Damaged Petals.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5790
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
Boy got knocked the fuck out in the second update
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13036
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Oh, he one of them palm colored people. Going head-to-head, QB v QB with a white boy versus a brother is wild
Talking all that shit and getting knocked smooth the fuck out
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redsox907
- Posts: 3138
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
we got CTEBrice over here already 
Cracker got an AR killed me
Cracker got an AR killed me
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12952
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
having fun with these calls
finna crash out and tat his neck next
s/o to the yakubians
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12952
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 1, Episode 3
Jimmy tried to scramble out of the pocket before the large defensive tackle shed off his block, cutting the path to open field. Jimmy settled back into the pocket, rising himself up before short hopping a pass at Curtis’ feet. The referee hadn’t even blown the whistle when Curtis undid his helmet, letting it hang to his side as he walked off the field.
"Punt!" yelled the coaching staff from the sideline as the offense made the increasing familiar trek to the sideline.
From behind his dark shades, Brice could see the confidence leaking out of his brother as he came off the field. Coach Butler gave Jimmy a tap on the helmet, keeping his hand there as they discussed what had happened on the drive, what he was seeing out there. Brice remembered those days, when those conversations felt more like quizzes than debriefs — yet another opportunity to fail, another opportunity to look stupid in front of the coaching staff.
"I thought they were in quarters," Jimmy said as they took a seat next to Brice, who had a coaching headset on but the volume had been turned down as the constant chatter was making his headache worse.
“How the fuck are they in quarters when the corner is sitting right there?” Brice scoffed, glancing up at the scoreboard.
Washington was supposed to be a stat-padding game, the kind where his day was over by halftime. Instead, they were in a 7–3 dogfight with the defense holding strong while the offense sputtered.
“He’s only reading the play side,” Coach Butler defended his young quarterback. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just keep trusting your reads, trust your eyes. If you need to check into something, you’ve got Marcos. Just check with him.”
…
"Moose?" Marcos turned to Jimmy, wanting to confirm the call with two linebackers stacked in front of him. Jimmy stepped forward, trying to solve the puzzle.
From the sidelines, Coach Lanovoi thought about calling timeout, but Butler’s calm demeanor made him hold back. Jimmy was an athlete, and they had the right call against the blitz. If he had enough time — or bought some with his legs — a touchdown was as likely as a sack.
“Moose!” Jimmy barked, backing into position for the snap.
“He can’t check into Moose here.” Brice peeled himself off the bleacher, dizzy from standing too fast, but hurried toward Coach Butler, yanking down the mic on his headset. “He can’t check into Moose on this!”
Austin held his arms out in confusion, then tapped his helmet to acknowledge the call. The ball was snapped and, predictably, the Panthers brought an all-out blitz. The concept — trips running dig-post-corner, back flaring out, tight end dragging across — left only two hot reads. Jimmy had just checked them into protection, leaving no one open as the defense collapsed on him.
He slipped past the first rusher and nearly broke free of the second before the rest swarmed him, dragging him down for the sack.
…
Brice took a rip from his vape, letting smoke encase him as he watched the farmhouse from a distance. Even back here, Curtis’ ranting carried. He shoved the vape into his sweats and pushed off the fence, walking toward the commotion, sure his baby brother was catching the brunt of it.
“These motherfuckers can’t guard me, man!” Curtis hurled his helmet into his locker as players broke into groups. With the staff still huddled outside, emotion spilled everywhere, no filters.
“Why the fuck are we checking into Moose on Crossfire?” Austin asked to no one in particular, though it landed at the feet of their veteran center.
"We don’t know the fucking routes and shit, bro," Eric defended the call, "That’s on the Q!
“Clearly the motherfucker don’t know what he doing!” Curtis shouted — then froze when his eyes met Brice. He looked away, embarrassed.
Brice didn’t say anything at first, staying in the background as players vented, swapped observations, and pitched halftime adjustments. He stayed quiet until Butler came in with the whiteboard to huddle with Jimmy and the skill guys.
"Let’s just go fucki—let’s just go empty," Brice suggested, "We’re running layered concepts with a first-year quarterback."
