Monday Night Jihad (14 page)

The hit was jarring, but what really hurt was the thumb jab in the trachea, courtesy of one of the Bandits lying on top of him. Ricci got up coughing but tried his best not to let the pain show. Trotting back to his own side of scrimmage, he picked at the turf lodged in his helmet, while calls of “good job” and “nice catch” from his teammates surrounded him.

The pain in Ricci’s throat was starting to subside as he leaned into the huddle.

“Nice pattern, Reech,” Meyer said. “Way to use the umpire as a pick.”

“If he’s in the field of play . . .” Ricci laughed.

“Okay, good start. Let’s keep it going!” Meyer continued. “West Right Tiger Left Nineteen Handoff Release! Break!”

Ricci’s brain quickly deciphered the code. The Tiger Left package meant there would be two tight ends. Sure enough, Fuchs, the second tight end, was quickly stepping to the left side of the line with him. Fuchs placed himself just off the left tackle, and Ricci stood behind him. Ricci’s role was to motion right. If he saw that the linebacker read the handoff and was on the ball, he would take him out. If not, he would block the first man he came to.

Meyer started the call, and Ricci began moving; then everything burst into activity. Ricci saw the linebacker racing to the point where the handoff would be made. Ricci launched himself at the Bandit’s upper body, but the defender was anticipating him and rolled off the block. Ricci went down, then heard the crack of linebacker forcibly meeting with halfback. That quickly, he went from hero to goat. When Ricci jogged toward the sidelines for the third down play, Coach Burton was waiting to tell him what he thought of his blocking skills.

When Ricci finally made it past the head coach, the tight ends coach was waiting to give the second chorus to Burton’s song. That lasted another full minute, until mercifully, the Mustangs got a first down, and Ricci escaped back onto the field.

The next five plays netted thirty-four yards and two first downs. It was second and fifteen after a dropped pass and a false-start penalty. As Ricci got set on the line of scrimmage, he knew the ball was coming his way. Here was his chance to redeem himself. Gorkowski snapped the ball, and Randy Meyer dropped two steps back and threw a rocket right at Ricci. The tight end reached for the pass, but the ball bounced off his numbers. The defending cornerback was there, ready to make the tackle, but when the ball popped up, he caught the deflection instead and ran it back for a touchdown. The extra-point try soared between the uprights, and just like that, the Bandits were up 14–0.

Ricci looked toward the sidelines and saw Coach Burton staring right at him. There was no place to run, no place to hide. He knew that whatever Burton was going to say to him was exactly what tens of thousands of people were this very moment shouting at him through their television sets. He took a deep breath, then ran to face the music.

Riley Covington knew the Mustangs desperately needed this game. At 9–5, their play-off chances were touch and go. It was one of those “you control your own destiny” moments. If the Mustangs lost here, there would only be one last meaningless game before their off-season.

The game had gone back and forth through the rest of the first three quarters. Neither team had been able to do much with the ball, but the Mustangs had slowly built up 10 points to make the score 14–10. Now, with three minutes to go in the fourth quarter, the Bandits had the ball and were trying to eat up the clock. One more first down would effectively end the game.

It was third down and seven. The quarterback took the snap. He dropped back and prepared to pass. Riley was blitzing up the middle when he realized that the QB was going to throw a screen pass to the fullback. Digging his cleats into the turf, Riley stopped his forward progress and began backpedaling as quickly as he could. When the quarterback released the ball, Riley was off balance, but he still managed to leap backward and snag the tip of the ball with his finger. The ball deflected enough to miss the fullback and drop into the arms of Mustangs safety Danie Colson. Colson raced down the field and high-stepped it into the end zone. He spun the ball on the ground and did his famous “hoodaman” dance around it—a celebration perfectly timed at just under five seconds to avoid the unsportsmanlike conduct call. By the time he finished his dance, his teammates were on top of him. He waded through the group until he found Riley and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

Coach Burton met Riley and Colson as they were coming off the field. Colson still had the ball in his hands. Burton had almost lost his voice from screaming all afternoon. “I told you guys,” he croaked. “I told you. Just be patient and they’ll make a mistake. They’re the Bandits; that’s what they do.”

