#big fat yap to get back into the swing of things

[kaiju-krew]

HELLO KAI!!! First of all, I wanted to wish a great dayyyy!! <333

Okay, now, my question is- if you could make a MVGodzilla anime, but like an AU or something, how would you do it? Yap about your ideas I'm hearing you out.

HI POOKIEEE tysm u too uwu

uhhmmmhmhmhmhmhmm honestly i haven't given this a ton of thought but my immediate instinct is to say something revolving around Miki. She's the goat and i love the idea of having a character that uses her own psychic abilities to like... humanize(?) kaiju more? obviously we've gotten a lot more open characterization of monster chars like kong, and some for others too, but having a human who can basically communicate with kaiju would be neato. (not just the orca static, real communication)

im not picky but if it was an offshoot of the monsterverse....... i feel like the mv vaguely hinted at their version of the shobijin (dr chen and her sister) having some kinda link or attachment to mothra, so it doesn't seem unreasonable to extrapolate off that idea. you could always lean on the excuse that hollow earth spicy air can effect human brains and triggered psychic abilities or something idk

buuuuuut yeah im a sucker for her having a baby gojiran around so im down for whatever kinda godzilla juniour/baby godzilla thing they need to do for her to help raise it up. easiest choice is that they find a dormant egg in HE and it hatches out. perhaps they're worried goji will see it as a threat and will try to vaporize it so they gotta work around that, maybe chat to mothra, etc. hijinks ensue trying to keep a baby goji hidden, blah blah.

maybe it's too silly but i think there's a chance for an emotional core of Miki feeling out of place among humans for her powers, n the baby gojiran being unable to integrate into the 'kaiju balance' until they're sure it can be safe. i think it could be fun and cute with a pinch of angst when needed

[hannahssimblr]

“You know what I could be doing instead of this?” Joe says. “Lying out on the grass with a can of cold cider and a big, fat blunt.”

“Yeah? On the other hand, you could be getting the shit kicked out of you.”

“By who?”

I shove a sudsy plate into his hands, and he scrubs it half-heartedly with a damp towel. “By me. If you don't cooperate.”

He snickers, “I could take you, Turner.”

“Why does everyone say that to me?” I wonder, dunking another mug into the kitchen sink and scrubbing the crust off the bottom. “Lads always yap on to me about how they’d beat me in a fight.”

“It’s wishful thinking.” Shane pipes up, slapping a mop about the floor, and thrusting it under the furniture with about as much enthusiasm as a drive through worker. “Because of your size. Everyone wants to be the lad who took down the big guy.”

“Well, I’m a peaceful person.”

“Right.” 

“What’s all this for anyway?” Joe grumbles. “We were fine with the house the way it was. Like, cleaning is such a waste of time. A waste of summer.” 

“Get over yourself,” I advise him. “Wrong cupboard, by the way. The glasses go in the one on the end.”

“Oh, sorry Hitler.”

“It is for the girl,” Kasper says. He is tying up yet another bag of rubbish. It jangles with aluminium cans. “Butt shorts.”

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Butt shorts?”

“Yeah, man, that’s what we call your friend Evie,” says Joe. “It’s ‘cause she’s always got those shorts on, and you can kinda see the crease of her arse cheeks in them.”

“Bit of a fucked up way to refer to a girl, do you not think?” I take another mug from the precarious pile. 

“No. Why? It’s just facts.”

“Mm?”

“I’m not saying I don’t like the shorts, man. I think any girl who has a pair of legs like that ought to wear them. More girls should, as long as they have the body for it, you know?”

I fling the mug at him and he examines it. “You missed a bit there at the bottom.” I snatch it back. 

“Are you ridin’ her?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Evie, like. Are you ridin’ her?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Do you think you will ride her? Like, at some stage in the future?”

I’m aware of Shane’s judgemental mopping in the background. “Like I said, it’s not like that. I’m not interested.”

“Right!” I pass Joe the mug and he polishes it thoughtfully. “Do you think she’d like me, then? Will you ask her?”

“No.”

“Aw, what? I thought if you didn’t fancy her, you’d at least set me up with her.”

“She wouldn’t like you.”

“She would! Girls love me, sure. Back in school they couldn’t get enough of my sexy bod.” He rolls his sleeve over his sunburned bicep and flexes it while Kasper wolf-whistles. Joe swings his hips in a circle while spinning the towel above his head to his friend's rapturous applause. I roll my eyes.

“You tell Evie that I know how to take care of a woman. She’d be a lucky girl to get a chance with Joe Roche.”

“Look, Joe–”

“A girl like that is wasted on someone like you. You think you can be picky, but you’re too picky for your own good. Well, I’ll tell you what I’d do to her…” 

He launches into a monologue, outlining things too vulgar to be said out loud around normal and respectable folk, but are somehow perfectly acceptable to say to me. He goes into specific detail about her legs, her lovely long legs, and the positions he’d like to put them while I scrub at a plate so hard that my hand starts cramping. 

