The playoffs arrived like a drunk uncle kicking in the door at 2 a.m.—loud, unforgiving, and
immediately ruining someone’s season. Records stopped mattering, projections burst into flames, and several managers discovered (again) that “I felt good about the lineup” is not a defensible legal argument. Some teams ascended toward glory; others were shoved headfirst into the consolation oubliette to scream into the void with the rest of us. We start where the real sins happened.

This was a proper playoff knife fight—two teams swinging haymakers until someone slipped on their own hubris. Find Yourself a CeeDee survived thanks to a brutally efficient three-headed monster: Bijan Robinson doing Bijan Robinson things, Nico Collins continuing his “please stop underestimating me” tour, and D’Andre Swift quietly stacking points like he was stealing office supplies on his last day. The Jesting Johnsons were absolutely not bad. In fact, they got monstrous games from Amon-Ra St. Brown and James Cook III, who together lit up the scoreboard like a malfunctioning slot machine. But playoff math is cruel: 130 is excellent, just not excellent enough. The difference came down to depth contributions and a few starters who showed up, clocked in, and then emotionally checked out by halftime. CeeDee advances, a little bloodied but breathing. JJ exits wondering how 39.5 points can still feel like regret.

This wasn’t a matchup. This was a demonstration. Homer’s Gyros detonated the scoreboard with the kind of performance that gets league group chats real quiet, real fast. Trey McBride and Trevor Etienne Jr. were already cooking, but T. Henderson slammed the door with a 37-point nuclear event that turned this into a mercy situation by Sunday night. Every time ESPN refreshed, Homer’s total climbed higher, like a cursed stock ticker. The Unluckies didn’t fold. Josh Allen did his job, the Bears D/ST punched above their weight, and Kyren Williams fought like hell. But sometimes you bring a solid, competent lineup to a playoff game and your opponent shows up driving a monster truck full of gasoline and bad intentions. Homer’s Gyros moves on looking terrifying. The Unluckies move out knowing they’d beat almost anyone else—just not this buzzsaw.

This matchup felt like two raccoons fighting over a half-eaten bagel, but one raccoon at least had Puka Nacua. Puka did the heavy lifting, Christian McCaffrey chipped in like a responsible adult, and Will Reichard existed just enough to matter. A Jeanty-man and a Scholar never really got off the runway. Drake Maye tried to spark something, but when your top scorer hits 20 and then everyone else politely refuses to help, the night ends early. Ertz Wentz I Pee advances—not proudly, but effectively.

This was the consolation ladder’s version of prestige cinema: tense, ugly, and decided by inches. James Williams led the charge for Not Today Satan, backed by George Kittle doing Kittle things and Kenny Gainwell sneaking in with just enough relevance to annoy everyone who dropped him. Fred Durst actually put together a respectable effort—Dallas Goedert and the Eagles D/ST came to play—but Patrick Mahomes’ relatively mortal outing left them just short. Four and a half points separated victory from existential despair, and Satan—apparently—was denied entry this week.

This was not competitive. This was a public execution with witnesses. Brock Purdy piloted
Jackalope Society like a man who knew no mercy, while Tracy Jr. and Tony Pollard piled on until the scoreboard looked obscene. Ham Stroker’s Ejacula simply never showed up—Achane tried, Herbert sighed deeply, and the rest of the roster stared into the middle distance like war survivors. Jackalope Society advances with authority. Ham Stroker’s Ejacula is left with questions, regrets, and a score that will be referenced mockingly for years.