not. Both are soaked to the skin.

Same body language.

“Central!” One calls.

Same gait.

“Central, do something!”

Same look of terror.

“Central!”

He is not as confident in the knowledge of which one is real.

The shouting one has all the hallmarks of Magpie. Some French-English pidgin, a touch of indignation, and the sense that whatever’s she dragging is entirely too heavy for someone her size. Sally’s clever, always has been, and he doesn’t put it past her to have nabbed whatever the creature is.

He knows they are out of time. The thing she’d warned him about is here, and he has a choice to make.

1 in 3,000 beats 1 in 2, he thinks. Should’ve stayed on the road. Should’ve kept going.

A gunshot wound this far from help won’t end well. There’s bleed out, there’s infection, there’s healing. There is the fact that he should almost certainly be shooting to kill.

Tick tock, something says in his head.

But there’s something else, a different voice. The voice from earlier, panicked and unsteady. Oh god, it says. Oh god, not real, not real, not real, fils de pute, not real, not real. There is no color in the face of the dragged girl, but there is a quiet terror and, if he looks carefully, if he focuses, something like trust behind her eyes.

Mortal terror has almost always rendered her mute. Retaliations. ADVENT patrols. Men who for whom the idea of she’s thirteen sounds more like encouragement than admonishment. Without fail, they knock her into silence, knock her back to the scared little girl he’d collected from a ruined haven one winter’s night.

Thunder crashes over head and one of the two flinches.

It’s enough. It’s all he needs.

He takes aim, fires, and the whole street goes dark.

–

For a moment, there is only the sound of rain.

“Magpie, tell me that’s you.”

Her heart is racing and she can’t quite think straight, but still. “It’s me,” she manages, standing. The blood rushes in her ears and she tries to slow her breathing. “How’d you know?”

He shakes his head. “Just did.”

She pokes at the bloodied body, shot clean through the head, with the toe of her boot.  “You think he was working alone?”

Central looks around, as if truly seeing the town for the first time. “I’d say that’s a safe bet. Still, let’s not take any chances.”

“Agreed,” she says, trying to hide the shiver that runs down her spine. “Let’s get out of here.”

She makes her way back towards him, never quite taking an eye off of the body in the street, all too secure in the knowledge that it could have been her.

He seems to know, too, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they head back towards the house where they’d left their gear.

“Why do this?” She asks.

He shakes his head. “Couldn’t tell you, Magpie.”

She leans into him, and he pulls her into a one armed hug.

“Time to go?”

He nods. “Time to go.”

[junker-town]

NFL Dad, Week 7: You can’t fight the Pumpkin Industrial Complex

Every week, our NFL Dad tries to watch the full slate of RedZone Channel action while parenting two toddlers. This week: costume parties, pumpkins, and a distinct lack of drama.

I don’t care for the annual pumpkin craze, but I refuse to harsh anyone’s pumpkin high. I won’t rail against pumpkin spice lattes, I won’t scoff at pumpkin beers, and I won’t even make an official statement against pumpkin yogurt pretzels or pumpkin smoothies. I believe that apples are the better seasonal food, but taste is subjective (even if you don’t recognize that “pumpkin” flavor is just clove and cinnamon). Regardless, your pumpkin habit doesn’t affect my enjoyment of autumn.

This mindset is probably why I went along with my wife’s desire to go to a pumpkin patch on Saturday. Yes, my daughter already went apple-picking, but my son (almost 18 months) had never been to a pumpkin patch, so we needed to give him that experience. Could we buy a slightly overpriced pumpkin at the nearby farmer’s market? Sure, but that would be easy.

Instead, because we live in a dumb city unfit for parents and car owners, we rent a Zipcar for the morning, drive 90 minutes to a Long Island pumpkin patch that serves 4 million New Yorkers eager to avoid driving to a REAL farm in the Hudson Valley, fail to take a picture of the two kids in the pumpkins together, and survive an epic in-car meltdown from my daughter before hitting standstill traffic on the way back to the city. Oh, and my son slept for 20 minutes in the car, ruining his afternoon nap.

BUT AT LEAST WE GOT PUMPKINS! PRECIOUS MEMORIES AND TWO PUMPKINS FOR THE LOW LOW PRICE OF FIVE HOURS OF UNHAPPY CHILDREN. FIVE F**KING STARS, WOULD WASTE MY TIME AGAIN.

Pumpkins are dumb flavorless squashes and I hate them.

