Here are some more cool pictures from the game on Sunday that I didn’t work into the Three Cups Deep.
Walking to the stadium. Here’s where I initially spotted the tremendous XXXXXXXXXXL Germane Crowell home authentic . . . but check my man over on the right. Is that a Kelvin Pritchett away replica tucked into belted Wranglers? With a Lions hardhat? Awesome. Moving on from the “vintage” rack, we have a couple nice selections from the “so fresh and so clean” department:
That Stafford away authentic looks gorgeous. The Suh home authentic looks . . . forgeous. Look at the number patches . . . not quite right (compare the “9” in the Suh to the “9” in the Stafford). Also, the sleeves are straight-cut, not banded like authentics. Honestly, I didn’t spot this until afterwards, though—the Chinese knock-off stuff is getting better and better.
To quote a wise and learned scholar (Xzibit), “This is what happens when determination meets a broke-assed motherf****er.” Only a matter of time before my man turns that “3” into a “4” and that “SMITH” into a “BEST.” Oh, and check out David Sloan at the front of the line! He was Dallas Clark before it was cool to be Dallas Clark, supposing Peyton Manning were Scott Mitchell and Dallas Clark had knees made of Velcro.
Okay, this is terrible. This kid is wearing a “wolverinehead,” like a cheesehead, except it’s a wolverine snout. Dad is wearing a U of M cap. That would all be fine, I guess, except little dude is rocking a LaDanian Tomlinson Chargers jersey. Look, neither the Michigan Wolverines, nor the San Diego Chargers, were playing in that game. LaDanian Tomlinson was in the game, but playing against the team they came to root for. I was so grumped out by this compound attire foul, the out-of-place Zetterberg didn’t even faze me.
Tough to see, but that sign says “I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT NEW YORK,” with ‘No Smoking Sign’ circles with lines through them drawn around every major New York City sports franchise’s logo. I was so impressed with the craftsmanship, and the seething hatred, I almost took it home.
After scoring his touchdown, he looked up at the goalposts, reared back, and threw his miniball over the crossbar . . . and over my head. It bounced off the rail on top of the wall—inches from actually going in the stands.
“Dad, I told you they were gonna let me on the field. I told you I was gonna need my cleats.” I get a certain perverse joy out of being a Stupid Old Dad.