I’ve never had a job where I made $700,000-plus a year and keeping it was dependent on pimple popping adolescents.

Say goodbye Chad Lunsford.

It was a foregone conclusion before the season began Lunsford’s job was on the line. A 1-3 start climaxed by with the 28-20 loss to Louisiana was the clincher.

 If Georgia Southern President Dr. Kyle Marrero and Athletic Director Jared Benko needed any additional excuses Eagles nose tackle Gavin Adcock delivered them on a silver platter before the game began.

On the bus ride to the stadium Adcock, an aspiring country music singer, gave his NIL a boost, when he did one of the most jackass things I have seen in nearly a century of writing about college football. It was and is still beyond comprehension.

 Adcock put the “me” in team by managing to get on the roof of one of those legendary yellow school busses and chug a beer while it was moving. A video shot by a fan went viral.

  The Brew Crew no longer resides in Milwaukee.

 Presumably no one on the coaching staff was aware of this bodacious act because Adcock was on the field when the game started. His big play of the day came when he managed to jump offside on fourth down to keep a Louisiana touchdown drive alive. The Eagles went on to lose by one touchdown. Makes you wonder if he was drunk. Voila!

 Lunsford lost more than a game. He lost his $700,000-plus job.

 I know an old Marine Corps gunnery sergeant who kept my fanny alive who would still be eating tail. It would be served up raw.

So, what does this have to do with the Pembroke Mafia Football League. I couldn’t begin to tell you. Like the beleaguered editor of this fine publication, the honorable Jeff Whitten, I, too, have written myself into a corner.

Unlike Jeff I’m not smart enough to get out of this maize (think Michigan Ted). But here goes.

 I was once identified by the BBC as the Foremost Authority on Chicken Flying in the United States of America (my wife and daughters will verify because they were present when the two Limeys who interviewed me said so). They laughed as hard as Jeff did. Noah “Mr. French” Covington just looked at me in disbelief.

Chicken flying, I assure you, is a sport. I have written about it for Sports Illustrated and the New York Times. When you have a day, I’ll be glad to explain the finer points. Kung Flewk II, a Chinese bantam, is the Secretariat of chickens.

Not to be boasting but I’m also a Kentucky Colonel, an honorary citizen of the State of Texas (I am ready to renounce that honorific), a proud former Marine and was inducted into the West Virginia Sports Legends Hall of Fame this summer (I could never in a thousand years tell you why other than they got me confused with my father or my brothers).

 All of this pales, however, to becoming a member of the PMFL. I have instructed my wife membership in the PMFL is a must for my obituary. When Brother Jeff called to say I had been voted into membership it was overwhelming.  It is one of the more august groups I have ever been a part of as it is dotted with some of the most distinguished citizens of Bryan County.  

Neither Jeff nor I live in Bryan County. That’s what makes it an august group.

 Midway into the season I can tell you it’s been an experience. To begin with B.J. Clark has the knack of selecting games for which neither team can lose.  I can’t begin to count the number of picks I’ve missed due to a score in the closing seconds.

Also, there’s just dumb decisions. I’ve always made it a point to never pick against a Catholic school. Not because they’re Catholic schools but because I’m Catholic.

Sister Mary Michael taught us the Notre Dame fight song in first grade. To go against the Irish is to go against the church. So, in my infinite stupidity I picked Missouri over Boston College. As to Villanova and Penn State. Well, you can only go so far with this religion thing. I’ll just go to confession and ask for forgiveness. 

I really like the Sabanites. So, since I’m an Ole Mr. I went with Ole Miss. We’ll see if hell freezes over. I would like to thank my fellow PMFLers for making me feel welcome.

Editor's note: Mike Brown is the youngest 103-year-old sportswriter on the planet.