EARLY GAMES, FIRST HALF

— The Saints-Packers matchup, which SHOULD be a Drew Brees-Aaron Rodgers shootout, will instead be a referendum on Brett Hundley in his first pro start. In the rain. WOOF.

Early in the game, Hundley draws the Saints offsides for a free play, but underthrows Davante Adams deep. It illuminates the problem with anyone who backs up Aaron Rodgers: even if they’ve learned his tricks of the trade, they don’t have the sheer talent to produce the same magic that he does. (The drive ends with an Aaron Jones sprint up the gut of the defense. 7-0, Green Bay.)

— The Rams, playing the Cardinals in London, are wearing their white-and-gold uniforms with the white horns on the helmets. Such an awful look. Anything reminiscent of the St. Louis era should be burned in a Dumpster YES EVEN KURT WARNER.

But for real, just wear the blue and yellow every week. It looks way better.

— Green Bay intercepts Brees in the end zone, but when I wake up from my nap the Saints have fought back to tie the game at seven. Briefly, anyway: Hundley runs it in to reclaim the lead and get his first Lambeau Leap.

— The Jaguars are stomping the Colts 17-0. There’s not much to say here, except Leonard Fournette isn’t playing and T.J. Yeldon looks capable in his stead. There’s nothing about the Jacoby Brissett offense that suggests it’s built to overcome a three-score lead against a very good defense. I’m happy to write this one off — and judging by the TV coverage, so is RedZone.

— Jameis Winston is playing with a sprained AC joint, and he looks off-target. Well, more off-target than usual. He underthrows one receiver, then throws off-target on a screen before getting strip-sacked. That tomahawk chop couldn’t have felt good on his injured shoulder.

— With the Bears up two scores, Mitchell Trubisky runs to the left on third and goal and dives for pylon. It’s ruled a touchdown initially, but overturned on review. Facing 4th and goal less than a yard out, John Fox opts to kick a field goal like the big ol’ coward he is.

Now, I’m getting ahead of myself in the diary, but I don’t want to talk about the Bears again, so let’s just get this dumb team out of the way. The Bears will go on to win thanks to Eddie Jackson’s two defensive touchdowns, which might make Chicago fans ignore the inherent John Fox-ness of their team’s play. I won’t hear any results-based defense of this trash team. Look at this!

The Bears are the first team to win a game while completing less than 5 passes since the 2011 Broncos. Tim Tebow was the QB of that team. http://pic.twitter.com/0RuRQYQDo3

— FOX Sports: NFL (@NFLonFOX) October 22, 2017

This is the drive chart of a team that won today. http://pic.twitter.com/UrjQyCEZUN

— Football Perspective (@fbgchase) October 22, 2017

The Bears earned zero first downs in the second half and became the first NFL team to win with fewer than five completed passes since ... the last time John Fox coached in the NFL. I’d rather have a block of cement coach my team.

— My daughter is up from her nap. She asks what’s happening on the TV. “The Browns are the brown team with orange helmets,” I say. “The Titans are the white team with blue pants. I like the Titans’ uniforms better. What do you think?”

She pauses for a moment. “I like the orange!” Such a shame that I have to disown her now.

— Todd Gurley freezes the Cardinals’ D with a jump-stop at line of scrimmage, then scampers around the left edge for a touchdown.

.@TG3II gets around the edge and is IN for SIX. #LARams http://pic.twitter.com/PMgvFG23T7

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

That possession came as a result of a Carson Palmer interception thrown while he got hit. Palmer seems unlikely to return (UPDATE: broken arm, he’s out 8 weeks), so we can go ahead and cross “Cardinals comeback” off the list. I’ve seen the Drew Stanton Show before.

— DeShone Kizer throws a pick that gets caught on the Titans’ 11-yard line. I have never in my life seen a quarterback commit red zone turnovers like this. He’s like the anti-Mariota.

That realization gives this useless field goal battle some semblance of meaning: Kizer and Mariota are diametrically opposed forces drawn together, as if they’re in a superhero movie like Unbreakable or Hancock. (Speaking of Unbreakable, shouts out to Sam Bradford, the undisputed Mr. Glass of the NFL.)

— With the Dolphins backed up to their own goal line, Jay Cutler throws an interception off a deflected pass. The Jets punch it in for a 21-14 lead. This game has been wildly entertaining throughout the first half, but I’m not wired to accept these teams playing an entertaining game.

— The Rams score another touchdown, this time on a Jared Goff read-option keeper. They’re up 20-0 near the end of the half, and Drew Stanton will have 40 seconds to throw an interception and give the Rams another chance to score.