Girchwood slammed in the extra point, taking the last gasp out of the Bandits faithful. Now at least half of the continuous stream of verbal abuse was directed against their own team. The Bandits had one more chance but couldn’t get anything going against the swarming Mustangs defense. They went four and out, and the Mustangs kneeled out the rest of the time.

The media rushed onto the field with their microphones, cameras, and tape recorders as the players went out to meet each other. Despite the rivalry, most of the guys congratulated each other and wished the opposing players well. Riley joined a small group made up of both Bandits and Mustangs at the 50 yard line for a postgame prayer. The Bandits chaplain thanked God for protecting the players, while reporters and cameramen waited impatiently. When the prayer was complete, Riley was instantly assaulted with cameras and microphones stuck right in his face. He tried to keep a smile and answer some questions, but he was exhausted.

When Robert Taylor saw what was happening, he quickly jumped into the mix. “Riley’s gotta go. Sorry, fellas,” Taylor said.

Taylor kept his arm around Riley as they both jogged off the field. When they entered the tunnel, some Bandits fans took their parting shots at the Covington family tree. Police were standing nearby to make sure that it was only words pelting the players. Riley smirked at Taylor after one particularly foul insult. “If my mama really did that, I don’t think Daddy’d be too happy.”

They walked through the double doors and into the visitors’ locker room. Many of the guys were hugging each other and giving high fives. The coaches and the management were walking from locker to locker, congratulating everyone. Riley went up to give Ricci a quick hug, but Ricci just held up his fist for Riley to tap with his own and said, “Good game, Pach,” then turned back to his locker.

Coach Burton called the team together for his postgame speech. “Men, I’m proud of your effort. It’s tough to go into someone else’s backyard and come out with a win. My hat’s off to you today. One more and we’re in the play-offs. Enjoy your day off tomorrow.”

At that pronouncement, the team cheered. Often a football player’s Monday had a lot to do with the team’s Sunday. A victory meant a day off from practice with only a required workout. A defeat meant a workout, two and a half hours of unpleasant meetings, then ten back-to-back hundred-yard sprints for the whole team.

Coach Burton finished with the Lord’s Prayer, and the players jumped up from their knees and headed for their lockers.

As Riley wiggled out of his uniform and pads, he noticed a familiar smell beginning to permeate the room. The postgame locker room odor was something that all veteran ball players were used to, though for the novice it could be quite overwhelming. There was always an underlying rank stink—mostly sweat mixed with doses of whatever else might come out of a body during its various stress-related processes. After a loss, the stench sometimes seemed overpowering. But after a win, the locker room had the smelly pungency of victory. Today, the steam that clouded up eyeglasses and camera lenses didn’t seem quite so bothersome; the humid heat that flattened fabric of any kind against skin seemed a little less sticky. The piles of equipment and wads of tape strewn across the floor seemed a little less hazardous. Victory made everything and everyone more beautiful.

The media were finally allowed in, and there was a mad rush to the lockers. Riley answered the same questions seven times before he was able to break free and hit the showers.

After dressing, the players packed their bags, grabbed a sack lunch and a Gatorade or soda, and hopped on the bus. Finally, the players were able to sit back, relax, and enjoy the win on their way back to Denver.

Police escorted the four buses out of Golden West Stadium and all the way to the Oakland airport. The team went through the regular security process, then boarded the plane and grabbed their seats for the two-hour flight to Denver.

It was a raucous scene on the United charter 1918. The cabin microphone was put to use quite a few times by a number of players. In comparison to Riley’s microphone usage on the trip out, these players demonstrated much less complexity in their vocabularies and much more alcohol in their systems. Everyone was exhausted by the time the plane landed in Denver at 9:25 p.m.

After exiting the plane, the players boarded buses to take them to Inverness. When Riley saw his Denali in the player parking lot, all he could think of was home, bed, and sleeping in as late as he could manage in the morning.

Tuesday, December 23

Aurora, Colorado

“Merry Christmas to you,” Michael Goff sang as he opened the back door to his house. He had just returned home from another twelve-hour shift as a security guard at Sky Ridge Medical Center. The smell of homemade meatballs filled the kitchen—a smell so good it almost diverted him from his mission.

He caught his wife’s eyes as she turned from the stove and gave him a curious look.

