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OFF-SEASON ROUNDUP: GENERAL DISCUSSION

With Frank Allyoop and Fern Foosball

Frank: Welcome back to F-Squared Football!

Fern: Those were some insane takes on franchise tags we just heard, Frank. I predict that our inbox is going to be as stuffed as Coach Kepler when he goes down to KC for those burnt ends.

Frank: This time of year brings out the spicy opinions. It never fails.

Fern: Speaking of spice…

Frank: Oh, lord. I know where you are going with this one.

Fern: What word comes to mind when you think about GoGo Heller?

Frank: Um… “Record-setting fines?”

Fern: That’s three, my man.

Frank: Ooh! I know. “Booger sugar.”

Fern: Two words. And let’s go ahead and clarify that’s only a rumor, okay? Not looking to get our program sued. The word that comes to mind when I think of GoGo is “flash.” Which is why it’s so apropos that he’s got a new home in the Flash Capital of the United States.

Frank: Yup. GoGo’s gone to Vegas. He’s a Rogue now. Not that he wasn’t a rogue before…

Fern: Honestly, I’m surprised it took the Cyclones releasing him for GoGo to make his way to Sin City. You’ve gotta figure that he’s in his natural habitat, right? The lights, the showgirls, the spectacle…

Frank: Now, now, Fern. That’s a newlywed you’re talking about.

Fern: That’s right! He did get married this past weekend, didn’t he? Said that he was inspired by the bright lights to bump the engagement up and make things official. Not that he “said” it, because his jaw’s still wired shut. Think he signed his vows?

Frank: Hard to say. Well, mazel tov to him and the new Mrs. GoGo. What’s her name again? Gracie?

Fern: Gabrielle.

Frank: Best wishes to Gabrielle and GoGo. It kind of makes you wonder about the Cyclones, though, doesn’t it?

Fern: What about?

Frank: They booted GoGo’s ass on a Monday, and announced that they finally had snagged the Train on a sweet new deal that Friday. Coincidence? You know what they say: there are no coincidences in the NFA. The scriptwriters don’t like them.

Fern: I’ve actually never heard that saying, Frank. Who says that?

Frank: I think I heard it from my mom, honestly.

Fern: Well, far be it from me to contradict Mama Allyoop.

But, to answer your question… nah, I don’t think so.

If it were any other pair of beefing players in the Association, I’d question it, but not Kaius Reinhart.

You think he actually gave the Cyclones front office an ultimatum?

Because I don’t. The man is class through and through.

If there’s the opposite of a drama queen, look it up in the dictionary—there’s a picture of Reinhart.

Frank: You aren’t lying. But that’s the rumor. Whispers say that he wanted GoGo to… uh, go-go. Get gone.

Fern: Because of something to do with Sterling Grayson?

Frank: Maybe?

Fern: No offense to Sterling Grayson, but I think, as a member of sports media, we’ve yapped enough about him. I don’t care if he shows up naked to the season opener and stands on his head, you know? It’s all a big distraction from gridiron business.

Frank: You realize that you are talking about this in the same breath as mentioning GoGo Heller, who made an off-the-cuff explicit reference on social media as to how he was going to go home and, um, vigorously celebrate with his new wife, right?

Fern: He did say that he was going to celebrate all night—four or five times, I believe he claimed.

Frank: That’s one thing about GoGo Heller.

His mouth is the only thing that runs faster than his feet.

The question is, will he be good for putting up big numbers with the Rogues?

I know they aren’t spending $90 million over three years to listen to him brag about his conquests and try to make excuses for getting banned from another resort.

As it is, remember that he’s suspended for the first three games of the season.

Fern: To clarify, he’s only banned from one resort, and that was because he refused to pay for the glass door he smashed at the draft party after Miami signed Nyko Waters as a backup for GoGo.

Frank: Yeah, one resort that we know of.

Fern: I’m rooting for GoGo. I love a good comeback story, and he’s certainly primed for one.

Frank: The scriptwriters love it, too.

Fern: You are going to get us kicked off the air with the scriptwriting allegations, Frank. We’ve talked about this. Anyway, let’s take a short break. When we come back, we’ll chatter about minicamp dates. I know I’m counting the days! See you in a few…

***

Gabi’s wedding pictures are published in People Magazine .

She and GoGo got married by an Elvis impersonator at a trashy little chapel in Las Vegas on a Saturday night.