Stanton’s first throw on the next drive: a pick directly to a Rams defender. I swear this is not some ex post facto insight I’ve edited in; I’ve just watched Drew Stanton before. So has the First Down France account:

Quelle honte Stanton. Scandaleux

— NFL France (@FirstDownFR) October 22, 2017

Scandaleux indeed! Greg Zuerlein kicks a 53-yarder, and the Rams go into halftime up 23-0.

EARLY GAMES, SECOND HALF

— I’m not usually in the business of highlighting irrelevant three-yard catches, but Christian McCaffrey warrants an exception:

.@run__cmc only needs ONE hand. WOW. #KeepPounding http://pic.twitter.com/lg8V13659I

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

Lots of masturbation jokes to be made in that tweet there. Not that I would think about them, because I am VERY MATURE. Father of young children over here.

(*audibly farts and tells the kids it’s a “barking spider”*)

— My wife is taking our kids to a Halloween-ish birthday party, which means costumes are welcome but not mandatory. My son will be a shark, my daughter will be a ghost, and my wife will be harried and stressed out.

I help my daughter into the stroller and put her shoes on, then assist my wife as she loads my son into our carrier (we like the flexibility and simplicity of the Beco carrier, in case you’ve made the mistake of having children and need a recommendation).

And then, at 2:51 p.m. Eastern time: They’re gone. My apartment is completely quiet except for the TV. I am tempted to sleep, to eat and drink everything in the house, to get on my bike and ride in the sunshine ... but I just keep watching RedZone. The whole premise of me missing the party is that I have to work.

So, I stay and watch Joe Thomas tear his triceps, leading to the first missed snap of his career. After 10,363 consecutive snaps, the NFL’s ironman exits the game. And on such a promising Browns team!

Jay Cutler’s consecutive sourpuss streak is safe.

— In Miami, Jay Cutler has also left the game with an injury, though his consecutive sourpuss streak is safe.

— I take my dog for a walk. Stella is a Rottweiler mix that I adopted three or four years before I met my wife, and the dog loves me despite the way I’ve filled her living space with small humans that don’t give adequate belly rubs and suck up the attention that used to go to her.

While outside, we run into a family that dog-sat Stella once, and she nuzzles them all and wags her nub fervently. I leave her outside while I duck into a grocery to buy a tallboy (prep for the Seahawks game), and when I come back she lies down on the pavement and rolls onto her side. No walking until she gets her belly rub.

I say a lot how fulfilling parenthood is (and it is!), but for the record: My life was also pretty kickass when it was just me and Stella.

— I return from the walk and look at my computer while catching up. Something about my TV seems blurry, like the players are in regular definition. Then I notice that I’m getting more Jets-Dolphins than I’ve seen all day. Is RedZone EVER going to show this O.J. Howard touchdown I’m reading about on Twitter?

And then I realize: I’m watching the local CBS feed of the Jets game. I must have pressed “2” with an inadvertent nudge of the remote. I feel like I should get some kind of detox or vaccination.

DOCTOR: And how long were you exposed to Jets-Dolphins?

ME: I dunno, maybe 10 minutes?

DOCTOR: OK, this should be fairly routine — [reads chart]. REGULAR DEFINITION?!?!

ME: Is that bad?

[alarm sounds] [lights flash]

DOCTOR: [on the phone] Yes sir, we’re locking down the wing to contain the infection.

— In order to justify my beautiful peace and quiet, I start folding laundry, which is by far and away the WORST chore. I thought laundry couldn’t get worse, then I had kids. “Oh, you hate folding laundry? What if you had to do it more often and everything was five times smaller?” If we could afford simple luxuries, the very first thing I’d throw money at would be a laundry service.

— With less than a minute left in regulation, the Browns are attempting a 54-yard field goal to tie a 9-6 game. What a sorry-ass state of affairs. Welp, it’s good. The Browns are celebrating, but why? What is there to celebrate when the result is additional Browns football?

[clapping in Roger Goodell’s face after every word] BAN REGULAR SEASON OVERTIME AND SEND TEAMS HOME WITH TIES.

— Cooper Kupp scores a touchdown on a screen to make it 33-0 in London. I know Kupp played college ball at Eastern Washington, but that’s a Big XII name if I’ve ever seen one. Whenever I see his name I just start making white person word salad with it until I come back to his name. Like this:

Coop Cooper

Scooper Coop

Copper Kopp

Pooker Puck

Pucker Pork

Rucker Corp

Kurper Carp

Cooper Kupp

Ahhhhh, that feels so nice in my brain. The only NFL name that’s better for that game is Blake Bortles.

