Alrighty, fellas. Hold on one second here. I can see that you’re very excited, and that’s understandable. I just clinched the game for this team and our millions of ardent fans around the globe, but nobody said anything about being at the bottom of a footballer meat stack. To tell you the truth, there’s so much bare, wet skin chafing against me right now I’m having second thoughts about burying that winner.

Don’t take this the wrong way, because I love each and every one of you, but the stench inside this testosterone pyramid is really funky. I’m usually not one to kick up a stink, but y’all really do stink. What gives? Our shirt sponsor is Dove. Are none of you using the free deodorant they keep giving us? And Stefan, pal, would you roll your tongue off my neck? You’re panting louder than my overweight Labrador at the dog park.

I know this isn’t what you expect to hear from your Captain Clutch, but I just don’t love the idea of being the bullseye on this shirtless dudeboard. And I’m not wild about whoever’s steaming-hot nipple is currently leaking pec juice into my eyes either. You know I can’t get exotic liquids in my contact lenses!

I suppose this is the thing you eventually come to learn about the beautiful game. Yes, Luis, that the chafing is out of this world, that’s definitely real. Lord knows we’ve all seen more than our fair share of your red-raw thighs this season—please start using that big jar of vaseline we gifted you last Christmas. But actually, I was referring more to that old sporting adage: cursed are the closers.

It’s true. Just look over there. That’s our heavily-perspiring mascot running over here to belly-flop us all.

Oh, thank goodness. He slipped and cleaned up the other team’s coach.

But you see what I’m getting at. Single-handedly winning a game is now just a standing invitation to be violated by a pack of sticky maniacs.

I’m telling you, this moist climate you’re all fermenting down here is not what hygiene-conscious talismans have in mind as far as recognition goes.

What kind of celebration would I like to have marked my game winner? Well, thanks for asking that with your warm lips pressed against my ear, Victor. Something classic and clean would have been nice. Perhaps tearing off my sweatshirt and swinging it around. Or maybe it would have been fun to shush the crowd before giving them prayer hands. You know, I was even toying with the idea of throwing a bone to the handful of you who played absolutely no part in my pivotal goal and granting you the high five you so desperately crave, even though you were about as instrumental in its execution as the ice cream vendors up there in the stands.

Look, I’m actually psyched that my victorious strike is bringing you all so much joy. I would love to revel in it as much as you guys, and I think I definitely could, if I could just stop picturing my young children at home watching their dad gasping for air as he is waterboarded by his entire midfield’s gushing pits.

The TikToks are going to be merciless.

So since I’ve likely only got a few more breaths before my gaping mouth overflows with your fluid, let me go ahead and close one more thing.

My time with you all. I’m out of here. Sorry you have to find out like this. I wanted to tell you at the end of season party, but you’ve forced my hand. I honestly can’t take it any longer, and I’m betting the next big gun that lands here isn’t going to be crazy about banging them in either when they find out where that gets them.

So, it’s sayonara. This will be the last time you get to celebrate by mounting me like the mechanical bull at the gym. I’m sorting out a transfer to Italy or Spain, where sweaty, adult men don’t feel the compulsion to constantly hug and kiss each other. Ciao!

Now, whose shin pad is this down my shorts?