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Imagine for a moment being the son of Bill Belichick on Christmas morning. Bill spends the one day of the year at home with his family rather than on a cot in the locker room of Gillette stadium. He’s already pissed he isn’t looking at game film from 2021. You, Belichick’s son in this hypothetical, have yet to prove yourself human to your father, never mind make him proud. Now, you’re faced with the impossible task of buying him a gift, a joyous sentiment that will undoubtedly crash and burn.
You have already opened all three of your gifts from your father: a football, a football, and a football. You timidly reach for the last poorly wrapped gift under the tree labeled ‘To Dad, From Santa.’ Belichick, dumbfounded, claims he doesn’t know a Santa, and for the next 28.3 minutes, you delve into the origin story of Christmas, all the while Dad’s blood is boiling.
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Dead-eyed, he opens the gift you spend months deciding on. He pulls out a mason jar containing what appears to be a human heart. He remains expressionless. He looks back at you, presumably for clarification. You gather yourself, take a breath and utter, “It’s R-R-Roger’s. Roger Goodell’s.”
An unfamiliar look of unbridled pride washes over Dad Belichick’s face. Tears fill his eyes. He looks at you, gleaming, and for the first time in your life he says the words: “I love you, son.” You look away to compose yourself before fixating your eyes back on Dad. “I love y–,” he is no longer there.
You hear his droney voice faintly in the distance. You put your ear up to the door of the room dad keeps all his U2 memorabilia.
“Yeah Malcolm, we’re going to have to let you go. Best of luck. Merry Santa or whatever.”
You hear him hang up the phone because in this hypothetical he’s using a landline phone, a tell-tale sign of a true sociopath.
He farts audibly. No laughter.
In an attempt to extend the rare sentimental moment from moments ago, you enter the room to find your father savagely chewing on the gift you gave him, blood and flesh chucks streaming down his chin and onto his cutoff hoodie. He feels your presence but doesn’t stop to acknowledge it.
Then, in an instant, he stops, looks up, and extends Roger’s heart in his hand. Only one bite remains.
You, half horrified and half intrigued, are grimacing from the lingering fart your dad just ripped. It fucking stinks. You are desperate for the fatherly love and affirmation that has been absent from your life thus far, but you’re also not a cannibal so herein lies the dilemma.
You anxiously receive Goodell’s chunky black flesh and without further thought, pop it into your mouth. After chewing for what seems to be an eternity, you swallow, look up at dad, and say “I love you, dad.”
“We’re onto Cincinatti,” he replies, and slams the door in your face.