Don’t pray for me Argentina. Or Brazil. Germany? Did Berj set my wakeup call for 6?

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Too bad there’s a kid involved.


Caro Coacho,

You não respondeu o pedido de prier para o meu sweet marido de sua luta esta semana! Como vai Tommy ser feliz e cumpridos na área de soccer menos que esta oração chain? Enviar este carta para todos os seus amigos por todo o mundo e também casar supermodel.

Tiki tiki tiki los,


From the Playbook:

What was that? Didn’t catch it.Try speaking English next time. And don’t forget, your seats are in Row 30, Section S of the Maracana stadium. Tom will be the one in the shorts. It might take him a while to get home after the game, so don’t wait up.

Fruit of a poisoned coaching tree.

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I have to say, the cryogenic preservation really suits you.

From TomC@OneRingandCounting:

Ok Belichek. Now you’ve gone too far. Its one thing to offend the entire coaching profession by dressing like a homeless person on the sidelines, and to rub it in by rejecting our invitation to join the NFL Coaches Club, but its quite another to try and use fashion to gain an advantage in the game by instructing Spikes to wear that hideous pink suit in Indianapolis.  This can’t be an accident, but has to be part of some ploy to either distract us or make us laugh so hard we will lose our focus. Think I don’t remember Spygate?  I know you will do anything to try and beat us. I may be an old fossil,  but I’m not too old to know a scam when I see one. Give it up, Bill. Come clean. What’s the angle here?

Tom C.

From the Playbook:

You’ll never forgive me for taking the top bunk in the coaches’ dorm when we were working for Parcells, will you Tom? After all we went through together — the anthrax, the pistol-whippings, the time he duct-taped our bonus checks to feral cats and forced us to chase them through the Bed-Stuy projects… after all that, you still think I somehow got preferential treatment. You of all people should know why I wear a hoodie in public — you were the one holding me down while he gave me that tattoo.

You need to let bygones be bygones, Tom. The fact that Parcells routinely extinguished his cigars on your face has nothing to do with the game we’ll be playing this weekend.  And enough with the Mr. Blackwell routine. I bunked with you, remember? One more fashion critique out of you and I’m leaking pictures of you in your saggy long johns to ESPN. We’ll talk after the game, Tom — try to learn how to spell my name right between now and then.