Roger Goodell and the Top 10 sports figures we’d like to...'celebrate' 4/20 with

First off, I know this guy doesn’t smoke weed. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. If the NFL commissioner dabbled, he’d have a much harder time compartmentalizing all the concussions and overt racism running rampant in the league.

There are two reasons I want to pass Rog a Dutchie. No 1 is I want to see how big his eyes get before he hacks up a cloud of smoke and a lung. There’s nothing funnier than watching a newbie double over, or find a new wrong way to hold a doob.

The second reason is right after he realizes he’s uncomfortably blazed, I want to whisper “Concussions” into his ear and watch him melt with guilt. Ideally, the anguish is enough to get him to release the NFL’s secrets, or at the very least be the impetus he needs to resign.

I’m a massive Portland hoops fan, so please don’t read this as a lazy shot at the Jail Blazers. I want to spark with more than just Rasheed Wallace and Damon Stoudemire as who wouldn’t want to get high and listen to Bill Walton prattle on about literally anything?

I don’t know about Damian Lillard. If you listen to Ringer podcaster and Bay Area native Logan Murdock talk about the Brookfieldians who attend Blazers-Warriors games, I feel like I’d have a lot of fun at Dame’s annual hometown cookout.

You might be a little taken aback by this one. Gayle Benson? Isn’t that the old-ass owner of the New Orleans Saints? Hell fucking yeah it is. I’ve been stuck behind enough bluehairs at the dispensary to know that a lot more people are popping edibles than the public thinks.

Gayle is from the Big Easy, and I can say with certainty that she’s come across the drug many times during her life in the city. Who knows if she puffs, but the only way to find out is to offer. Worst case scenario, you hit Bourbon Street with Benson, and throw back enough mango daiquiris to convince yourself that you caught COVID the next morning.

I gotta say, I’m a little hesitant about stepping into the big leagues with this titan of cannabis. My habit is as debilitating as the next casual consumer, and even I think I’d be out on my feet within the first 15 minutes of chilling with the former running back who is still probably the league’s most infamous pothead.

Shit, Ricky, I came here to relieve a little stress, and maybe taste a couple of your premium strains. I’m not trying to get so fucking high that I adopt my girl’s maiden name. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’d just like to make those kinds of decisions when I can tell if I’m dreaming or not.

I was listening to the Baseball is Dead podcast the other day, and Dallas said, “Hit a dinger, rip the binger,” which immediately ingratiated him to my circle of friends that refer to bongs as bingers. Frankly, I think it’s funny/shameful that the NBA is labeled as the marijuana sports league.

Some of the biggest stoners I know are baseball players (pitchers specifically), which makes sense considering how much downtime there is in the clubhouse. There are fewer better ways to fill an off day than inhaling enough smoke to kill Tom Verducci. Weed also is the only realistic explanation for the Houston Astros thinking that no one is going to catch onto their garbage relay system.

I’m torn here because only a substantially stoned person invents WAR, but you have to be dead sober to understand it.

“How about, and hear me out, we create a nameless average player, and then weigh guys’ stats against him?”

I know my mind would’ve been blown because when I read pieces laden with contextless stats it feels like all that’s up there are splotches of brain tissue splattered against the walls of my skull. Non-stoned people are the only ones capable of deciphering complicated numbers, and even then, it’s not a certainty.

More than anything, I want to go to the Sloan Sports Conference, dose every coffee, and water bottle in Salt Lake City with 50 grams of THC, and watch as the nerds’ eyes gloss over 30 seconds into Daryl Morey’s keynote speech.

Put me on the parade party bus right fucking now. I know a bunch of pearl-clutchers were ashamed of the performance that Kansas City players put on during their second Super Bowl parade, and all I have to say to that is, thank god they weren’t privy to the goings-on inside the vehicles.

Mahomes is a former pitcher, Kelce smiles too much not to be stoned, and there’s a level of creativity in Andy Reid’s playbook that tells me he’s got a little something extra motivating his appetite. How else can you explain the ring-around-the-Rosie huddle trick play if not an abundance of tinctures and shatter?

Perhaps if we partner Richardson with a white woman, the narrative will change on who can and cannot smoke weed, and still be accepted. When Rapinoe was lauding the benefits of CBD, Sha’Carri was being held out of the Olympics because of a failed drug test.

If anything, I’m more impressed that Richardson was able to get this much out of her potential while also smoking weed. Give me three hits, and I can barely find the will to do 30 minutes of cardio.

My only concern about sharing a circle with these two is that the topic of conversation could get too deep, and there’s nothing worse than the weed head who wants to chat about euthanasia or youth in Asia. I’ll sully my high with my own thoughts of global collapse and pandemics, thank you very much.

Just once I’d like for Stephen A. Smith to feel what it’s like to be screamed at first thing in the morning. It’s jarring when you haven’t had a cup of coffee, much less a bong bowl. Can you please just chill?

The whole cast is way too aggro — like my parent’s dog during a thunderstorm — and needs a THC chew or two to calm down. Woo-sah, Stephen A., woo-sah. Have you heard him when he’s broadcasting from his house? It’s a drastically toned version, and one better suited for 6 a.m.

Something similar happens with JJ Redick as his podcasts are decidedly less abrasive than his appearances on ESPN’s morning show. It could be the glass of cab-sauv, or a special brownie offscreen. Whatever it is, Redick is a lot more palatable when he’s not in full makeup and screaming at Kendrick Perkins.

Things Bill Simmons did in Boston before moving to LA: Bartend, smoke weed, play video games, write columns, go to the movie theater alone, and argue with his editors about creative freedom. Sub “deliver food” in for “bartend” and that sounds like my college-aged self, and someone who is most definitely a fun hang.

This current iteration of BS — father, boss, aggregator hater, podcaster — seems like he needs to reintroduce a little weed into his system. Gone are the 30,000-word diatribes about the Ewing Theory, and in return we get smart guy Tuesdays where the Podfather brings on tech bros to have galaxy-brained conversations with a considerably less open mind.

If I wanted to hear nonsensical drivel leak out of a self-important jackass, I’d subscribe to Joe Rogan’s podcast.