“I’m flattered. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re kind of busy here.”
“Always business with you. Look, I want you to pull Virgil and Joey out of whatever they’re doing and set them to researching European businessmen and professionals who have moved to the States in the last three years.”
Tara’s loud and long reaction to the request caused Scott to cover the mouthpiece of the phone and say to Hicks with a grin, “Apparently she feels our parameters are a bit wide.”
Then back to Tara: “There now, do you feel better? So, pull Virgil and Joey out of whatever they’re doing and set them to researching European businessmen and professionals who moved here in the last three years, starting with any that might be of Middle Eastern extraction. Okay? . . . Yeah, but . . . yeah, but . . . yeah, I know. Just try. . . . Okay, good-bye. . . . Thanks. . . . Good-bye. . . .” Finally he closed the cover to the phone.
“She said she’s thrilled to help out in any way she can,” Scott said as he eyed the Baileys longingly.
Chapter 11
Sunday, December 21
Golden West Stadium
Oakland, California
“Praying in the showers! Praying in the showers!” Chaplain Walter Washburne yelled.
About twenty men slowly rose from the seats in front of their lockers and made their way to the large shower area for a pregame prayer. The players knelt, held hands, and bowed their heads. Washburne prayed, “Lord, thank You for these men and the opportunity You’ve given them to use their gifts today. Protect them from the other players but especially from these fans.”
A small chuckle went through the group.
“This stadium is the mission field to which You have called these men today. So give them the courage of David, the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Samson, and the integrity of Daniel. Whatever happens here today with the game, help these men to be able to walk out of here with their heads held high. We ask that Your will be done in all things. Amen.”
Most of the guys rose and made their way back toward their lockers. Some remained on their knees, silently praying on their own. For many, this was one of the hardest times—getting up to face the reality of game day. As long as they remained down on their knees, they couldn’t make mistakes and they couldn’t get hurt. Anticipation of the coming events played havoc with all of the players’ emotions, and each handled it in his own way.
Silence overtook the locker room again. The defensive linemen passed around an ammonia strip designed to wake the dead. The overwhelming smell cleared the sinuses and brought complete focus. As the strip passed from hand to hand, it left each man with tears pouring down his face and an overwhelming desire to go out and hurt people.
The offensive linemen were dealing with their own pregame tension. They knew that they were only noticed when they failed and the quarterback got smacked. Center Chris Gorkowski’s nerves were beginning to get the best of him. He grabbed a towel off the floor and began to make convulsive noises into it.
“Get that little demon out, Snap!” All-Pro fullback Marius Washington blurted through the silence. “C’mon, get it out!”
That was all the trigger Gorkowski needed. After relieving himself of the morning’s breakfast buffet, he threw the towel on the ground. The lineman grabbed his helmet, leaped to his feet, and screamed, “WOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO!”
Coach Burton yelled, “Bring it up!”
The guys huddled around him.
“I’d like nothing more than to embarrass this team in their own backyard. We all know they embarrass themselves enough. Just make sure each and every one of you leaves it all on the field today!”
Burton then led the team in the Lord’s Prayer, which for most was more a ritual of superstition than sincerity.
At the end of the prayer, the team ran out the door, through the tunnel, and onto the field. They were greeted with the thunderous sound of seventy thousand boos from the Bandit Nation. Most of the players ignored it, but a few played to the crowd, dancing around and waving their arms, trying to get them to yell even louder.
The Mustangs ran across the field to their sideline, where they set up camp and waited for the Bandits to take the field.
As the first Bandit emerged from the tunnel, the boos turned to wild cheers. The sound was deafening as the players sprinted onto the field to AC/DC’s “Back in Black.”
A few minutes later, the Mustangs’ team captains—quarterback Randy Meyer, defensive end Micah Pittman, and Riley—met with the Bandits’ captains at midfield for the coin toss. The players all shook hands, and Riley took a couple seconds to say a few words to his old air force teammate, Bandits cornerback Alex McNeill. The coin tossed, Meyer called heads, and it landed tails, causing the crowd to burst again into an ear-splitting cheer. The Bandits chose to receive, and the captains went back to their sidelines to the jeering of the fans and the growing odor of stale beer.
Coach Burton walked down to where the defense was waiting. “Hey, fellas, just play your game and be patient. They will make a mistake.”
At 0–14, the Bandits would be playing hard for a number of reasons. First, they had no desire to go into the record books as the first team to go winless in a season since the 1976 expansion Tampa Bay Tarpons. That was back when there were only fourteen games in a season, so the Bandits had already tied that woeful record. The other reason they were playing hard was their rivalry with the Mustangs. There was simply too much history and too much hatred between these two teams for either franchise to lie down for the other.
For as far back as most fans could remember, there had been loathing between these two clubs. If you asked ten Mustangs fans, you’d probably get ten different answers as to why that hatred existed. Some still despised the Bandits’ ex-coach-turned-announcer Jim Madison. Others took their aggressions out against the reign of ancient, tyrannical owner Arthur Drake. Still others were offended at the team’s bouncing from Oakland to Los Angeles and back to Oakland. And the Bandits fans each had their own reasons to hate the Mustangs. Ultimately, the rivalry had taken on an existence all its own. It didn’t need a plausible explanation; it just was. The players felt it too. That’s why, no matter the record, anytime the Mustangs and Bandits played, the outcome could go either way.
The game started at a quick pace. The Bandits began with their hurry-up offense, trying to catch the Mustangs off guard. Six plays into the drive, the Bandits were already past midfield. Riley was getting frustrated, and his frustration turned to anger when he missed the key tackle on one, two, three plays in a row by just a step or two.
The Bandits drove all the way to the Mustangs’ 10 yard line. It was third and five. The Bandits quarterback took the snap and dropped back a few steps. Riley held his zone. Suddenly he saw the quarterback’s eyes flash to the tight end. Riley broke on the ball, swung at it, and missed. As he fell to the ground, he heard a roar from the crowd as the tight end pulled in the ball at the goal line for a touchdown.
Riley slammed his fist into the ground, then popped back up. After the extra point, the defense ran off the field to regroup. Most of the coaches were yelling, “Keep your heads up!” and “That’s okay, fellas; just keep battling!” Riley was irritated at the way the game had begun, but he knew there was a lot of football still to play.
The sideline phones began to erupt almost immediately. On one of them, defensive end LeMonjello (pronounced Le-MAHN-jel-lo, and don’t you dare say it wrong!) Fredericks was getting some feedback from the defensive line coach. LeMonjello was affectionately known by his teammates as “Jiggly,” after the tasty kids’ treat. Coach Cox must have said something that Jiggly disagreed with, because he grabbed the phone with his enormous hands and ripped it off its mount. He held the phone up toward the coach’s box and yelled, “Coach this!” He slammed the phone into the trash can behind the bench and dropped himself back onto his seat. Almost immediately empty space opened on both sides of Fredericks’s huge frame. Apparently the rest of the guys on the bench felt it
best to give Jiggly a little space.
* * *
Sal Ricci jogged onto the field with the rest of the Mustangs’ offense after the kickoff. He waited in the huddle for the play call, then took his place on the end of the line of scrimmage. He knew there was no way he would hear the snap count with all the noise in the stadium, so he didn’t bother straining his ears to hear Randy Meyer’s shouts. Instead he watched for the telltale tightening of Gorkowski’s hands that indicated he was about to snap the ball. The instant he saw the ball fly back into Meyer’s hands, Ricci shot forward, meeting the defensive end’s jam head-on before spinning away and taking off on his route.
The play was a scissors pattern that had Ricci crossing midfield. His eyes were on Meyer as he ran, but out of his peripheral vision he saw a linebacker bearing down on him. Slightly altering his course, he went on the inside of the umpire, causing the linebacker to plow over the unsuspecting official and send both of them sprawling. Three steps later Meyer had the ball in Ricci’s hand. Ricci looked downfield only to see three very large black-shirted Bandits in his path. He juked past the first defender, but the next two sandwiched him between their foul-smelling jerseys and brought him to the ground.
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 wi
th 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.
Monday Night Jihad Page 11
