They say football is a game of inches, but for me, it’s usually a game of inches between my beer glass and my shirt. Last Thursday, I bridged that gap in record time while watching what I am now certain was a rigged matchup. Yes, I’m alleging scandal. No, I can’t prove it beyond the mustard stain on my jeans, but the truth is right there in the queso.
The Setup
I wandered into McMurray’s Sports Tavern armed with twenty bucks, a coupon for half-off wings, and the kind of optimism that usually precedes disaster. The Thursday night game flickered across ten giant screens. I should’ve known trouble was brewing when the coin toss took longer than my last divorce settlement. That’s not sportsmanship — that’s theater.
The Suspicion
By halftime, I noticed patterns. Every time I took a bite of nachos, the visiting quarterback threw an interception. When I excused myself to the restroom, the home team scored. Coincidence? Or am I the human metronome of a vast betting syndicate? The guy at the bar who looked like an accountant with a gambling problem leaned in and whispered, “They’re shaving points.” He might’ve said “They’re serving joints.” Hard to hear over the jukebox. Still, my conspiracy gears started grinding.
The Fallout
I may or may not have accused the bartender of being in on it after my third IPA. “Ma’am,” I said, “I can see the remote in your apron pocket.” Turned out it was a bottle opener. Details. By the end of the fourth quarter, I had yelled “inside job” so many times, they made me sign a napkin promising never to come back on game nights. Still, I left convinced: Thursday night football is scripted, and I’m the only one willing to say it while covered in jalapeños.
The moral? If you bet, bet on me being wrong. Just don’t bet on me staying clean through four quarters.
Editor’s note: Management has not verified Uncle Dave’s claims. We did verify the mustard stain. It’s permanent.
