What might happen if some of our beloved literary greats had to sit in the announcing booth to call a few football plays... paired up in a most interesting manner.

Henry James: A certain young American quarterback assumes his place behind stalwart fellows and begins a not unlong count with varied cadence. The ball, if one may call it such, given its oddity, is passed for no tangible gain, but the internal gains, intrinsic and unknowable, are present.
Flannery O'Connor: He was worried about his soul, Hank. Under this sun and against this defense, who wouldn't be? But he comes from good people.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: It is a vet'ran quarterback
And he spieth one of three
He heaves the ball to Albatross
The defender he does not see.
He holds them with a skinny hand,
Ref stops them with his withering eye,
Interference then crieth he-
Explain to all of us that play, J.D.
J.D. Salinger: Well, if you really want to hear about this crap and all, okay. But, man, the whole thing makes me sick. Those refs are phonies.

Franz Kafka: After that vicious sack, M. must be in terrible pain.
Jane Austen: Perhaps so, yet Mr. Montana appears resilient upon his return to huddle.
Kafka: M. seeks only more punishment. Why? Can't he see he's only ostensibly the starter?
Austen: Perhaps so. Mr. Montana nonetheless handles the leather spheroid, deftly hurls it to Mr. Rice. He proceeds forth. No! His application for yardage is rudely quashed by Mr. Taylor.
Kafka: R. must be in terrible pain...

- from "Writer's Digest."

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