Establishing The Baseline

Hey it’s a lineman who wants to be something else. No, wait. It’s his uncle who wants him to be something else.

Bonus point: If you like sideburns, today’s strip is for you.

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Rickey Don’t Get That Number

Rick(ey) Soto (related to Mario? If so, shouldn’t he have been in the spring arc?) will be our fall protagonist.  He looks to be yet another child of the Thorpiverse growing up in a non-traditional household. (I’m throwing the Recycled Art tag ’cause I could swear we’ve seen that house before. It’s not the Brown-Hiatt split-level but maybe it’s in Gil’s development.) He also looks to be yet another child of the Thorpiverse being pushed in a direction he doesn’t necessarily want to go by a parent/parent figure.  Will Rick(ey) turn out to have a bankable talent, on or off the gridiron? I’d say there’s a slim chance.

The entire fall will turn on the ongoing, David Greene-like conflict between Rick(ey)’s football prowess and whatever talent he turns out to have.  Stick around ’til Friday when Gil says “Rickey, you cannot go to the club!” Any major dude will tell you that’s what’s gonna happen.

Trey Facepalms for Us All

What more need we say?

P1: If Jaquan was a star these past two months would’ve been moot. Not all who wander are lost – except for Rubin, who was lost.

P2: Albrecht Dürer meets Roy Lichtenstein, Whigham style.

P3: Freeze-Frame Ending. If you listen hard enough you can hear the theme from “CHiPs.”  Here are a few more to hold y’all over until Monday.

NBA Swingman, History Professor, NFL Wide Receiver, These Are All Merely Branches On The Career Tree.

Josh Fruhlinger had some pretty hilarious commentary on pursuing graduate education in History the other day. I myself hold a degree in history but went to many too many professional graduate schools thereafter. (Like Vaganova and concussions, after your first one or two, you really don’t remember the third and fourth).

I don’t have much to say about today’s strip other than I guess we’ll have to wait until tomorrow for Jaquan’s next stunning reveal.

Making Calls, Squeezing Balls

“Hey! Hey Heather! Remember me? Remember Kevin, the guy you were supposed to be coaching to become a fullback?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. About that. You couldn’t hang onto a ball if it was tied to you… and almost nobody uses fullbacks anymore, not even Coach Thorp. You can tackle and ballhawk and you’ve got long hair, right? Worked for Polamalu and Matthews. Now go wash that greasy mop of yours and get back on D.”

Poor Pelwecki, looking like a lovesick calf and so starved for attention since Jaquan and Trey showed up he’s resorted to hugging a football like a Pillow Pet. Maybe Trey will take him back to his folks’ house-cum-satellite training facility and give him a pity drink on the back porch.

Meanwhile Heather’s hitched her wagon to a bigger star, who seems to be looking out for her as much as she for him. We’re left with the cliffhanger of to whom and for what were those calls made.

Unseen panel 4: “Jinx!”

 

Today’s Guest Writer: Bob Dole

Why else would we have all this third-person navel gazing?

Jaquan is 30.  If we’re to believe the narrative, he’s been in the NBA for about eight seasons.  Next LeBron or not, he could still earn a pretty damn good living, even at the league minimum – enough to fill his giant paws with tiny water bottles for years to come. Does he want to quit pro sports altogether, get an M.Ed., and become a high school history teacher and basketball coach?  With that atrophied right thigh and messed up ankle, he could be a lot closer to that reality than he thinks.

From the Dept. of Regional Accents: Reading P2 makes me wonder if Heather isn’t originally from New Orleans.

Muff Big or Go Home

There’s been a lot of turmoil along Tobacco Road this past week, pretty much none of it good. You’d think the syndicate color monkeys would’ve had the decency not to add to it yesterday by rendering True’s Wake t-shirt in UNC colors.

That said, I can appreciate Eight Elbows’ efforts to bring this wacky subplot to an end by having Milford’s Goldenest Child dash Jaquan’s far-fetched hopes to make the switch from pro basketball to pro football at age 30. I don’t even mind Trey’s little spaz dance there at the end.  However, I have no clue why Gil brought Mimi out to watch this spectacle, unless watching all those hot sweaty mens would put her in the mood for more than just sipping cocktails back at Casa Thorp.

Killin’, Wishin’, Hopin’

I’m not gonna engage in mental gymnastics today beyond guessing what Jaquan has backward is that he wishes Heather (or Trey, or Pelwecki, or someone) would tell him they wished he coached basketball.

There’s been too much suspension of disbelief required to hang with this summer plot. An NBA star rehabs an injury under the supervision of one of his old high school opponents, in a gym he converted from his parents’ old house?  That old opponent is now some kind of master trainer with more than one client? The ex-soccer player, ex-undersized tight end is now a coaching genius? The greasy-haired big lunk lineman is suddenly gonna turn into a skilled ball carrier/receiver? The greasy-haired big lunk lineman’s regular-season coaches are gonna note this and give him touches (but not like the touches the coaching genius has been giving him)? Stop this crazy train, I wanna get off.

What I do find remotely plausible is that Jaquan wants to coach. We’ve heard nothing about his NBA career post-draft. Even after donning a hoodie in the middle of summer, he’s drawn only the attention of the cook at Janet’s Diner (via the waitress who looks like Claude Akins). Maybe he’s not the superstar we’ve been led to believe and has just been eking out a living on a string of 10-day contracts between stints in the D-League. Maybe he’s seen enough of how Gil skates by in Milford to want a taste of that life. Maybe I’ve run out of theories and just wish Herk the Mauler would show up again.

metapost: Even as I try to get back into the habit of posting the B&W version of the strip, it’s been pointed out to me that the color version contains a fairly egregious error.

Musical inspiration for the post title: