Football Convert

Warren thought someone had thrown a towel at him at first. As he washed the suds from his hair, he suddenly felt wrapped in cloth. He cringed at the sensation of dry cloth getting soaked in the shower stream, then rubbed the soap from his eyes before looking down to see he was wearing a shirt he didn’t recognize.

After a stunned moment, he stepped out of the stream of hot water and grabbed the tail of the shirt and yanked it up. Something pulled it back down. Warren spun around--he was definitely alone--and tried again. He hit resistance as soon as the shirt was up past his chest and could pull it no further. “What… what the heck…” he sputtered. This soaked shirt--it was a football jersey, the LAST type of shirt Warren would ever think of putting on--wouldn’t come off! Slipping his arms through the sleeves didn’t help either. Some invisible barrier prevented this shirt’s removal.

“This… isn’t possible,” he said to himself as he turned the faucet off. He couldn’t even identify the jersey--was it football or hockey? What team was it? More importantly, where the fuck did it come from? He toweled himself off, shivering in the cold locker room air as the drenched jersey hung heavily. “I’m having a stroke,” he theorized. “I’ll call Dr. Magnum. He’ll--”

“Warren! BRO!”

Warren cringed--any company in this state (naked except for a wet sports jersey he couldn’t remove) was unwelcome, but Peter was the last person Warren ever wanted to see, especially now. The loutish numbskull came up behind Warren and got him in a headlock, giving him a noogie like a high school bully, before giving Warren a forceful clap on the back.

“Warren, dude, since when are you a Chargers fan?”

Warren stomped his foot, enraged. “I don’t even know what sport the Chargers play,” he said, blotting at the wet jersey to dry it off. When that didn’t work, he walked up to the hand dryer and spread the shirt in front of it.

Big Peter was dressed in a sleeveless tank top stretched tightly over his broad, thick belly. Peter was broadly built and still strong from his years as a college athlete, although beer and pizza had thickened him considerably since his playing days. Had he not been Warren’s neighbor, the two never would have spoken. The fact that they went to the same gym just made Peter’s insufferable presence even more likely.

“I’ve been saying for years you gotta learn how to like football,” Peter insisted as Warren dressed for work, starting with his silky black socks. “Seriously, you’d attract way more guys if you could watch the game with them on dates and shit.”

Warren bristled. “I assure you, Peter, I’d rather stay single dating someone meant having to fake enjoyment of a football game.” He had finished dressing to his waist, and realized he was going to have to navigate the inescapable jersey now. Peter was watching him with his usual intensity, and Warren had no intention of dealing with this situation with an audience. He retreated into a bathroom stall where he sat down on the closed toilet seat.

“See, you’re way to uptight. That’s the reason you’re still single, buddy!” Peter was now standing outside the bathroom stall. Could this imbecile not take a hint?

“Well, what’s your excuse for being single?” Warren clapped back. Peter chuckled.

“Me? I’m just sampling all the chocolates in the box before I settle on one flavor.”

Warren rolled his eyes. Did Peter actually think someone like him--an overgrown construction-working lout--and a professional executive could be friends? He was grateful to hear Peter finally retreating.

“That’s it, buddy bud, I’m out. I’m hitting up all-you-can-eat wings tonight to watch the game. I really think you should come!”

Warren rolled his eyes, grateful to hear the locker room door shut. He sighed and looked down at his damp jersey. “What am I going to do about you?” he said aloud.

Warren’s shirts were well-tailored, and while they weren’t exactly “tight,” there wasn’t a lot of spare room. Pulling one over this mysterious jersey looked ridiculous, but he had too much on his plate that day to try to solve this. “Exactly who would I go to, anyway?” he said to his reflection as he tied his tie. “A surgeon? Do I need this thing surgically removed? Or maybe an exorcist.”

His secretary, Wanda, looked surprised as the normally flawless executive stepped off the elevator. “Mr. Dandridge, are you… is everything okay?”

“Of course,” Warren said, hurrying past her to his office door. “Send in the applicant when he’s ready.”

“O-okay, I just… do you need me to go to dry cleaning or something for you?” Wanda offered. She was always so helpful. But acknowledgement of his problem was an interruption to his “avoidance” strategy, so he just hand-waved the question.

“Why would I need that?” Warren said, slamming the door shut. He was grateful there were no mirrors in his office.

The applicant--Dave Van Oss--reminded Warren of Peter, if the hirsute buffoon ever visited a proper barber. Warren rolled his eyes at Mr. Van Oss’ mention of his college hockey achievements on his resume. I’m hiring someone who may one day replace me. “Chasing a puck” is not a useful skill here.

“So basically,” Warren said, tossing the resume back at Mr. Van Oss across the desk, “tell me what you would do IF I offered you this job.”

“Well,” the stocky bearded man began, “first of all, it’s my goal to…” He froze. “Uh, Mr. Dandridge… are you okay?”

Warren scoffed at the question. “Yes, I’m fine. Trying to conduct an interview, here, if you want to keep going.” His shirt felt tight, but the suggestion that things were amiss set him off.

“Uh, okay, it’s just… I didn’t notice you wearing shoulder pads when I came in.”

Warren noticed the weight on his shoulders and looked down to see the buttons on his shirt straining, stretched so widely that his blue and gold jersey underneath peeked through. He shook his head and smiled. “I’m not interested in a fashion critique,” he snapped. “Although it’s disappointing to see how easily you could be derailed.” Mr. Van Oss seemed shaken by Warren’s clipped tone, and continued.

“Cancel everything on my schedule today,” Warren barked into the intercom after the applicant left. He threw open a closet door and stood in front of the full-length mirror there, shocked at his appearance: he was clearly wearing something heavy underneath the jersey. It made him look bulky, like he was wearing a “muscles” costume, but as he reached up to touch the heavy plastic underneath his clothes, a strained button popped off and ricocheted off the mirror.

“How… how is this…” Warren was speechless as he shucked his blazer and his work shirt to reveal what was clearly football pads underneath the jersey. Removing them wasn’t an option. While he could slide his fingers underneath the pads, each time he tried to pull them off, the same force that prevented removal of the jersey intervened.

“Wanda, I’m taking a personal day,” Warren said after slapping his hand on the intercom button again. “And I’m taking one tomorrow too.” He found his winter trenchcoat in his closet--far too heavy for this weather--and threw it on over the new equipment on his shoulders and hustled out of the building.

“I look fucking ridiculous,” he said into the rearview mirror. His heart was pounding. “Don’t panic,” he coached himself. “Remember: identify the problem, gather information on the problem, generate solutions. Action over inaction.” He repeated the commands, his personal mantra for dealing with crises, but the first question kept stumping him: what, exactly, was the problem? He was wearing football gear that wasn’t his, that appeared out of nowhere, that he couldn’t remove. This wasn’t a problem; it was evidence of a mental break.

“Call Dr. Magnum!” he screamed into his phone, starting to panic as the phone rang. What exactly was he going to say? I’ll just demand he see me immediately… and show him… and go from there.

“Dr. Magnum’s office,” said a cheerful young secretary on the other end.

“Hello, this is--mmmph!” Warren nearly choked when a plastic mouthguard appeared in his mouth, muffling his speech. He reached up to remove it but it seemed attached in the same way the everything else was. “Mmph--dish… dish ishh…” The mouthguard was huge and bulky, wrapping around his teeth and nearly immobilizing his tongue. He tried a few more times to speak, but he couldn’t form a comprehensible sentence. In frustration he hung up.

Warren pulled over and examined the new addition, nearly whimpering when a set of knee pads appeared over his dress pants. He tugged at them, but knew they weren’t going anywhere. What the hell was going on? He looked ridiculous, and anyone passing by would think he was clearly losing his mind. He had to figure something out. His phone vibrated and he saw a text from Peter.

Hey buck-o! Saving you a seat at the bar. Come watch the game!

Warren shook his head. Surely Peter couldn’t be his only hope, but who else could he turn to? The bar wasn’t far.

I need help. Coming to see you. Please keep an open mind.

Warren hesitated before pressing send, gasping as he felt a silky tightness appear around his legs. He undid his belt and looked underneath his pants; sure enough, he was wearing white football pants underneath.

As he started the car, he gasped when he realized his shoes felt different pressing against the pedals. He looked down to see spiky cleats. It felt naive to still be surprised about all of this. He hit the gas pedal too hard, then nearly slammed against the steering wheel when he hit the brake too sharply. He parked his car crooked in the bar’s parking lot, then hopped out, walking like a ballerina on the pavement with his cleats.

He couldn’t go inside, he knew, so he sent Peter a text from outside, ducking behind his car everytime someone passed by. When Peter finally emerged, Warren found himself totally unrecognizable--because a football helmet had appeared on his head.

Warren sobbed quietly as Peter approached, his jaw wide open, his eyes alight with wonder. “Warren--buddy? Is that YOU?!”

Warren looked down. His business attire had vanished. He was wearing a full football uniform now--he felt the cup suddenly surround his junk and a jockstrap tickle around his hips, completing the ensemble--with no trace of the executive he had been hours before.

“Mmph… MMpeeterrshh… Uh needsh… hulpmph…” Warren couldn’t form a complete sentence. He patted down his uniform, looking for his phone to tap out a response, but it had vanished along with his pants--and his keys! He was now stranded and he had no idea why.

“Buddy, lemme tell you… the guys are gonna go NUTS when they see you!” Peter said, clapping Warren on the shoulder. He threw his arm around Warren and started dragging him inside. Warren couldn’t believe this--he had come here for help, but it appeared to Peter (and to everyone around) that he was just enthusiastic about the game! As much as he wanted to fight and flee, something deep down kept him calm and he walked with Peter.

His heart leapt when he walked into the bar as the drunken patrons cheered. They think I did this on purpose, Warren thought. He had never made this much of a spectacle in his life. What he needed was help, not the beers and frosty Jagermeister shots the sloppy football fans shoved in front of him as he took a seat next to Peter.

Warren flagged down a waitress and mimed using a pen. She smiled and handed him a pen and a sheet of paper. There we go, he thought. I’ll just have Peter call me an ambulance. But all he scrawled on the piece of paper was, “CHARGERS RULE!” He shook as he realized what he’d done, then scratched it out and tried again--”GO CHARGERS!” was all his hands could write. In frustration, he crumpled up the paper and tossed it aside. He looked at the beer before him and sipped it as best he could with the mouthguard in the way.

“Honestly, I gotta say, Warren,” Peter said, putting an arm around him. “I thought you were a real uptight dickwad before, but it’s great seeing you go all in on football like this!”

Warren wanted to tell Peter to fuck off, but deep down, he had to admit: he was having a good time. How can this be possible? he wondered as he found himself high-fiving others as the Chargers scored touchdowns and cheering when they scored the extra point. He stared at the screen, shocked to realize he actually understood what was going on. Not only that, he was recalling stats about the players he had no way of knowing. Underneath his horror was a gentle glow of satisfaction from watching the game with others who loved it. His dismay at the situation was slowly fading, replaced by true enjoyment.

He’d always thought the sport was so absurd--what kind of professional athlete is a hundred pounds overweight? But as he looked at the massive linemen stomping around, his heart leapt at the idea that they were literal wrecking balls and brick walls. He couldn’t help but admire the skill it took for the quarterback to make decisions on his feet, in the heat of the moment. What an incredible ballet it was, all of these men doing their jobs to the best of their ability. As a team they were a well-oiled machine, physical goliaths in peak human condition doing what no one else could. It was truly breathtaking--how had he missed all of that before?

When the game was over, Warren stood dizzily. He felt like he’d just been in a hypnotic fugue. He was shocked to see that it was dark outside now. How long had he been in the bar? He stunk of booze and chicken wings. As he stumbled unsteadily out, with Peter’s arm around him, he tried to fathom how he’d been able to stomach all of that. He froze when he looked up to see that Peter’s shoulder was now above his head, and Warren, in his football helmet, was looking into Peter’s belly.

“No, no,” Peter said as Warren headed toward his own car. “You’re coming with me, little guy.” Little guy? What was Peter talking about? Peter was thicker, sure, but they were the same height--no, now Warren was looking at Peter’s crotch. He gasped as Peter started to loom taller and taller. He was so disoriented, so overwhelmed. He felt like he was drowning in all of these changes, like his real life was millions of miles away.

Peter reached down and grabbed Warren as if he was a child, slinging him over his shoulder. “People are gonna think you’re my kid if they see you like this,” Peter said, patting Warren on the back as he whimpered miserably, dwindling away more with every moment. “But not for long. Just relax, little guy. It’s almost over.”

By the time Peter got the door open, he was a literal giant. Warren was sitting on his hand, entirely contained. He couldn’t comprehend how he’d gotten so small, but then again he couldn’t remember the last thing that day that had made any sense.

“Did you have fun today?” Peter asked, setting little Warren on the dashboard.

Warren nodded; it was the only thing he could think to do. As his head bobbed up and down, he realized he couldn’t stop--nor could he move. A panicked moment later he realized he couldn’t talk. He wasn’t breathing, either. He was tiny, stuck in place, bobbing his head as he took in just how huge Peter’s car seemed from his vantage point on the dashboard.

“Aren’t you happy now?” Peter said, gently nudging Warren’s head. Warren nodded because he had to (that’s how his head was hinged) but deep down, it was true! He couldn’t deny how insanely pleased he felt. “I knew you just needed to unwind a bit. Too much stress, too many responsibilities. Now you’re my good-luck Charger’s charm! Are you happy that I changed you into this?”

And Warren nodded. It was all he could do--and as Peter pulled out of the parking lot, he wondered what would happen to his car or his apartment or his company. And with every passing moment, he found he could remember less and less of the life he used to live. He couldn't remember what color his car was, or the name of his secretary, or where he was from. By the time Peter got out of the car, giving his head a gentle, playful nudge, he couldn’t even really remember his name. All he knew was that he loved football, loved the Chargers, and he had never felt so happy in his life.