“Jesus Christ, Joe.” I whirl on him, and the plate, still in my hands, slips, and shatters on the floor, sending shards of porcelain and blobs of soap flying in all directions. I falter, startled by the violence of it. He shuts up. The mop stops. The bin bags stop rustling. 

“Fuck sake, what is wrong with you? Why do you think everyone wants to hear your weird, perverted thoughts all of the time?”

He cowers against the draining board. “I thought you said you were a peaceful person.”

“Do you want to fight me?”

He makes a tiny sound, and I stomp further into his space. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Alright, then learn to shut the fuck up.” 

“Sorry.” 

“And don’t say that type of shit in front of me again.”

I spin back to the sink and scrub the cutlery at the bottom, hands trembling and shoes crunching on the shattered porcelain, while everyone completes their chores in complete silence. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[thanidiel]

Dominion

Sometimes, the soldier could force fondness to the ways of which Autumnvale has attempted to adapt to her world.

The pheasant, however, is braised.

The texture too soft and tender; less meat and more sodden. Neither is much appreciation to be had for the tang of white wine in its juices; a waste of drink, if she were to be asked. With every bite of fare, the grains of mustard within sauce had burst against her teeth; annoying, distracting.

Underneath, the cook, Dawnspire native, had attempted to appeal to her tastes. With her knife lifting up the side of the poultry, she discovers a bed of wilted and blanched dark-greens intermixed with a ‘rustic’ chopping of mushrooms - foraged from the woods along the mountainside, she thinks she heard some sod say.

It is, unabashedly, a homage to the woman’s tastes and the culture of cuisine in the colder regions of Quel’Thalas. Unfortunately, it is equally clear that the elves who fed the mouths of soldiers and officials to pass through this feast hall, had never seen such fare in their lives.

If such a combination of foods were to be prepared proper, the bird would have come charred and speckled with the mustard, crushed. On the side, perhaps, the vegetable and fungi would come raw or in a cloudy soup. And the wine would be in goblet than simmered down in a pot.

There is something to be said about effort, such as Thanidiel has preached when it was in turn to say something gracious, or morale-raising. And food, is food, after all.

She isn’t sure how much she appreciates the way this meal parallels with times of old, still.

Another portion to be slid off the curve of her knife and popped into her mouth - just for the etiquette of it - and the plate is pushed off towards the table’s center. A slow shifting of her digits like the movement of a piano’s hammers, and the blade rotates to a rest along the inside of her palm.

The handle is levered forward.

“Elinden, how many?”

Her gaze raises from underbrow to regard the man addressed. He looks tired. She can see it in the weight pressed upon his eyelids, even with the hacked red mussing around his head.

Good, he should be.

“Sixteen from the Thirteenth Regiment. Seven from the Southeast, Hallowleaf, they said.”

“Leaders ‘mongst them?”

“A former Knight-Master, Kielen Duskshield. From your people, they answered to a Ciril Farlong.”

“Aye. Stabled? Watered? Fed?”

“All being attended to, Captain. As of now, they sit cross-legged on the grasses outside of the Village, taking fill of the bread given.”

“Send them here; they will make their introductions to me before given right to make camp. In the meantime, the eastern-side should be cleared for their presence.”

“The whole of them as usual, Captain?”

“Aye. Be…” the Duskward draws off, the trenched gap between her brows closing into a knit. By now, the knife has been lowered the table. Still, her hand spreads over the blade.

“How many are we at now, Elinden? Last month was three-and-half-hundred ‘tween us and them.”

“With these additions, we number at four-hundred-and-six.”

“Growing a bit big for our britches, aye?”

“And the ovens.. and the grasslands, Captain.”

Thanidiel bows her head towards the mopheaded man standing at the table’s end, needing nothing more to convey the militant courtesy extended to the Lieutenant Brightvale. Again, the knife wheels in her grip; to be slid into breast from overhead with her comrade’s swinging hook of ankle around a stool leg.

“We’ll need to let the word spread. Another few dozens - less than a month’s time - and that is how many more I am willing to allow camp along the Village.”

“Twisting a cap on the jar?”

“Mm. I’m interested in maintaining an army, not a Great Herd.”

“S’that not an army?”

“Not my style, not my speed. Allow the Archon and his to lead thousands to battle. We’ll keep ourselves swift and effective for all of those death-defying stunts, aye?”

“You mean you will, Than– Captain. You do all of that, and it’s up to me and Harthen to calm the men behind us and assure them that we are, in fact, going to survive.”

“Give yourself some credit. It took the whole active company to fell the Reaver. If you’re willing to spread the rumour that I picked up and swung about chains the length of a warship twice-over, you are free to that ass-kissing, Elinden.”

“And Tyr’s Hand?”

“Your’s and the boy’s screaming spurred me on like dueling drums. Couldn’t have done it without you two.”

“One breath, you’re telling us both to shut our fucking mouths and keep quiet. Next breath, you’re saying our yapping inspires you. Which is it, Captain?”

“Whatever conveniences me to say at the time. For now? Shut it, duck your head, eat the vile they’ve been trying to feed me, and let’s both get back to proper work - Aye?”

“I can only shovel so much of it in my mouth at one time.”

