He was Adam Driver
Oregon Football hasn’t yet fallen far enough to need a comeback. But the signs are there that this evening has come to an end.
By Andrew Pridgen
Oregon Football is holding a foam-lined pint glass in one hand and its iPhone 5c in the other hovering over the far corner of New Max’s bar. He’s framed by a trio of groomed blondes who resemble aging labs: attentive, demure and unsuspecting of their own mortality. Their hips look like they’re about to give out after a night spent on six-inch-heel stilts navigating various pitcher overage spills. Oregon Football says nothing but occasionally he teeters like a Bozo Bop bag. He lurches back to center and braces himself on the bar in the fake casual way of a seasoned drunk. One of his goons stands by, possibly waiting to catch Oregon Football’s fall as he whispers to a couple outlying bros about…
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