NFL play date.

Given the earlier news of the day on Tom Brady's impending fatherhood, this is what we may be seeing in the next NFL off-season:

(Tom Brady and child are at his Boston pad when the doorbell rings.)

Brady: Hold on, sweetie, daddy will be right back when he gets the door. (Heads to front; gets the door.) Hey, buddy, come on in! Glad you could make it. Need any help there?
Matt Leinart (stumbles in with his three kids and various Gucci diaper bags): Gah, Tom, buddy -- sure. Hold on to Cam here for a sec.
Brady: Gotcha. (Takes Leinart's son, walks over to crib.)
Matt: Thanks for doing this. It's hard enough to get them all out of the house.
Brady: (Puts kids on the mat.) Sure, sure, but what the hell are the girls wearing?
Matt: Totally their mother's idea. Paris dresses 'em just like her damn dogs, man. It's hard enough to get time with Cameron, but at least Brynn doesn't require $1,000 baby booties for him.
Brady: Man, I don't want to say I told you so...
Matt: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are Ray and Chad coming up this month?
Brady: No, Chad couldn't get one of the mothers in South Beach to put them on a plane, and Ray said he'll bring 'em around next month. Oh crap, don't tell me one of the twins is flashing again.
Matt: Learns some great habits from Mom. C'mon, Dakota, put the diaper back on -- we don't have to do exactly what Mommy does all the time...

(Doorbell rings again.)

Brady: I'll get that. (Walks back to the front door, where Brian Urlacher is waiting with his three kids.) Hey there, Brian, what's up?
Brian Urlacher: Oof. Hey, Tom. Flight was hell. Getting these three together on the plane was awful, but we made it. Just the three of us this time?
Brady: Yeah. Chad and Ray both called, they said they'd come around next month.
Brian: Bummer. What's up, Matt?
Matt: Heya, Brian, want a beer?
Brian: Pass it over. (Looks at Leinart's daughters.) Don't tell me she's started her own designer line for infants?
Matt: Apparently people will spend $200 for this stuff. At least it keeps her busy. Why didn't I listen to you in the first place?
Brian: No one's fault, really. What could you do? At least you're not blowing a wad of cash to two women. Better the twins have a rich mother, right, Tom?
Brady: True, but it's nice to have said mother out of town. Bridget's on a film shoot, and Gisele's flashing her ass for the cameras again.
Matt and Brian: Amen to that.

(Brady turns on the basketball game; Celtics vs. Lakers in L.A.. They mock the Celtics for sucking yet again, this time with Kevin Durant on the team.)

Brady: Should have taken Oden.
Brian: Matt, is that....(sees Paris Hilton in Staples with random faceless paramour.)
Matt: Yeah, she's with oil boy again, the one with the same name.
Brady: He's got enough in his hair to power the cars of a third-world country. Ugh, diaper duty again. Be right back.

(Brian and Matt play with the kids, watch the game. Faint ring of "Super Bowl Shuffle" in background.)

Brian: Oh, that's me. (Picks up cell.) Hello? Hey, Rex. What's up? Partying again, huh? Oh, yeah, they're all here. Guys, it's Rex, and he's in Vegas again. Rex, lemme put you on speaker. (Matt puts the game on mute.)
Rex Grossman: Hey dudes, wish you were here (hic.)
Brady: Grossman, it's 2 in the afternoon and you're buzzed already?
Rex: Heck yeah, man. Another Playboy party! These things last forever, and so does the Sex Cannon.
Matt: I can't believe your wife lets you do this every year.
Rex: Hell, man, it doesn't matter to her so long as there's a roof and a bank account, Matty! Hope you guys are having fun with the kids and stuff. I got three Bunnies up here. Oh, I thought you were done, sweetie -- more for you? Shit, sorry guys, gotta go!

(Hangs up. Brady unmutes the game.)

Matt and Brady: Motherfucker.
Brian: You want me to hit him extra hard when mini-camp rolls around?

(All credit of the image of Rex Grossman as debauched bastard must go to Big Daddy Drew and Kissing Suzy Kolber, of course.)

the dirty life and times of Bobby Joe Grooves.

Dan Jenkins has always been a personal favorite, ever since my dad brought home a copy of You Gotta Play Hurt from the library somewhere around the vicinity of ten years ago. That book remains a favorite of both of ours, mostly because I wanted to be a sportswriter like Jim Tom Pinch at the age of 14 and my dad wished he'd gone that way rather than news. Slim and None was put out in '05 in hardcover and made paperback last year, and since a lot of Jenkins is either hard to find in stores or out of print (Semi-Tough got the re-issue treatment only recently), I didn't get ahold of a copy until Dad sent me one last week.

Readers first met Jenkins creation Bobby Joe Grooves in You Gotta Play Hurt, as main character Jim Tom Pinch's golf pro of choice, and then got to know him more in the mildly disappointing The Money-Whipped Steer Job Three-Jack Give-Up Artist. Now, Jenkins is chronicling Grooves' attempts to win a major at 44, while trying to get his love life jump-started with the mother of a Tour phenom after his third divorce.

The appeal of Jenkins as a writer lies in what everyone calls his "political incorrectness," and while it is fucking hilarious for the most part, some of it will rub you the wrong way. There's something questionable about the two times the NBA is mentioned that it happens to be about a player Grooves' agent has who's always getting in trouble for rape. The rest of it is what Jenkins readers and devotees come to expect: good humor, good golf lore about the course and the four major championships, etc. Bobby Joe gets screwed out of tourney victories something fierce several times in uproarious manner.

The problem is that it feels like Jenkins just re-wrote and updated Dead Solid Perfect again, without giving us a reason to really root for Bobby Joe in this book. If you read the Give-Up Artist, Bobby Joe's quest and efforts in Slim and None make more sense -- you know his back-story and his difficulties. Slim and None is Bobby Joe playing Kenny Lee Puckett, without the fun anecdotes of an imagined Fort Worth to add levity to a book about what, to casual observers, seems the most boring of sports. It's a nice afternoon read if you find a used copy, but I miss the Bobby Joe in You Gotta Play Hurt, whom, after he lost the Masters, cussed out Augusta. Now, he sings its praises like everyone else.