“I’ve walked in on you placing at least three time’s the amount of breast on that plate, right in your mouth. Lying bitch.”

“Oi, watch yourself, Captain. Talk a lot of shit about who’s warming my bed; I’ve seen you want to shake your comrades bloody for even thinking about your’s.”

“The difference is that I have a woman and you have romps. Bring someone home to me and we’ll try some reverence.”

“Someone good for me?”

“Academy Diploma. Steady career. What else do those fucks at the top look for?”

“A certain paleness to the skin? A maximum of an inch of fat behind the arm?”

“Mm, toss all of that, then. Rubbish.”

The knife scrapes.

“–Eh?”

“Your attention span…” is drawn off. “Come on, get out. Bring them their first orders.”

“And the vile?”

“Give it to the hound on your way out.”

Thanidiel does not keep her eyes on Elinden with his exit from her hall. Her attention draws towards the knife. Coated in fat and spice, and pointed towards her own person. Out of place/misaligned. She grips unto its handle, and, carefully, wipes one of its two surfaces against the cloth placed to the right of her. Then, it flips as the action is repeated in another stroke. Idly, the thought passes on how the motions resemble Goose’s Formation.

In the midst of noise bubbling around her – Elinden’s stool scraping across rock and earth and weed; his footsteps aloud through even the soft dirt as it compresses under his boot; the voices of men and women filtering from the outside; the constant rumble of horse hooves vibrating underneath her feet – another thought materialises.

The Phoenix Guard wonders who, or what, would be caught between its wings.

Awaiting her answer, the tool is returned to the wood’s surface once more. There, it points outward in solemn welcome of every boot that begins to filter into the space before her.

She notes how they mimick army with the loosely packed southern volunteers at its fore, and the Knights at its back in rows. The number looks suffocated, sandwiched by the layout of the feast hall where its tables format in a folding flank. She can see how they shuffle uncomfortably as they are forced to settle over stone, coal, and ash, from the morning fire since-dead.

The audio of their march dies down to the shiftings of their clothing and roll of debris from underneath soles, then ebbs further into stagnant quiet.

And so it stays. For the Duskward does not immediately boom her greetings nor call forth the tradition of introductions to be made to her by each new head. Instead, she studies.

She studies the wear of their shoes, and how much the leather sags down their feet.

She studies how segments of plate strapped over chainmail, felt, and cotton, fit upon each new soldier’s person.

She studies the length of hair flying over their brows, speckling their cheeks and catching through beaming light.

She studies the roundness of them - the fat that builds upon their arms and bellies. Some look well-fed. Most, she can see how, already, the dwindling trade of Quel’Thalas has drained their bowls.

In particular, the soldier studies its leaders.

Such a thing has yet to be announced - nothing has been announced at all. But it is something Thanidiel finds easily determined.

The mountainpeople have not been trained in formal stiffness. They stood outside of the dutiful (painful, at times) parade rest the Knights beside them had adopted. Instead, those of her birth settle with a way known to her as vigourful, and to others, as defiant: a laxness to their shoulders, an uneven settle of the feet. ‘Round the one she has identified as Ciril, those close have all drawn back their adjacent legs. Protective, and hesitant to remove floor.

Kielen’s presence is louder than that. His garb is something bold and distinctive from ‘mongst the more uniform Knights. While his comrades were content with a single swordbreaker, or leather spaulder, strapped against their persons, she notes how plate layers along the length of his upper arms in broad, encompassing, pauldrons. Instead of a practical barbute hanging from underarm or belt like many others, an arrogant faceguard settles over his coif.

Loud.

Even idle, he is fucking loud.

She can sense the pacing of his breath from here; how it desynchronises from the calm of all those around him until the brute moves forward, like that would smear away the scrutinous glint underneath her brows.

“Former Knight-Master–”

“You are dismissed.”

“...Ma’am?”

“You may present yourself to Fury Company in a week’s time.”

The rest does not need to be given to the air between them. Again, the blade is in her hand, and, again, it is offered forth to the man opposite of her. Confidence removed, the Blood Knight reaches forward. It is an action hesitant and disbelieving as the bare iron is slid, and held, against rivets.

“Consider that your ticket.”

“The… men, ma’am?”

“Everyone here will be evaluated for entry. Grain, work, shelter, to be provided immediately thereof. Dismissed.”

The flicker of relief that goes through the harshness of his face is like a light through forest canopy. It is something redeeming to the butchery of his first presentation. Graceful, now, his surrender goes swiftly.

“Blood and Thunder, Kin’taris.”

“Sun at your back.”

With the turn of his body away from her, the Captain crooks her fingers towards the crowd.

“At random. I don’t care about any exploits or titles before you’ve stepped into this tent so I hope you’ve left it all in the field. Names first, then me and your two Lieutenants, Elinden Brightvale and Harthen Sunbright, will determine your skillsets, units, superiors, and standing orders.”

The small thing with as hastily shorn hair as Elinden, at the very back of Kielen’s former company.

“Yenette Sunshield.”

The giant with thick and loose coils, closest to Ciril.

“Byrran Morningheart.”

