The Monday Night Fiasco
So, somehow we ended up at Chad’s place to watch Monday Night Football. Why? No clue. I don’t even like football, and I’m pretty sure Tessa thought we were watching a documentary on airplanes until we got there. But Chaz promised pizza and beer, so like moths to a flame, we all showed up, only to be greeted by… chaos.
Chaz: grinning “Guys! Welcome to Monday Night Football! You ready to watch the Jets crush it?”
Me: “The Jets? Chaz, they haven’t crushed anything since… ever.”
Mark: “Pretty sure they once crushed their own playoff chances in 2015. Does that count?”
Tessa: glaring at us from the couch “Wait, this is a football thing? I thought we were doing something sophisticated, like trivia night or wine tasting.”
Sophie: “Oh, no, this is much worse. This is where grown men cry over balls they’re not even playing with.”
Me: to Tessa “Relax, Tessa. It’s just one game, and Chaz ordered pizza. Just eat, and try to block out the primal screaming that will inevitably happen.”
Tessa: warily “Fine. But if anyone starts a chant, I’m leaving.”
The game kicks off, and it’s the Jets vs. 49ers. Chaz is all-in, fully decked out in a Jets jersey, wearing that stupid fedora again (because why not), and already way too emotionally invested for someone who claims football is his “second passion after self-care.”
Five minutes into the game, the Jets are… well, being the Jets. A fumble here, a missed pass there. You could almost feel the disappointment coming off Chaz like a weird, sad cologne.
Me: smirking “Hey Chaz, did they forget which team they’re playing for, or…?”
Chaz: not having it “It’s all part of the strategy, bro. Gotta lull them into a false sense of security.”
Sophie: “So, basically what they’ve been doing for 50 years?”
Mark, meanwhile, has no idea what’s going on. He’s cheering randomly at the screen, sometimes at the wrong moments.
Mark: yelling at the TV “Yeah! What a throw!”
Me: “Mark, that was an interception.”
Mark: confused “Oh, so… not good?”
Sophie: shaking her head “Not good. At all.”
Halfway through the first quarter, Chaz’s neighbor, Greg—who none of us really know—shows up. Now, here’s the thing about Greg: he’s one of those guys who acts like everyone’s best friend but has the social awareness of a brick wall. He strolls in, already holding a beer like he owns the place.
Greg: loudly “What’s up, party people? Who’s ready to watch the Jets get their butts kicked, huh?”
Chaz: nervously laughing “Ha, ha… funny joke, Greg. But seriously, Jets are turning it around tonight.”
Greg: “Oh yeah? I bet you $100 they lose by at least 20 points.”
Cringe. No one wanted to take that bet, because—let’s be honest—Greg was probably right. The Jets were already down by two touchdowns, and it wasn’t even halftime.
Sophie: whispering to me “Is there an appropriate way to eject someone from a football watch party? Like, without getting physical?”
Me: “I think the universal sign is throwing him out the window.”
Greg, meanwhile, had no idea we all wanted him gone. He settled in next to Tessa, who was clearly trying to hide behind her glass of wine, looking like she was rethinking all her life choices.
Greg: turning to Tessa “Hey, you into football?”
Tessa: sighs “I’m into finishing this wine and pretending I’m somewhere else.”
Greg: laughs loudly, thinking she’s joking “Ha! Good one! No, but seriously, football’s the best, right? You get it.”
Tessa: whispering to me “I don’t get it. Why is this happening?”
By halftime, things were bad. The Jets were still losing, Chaz was quietly muttering to himself, and Greg was doing color commentary like he was auditioning for ESPN.
Greg: “See, what the Jets need is a better offensive line. That’s the problem. That, and their quarterback is terrible. And their defense. And their management. Really, the whole organization’s a mess.”
Sophie: deadpan “Sounds fixable.”
Chaz was clearly about to snap. I watched him eyeing the door like he was considering just walking out on his own party. That’s when Greg made his move. He stood up and announced to the room:
Greg: “I know what this needs! We gotta start a chant to bring up the energy in here!”
Oh no. Not a chant.
Chaz: “No, man. We don’t need to—”
Greg: already chanting “JETS! JETS! JETS!”
Silence.
Me: to myself “Dear God.”
Tessa: horrified “He’s doing it.”
Greg: getting louder “C’mon, everybody, with me now! JETS! JETS! JETS!”
Mark: enthusiastically joining in “JETS! JETS! JETS!”
Sophie: to Mark “What are you doing?!”
Mark: confused “Uh, chanting? That’s what we’re doing, right?”
“There’s a moment in every social situation where you realize things have gone too far. A chant? At a watch party? We’ve crossed into a level of awkward that’s irreversible.”
Chaz, already emotionally wrecked from the game, had finally hit his breaking point.
Chaz: “Greg, please. I love you, man, but can you just… stop? The Jets are killing me. I’m dying inside.”
Greg: laughs “Nah, man. This is what being a real fan is about. You gotta power through!”
Tessa: mumbling “This is what I imagine hell looks like.”
Just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, the Jets managed to fumble again. The 49ers recovered the ball, and the camera panned to the Jets coach, who looked like he’d just aged 20 years in two quarters.
Greg: laughing “Oh man, you guys should’ve taken that bet. I told you they’d lose by 20!”
Chaz: defeated “Why do I do this to myself?”
Sophie: patting his shoulder “Because you’re an optimist, and it’s your curse.”
By the time the fourth quarter rolled around, Greg was still going strong, making bets with himself and predicting every single way the Jets could screw up, while Chaz sat in a silent existential crisis, staring blankly at the screen. Mark was trying to figure out if he could still win his fantasy football matchup even though he had drafted two kickers. And Tessa? She’d somehow managed to disappear into a corner with her wine.
Me: internally “I’m never doing this again. Ever.”
Finally, the game ended, and the Jets, naturally, lost by 13 points. Chaz was catatonic, Greg was smug, and the rest of us were just happy it was over.
Greg: on his way out “Good game, guys! We should do this every week!”
Tessa: whispering “I’ll move to Canada first.”
As Greg left, I couldn’t help but look over at Chaz, who was still staring at the screen, processing the horror that was being a Jets fan.
Me: “Chaz, you okay?”
Chaz: quietly “Maybe I should start watching basketball.”
Sophie: “Yeah, let’s get you into something less heartbreaking. Like chess.”
And with that, we all left Chaz’s apartment in silence, vowing never to let Greg back in—or to watch another Jets game. Same difference.
