He wakes up, ready for game day. The time is 6:59 AM. "Just beat the alarm, today is going to be a good day," he thinks to himself. 1 minute later Kenny G begins playing from his phone. "The early bird gets the worm, Kenny," he says with a chuckle.
Looking over at his sleeping wife, he searched the side table for his transitions lenses. "Ron, when are you going to get contacts?" He ignored the question from Stephanie. He put on his glasses, stepped into a pair of flat front khakis and donned his signature black polo. He smiled to himself, seeing that terrible new Panther logo just above his chocolaty-sweet heart. "A match made in heaven," he thought.
Standing over the bathroom sink, Ron imagined what he would look like with an earring. Just a single gold hoop. He took one of Stephanie’s and held it to his ear. He smiled. Maybe after the game he’d get a little crazy. Come out of his shell. Eat the whole pint of Chunky Monkey. His mind wandered.
Ben and Jerry are such a hoot. Who’d have ever thought, banana-flavored ice cream. Chud might have thought it if, but me? No. Just thinking about it scares me a little.
He slapped himself on the back of the hand, perfectly, thanks to all the mental reps he’d taken. He walked to the kitchen to make breakfast.
The white bread popped out of the toaster, lightly browned. He ate it dry. "This is my little slice of heaven," he said in a sing-song voice. That’s when he realized he was out of non-fat, lactose-free milk. He threw the empty carton down in anger.
"Stephanie, Peanut Munnerlyn drank all the milk again. I’m going to go to the store."
"Don’t forget to bring the beaver pelts, Ronnie."
In 2007, Ron had a traumatic experience regarding money, so he vowed to never touch it again. It made contract negotiations difficult, as the going rate for beaver pelts fluctuates in the market. Plus, they were cumbersome and hard to come by.
Ron trudged to the store and picked up milk, bread and one of those Milky Ways with only caramel inside. He handed it to the cashier muttering, "Damn my sweet tooth." "Pardon my Italian," he said to the cashier. The cashier furiously scribbled away on a piece of paper saying, that’ll be one beaver pelt and three chicken feet. Ron only had two chicken feet. He looked at the cashier with pleading eyes. The cashier didn’t relent. Ron put the Milky Way back on the shelf.
Kicking a rock all the way back home, he dreamt of owning an ice cream store. "That Ben and Jerry fella really has it good."
Finally home, Ron climbed the stairs to his tree fort to put the finishing touches on today’s lineup. Staring at the depth chart, he faced serious questions.
"Byron Bell is such a terrible RT, but he’s had a really bad week on Twitter. Maybe I should let him start again this week."
Brrrt. Brrrt. Ron jumped at the sound of his own fart. Then he realized it was only his cell phone.
The text from Gettleman read: RAHN. YOU NEED TO STAHT JOSH NAHMAN.
Rivera fired a text back. I’M STARTING PEANUT.
WHO IS PEANUT?
HIS NAME IS CAPTAIN, RON.
HE’S MY LIL’ PEANUT, DAVE.
STAHT JOSH NAHMAN, RON.
The next text took Ron 35 minutes to type into his Motorola Razr. DAVE, THAT’S NOT HOW I RUN MY TEAM. I’VE TOLD YOU HOW I DO THINGS. SECONDARY AND OLINE PLAYERS START BASED ON GOOD DEEDS. THE RUNNING BACK DEPTH CHART IS DECIDED BY THE COLOR OF WAYNE BRADY’S SHIRT ON LET’S MAKE A DEAL.
NAHMAN, RON. AND FACK WAYNE BRADY.
Ron walked to his car, pushed the live chickens out of the driver’s seat and got in. He sobbed quietly, thinking, "God, why can’t I just go back to being a defensive coordinator."