text: “Wow! That last sack J.J. laid on Tom Brady, third quarter, seems to have left a very lasting impression him. Have you noticed that Chet?” Gerry Jerbette asks of his network co-worker. They had partnered together doing live action sports commentary for the past five years “Noticed? Are you kidding me? I’m way ahead of you Gerry. I’ve already had it entered in as a brand new game stat! ...For fewest plays aimed at wherever J.J. Watt is positioned on the line of scrimmage,” Chet Doler responded. Chet was seventeen years Gerry’s senior, who was able to distort his true age by looking every bit a handsome-bodied, neatly groomed, male professional, wearing a flashy smile, studded with top of the line implants. Gerry was a kind of a twenty-nine year old near twin to Chet. Gerry looked collegiately young, was neatly groomed, and also had a flashy smile. But additionally had the musculature of a man who often Peloton’d his way through lunch. “You know Chet? Yeah. Now that you’ve mentioned it... I haven’t seen the Buccaneers moving the ball much to J.J.’s side of the line all fourth quarter. Not ever since the Texans have been rotating him from end to end, every third and long scenario the Buccaneers have gotten themselves into today,” Gerry said into his head mic with game enthusiasm. “Yeah. Not that hard to figure out really,” Chet agreed, repositioning his headset for comfort. “The Buccaneers have been double-teaming J.J. Watt as if the man were a nuclear threat.” Gerry loosens up his tie and drops his opinion. “That’s for sure Chet. The Bucs are lagging behind the Texans by three points, with thirty-seven seconds left to go in the game. And I’m legally sure there isn’t a single person in all the NFL universe who isn’t sure that Brady is updating himself, play by play, on where the Texans’ number 99 jersey is lining up,” Gerry said with a conspirator’s grin. “Yeah, I would too, if I had a Watt pest problem in Raymond James Stadium,” Chet commented into the network’s audio broadcast circuitry. Activity out on the field catches Chet’s eye. He glances down quickly at his monitor to double check, then back out onto the field, and replies, “No doubt about that Gerry.” “And I see that things are coming back to life here in the stadium. The Buccaneer fans are coming to their feet, and breaking the sound barrier with extreme prejudice.” “You’re right Gerry. The Ariens/Brady summit on the sideline has adjourned, and Brady is walking over to his offensive unit with ***the*** ***plan***,” Chet conjectures. Gerry nods and then adds his observation to supplement Chet’s commentary. “***The*** ***plan*** seems to be delivered Chet. The Bucs are trotting up to the line of contention. The wait for the fans is about to be over. And you better believe you can hear their excitement at thirty thousand feet above this stadium!” Chet presses his head phones closer to his ears, and then signals to the booth engineer to dial up his head set’s audio just a few notches. Gerry gives the booth engineer the same signal for the same convenience and remarks into his mic, “Brady must have an itchy trigger finger Chet, because the Buccaneer offense is lining up in the shot gun.” “Right Gerry. Which totally stands to reason. Seeing that he’s on his own forty-two yard line with no time outs left, fourth down, and eighteen long yards to go for a clutch first down,” Chet says, raptly fascinated. He throws Gerry a quick glance, and finishes by adding, “Look at him out there Gerry. Tom couldn’t possibly be more in hero mode. He’s got the apparent swagger of a legendary Superbowl champion persona about him for sure.” “Yup, hold that thought Chet. Cause there’s the snap! Brady’s pocket is forming around him like a Star Wars deflector shield. And there goes his crew of receivers streaking downfield like X-wings star fighters, trying to find a little free Grid Iron space to haul in a fast spiral delivery. And there’s J.J. working hard to crash the party.” “But he’s up against the double-team duo of Donovan Smith and Ali Marpet. They’re out to bar J.J.’s way like a pair of night club bouncers. But wait! Wow! Did you see that?!" Gerry exclaims excitedly, nearly performing a perfect imitation of a NASA rocket launch out of his chair. “You better believe I saw ***that***, Gerry!” Chet breaks in to reply. “That’s no optical illusion. J.J. just made the fastest lightening inside-fake, outside-spin move on Donovan Smith, the big Buccaneer tackle has probably ever seen in his life!” Chet says, in a soprano voice. “It appears that Smith wasn’t expecting J.J.’s fake and spin. Or that J.J. would suddenly not be under his hands anymore! Which is resulting in a very surprised Donovan Smith stumbling forward, in a very badly off balanced way!” “Right Chet! But look at Ali Marpet. He’s stumbling over Smith’s legs, trying to get to J.J.! Which is proving to be a bad move for both him and his teammate. Because they’re both headed for the artificial turf, and no doubt, a real good chewing out in the very near future!” Gerry predicts. In the very next second, Gerry’s index finger reflexively points out the broadcast booth window excitedly. Danger signals clanging in his mind, to broadcast, “Oh! And somebody better get Brady on his helmet radio and tell him what I’m looking at! J.J. Watt is racing in unhindered! And I’ll bet my paycheck he’s not rushing in to get Brady’s autograph!” Automatically, Gerry turns his head, but not his eyes, to Chet, and announces, “Looks like Brady is going to have to seriously consider grabbing two feet of space on the sideline, real real soon Chet!” Chet channels his counter-comment into his microphone, “Gerry, I believe you’re putting it way too mildly. Brady has to see he’s about to become a sack stat! There’s nobody open. He’s running out time! And he’s already out of downfield options. He’s a complete escape artist now!” Chet continues. “J.J. has gone to sack speed, and is rapidly narrowing down the distance between sacker and sackee,” Chet says ominously. On the tail end of Chet’s commentary, Gerry hurries to add his own take. “Yeah Chet! If Tom doesn’t find somebody to take that $120 piece of Wilson sporting equipment off his hands soon...!” Chet smoothly rejoinders Gerry’s commentary to say, “Not likely Chet. Brady will never make it to the sideline sanctuary, or the air express office either. He’s just a step away from getting Watt-ed for a huge loss.” Both commentators instinctively want to wince and cover their eyes, but don’t. When the play is officially over, they both look away from the field to look at their monitors and shake their heads, viewing the instant replay of the collision. While watching, Chet does the honors of summing things up for the broadcast audience. “Well Gerry, for all intents and purposes this game is already minted and printed. With only twenty-six seconds left in the game, J.J. Watt has just served Tom Brady Jr. with a penalty-free sack notice, and signatured it by way of a dutiful military salute.” “Right Chet.