Michael gave her a wink and continued his song. “Merry Christmas to you.” He moved into the living room, where his eight-year-old son, Kevin, was playing Madden football on the Xbox—as usual, Kevin’s team was the Mustangs. “Merry Christmas, dear Kevster,” Michael sang with much flair as he positioned himself between his son and the television.

“Dad, you’re in the way. Besides, Christmas isn’t for two more days,” Kevin scolded. But even as he halfheartedly complained, he was clearly intrigued by the look on his father’s face.

“Merry Christmas toooooo yooooooouuuuuuuu.” Michael dropped to his knees, pulled two tickets out of his parka, and waved them in front of his son’s face.

“Are those . . . are those Mustangs tickets?”

“No, Kev, they’re for Disney On Ice. I hear they’re doing the princess tour. What do you think, you knucklehead?”

Kevin dove for the tickets, snatching them out of his dad’s hand. The colorful background was a scene of Randy Meyer wearing an old orange jersey and throwing a perfect spiral. He ran his finger over the raised lettering. “‘Colorado Mustangs vs. Baltimore Predators. Monday, December 29. 6:30 p.m.’ Dad, these are the real thing!”

“Oh, are they? Sorry, I must have picked up the wrong ones.”

Kevin suddenly spun the tickets to the ground and began his best impersonation of Danie Colson. He cocked his arms to his side, thrust out his chest, and began moving in a circle in what could best be described as a chicken walk. “Hoodaman?” he called out.

“Yoodaman!” his father answered.

“Hoodaman?”

“Yoodaman!”

“Hoodaman?”

“Yoodaman!”

They fell into each other’s arms, laughing.

“Dad, you’re the most awesome dad ever! How’d you do it?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Michael began to explain as he dropped onto his beat-up La-Z-Boy and lifted Kevin onto his lap. “I called up Coach Burton, and I said, ‘Yo, Burt, my kid’s the biggest Mustangs fan on the face of the earth. We need tickets to the Monday night game. So fork ’em over, or do I have to come down there and give you a signature Goff smackdown?’ Half an hour later these came by special courier.”

“Yeah, right,” Kevin laughed and gave his dad another big hug. “Hey, let’s go tell Mom!”

They began a chant of “Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!” and formed a mini conga line. They danced their way into the kitchen, where Marti Goff, who had heard everything in the small house, feigned shock and surprise when Kevin waved the tickets at her. She joined the conga line behind her husband as it snaked through the kitchen and down the hall to the bedrooms.

“So, how’d you swing that?” Marti whispered over Michael’s shoulder.

“Larry Gervin had these two tickets he was looking to trade away. In exchange, I promised to cover his shifts on Christmas and New Year’s Eve.”

Marti slapped his arm. “You’re going to be gone Christmas?” Then, after a few seconds, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the side of his neck. “You’re a good dad, Michael Goff. . . . Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!”

Tuesday, December 23

Denver, Colorado

Todd Penner stepped out of Trice Jewelers and into his 1986 Oldsmobile Cutlass. He had just paid the second-to-last installment on the layaway he had stashed in the vaults of the jewelry store. Walking the steps of Platte River Stadium with his tray of drinks at next Monday night’s Mustangs game should net him enough in tips to finally take the ring home. For now, home for this twenty-year-old was still Mom and Dad’s. But the ring—that precious circle of gold with its microscopic diamond chip ensconced firmly in its center—that ring was for her. The one. Sweet Jamie.

As he got into the car, he could still smell the remnants of the Chick-fil-A combo he had scarfed on his way here. Food’s great, but it takes a week to get the smell out, Todd thought. He took a swig of his large Dr Pepper (really the primary reason he went to Chick-fil-A to begin with) and successfully started up the car—not necessarily a given considering the 236k on the odometer of the vehicle that his friends affectionately referred to as “La Bomba.” True, it may be a bomb, but it gets me where I need to go . . . usually.

Back to Jamie—sweet Jamie—the girl he had been “dating” since sixth grade. At that time, dating meant hanging out together at church youth group and sitting together for lunch at West Middle School. There had certainly been some rough times in their relationship as they had both grown up at their own pace. But love overcame all odds, and eight years later Todd was ready to make things permanent.