There is no agenda. There are no minutes. There is a group chat that has been going since 2015, a commissioner nobody elected, and one night a year when all eleven of you sit in the same room and pretend this is a serious institution. This shirt takes that position entirely seriously.
DRAFT NIGHT, in small departmental capitals, laurel sprigs on either side. ANNUAL MEETING, full width, in a heavy condensed block serif. A single hairline rule. And then, without a word of explanation: OF THE SAME ELEVEN IDIOTS.
It is typeset like a genuine club notice, in two flat inks, on a vintage sportsbook plate. No cartoon football. No punchline face. The formality does all the work, and every person at that table gets it in about two seconds.
Soft and easygoing, broken in from the first wear, with a plate that sits in the fabric rather than on top of it, offered in a range of deep, dark shades, the warm-ink-on-dark look this league already dresses by.
The line says idiots, not guys, because the league has a woman in it who is currently beating you.
Attendance is mandatory.