The man with copper red skin at the very center of the Knights.

“Oridren Bloodmist.”

The half-elf with an axe-bite on her jaw falling out of the southern pack’s formation.

“Shenuile Darro…”

[hillywooddestiel]

The Retreat- Chapter 9

Characters: CEO! Bucky x reader

Warnings: language, angst

Word count: 1.6k

Series description: Y/N Y/L/N: determined business woman, sought after by most businesses, creative visionary for advertising. She has it all. Or so she thinks. Life has a way of kicking you sideways when you least expect it, want it or are in anyway prepared for it. Numerous times. How can Y/N remain from cracking under the pressure when her career isn’t the only thing on the line and everything isn’t all that it seems?

A/N: TR day again! I promise I’ll update my masterlists soon. Enjoy xx Series Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

Story:

Nat waits for me in the corner of my office while I just finish typing an email, her eyes shifting around to look at all of my various framed designs and awards (not to toot my own horn or anything).

“Okay and… I’m done! You ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the past five minutes Y/N. C'mon, there is a cinnamon roll with my name on it.” Nat swings her bag in the direction of the door as I scurry to keep up with her.

“Out for lunch?” Maria asks as she passes us, a large stack of papers in her arms.

“Yeah, want to join?” Nat continues to the elevator to call it whilst I chat.

“I can’t. I’ve got to get through all of these before six, lucky me. Think of me while you drink your coffee.” Maria heaves the papers up higher and wiggles her hand a little in a goodbye before trudging into her office. I’ll surprise her with a takeout when we get back; she looks like she could really use it.

We have a long lunch, but it’s not huge so our main options in walking distance for lunch are the office cafeteria (just no), a corner shop selling sandwiches in cardboard boxes, some vegan and gluten free cat cafe (for the insta-braggers) and a trusty Starbucks. We opt for option number four. Saying a big ‘screw you’ to my diet (I only started on Monday… it’s Tuesday), I order a grilled cheese and an almond latte with full fat milk. Nat orders her aforementioned Danish pastry and a flat white.

“So, who is he?”

“What?” I choke on my drink as it goes down the wrong way.

“You’re working yourself too hard and you keep zoning out with a smile on your face. It’s too soon for you to be dating again on purpose given how long your last relationship was so you must have bumped into them in the past week or so plus they must be nothing like she-who-shall-remain-nameless, a general rule most people follow, which means statistically for you it’s more likely to be a guy. So, I’ll ask again, who is he?” Nat finishes in one breath, eyeing me up as she takes a sip of coffee, my jaw nearly on the floor.

“How the hell did you figure all of that out?! Seriously, you could be like a spy or something!”

“I’m good at reading people. Don’t change the subject.”

“Fine! We’ve not been out on any dates we just… made out a little bit. It was never going to be anything serious.” I wave the subject away, desperately hoping she’ll drop it. Who am I kidding, this is Natasha Romanoff we’re talking about.

“Why not? You deserve to be happy and clearly this guy is on your mind.”

“He is. But I don’t want him to be!” I whine, stabbing my grilled cheese with a knife. Nat just gives me a look of 'why?’, “I can’t date him, it wouldn’t be right.” She ponders this for a moment as I take a sip from my coffee.

“Just because it’s only been a little over a week doesn’t mean it would be wrong to move on. If this guy is truly as great as he seems, you’ll be kicking yourself for not going for it.”

Natasha’s words hang in the air like perfume as I think things over. It’s not the time that’s the issue, I should have corrected her- why didn’t I correct her? She would have judged me, obviously, but she would have given me some advice too. Okay, let’s lay it all out. Bucky is my boss. I have known him for nearly ten years. He’s only just got out of a rollercoaster of a relationship that nearly became an engagement and I was dumped on the same day from a long term relationship. We’ve kissed a grand total of two times, nearly three, and both times were (excuse my French) fucking fantastic- I felt alive and full of fire. I like him. Oh my God… I like Bucky. I like him.

“You okay, Y/N? You’ve been staring into space for a full ten minutes now.” Nat waves her hand in front of my face, breaking my trance.

“Hmm? Yeah, I’m fine. I just… think you’re right. I should go for this!”

“That’s great! Ooh we need to get going back soon.” She gets up out of her seat and smooths her pencil skirt.

“Hold on, I gotta order Maria a coffee. She never asks but I always see her looking for one whenever we come back from having lunch out.”

The bar fills up quickly with various people in suits and office wear, the working day having drawn to a close. Bucky and Steve are sat in a booth for privacy, each with a small glass of golden liquid.

“Look out.” Steve mutters under his breath, making eye contact with Bucky.

“What?”

“Stark, incoming.” He warns making his friend groan in annoyance.

“Hey! If it isn’t my favourite joint CEOs.”

“Tony.” Steve nods his head acknowledgingly, “Did you want something?” Tony takes this as an invitation and slides into the booth along with his head of security.

“Well since you asked, a little birdy told me that you had a nasty break up with your girlfriend recently.” He grabs Steve’s drink and downs it in one, much to Steve’s annoyance.

