AP (Overland Park): The Show, revisited.
As we have recently eclipsed the one year anniversary of Lamb’s decent into watermelon induced madness. We decided to send one of our senior writers to see what Lamb has been up to over the past year. And frankly, what we found was sad, unsettling, but not surprising.
While Lamb is no longer allowed within 1000 feet of the Matt Ross community center after what the local media called “a watermelon induced manic episode” his love for slippery watermelon has grown stronger but, in a quiet unusual way.
We arrived at Lamb’s farm around midday. After the Matt Ross ban he decided to pursue a more arraigning lifestyle. He quit his job, sold all of his possessions and moved to a small piece of property in central Kansas. It is presumed that he is now growing watermelons full time? When we asked Lamb the question, “what the hell are you doing out here in Nickerson Kansas?” He looked up, tipped his worn straw hat and said “chasin’ vines boys, chasin’ vines.”
At first glance, Lamb’s so-called “farm” appears less like a functional agricultural operation and more like the overgrown aftermath of a man who lost a fight with both nature and reality. Rusted tools lay abandoned in the tall grass. A wheelbarrow full of half-rotted melon rinds sat in the sun like some forgotten offering. A weather beaten scarecrow sway in the gentle breeze “Protection,” Lamb muttered when we pointed at it. “Scarecrow keeps the crows away from the chosen ones.”
The “chosen ones,” he explained, were his melons.
He led us into a weather-beaten barn that, by the smell alone, we regretted entering. The interior was lined with rows upon rows of watermelons resting on makeshift wooden cradles like swaddled infants. Above them, scribbled in charcoal on the boards, were crude “inspirational” slogans:
- “LET THE MELON SPEAK.”
- “THE SEEDS KNOW THE WAY.”
- “HYDRATION IS SALVATION.”
In the far corner was a small shrine composed of candles, dried vines, and a single watermelon placed on a velvet pillow. Lamb approached it reverently, whispering something unintelligible and drew a circle on his chest with his index finger.
We then asked the obvious question whether he had checked his fantasy team this year.
His head snapped around.
“My what?”
We reminded him of “The Show”. Of the league. Of the rosters and standings and waiver wire. We asked if he was actually intending to start three backup running backs this week. At first he just blinked, as if trying to process a concept long abandoned. Then a slow, eerie smile crept across his face.
“Oh. That old game. No…no, no. That’s child’s play. Tiny wars for tiny minds. Out here?” He swept his arms wide, nearly knocking over a stack of melons. He leaned in and grit his teeth spitting, “Out here we play real games. Games of instinct. Games of destiny. Games the melons choose.”
We attempted to clarify what he meant by “choose,” at which point Lamb crouched down, placed both hands on a watermelon the size of a toddler, closed his eyes, and murmured:
“Tell me… show me the truth… reveal your wisdom…”
For a long moment he said nothing. Then he gasped.
“This one’s got the spirit! She wants to compete today.”
Compete in what, exactly? We made the mistake of asking.
He sprang to his feet with a burst of energy no 30-something former fantasy manager should still possess and dragged the watermelon outside toward a large metal rusty water trough filled with murky water.
“This is the new arena,” he announced proudly. “Since the city banned me from Matt Ross, I made my own. One befit for these tiny kings.”
Before we could comment, Lamb stripped off his overalls down to a ragged and tattered pair of Saxx underwear, grabbed a bottle of canola oil from a nearby stump, and began coating the watermelon like he was prepping war.
The look in his eyes told us he’d done this many, many times.
When he finished, he placed the dripping melon into the tank, lowered himself in after it with ceremonial slowness, and whispered:
“Begin the trial.”
What followed was not a game. Not a sport. It was an exorcism of dignity.
Lamb thrashed around the tank, wrestling the watermelon with all the grace of a man fighting a greased pig in three feet of water. He grunted, growled, shouted instructions into the sky. At one point he raised the melon above his head triumphantly and cried:
“THE MELON PROVIDES!
THE MELON DECIDES!
THE MELON… IS… LORD!”
After the “trial,” he placed the watermelon gently on the grass, knelt before it, and pressed his forehead to the rind. His voice softened.
“You teach me more than football, fantasies or fantasy football ever did. More than people ever did. You don’t judge. You don’t boo. You don’t send me trade offers that insult my intelligence. You’re pure. Pure as the water that birthed you.”
We asked if he would ever consider returning to society. Or the league.
He laughed a long, trembling laugh.
“Return? Why return to chaos when I’ve found order? Why chase touchdowns when I can chase eternity? Fantasy football abandoned me. But the melon… the melon never left.”
He looked up with tear-glossed eyes.
“The melon loves me.”
As we left the farm, he remained kneeling in the dirt, hands placed on either side of the watermelon as though communing with it. The sun dipped behind the barn, casting the pair in a long, unsettling silhouette. The wind rustled through the vines, sounding almost like a whispered chant.
We drove away in silence.
Lamb may have been a fantasy legend once a strategist, a champion, a man with passion and purpose.
But those days are gone.
Now there is only Connor.
And the watermelon.
Yours,
O’Neils
KC Guyz 