The last few players are straggling out of the tunnel and here comes Josh trotting with them, looking like he just stepped out of a Polo ad. How does he do it? Every hair, every thread, every crease and pleat in place, as if he's sheathed in a varnish of pussy-boy perfection. "My bad, my bad, my bad," he chants in a furious monotone, "I am so so sorry guys, we blew it, blew it, no way you should've dropped off the radar like that," and he launches into a detailed explication of post-halftime logistics, the gist of which is he's been waiting at prearranged point X for the past twenty minutes.

"So you're saying one of the clipboard chicks was supposed to bring us up," Dime clarifies.

"Essentially, yes."

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