“What’s it to you?” Bucky grumbles, holding onto his own glass very protectively.

“Well I happen to be in the possession of a few girls’ phone numbers that are happy to throw themselves at anyone willing to give them attention. And I have no need for them any more.” the billionaire shrugs, his sunglasses reflecting the overhead lights.

“Does Pepper know about these girls?” Steve asks a little threateningly. Tony ignores him, continuing his conversation.

“So what do you say? Or are you going to let your Labrador yap for you?” He grins. Steve almost leaps out of his seat to argue; he would’ve flipped the table of it weren’t for his friend holding him down.

“I’m fine, thanks Tony.”

“Really? Suit yourself then. Happy?”

“Yes boss?” The man finally speaks.

“Let’s go.”

Not long after Tony leaves, Bucky mumbles something about going home. Steve quickly gets up after him, running outside to catch up.

“Buck wait!”

“What Steve?” He stops but only to hail a cab.

“What was that about?”

“What was what about?”

“Just then! I get that you don’t like Tony but why did you leave in such a hurry?” Steve reaches out to his friend’s shoulder to turn him around. Begrudgingly, Bucky does so just as a cab whizzes past in a blur of yellow. “Buck… I think I know you well enough by now to know when somethin’ is on your mind.”

“I’m fine Steve, it’s just stress. You go, get home to Peggy.”

“Buck-”

“I said I’m fine!” Bucky says quite sternly, turning to try and get the attention of another cab driver.

A yellow car pulls up to the pavement and Bucky opens the door to get in. However, before he’s even got his seatbelt on, Steve slides in after him.

“East 102nd Street please.” He tells the driver, who nods and pulls out onto the street.

“Steve, what are you doing?”

“You’re going to talk to me. I know you’ve had it rough recently but that’s not it so, what’s got you so distracted?” Steve gives his friend an intense look, hoping it will make him crack. It’s always worked in the past: as kids, Bucky would be the one to look out for Steve and that included keeping him from doing anything that would hurt him. When he was younger, Steve had chronic asthma so Bucky didn’t like to over-exert him to avoid him having an attack. That didn’t stop Steve though. With one stern scowl and his arms folded, Bucky would break saying “Alright, we can play. But if my mom asks, you wouldn’t shut up until I let you, okay?”. He didn’t have to use it so often anymore but it’s surprising how many business negotiations can be solved with that one look.

“Look, it’s not work and it’s not Caroline. But it’s personal.” Bucky sighs, starting to reveal what’s plaguing his mind. “I didn’t mean too, it was a complete accident, but I think I might have found someone.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Is it? Like you said, I only just broke up with Caroline and she’s only just got out of a relationship-”

“Buck, listen to me, if I had waited with Peggy, who knows where I’d be right now? So what if it’s not been very long- you’re not getting any younger.”

“Hey! I’m only a year older than you.”

“You know what I mean.” Steve laughs as they pull up outside Bucky’s huge apartment block. “Just, if any part of you thinks that this could be something, please go for it. I’m with you whatever you decide.”

Dropping his keys into the bowl, the lights turn on automatically to welcome Bucky home. Could it really be something? Steve generally does have the wisdom of an old man. There must be rules about dating employees though- even if there isn’t it would be weird nonetheless. She’s all he thinks about; maybe it would be worth a try just to get her out of his system. God, why do life decisions always have to be so difficult?

[mvalleefootball-blog]

Patriots Stun Steelers; The NFL is King

By Michael Vallee

Sometimes the star of a game is an individual player.  Someone that steals the show with a singular effort.  Think Michael Jordan, sick with the flu, dropping 38 on the Utah Jazz in the NBA Finals.  Sometimes the star of a game is an entire team, one that collectively takes over with a transcendent performance.  The New England Patriots trailing 28-3 and winning the Super Bowl certainly qualifies.  And sometimes the star of a game is simply one play or one moment.  Ask Seattle Seahawks fans about this one, I have a feeling they might be able to come up with an example.

But in certain instances, the star of the game is the game itself or, more specifically, the league in which it resides.  In Sunday’s 27-24 Patriots victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers there were many standout performances and moments but the real star of the game was the National Football League and its total domination of our sports universe.

No other league can touch the anticipation factor of the NFL.  The Patriots vs. Steelers has been circled on the NFL calendar for weeks.  Everybody from Patriots and Steelers fans to network executives and beat writers were eagerly awaiting Sunday’s game which featured a stable of superstars and two future Hall Of Fame quarterbacks.  In a cluttered sports landscape it felt like the only game that really mattered.  What is the equivalent in other sports leagues?  Quick, what day do the Houston Rockets play the Golden State Warriors?  OK, how about what month?  Do you have any idea?  Me neither.  

I guess the baseball equivalent would be Red Sox/Yankees but does the baseball world outside of Boston and New York really care about that series?  They might watch parts of a game or two but does it really matter to out-of-market fans?  And how do even Sox and Yankees fans get geeked up for a series that will be played six times in a season and have little functional impact in a 162-game schedule?  Pittsburgh vs. New England had urgency and desperation, the result of clear and tangible consequences for both teams regarding home-field advantage and first round byes.  Fans from coast-to-coast knew the stakes and, more so than any other sport, cared about the outcome.

