He held up the wilted, half-eaten shallot. “Sometimes,” he said, tears finally falling (for which he was fined $5,000), “you just need a smaller layer to win the big game.”
“Coach,” said a rookie sideline reporter, her polygonal hair clipping through her microphone, “the league has issued a new mandatory snack for halftime. It’s… an onion.” retro bowl onion
“Boys,” he said softly, “the mandate says an onion . It doesn’t specify the type .” He held up the wilted, half-eaten shallot
A single, perfect, pixelated shallot .
The second half was a disaster. On the first play, Barry took the handoff, but as he cut left, a single tear blurred his vision. He fumbled. The onion, still undigested, gurgled in his gut like a dying dial-up modem. The opposing team—who had smuggled in a case of hidden ranch dressing—scored 21 unanswered points. It doesn’t specify the type
Within minutes, the locker room became a portrait of suffering. The quarterback tried to hide his onion inside his helmet, but the stench clung to his gloves. The kicker, a delicate soul, simply held his onion and sobbed. Coach Spuf watched as his star wide receiver bit into the onion like an apple, shuddered violently, and then curled into a fetal position.
“Don’t you cry!” screamed the league official, pointing a stiff, pixelated finger.