GoGo wore a metallic silver suit with no shirt underneath, his blond mullet slicked back.

His face looks good—has it healed, or is he wearing concealer?

It’s impossible to tell. His mouth, naturally, stays closed.

Gabi might as well have worn nothing. In the glossy photos, her mini-dress is iridescent and sheer, with a boned corset top a size too small, so her décolletage threatens to spill over, and a tiny caged skirt, all dripping in a pearl fringe.

It looks like it belongs on a burlesque performer, and not a bride.

Her hair is teased high and piled atop her head, crowned with a fussy little white velvet headband.

The heels she’s wearing are Pleasers, six stacked inches of platform and stiletto heel.

You remember gushing with Gabi over wedding details.

Her inspo always included long, romantic gowns with layers upon layers of tulle, sweeping trains, and cathedral veils.

She wanted to get married outdoors, in the afternoon, amid hundreds of her family members and friends.

Her family was huge, you recalled. At one point, she talked about you being in the wedding party.

Walking barefoot down the aisle. She said she wouldn’t necessarily mind if it were raining, because that was supposed to be good luck.

Instead, she got married at 11 PM in the fucking desert at the spur of the moment with two paid witnesses.

GoGo had always despised the idea of a big wedding, and it looks like he got his wish—an elopement.

Nothing about the wedding appears to have been Gabi’s choice, but she seems happy.

There’s no mistaking her wide, upturned blue eyes, which tend to button when she’s excited, or the radiant flash of her white teeth.

In one picture, she holds her left hand up, showing off her diamond-studded wedding ring like she’s just a normal girl from Cinci caught up in the whirlwind of having just married the love of her life.

You wish you could believe that was the case, regardless of your feelings towards GoGo. It would be better that way.

The pictures sadden you, and you toss the magazine in your recycling bin.

You wonder why your assistant put the issue through to your inbox.

Surely, she thought that she was being helpful, but you actually feel like shit.

The weight of it hangs on your shoulders as you go through the rest of your mail.

At the bottom, there’s an envelope shaped like a greeting card and postmarked from Eugene, Oregon.

It’s a thank-you card of thick, ivory card stock, with cursive gold letters embossed on it.

Again, you wonder why your assistant let this one through.

You can’t think of why anyone you actually know would send you such a thing.

Flipping the card open, a photograph falls out. You set it aside, and read the message.

Hey, stranger!

Sienna and I wanted to thank you for the layette.

It’s absolutely gorgeous. We can’t wait until Hazel is old enough to fit into all of it.

She was born on May 2nd. You guys almost shared a birthday!

Sienna did such a great job. The baby is amazing, Ster.

You have to meet her, even if she’s not old enough to really appreciate your music just yet.

I’m sorry that I didn’t make it to your tour when you were in LA. Sienna had a rough pregnancy, and I didn’t want to leave her for too long unless it was absolutely necessary. I knew you would absolutely kill it, though.

Do you still have a house on the West Coast?

We should try to get together some time.

I know that you are just about the busiest man in America, and I know that my schedule isn’t exactly forgiving either, but I miss you.

Sienna and I would love to show you around.

Give my love to Margot, Burt, and Noemi when you talk to them next.

Remember that you’re still just a loser to me. :)

--Ryan

The baby gift! Oh, god. You sent it off before you went to London, deep in the whirlwind chaos of having extended the tour.

It’s normal for you to delegate gift-shopping to Maeve, or even one of her junior assistants, but you picked this one out yourself: a pink pointelle set, the organic cotton knit as nubbly and soft as spun clouds.

If you remember correctly, there was a hat, a kimono sweater, a pair of little footie pants, and a matching blanket, all arranged in a gift box.

You handed the package over to your mom and entrusted her with getting the address from Ryan’s folks.

Honestly, you forgot about it completely.

You flip the photograph over. Not surprisingly, it’s a picture of the baby.

She’s a newborn, so she still looks mostly like a potato—and you say that as someone who loves babies—with a little tuft of light hair.

Her eyes are closed, and her tiny rosebud mouth is pursed in slumber.

They’ve posed her in a wicker basket atop a fluffy white blanket, a matching white bow on a stretchy headband.

There’s writing on the bottom: Hazel Elizabeth Adkins, 9lbs 2oz.

Like you, Hazel is a Taurus. Patient, loyal, and adverse to change…

well, there are worse things in the world.