"When we're running any sort of field side concept," Butler said, ignoring him as he drew up a play on the white board, "If they show up with that overload look to the boundary, we can—"
“You’re trying to run all these layers and it’s just going to confuse him.” Brice’s voice rose now, loud enough to catch Lanovoi’s attention.
"We go empty, give him one or two reads, if it’s not there, fuckin—just take off. We don’t need any of this to beat Washington, Coach, they suck."
"Throw me the damn ball, how about that?" Curtis snickered.
"You’re going to have to block today, bro," Brice snapped at Curtis, "Every game ain’t going to be go-balls and deep posts and putting up stats. Fucking block someone today and show these coaches you ain’t too little to play in the Power 4."
“Who the hell think I’m little, nig—” Curtis caught himself as Lanovoi stepped in.
“Let’s keep it simple,” Lanovoi said. A smirk crept across Brice’s face. “They can’t play with us. Football’s blocking and tackling. They can’t tackle us, and I know we can block them. I’m supposed to have the two best linemen in the state — how about y’all freaking show it?!”
…
Jimmy clapped hard on the fake snap, sending defenders shifting. He calmed the line and looked to the sideline, but not for Coach Butler.
“Geico! Geico!” Brice yelled. Jimmy echoed it.
The ball was snapped and he tucked it into Brandon’s belly who took off, getting to the second level of the defense with ease before bouncing it outside to pick up a few extra yards. On the perimeter, Curtis had put a stutter move on his corner who hadn’t recognized that it was a running play as Curtis began mockingly pointing towards the corner. If he wasn’t going to catch a pass today, he was at least going to amuse himself.
The interaction didn’t go unnoticed from Brice who had taken off his shades, squinting his eyes and powering through the increasingly worsening headache.
"Run Yeller here," he saddled up next to Coach Butler whose annoyance was evidence on his face. Realizing he was being ignored, he moved to Coach Lanovoi.
"Yeller is going to be wide open on this, I’m telling you, Coach!” he pleaded.
"You just told me to keep it simple," Coach Butler shook his head as he looked at his play sheet.
"The safety is cheating down," Coach Lanovoi suggested. He had trusted the snotty nose thirteen year old to lead his program four years ago against all conventional wisdom. A first down play call was the least of what his trust had earned.
Coach Butler signaled the play-in, half-wanting it to blow up in their face. Jimmy began barking orders as he got behind the center.
"Just calm down, kid," Brice muttered under his breath, trying to will his thoughts into his brother’s head.
The ball was snapped and handed off to Brandon who slowly inched his way towards the line of scrimmage before turning around and pitching the ball back to Jimmy. He nearly fumbled the ball as he tried to find the laces and by then, the pressure was already beginning to come around the edge as the defensive line hadn’t fallen for the fake. But the secondary had.
…
“I got first dibs on him as a coach,” Lanovoi joked, arms crossed. “Although he might end up taking my job.”
“I figured that play was his idea,” Tom replied, feeling Liz’s tug on his arm as they lingered in conversation longer than she wanted.
“Jimmy responded really well in the second half. I can’t wait to see him play next week. I feel like he’s starting to find his groove, and that can carry us the rest of the season — quarterback or receiver.” Lanovoi’s words finally pulled Liz into the exchange.
She fixed her gaze on him, waiting for the question.
“What are they saying now, about Brice?”
There it was. Not subtle. He was still the grunt he’d always been — the meathead jock who used to crash on Tom’s couch back at Notre Dame, when Liz first started dating him. He’d cleaned up some: shorter hair, trimmed beard, a ring, a mortgage. But he was still that guy.
“He’s getting better, but it’s hard to tell,” Liz cut in. “Not like a sprained ankle you can tape up and go.”
Lanovoi pictured Brice’s spatted up ankle during their playoff run sophomore year, a sitting duck that defenses feasted on as he dragged them to a state championship appearance. Her point landed.
“I’ll let y’all get going,” he forced a smile. “Have a good night.”
“You too, honey,” Liz returned, equally disingenuous.