A marquee matchup like Patriots/Steelers stirs interest across the entire football world.  When you are dealing with teams that have won as often as Pittsburgh and New England, odds are, you are either a fan of one of those two teams or absolutely despise everything about one or both of those teams but, either way, you are going to be watching.  Additionally, you might not love or hate either team but know your team has to deal with one or both of them if they want to win in January.  Or maybe you have no dog in the hunt but just love football and there is no way you’re missing a chance to watch arguably the two best teams in the NFL, two teams with a long history of mutual animosity, knock the hell out of each other for 60 minutes.  A hockey diehard could easily miss a Tampa Bay Lightning/L.A. Kings game and not think twice.  There is nobody that calls themselves a football fan that was missing Sunday’s game.

It’s appointment television.  It’s what people revolve their social calendars around.  It affects not only your schedule but the schedule of your family.  I am sure a lot of Christmas shopping was done on Saturday knowing that being in a mall at 4:25 Sunday was not an option.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the NFL’s cultural dominance even affected some drinking schedules.  How many guys do you think didn’t go out Saturday night, or went out and drank less, because they wanted to be at “full strength” for the big game on Sunday?  That might seem like a stretch, or even a little insane, but I bet that number is bigger than you think.  That is the reality of America’s obsession with football.  It’s like nothing else in sports.

And the ratings for this one more than backed that up.

The Patriots/Steelers did a 17 rating, making it the highest rated NFL game this year.  The game also did a 32 share which means one out of every three televisions that was turned on in America was watching this game, an unheard of number in the age of multiple choices and splintered audiences.  The game peaked in the final half hour with a 20.5 rating and 36 share.  There has been a lot of yapping this year about the NFL’s declining ratings and dubious future but you didn’t hear any of it on Sunday.

The NFL is also the only sport that consistently delivers in the regular season.  How often do we hear people say about hockey or basketball, “I’m just waiting for the playoffs”?  Which is understandable considering that the intensity level for the winter sports increases exponentially in the playoffs.  But anybody that watched the Steelers and Bengals two weeks ago beat the hell out of each other for four quarters knows that simply isn’t true about football.  The regular season can be every bit as intense and brutal as the postseason.

And this was abundantly true on Sunday.

The only thing better for the NFL’s dominance than a nationally hyped game is a nationally hyped game that delivers - and Sunday’s Patriots game delivered in a big way.  Patriots/Steelers was a three hour football explosion of big plays, big moments and big performances.  It had drama and suspense - heroes and goats - controversial calls and controversial decisions.  There were last second comebacks and botched final drives.  The outcome was always in doubt.  Literally every second mattered.  It was one of those games that reminds us why we watch sports.

Imagine switching over in the middle of that game to a baseball game.  It would be like going from the roller coaster to the merry-go-round.

All of this says nothing of the ancillary activities that are also crucial to the NFL’s dominance.  Throw out, for a minute, all the loyalties, passion and hatred that drives sports fans and just think of what Sunday’s game was like for the millions that bet on it.  Patriots -2.5, trailing by five, driving for the “winning” touchdown.  A crucial two-point conversion looming if they score.  Massive financial swings riding on every play.  Pittsburgh responding with a huge play and apparent game-winning touchdown.  The play reversed…...the clock running…….both the point spread and under/over (52.5) are in play…….a gut-wrenching interception that simultaneously realized and dashed the hopes and dreams of gamblers everywhere from Pasadena to Peoria.  It was gambling tension at its finest.

Then there’s the office pools, football cards, pick four pools, pick five pools, underdog pools, big money winner-take-all suicide pools, futures bets (Patriots over/under wins was 12.5), any and all of it just adds layers to the cultural sports monopoly of the NFL.

And then there’s fantasy football.  We don’t do much fantasy talk on this blog as I don’t generally like to mix real football with pretend football but it’s impossible to ignore or deny the role of fantasy football in all of this.  Week 15, for most fantasy leagues, is the playoffs and Sunday’s games offered a bevy of highly productive offensive stars that can make or break a fantasy team.  While most probably tuned in for the football, don’t kid yourself, there were a lot of eyeballs on that game sweating out the production of the Bells, Bradys, Browns and Gronks.  

Purists hate it, your girlfriend doesn’t understand it and those that don’t participate most likely find the whole thing absurd but there is no denying its impact.  Fantasy sports has grown from an obscure hobby to a multi-billion dollar industry, and the pseudo-monopoly held by the NFL is yet another linchpin of its dominance.

All that was before the emergence of daily fantasy sports, the high stakes game-changer that just recently exploded onto the sports world, and is, of course, dominated by the NFL.  This new phenomenon, which reduces players to mere numbers on a screen and can turn nobodys into millionaires, has allowed the NFL to capture a certain fringe geek element that might have otherwise been occupied with something else.  They might not love football but they are now engaged because they have found a way to link it to their computers and smartphones.  Yet another financial notch in the NFL’s belt.

