60 seconds, motherfuckers. Just hang on for 60-fucking ticks. Christ, this is dick-sandwich time.
Stop it. No bad thoughts. No bad juju, not now. Now is when the Fish need you most. It's now time. Hold the line.
"Hold it. Right here, baby! We hold them here and it's ball game! Sweet Jesus who art in heaven, please let them hold it right here!"
"Does baby Jesus root for the Dolphins too, Daddy?" asks Charlene, the yelling guy's precocious 6-year-old daughter.
"Ask your mother, Char, Daddy's focusing...”
The Dolphins don't hold.
First down Bills. Down to the Dolphins 34. But the Fins are still up by 4.
"Right now, fuckers. Just keep 'em out the endzone, Fish! Right now!"
"That's a quarter, daddy. Actually, two."
"Charlene! Not now! And there's no charges during Dolphins games, right?"
Now is when they always fucking take that big fucking bite of hot dick sandwich.
Bills reverse to Sammy Watkins for 4 yards.
"Go ahead and run, you bitches! Run clock. Run! Stand tall, big D!"
"Why do you even bother, Daddy? They're just going to lose and make you swear more."
"Charlene, go find your mom, please. Daddy's busy."
Is it my fault? I always expect them to suck in the end, so they always suck right when I need them not to suck. Of course it's my fault. I'm not focused.
"Focus you fuckers!"
"When was the last time they even made the playoffs?"
Screen left to Fred Jackson for a pickup of 3. He sneaks out of bounds with 21 ticks left. 3rd and 3 on the Dolphins 27.
"I don't know, honey. A while. Come on, fuckers, hang on!"
The Bills line up in shotgun with 4 wide. Fred Jackson's back to block.
"Honey, come get your daughter, please!"
"Ok Google..." Beep. "When was the last time the Dolphins made the playoffs?"
"2008 was the last time the Miami Dolphins competed in the NFL playoffs."
Pick play on a short out to the tight end, Chandler picks up the first and more before getting out of bounds at the Dolphins' 19-yard-line. 5 seconds left. Time enough for one last play.
"Thank you, Google," says Charlene to her phone. "2008. We're the same age."
The game slows down to a stop. There is no game. Not because it's the final play, but because Jake finally does the math – finally becomes aware of a frequency that's always been, but which now becomes miraculously apparent. The television may as well be off.
"Dad! Last play!" screams Char, focused on the task at hand, now, when it counts most. Just like Jake had taught her. But Jake's got nothing left. He just stares at his daughter miserably. Like a great weight has been set upon him. A biblical weight.
The seconds tick down as Orton scrambles left, then right, avoids the outstretched arms of seemingly every Dolphin on the field, only to find Sammy Watkins in the back of the endzone with a laser. The best play of Orton's far-from-stellar career. A dagger in Jake's wounded heart.
"Sorry, Dad. Does it at least get easier each time?"
"2008. The last time we made the playoffs. Before you were born."
Jake's eyes glaze over as he looks deeper within Char.
Jake doesn't even look at his wife, who finally shows up, decked out in all the latest female Fins fan gear, carrying a laundry basket full of clean, folded laundry.
"Did we win?"
"What do you care, you missed the end, when we needed you most."
"I don't, really. I just want you to be happy, honey."
"Like back in 2008?"
"The last time we were any good. Just before Char. Remember what winning is like? I don't."
"Sorry, hon. Can you please rake the leaves now?"
"Charlene, go rake the leaves."
"I'm six and I'm allergic."
"YOUR'E BAD LUCK IS WHAT YOU ARE! YOU'RE ROTTEN STINKING BAD LUCK!"
"So I don't have to rake the leaves then? Thanks!" Char runs off.
Wife's pissed again. "Jake! Your daughter is not the reason the Dolphins are terrible!"
But Jake had done the math. Like Abraham accepting the abhorrent word of God about Isaac's unfortunate future, Jake knew exactly what to do. For the good of the Dolphin Nation, Jake knew just what to do.