Jimmy tried to scramble out of the pocket before the large defensive tackle shed off his block, cutting the path to open field. Jimmy settled back into the pocket, rising himself up before short hopping a pass at Curtis’ feet. The referee hadn’t even blown the whistle when Curtis undid his helmet, letting it hang to his side as he walked off the field.
"Punt!" yelled the coaching staff from the sideline as the offense made the increasing familiar trek to the sideline.
From behind his dark shades, Brice could see the confidence leaking out of his brother as he came off the field. Coach Butler gave Jimmy a tap on the helmet, keeping his hand there as they discussed what had happened on the drive, what he was seeing out there. Brice remembered those days, when those conversations felt more like quizzes than debriefs — yet another opportunity to fail, another opportunity to look stupid in front of the coaching staff.
"I thought they were in quarters," Jimmy said as they took a seat next to Brice, who had a coaching headset on but the volume had been turned down as the constant chatter was making his headache worse.
“How the fuck are they in quarters when the corner is sitting right there?” Brice scoffed, glancing up at the scoreboard.
Washington was supposed to be a stat-padding game, the kind where his day was over by halftime. Instead, they were in a 7–3 dogfight with the defense holding strong while the offense sputtered.
“He’s only reading the play side,” Coach Butler defended his young quarterback. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just keep trusting your reads, trust your eyes. If you need to check into something, you’ve got Marcos. Just check with him.”
…
"Moose?" Marcos turned to Jimmy, wanting to confirm the call with two linebackers stacked in front of him. Jimmy stepped forward, trying to solve the puzzle.
From the sidelines, Coach Lanovoi thought about calling timeout, but Butler’s calm demeanor made him hold back. Jimmy was an athlete, and they had the right call against the blitz. If he had enough time — or bought some with his legs — a touchdown was as likely as a sack.
“Moose!” Jimmy barked, backing into position for the snap.
“He can’t check into Moose here.” Brice peeled himself off the bleacher, dizzy from standing too fast, but hurried toward Coach Butler, yanking down the mic on his headset. “He can’t check into Moose on this!”
Austin held his arms out in confusion, then tapped his helmet to acknowledge the call. The ball was snapped and, predictably, the Panthers brought an all-out blitz. The concept — trips running dig-post-corner, back flaring out, tight end dragging across — left only two hot reads. Jimmy had just checked them into protection, leaving no one open as the defense collapsed on him.
He slipped past the first rusher and nearly broke free of the second before the rest swarmed him, dragging him down for the sack.
…
Brice took a rip from his vape, letting smoke encase him as he watched the farmhouse from a distance. Even back here, Curtis’ ranting carried. He shoved the vape into his sweats and pushed off the fence, walking toward the commotion, sure his baby brother was catching the brunt of it.
“These motherfuckers can’t guard me, man!” Curtis hurled his helmet into his locker as players broke into groups. With the staff still huddled outside, emotion spilled everywhere, no filters.
“Why the fuck are we checking into Moose on Crossfire?” Austin asked to no one in particular, though it landed at the feet of their veteran center.
"We don’t know the fucking routes and shit, bro," Eric defended the call, "That’s on the Q!
“Clearly the motherfucker don’t know what he doing!” Curtis shouted — then froze when his eyes met Brice. He looked away, embarrassed.
Brice didn’t say anything at first, staying in the background as players vented, swapped observations, and pitched halftime adjustments. He stayed quiet until Butler came in with the whiteboard to huddle with Jimmy and the skill guys.
"Let’s just go fucki—let’s just go empty," Brice suggested, "We’re running layered concepts with a first-year quarterback."
"When we're running any sort of field side concept," Butler said, ignoring him as he drew up a play on the white board, "If they show up with that overload look to the boundary, we can—"
“You’re trying to run all these layers and it’s just going to confuse him.” Brice’s voice rose now, loud enough to catch Lanovoi’s attention.
"We go empty, give him one or two reads, if it’s not there, fuckin—just take off. We don’t need any of this to beat Washington, Coach, they suck."
"Throw me the damn ball, how about that?" Curtis snickered.
"You’re going to have to block today, bro," Brice snapped at Curtis, "Every game ain’t going to be go-balls and deep posts and putting up stats. Fucking block someone today and show these coaches you ain’t too little to play in the Power 4."
