First date, post-divorce.

Some women may always be ready but will never initiate.

 

Unless Rick Camp steps up to the plate.

A home run is a home run, right?

 

“And here we are at the bottom of another fifth.”

 

Damn, @exmediahack, you are a fantastic writer. I hope to one day read a book about what I hope becomes a great love affair, or even watch it in a Lifetime movie And I'm stealing your Carfax line. It's perfect.

 

Fixed it.

 

By July 9, Sandi was gone.

“Gone, gone, gone.” Like Chiliwack.

The first woman in years I anguished over not moving ahead with.

I’ve spent the past six weeks back in the transfer portal do Bumble and Hinge. Built up a decent QB room— one girl is a dual threat (can hit the clubs and cook incredible food), another is strictly pocket (shy and still has kids at home), one is Taysem Hill (just get me from A-to-B when she’s in town on business).

All in all, I’m moving the chains and picking up first downs.

Yet dating women is like QBs. If you’ve got more than one, you really don’t have any.

Out of nowhere last week, Sandi writes.

It’s a wall of text, like the Dead Sea Scrolls of apology of ghosting me.

I knew her life was extremely challenging in our two weeks. Cancer, being broke because of the cancer, embarrassment over her living situation. I tried to assure her that I didn’t care about that stuff — only caring how it affects her but not the optics. She disappeared.

Until now.

I went on a long walk and wrote her back with my typical lengthy prose. A profession of affection. I laid it out there — of all the women I’ve been fortunate to date the last few years, there’s something about her I find intoxicating. Her badassery. Her life experience. There’s nothing innocent about her and I dig that. But she needs a champion. Not a hero… but a champion.

Then I realized it this morning.

She’s the Jeff George of women in my life. She can flame out at Purdue. I don’t care. Go to Miami for a week. Then Illinois for meh years. Top pick and disappoint. Don’t care. I’m impressed with her “arm talent” and blind to the other crap.

We spent seven hours on Sunday at my place. Clothes on. Cooking and working out so much of the crap that led to her disappearing for six weeks.

“I don’t need you to reply to my texts within five minutes. But when I ask about your day, just give me something at the end of the day.”

She’s got a LOT of baggage from the previous men. Everyone wanted something from her, be it her looks or her money - when she still had money. I’m learning NOT to compliment her because that’s what everyone else did… and they just wanted to use her.

I told her my Saturday is open but, if she wants to do something, it’s gotta be what I want to do. I always promise high adventure.

“Wanna make two grand in a day with me and keep your clothes on?”

“Huh?”

Her business is crumbling due to market conditions so she’s all ears.

“It’s week 1 of college football. I’m going to make you the best breakfast you’ve had all summer and then we’re signing you up for all the sports books. They have these bonuses for new players…”

I tell her about my side hustle. I don’t tell her that I’ve done this for people for years. Usually made them about two grand in a few days doing this.

“You told me your cancer drugs are $500 a month out of pocket. Instead of some fabulous weekend getaway, let’s make it where you don’t have this burden for the rest of the year.”

I’m unsure where it will go - of course - but the wild ride continues.

She is QB1.

For now.

 

Just don’t bounce back with Trev Alberts after this is over.

 

If she’s Jeff George, and you are her champion, my math tells me you are Whitlock…

 

Every one of Jeff George's NFL teams ended up heartbroken.

She's a mess, but she also knows how to keep you around. You deserve better. Use your next No. 1 pick more wisely.

 

I’m sure we’ll be arguing like June Jones and Jeff George on the sidelines soon enough.