Minutes after the game ended yesterday, I check out when the rebroadcast is scheduled on NFL Network. Monday, 11:30 AM, Seattle time.

Next I google "sports bar Seattle" and dial one of the numbers listed. Somebody picks up, I ask whether they’ll be showing the rebroadcast of the game.

"Uhhh … I guess." The guy on the other end of the line can hardly contain his joy.

"I’d like to book a table for 11:30," I press on.

"Sure. Name?"

"Fear The Star."

He hangs up.

I repeat that three times before I start worrying about my long-distance bill.

I do not succeed in securing a table anywhere.

After a bit less than four hours of sleep, eyes red and hair disheveled, I make may way to work this morning. As I walk down the stairs from my apartment I meet a couple of my neighbors, and I greet them all with a hearty "Fear The Star."

They all quickly duck back into their own apartments.

I make up my mind that they all must be Seahawks fans. Or maybe even Eagles fans.

In an apartment building in Germany full of Germans and one Korean couple, that makes perfect sense to me.

Before I hit the Autobahn this morning , I have to get some gas.

I make a point of filling up my car with exactly 30.23 liters.

I pay with my credit card and sign the receipt "Fear D. Star." I’m sure my credit card company will get the joke.

The Cowboys scored 30 points yesterday. So as I’m driving to work, I realize I have a problem. The drive is only 15 kilometers. To honor the star, I must drive 30 kilometers. Naturally, I take a detour. But I arrive at the office with 29.3 kilometers on my odometer. So I circle the parking lot a couple of times.

In my mind, I am doing victory laps.

Folks at work think I’m crazy.

Me, I’m just happy the Cowboys didn’t score 38 points. I had to get up extra early after the Saints game just to log the proper amount of kilometers.

As I get into the office, I see my French colleague, who is in charge of logistics. Our logistics suck.

When he sees me, he waddles up to me, grabs my hand and starts shaking it vigorously (The French have a thing about shaking each other's hands in the morning).

"Bonjour, ‘ow are you sis morning?"

"There’s something wrong with the shipment we received from Seattle," I tell him without preamble.

His brow furrows, and a look of concern spreads across his face.

"Seattle?" he asks. "We 'ave a factory sere?" He is not good at logistics. "What is wrong wis se shipment?"

"It was full of hot air."

As I reflect on my conversation with my French colleague, I decide that I will emulate French politics and the Eagles at work today: Make myself look special without actually doing anything.

Over the weekend, I watched a re-run of The Big Bang Theory. In the episode, Sheldon Cooper explains why the number 73 is the Chuck Norris of numbers.

"The best number is 73." "73 is the 21st prime number. It’s mirror, 37, is the 12th prime number. And its mirror, 21 is the product of multiplying – wait for it – 7 and 3." "In binary, 73 is a palindrome: 1001001, which backwards is also 1001001."

I immediately started writing a letter.

Dear Ben Gardner,

Here’s why you must change your jersey number from 63 to 73 …

I scan the headlines this morning. I see one that reads "The Star Is Reborn."

I nod sagely.

It is beginning.

Fear The Star.

As I walk out of my office, I see my secretary walking in. I walk straight towards her and just as we’re about to collide I execute an awesome spin move that deftly takes me out of danger.

"What is up with you, man?!"

My secretary is not amused.

I utter one word.

"Romodini."

She looks very angry. Then it dawns on her.

"Been watching American Football again, have you?"

I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed, so I move on. Once out of my secretary's sight (I know this because I turn around to make sure she can't see me) I walk straight towards a column that's blocking my way, only to expertly execute another spin move.

I am the mighty Romodini. No one shall tackle me today.

Later, the phone rings. I have caller ID, so I know it’s my ex-wife. She has this annoying habit of always starting a sentence with ‘Listen' when she's about to tell me what to do.

As usual, I don’t say anything when I pick up the phone. Part of my psychological strategy to gain an upper hand in the conversation.

"Listen," she says. In English! I am stunned (my ex-wife is also German, and we’ve never spoken English with each other).

She laughs. I don't know what to say. Clearly my strategy has backfired bigtime.

"Yeah, you think I don’t read all the crap you write about me on your stupid blog?"

Busted.

I suspect a traitor somewhere in my inner circle.

"Anyway," she continues in German. "Since you’re going to New York in two weeks with our son, I know you’re going to buy him football gear, right?"

I agree cautiously: "You can bet your life on that."

"Well, then bring him back a New York Football Yankees cap."

I hang up.

There’s a possibility that she doesn’t know the difference between football and baseball, but I’m beginning to suspect she’s more devious than I thought.

As I walk in and out of my office today, I make sure to honor Terrance Williams by dragging my toes on the carpet every time I exit my office.

My secretary looks at me funny, but she does that a lot anyway.

With a full day of "work" ahead of me, I settle down in my office. On my desk I have neatly arranged my ticket for the Cowboys game in London in four weeks, my passport, and my True Blue fan club keychain.

Thusly inspired, I decide to commence work on my next manifesto and begin typing.

"How to teach the Brits to Fear The Star."

Coming from a German, I bet that is going to go over extremely well.

If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy the previous iterations of these posts (Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V)