It can still be argued that the NFL’s future is far from secure.  Audiences continue to fracture, youth football participation is down and the effects of CTE loom like a dark cloud on the horizon.  And the current product is not perfect.  The games are increasingly micro-managed and slowed down by confusing rules and an archaic replay system; and NFL leadership, from Jerry Jones to Roger Goodell, is often an embarrassment.  

But on a day like last Sunday that all just seems like a bunch of white noise for talk show hosts and sports columnists to pontificate about.  It might not be perfect but there is no denying that the NFL is a cultural tour-de-force that is extensively ingrained throughout American society.  All ages and both sexes watch it, the president tweets about it, networks live and die by it, advertisers flock to it and the sports media can’t get enough of it.  In our sports solar system, the NFL is the sun and everything else is just rotating around it.  Mark Cuban once said about the NFL, “Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.  And they’re getting hoggy.”  Maybe, but if all the sports leagues are competing, that hog is miles ahead and the gap ain’t closing anytime soon. 

Game Notes

-Amateur Hour:  Another Patriots’ opponent, another late-game meltdown.  It’s hard not to sound like a homer when you cite all the times New England’s opponents have puddled in the final minutes of a big game and you conclude that the Patriots are simply smarter and more composed than their counterparts.  But how often does something have to happen before opinion becomes fact.  Atlanta in the Super Bowl, Seattle in the Super Bowl, Baltimore in the AFC Championship, Pittsburgh on Sunday, and on and on it goes.  Someday we might look back on this historic run and conclude that the Patriots’ ability to handle situational football, and perhaps as important, their opponents complete and total lack of ability to handle situational football was the most crucial component to their success.

-Rah, rah, sis boom bah:  The more you watch him the more Tomlin looks less like a head coach and more like a glorified male cheerleader.  His handling of the final moments of Sunday’s loss and subsequent comments are doing little to dispel that notion.  For starters, the offensive “brain trust” of Tomlin, Roethlisberger and OC Todd Haley had three minutes and 20 seconds to formulate a plan of attack while the refs reviewed the Jesse James touchdown yet reportedly the Steelers spent the entire time playing grabass and assuming they had already won the game.  That’s more time than you get for an actual timeout yet they seemed wildly unprepared after the touchdown was overturned. 

And this only gets worse.

According to Tomlin the reason they had no timeouts was because referee Tony Corrente mistakenly awarded them a timeout.  His reasoning is so dumb I can’t possibly do it justice so I’ll just let him do it, “I was looking at Ben. Ben was signaling timeout, but he wasn’t signaling at you (Corrente), he was signaling timeout at me, trying to get confirmation of what we wanted to do.”  So let me get this straight, following a 69-yard gain, which is a moment when most teams would call a timeout, your quarterback, who is on the field of play, signaled for a timeout but wasn’t actually signaling the refs that he wanted a timeout but was asking his coaches if they wanted a timeout and it’s all Corrente’s fault that he didn’t accurately read Roethlisberger’s mind to decipher his true intentions.  I think we’re starting to get a window into why Tomlin never learns from his mistakes - apparently he doesn’t think he makes any.

Oh, and we’re not done.

Tomlin, displaying a mindblowing level of ignorance, also asked Corrente this Mensa-level question, “Why did you award that timeout, the timeouts are supposed to come from the bench?”  What?  WHAT?!?  Timeouts only come from the bench?  Alright, Tomlin’s gotta just be fucking with us at this point.  How can that question come out of an NFL head coach’s mouth?  Are we actually supposed to believe that in his 16+ year NFL coaching career he has never seen a quarterback call a timeout?  That is so ridiculous on so many different levels when I first read it my brain had trouble processing it.  It feels like a quote from The Onion.

-Jedi Master:  Imagine Belichick giving that answer as to why his team didn’t have anymore timeouts.  Or try to picture Belichick, Brady and McDaniels standing around for over three-minutes at then end of a crucial game and doing absolutely nothing.  Belichick is the anti-Tomlin: No intense dramatic scowls, no excessive enthusiastic hand-clapping, no meandering aimlessly on the sideline; Belichick learns from his mistakes and has an actual working knowledge of the NFL rule book.  He knows rules that the refs don’t even know yet, Tomlin, who is on the NFL Competition Committee, doesn’t even know that quarterbacks, in the course of an NFL game, sometimes call timeouts.  When the Patriots face the Steelers, for Belichick, it must feel like he is playing chess against his grandson.

-What down is it again?:  Don’t think for a minute Roethlisberger is off the hook for that late-game debacle.  There is no excuse for a future Hall Of Fame quarterback to ever throw that pass.  None.  That is the type of pass you throw on 4th down or if your team is trailing by 4+ points.  On third down, with your team down by three, that ball has to go out of the back of the end zone.  Throw it away, kick the field goal and take your chances at home in overtime.  There are high school quarterbacks that understand that.  And Big Ben’s entire approach to the play was a hot mess.  If you’re not going to clock the ball, why not just take a deep breath, call out a play at the line-of-scrimmage and take a legit shot at the end one?  Instead Roethlisberger looked panicked, rushed to the line despite plenty of time, attempted some half-ass fake spike then threw the ball into triple-coverage.  Baffling.

