True Tales from a Water Bottle: My Dangerous Day with Johnny Football

SATIRE — The last thing I remember is the spiral. And the house music. Oh God, the house music. 

Everything was Calvin Harris and nightmares until Johnny rifled me cap-first across the pool deck of the Four Seasons Resort and Club in Dallas.

I hit the wall as the bass dropped to “Summer” and awoke hours later to a custodian inspecting me for vital signs and backwash.

Now, with the concussive symptoms wearing off and my contents returning to room temperature, the details of that fateful afternoon come back to me. 

For one, I remember being brought to the poolside cabana. I remember Manziel’s firm but supple grasp and the waitress’ laugh as Uncle Nate made questionable jokes and ordered his fourth whiskey diet. 

I remember the mashups pumping endlessly out of Manziel’s portable Jambox and Johnny taking sips from me every so often. 

And I do recall The Disturbance. It started with a tiny sound, and slowly, over the course of an hour, it began poking up through the looping White Panda remixes.

I paid no attention to it at first. At the time, I was focused on building an even film of condensation and upon the pool, sitting down in its in-ground prison, sloshing enviously, angry to be playing second-water in the presence of royalty.

But yes, the noise. The chirping morphed into a voice—a voice belonging to a young man in his teens.

The teen approached Manziel’s cabana, muttering something to which Manziel offered a definitive “No, dude.”

I could tell what was going on: a tale as old as time itself. 

These humans were competing for water—in this case, a three-quarters-filled bottle of ice-cold Deja Blue. Surely, I thought, they were vying for me—a fetching liter of H₂O encased in azure plastic, because some people think good water is blue.

In any case, the antagonist—a teen nowhere near the quarterback’s physical match—came forth with a marker and paper.

Tony Dejak/Associated Press

A royal decree from the Citadel, I thought. Too bad Immortan Joe’s name holds no sway at the Four Seasons. 

And then it happened: Manziel barked a command, the teenager used the holy name of Ryan Tannehill in vain and, all of the sudden, the world was twisting frame by frame before my nonexistent eyes. 

I still don’t understand exactly what happened or its significance in the greater scheme of NFL position battles, but know this: I was not spiked.

I was passed. Wide left and into a wall, to be sure. But I was passed. 

Dan is on Twitter, where the Chronicles of Blue live on.