“Who the hell think I’m little, nig—” Curtis caught himself as Lanovoi stepped in.
“Let’s keep it simple,” Lanovoi said. A smirk crept across Brice’s face. “They can’t play with us. Football’s blocking and tackling. They can’t tackle us, and I know we can block them. I’m supposed to have the two best linemen in the state — how about y’all freaking show it?!”
…
Jimmy clapped hard on the fake snap, sending defenders shifting. He calmed the line and looked to the sideline, but not for Coach Butler.
“Geico! Geico!” Brice yelled. Jimmy echoed it.
The ball was snapped and he tucked it into Brandon’s belly who took off, getting to the second level of the defense with ease before bouncing it outside to pick up a few extra yards. On the perimeter, Curtis had put a stutter move on his corner who hadn’t recognized that it was a running play as Curtis began mockingly pointing towards the corner. If he wasn’t going to catch a pass today, he was at least going to amuse himself.
The interaction didn’t go unnoticed from Brice who had taken off his shades, squinting his eyes and powering through the increasingly worsening headache.
"Run Yeller here," he saddled up next to Coach Butler whose annoyance was evidence on his face. Realizing he was being ignored, he moved to Coach Lanovoi.
"Yeller is going to be wide open on this, I’m telling you, Coach!” he pleaded.
"You just told me to keep it simple," Coach Butler shook his head as he looked at his play sheet.
"The safety is cheating down," Coach Lanovoi suggested. He had trusted the snotty nose thirteen year old to lead his program four years ago against all conventional wisdom. A first down play call was the least of what his trust had earned.
Coach Butler signaled the play-in, half-wanting it to blow up in their face. Jimmy began barking orders as he got behind the center.
"Just calm down, kid," Brice muttered under his breath, trying to will his thoughts into his brother’s head.
The ball was snapped and handed off to Brandon who slowly inched his way towards the line of scrimmage before turning around and pitching the ball back to Jimmy. He nearly fumbled the ball as he tried to find the laces and by then, the pressure was already beginning to come around the edge as the defensive line hadn’t fallen for the fake. But the secondary had.
…
“I got first dibs on him as a coach,” Lanovoi joked, arms crossed. “Although he might end up taking my job.”
“I figured that play was his idea,” Tom replied, feeling Liz’s tug on his arm as they lingered in conversation longer than she wanted.
“Jimmy responded really well in the second half. I can’t wait to see him play next week. I feel like he’s starting to find his groove, and that can carry us the rest of the season — quarterback or receiver.” Lanovoi’s words finally pulled Liz into the exchange.
She fixed her gaze on him, waiting for the question.
“What are they saying now, about Brice?”
There it was. Not subtle. He was still the grunt he’d always been — the meathead jock who used to crash on Tom’s couch back at Notre Dame, when Liz first started dating him. He’d cleaned up some: shorter hair, trimmed beard, a ring, a mortgage. But he was still that guy.
“He’s getting better, but it’s hard to tell,” Liz cut in. “Not like a sprained ankle you can tape up and go.”
Lanovoi pictured Brice’s spatted up ankle during their playoff run sophomore year, a sitting duck that defenses feasted on as he dragged them to a state championship appearance. Her point landed.
“I’ll let y’all get going,” he forced a smile. “Have a good night.”
“You too, honey,” Liz returned, equally disingenuous.
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djp73
- Posts: 10764
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Damaged Petals.
The ol younger bro wr/qb2 scenario 
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5790
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
Interesting premise starting with the main character being hurt. Intrigued where you're choosing to go with this thing.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3138
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12952
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
keeping it simple stupid
That makes two of usCaptain Canada wrote: ↑07 Oct 2025, 20:31Interesting premise starting with the main character being hurt. Intrigued where you're choosing to go with this thing.
going back to freestyle writing with a general idea and then going to let the game results drive me. those are always the most fun to me vs. having a story i want to tell because once I finish telling that story
YOU NEVER KNOW
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13036
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Jimmy is a trash name so I'm going to guess that this is just showing Brice has a "high football IQ," a gamer if you will, first in-last out of the gym type of dude, workout warrior.