— There are three tied games as the early slate winds down: Jets-Dolphins, Bucs-Bills, and the trash fire in Cleveland. In reverse order:

1. The Browns and Titans feebly do nothing for most of overtime before Mariota finally gets his team into field goal range. Ryan Succop hits a 47-yarder to end this miserable affair 12-9.

2. After a LeSean McCoy touchdown tied the game at 27, it looked like the Bucs would have a chance to win the game — except Adam Humphries coughs up the ball and the Bills recover in field goal range. Steven Hauschka hits a 30-yarder with 14 seconds left to win the game, but not before the Bucs pull off the longest, most competent failed lateralpalooza in NFL history.

The final play today in Buffalo... #TBvsBUF http://pic.twitter.com/2Raz5eyFNu

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

3. Josh McCown attempts to lead the Jets on a game-winning drive. Pretend you didn’t see this game or any highlights: Given that setup, how do you think this ends?

If you said, “McCown interception” without thinking, congratulations: You have seen NFL games before. The announcer scoffs, “15 years [in the league], you shouldn’t make that mistake.” Yeah, no shit. But that’s the result you deserve when “political activism” is a disqualifying factor in your quarterback search.

Cody Parkey kicks the game-winner for the Dolphins. Cardy Poker. Coder Party. Parker Podey. Porky Corder. Corky Pordy. Cody Parker. Ahhhh.

LATE GAMES, FIRST HALF

— In Santa Clara, the Niners fumble a punt return, giving Dallas a short field. Zeke Elliott punches it in, and folks, I don’t think the home team’s gonna be able to overcome this 7-0 deficit. It’s just too big a hole with too little time.

— The Seahawks are at the Giants this week, which means I have the relatively rare luxury of watching the local broadcast, which in turn means that this column is gonna kind of suck from here on out. I promise to flip to RedZone during commercials!

(Last week, the Seahawks were on bye, and I didn’t mention that stupid team’s name ONCE in the entire column. I never enjoy the NFL as much as when Seattle doesn’t play.)

— The late games I’ll be mostly ignoring: Cowboys-49ers, Bengals-Steelers, and Broncos-Chargers. I click over during commercial, and there’s Antonio Brown scoring on a slant. Like clockwork. It’s 7-0 Steelers.

— Last season, a lot of people made fun of Ben McAdoo for wearing a giant, oversized windbreaker. Seeing him this season, it’s now clear that he chose the XXL with the intent to fill it out. I’m not trying to fat-shame anyone; I love a coach with a longterm vision.

I won’t make fun of anyone’s perceived weight gain, but I definitely WILL make fun of McAdoo’s sunglasses and hair and game-planning and everything else about him, because he’s a total herb who can’t coach.

— It’s so quiet in this apartment. So calm. My favorite team is on television, and I am drinking a beer and watching them without any children vying for my attention. This is nice. I like it? Yes, I like it.

But I also kinda miss the chaos. Not the chaos itself, but my ability to lessen it. If my son falls and cries, I can pick him up and soothe him. But if the Seahawks have ten plays inside the 11-yard line and come away with zero points because they throw a goddamn FADE on fourth down and JIMMY GRAHAM DROPS IT, there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. At least parenting offers a tiny piece of self-determination.

-- I wonder what my kids are doing, but, like, only during commercials. If my wife ever leaves me, she should do it during a Seahawks game. Automatic three-hour head start.

— Jason Witten makes a SPECTACULAR one-handed TD grab.

.@JasonWitten ONE HAND TOUCHDOWN CATCH! Beautiful. #DallasCowboys http://pic.twitter.com/nMWkMOIr6W

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

What a great catch by a tight end! Isn’t that right, JIMMY GRAHAM??!?

— Juju Smith-Schuster gets wide open for a touchdown, then celebrates with hide-and-seek.

Come for the @TeamJuJu TD catch. But stay for Hide & Seek. #HereWeGo http://pic.twitter.com/YDaoE7SMeJ

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

This is a perfectly fine celebration, but I also think a lot of fans are being too laudatory of anything that flies in the face of the old, crappy rules against celebrations. Like, hide-and-seek is a children’s game. The other week, Kyle Rudolph celebrated with a game of Duck, Duck, Goose/Grey Duck. Are we really going to think it’s cool or funny if players dance in a circle and sing “Ring Around the Rosie”? Trust me: As a man who has sung “Ring Around the Rosie” and fallen down two dozen times in the last three days, it’s not that great.

