The night of the UFFL Draft, Robby Nyman phones a friend.

“...Hello?”
“Hey, if it isn’t Ms. JSU Basketball.”
“...flippin’... Robby, did you see the time?”
“Sure thing! 1:37am.”
“Yes. … Now It’s 1:38.”
“Didn’t you ask for a wake-up call?”
“...No.”
“So I thought I’d give you one! Complimentary. No need to thank me.”
“Robby, it’s too late to chit-chat. I have practice in the morning.”
“Aw, c’mon.”
“...”
“Fine. Didja see what happened tonight?”
“Um, yeah. I haven’t missed a UFFL Draft in years.”
“And now you’re talking to a DRAGON! Roar!”
“Your fire smells like grass.”
“Fine, pull the herbivore card!”
“I just did. Also, dragons are extinct.”
“Whoa, that’s a low blow.”
“I’ve tackled you before, if you recall.”
“Fair point. So...Didja think about how you could’ve been up there? It would’ve been awesome!”
“A couple years too late for that, Robby.”
“Muscle memory, I’m telling ya. Muscle. Memory.”
“Plus, you do know I’m entering the draft for the FBA.”
“Aw, but wouldn’t if have been great to get paid to bash each other in?”
“Robby, do you just like being tackled?”
“Y’know, sometimes I don’t mind it!”
“Then you will probably be happy every single game night.”
“Ouch! … And you like tackling people, right?”
“Only people that call me at two in the flippin’ morning!”
“Then tell me, how will you ever tackle that cheetah beau of yours? Hmmmmmmmm?”
“How do you think we got engaged?”
“Niiiice. That’s how you do it, then?”
“Robby, go home. You’re drunk.”
“On life!”
“And a couple months too late!”
“Not necessarily!”
“Good night, Robby.”
*click*