-Revenge is a dish best served unhinged:  If you want to have a laugh, peruse Twitter and Youtube for reactions to the end of the Patriots game on Sunday.  Too many examples to cite them all here but think Seattle fans circa 2014 with the added twist of a controversial call.  In short, Steelers fans lost their f’n minds.  It’s hard enough losing to the same coach and quarterback for 15 years straight but to lose at home, blow a late lead and have it all come to fruition because of an annoying NFL rule is enough to send any sports fan reeling.  The saddest part of their reactions was the repeated and desperate cries of “cheaters”.  It’s perfectly understandable to not like the NFL’s “survive the ground” rule regarding what is and isn’t a catch, but somebody needs to inform Steelers fans (and Raiders fans for that matter) that NFL officials enforcing a rule already on the books is not actually cheating nor is it the NFL rigging the outcome for New England.

-OK, maybe we’ll cite one example because this is really damn funny:  https://www.instagram.com/p/Bc1McOfjcSD/

-Words to live by:  There are two concrete truths in life: never get involved in a land war in Asia and never throw a slant on the goal line against the Patriots in a big game.

-Taking the chalk:  The Patriots victory over the Steelers meant that every NFL favorite, based on the point spread, won week 15 - only the third time since the 1970 merger that has happened.

-“Never stop fighting till the fight is done”:  One of the sneaky underrated plays from the game was the Patriots defense keeping Steelers receiver Juju Shuster out of the end zone on his 69-yard catch and run in the final minute.  When the speedy Shuster cut back to the middle of the field in Patriots territory it looked like he was a sure bet to score.  But the Patriots secondary never gave up on the play, eventually pinning him down and gang tackling him on the 10-yard line.  

-Why was Trey Flowers covering (or trying to anyway) Le’Veon Bell on some key pass plays?  That was a very Tomlinian move by Belichick.

-Gronk smash Pittsburgh:  It is widely accepted that Gronkowski is not only the best tight end in the NFL but is on a trajectory to be the best tight end of all-time, but a week ago if someone asked you what the signature game of his career was you might have struggled to come up with an answer.  I think it’s safe to say that is no longer the case after what Gronk did to the Steelers.  Despite a slow start, Gronkowski finished the game with 9 catches for a career-high 168 yards (10 catches if you include the two-point conversion).  Nowhere was Gronk’s dominance more on display than on the game-winning drive, when he completely took the game over with five plays:

Play one:  Brady to Gronk deep down the middle for 26 yards

Play two:  Carbon copy of play one, another 26 yards

Play three:  Gronk reaches down and snatches the ball just before it hits the ground for another 17 yards

Play four:  Gronk seals off a defender with a key block on Dion Lewis’ 9-yard game-winning touchdown

Play five:  Gronk fakes an inside release, jukes the defensive back out of his jock, catches a wide-open two-point and celebrates like a deranged mad man

It was Gronk at his unstoppable best.  Someday a guy will have to go in that room at the Pro Football Hall Of Fame and make the case for Gronkowski’s induction and after Sunday that guy’s job just got a whole lot easier.  Now all he has to do is walk in, pop in the Pittsburgh tape, kick back, and watch the HOF votes tumble in.

-Tomlin not double-teaming Gronkowski at any point on that final drive is a fireable offense.

-Shhhhhhhh:  Tony Romo remains razor sharp with the Xs and Os stuff but desperately needs to learn the art of how to shut the hell up.

-Make space on the mantel:  Brady all but wrapped up the MVP on Sunday.  Not only did Brady lead the Patriots to a key road win but his MVP competition was decimated.  A week after Carson Wentz tore his ACL, dark-horse candidate Antonio Brown hurt his calf and Russell Wilson and the Seahawks imploded against the Rams.  

-No easy task:  If Brown is healthy come January and the Steelers get past the Jaguars don’t count me as one of the people that thinks this rematch will be an easy win for the Patriots if the game is played in Foxboro.  Pittsburgh represents all kinds of matchup problems for the Patriots defense and, despite the Steelers dubious history against Belichick and Brady, Pittsburgh could easily win next month in New England.

-Belichick is not pliable:  Interesting story in the Boston Globe by professional shit-stirrer Bob Hohler, who details how Brady whisperer Alex Guerrero has had his his team privileges revoked, banning him from team flights and from the sideline during games.  It’s hard to know just how big a riff this represents between Brady and Belichick, if any, because none of the principals are talking but it is definitely a situation worth monitoring.  The importance of this story would multiply tenfold if Jimmy Garoppolo was still a Patriot.   

-Stars and stripes:  A Great story emerged last week about Tom Brady and his commitment to supporting the troops.  According to Pittsburgh Steelers left tackle, war hero and unabashed supporter of the National Anthem, Alejandro Villanueva, Brady routinely Skypes with soldiers stationed overseas on the front lines.  Brady has said nothing about this and has sought no publicity for his actions.  Go ahead Steelers fans tell me again how much you hate Tom Brady.