Ditch the kids’ games and come at me with something that rivals Colombia’s team salsa dance. I am not a crank.

— Thomas Rawls fumbles directly into Landon Collins’ arms. Collins returns the ball some 30-odd yards to set up a red zone possession for the Giants, whose offense suddenly comes to life to score in two plays. Evan Engram scores the touchdown on a play in which Eli Manning play-faked to no one. Cool. Cool cool cool.

I change into sweatpants. There is a knot in the jaw muscle near my temple.

— I get a text from wife. They’re leaving in about 15 minutes. Is she sure? Does she want to stay out a little later? Go ahead, let them play with their friends a little longer. They can stay up late and have some more cake. Bring ‘em back around 8:00. No?

— Doug Baldwin is briefly taken over by the collective spirit of Seahawks Twitter and shoves Tom Cable, the offensive line coach largely blamed as the root of the team’s horrid line play.

The full story comes out later: Baldwin was trying to make sure that Russell Wilson was being heard by the players; the wideout wanted the emphasis to be on the players’ failure to execute, not the coaches’ calls. He even apologized to Cable and said he loves him.

Which, as a Seahawks fan, I guess is fine. But I also would have been OK with Wilson and Baldwin saying, “It’s him or us.”

— Good night, Dre Kirkpatrick:

The Bengals are 100% losing this game. You don’t recover from that.

— Zeke Elliott scores his third touchdown of the day, a 72-yard catch and run that puts the 49ers to bed.

LATE GAMES, SECOND HALF

— I run a bath and heat up the kids’ dinner. It’s a little after 6:00 p.m., and we’re going to have to hustle to keep the kids on schedule for their 7:00 bedtime.

My sister had kids years before I did, and I was the typical ignorant drunk uncle when it came to her devotion to the kids’ naps and schedule. “What’s with the schedule? Why can’t the kids just power through this one time?” Because the schedule is GOD, man! The schedule is all-powerful. It is the weather; it is the earth beneath your feet. Reject it and your life will be untethered from reality, a nonstop maelstrom of tears and tantrums.

We had dinner with friends on Saturday night, and ended up putting the kids to bed at 8:30 instead of 7:00. And my son was WRECKED the next morning, an absolute disaster until we put him down for a nap almost two hours earlier than usual.

— Uh, the Chargers are up 14-0 over the Broncos? The AFC West is a spooky-ass house of mirrors.

— With 14:03 in the 3rd quarter, the Giants get their first third down conversion in the game. Manning now has 29 yards passing. The next time I complain about watching the Seahawks offense, please remind me that the Giants exist.

— Around 6:20 p.m., just as my family returns, the Seahawks offense finally gets its touchdown:

The touch on this @DangeRussWilson TD pass... #Seahawks http://pic.twitter.com/raQqkTDpVi

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

The touch on that pass is what stands out on first watch, but do yourself a favor and watch the ankle-breaking move that gets Baldwin a free release from the slot.

— I’m as anti-Steelers as a fan can get, but I respect the hell out of any coach who attempts rude shit to stomp on a division rival. TO WIT: With the Steelers up two scores, Mike Tomlin dials up a fake punt on 4th and 7 to ice the game.

FAKE PUNT ALERT! #HereWeGo http://pic.twitter.com/wFxTkTqxjo

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

What an absolutely shitty thing to do. I love it!

— Speaking of disrespect, the Seahawks even the turnover battle with a strip-sack of Manning, and the first play they run on offense is this:

.@prichiejr goes ALL the way up to make the grab. Wow. Touchdown, @Seahawks! #Seahawks http://pic.twitter.com/7jvzLhruFx

— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017

It’s slightly underthrown by Wilson, which gives Landon Collins JUST enough time to make a play on the ball, but the simultaneous possession gives the Seahawks a touchdown. If I learned anything from the Fail Mary, it’s that a tie goes to the runner.

— We put the kids down at 7:25, and bedtime goes as smoothly and drama-free as each of the four late games.

Aside from the Seahawks result, I can’t say that I liked today better than the usual pandemonium of being NFL Dad. Given the choice, I’ll take the chaos and love of fatherhood over the quiet stress of being totally focused on my team. Both would be nice, of course, but that would mean more Seattle games in primetime. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.