Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  When he came back out, Kevin gave a yell and struck an Incredible Hulk pose. Michael lost it all over again.

  “He desperately wants to hug you, but I told him he couldn’t because he’s still wet,” Marti told her husband.

  “Oh, Kev, you’re killing me,” Michael said, slowly regaining control. “You look half Oompa-Loompa and half Violet Beauregarde. And why is there only an M? Shouldn’t you have done CM for Colorado Mustangs?”

  “Didn’t need to.”

  “And just why didn’t you need to?” Michael asked, fearful of what the answer was going to be.

  “’Cause someone else is going to be the C.”

  “Are you talking about Mom? Because I didn’t get her a ticket, and it wouldn’t be proper for her to go shirtless at the stadium anyway.”

  “I’m not talking about Mom. I’m talking about the person who’s taking me to the game.”

  “You couldn’t be talking about the person who’s taking you to the game, because I’m the person taking you to the game, and there is no way this side of a presidential proclamation that I am going to go out in forty-degree weather and take off my shirt.”

  “C’mon, Dad. Please. Maybe we’ll even get on TV.”

  “Yeah, c’mon, Dad,” Marti joined in. “Your son’s not scared of a little cold.”

  “True, my dear. But our son is not scared of my chain saw either, so I need to be scared of it for him and encourage him not to do anything dumb. That’s what parents do, O love of my life; they encourage their children not to do stupid things. And even as I’m standing here trying to reason with you, I’m realizing that there is absolutely no chance of me winning this argument, so I might as well give in now while I still have a scrap of dignity left—dignity that will be stripped away from me tonight the moment I remove my shirt from my colorful body.”

  “So, is that a yes, Dad?”

  “That’s a yes, Son.”

  Kevin ran to hug his dad, remembered his wet paint, and instead renewed his dancing, now chanting, “Go, Dad! Go, Dad! Go, Dad!”

  Marti motioned for Michael to follow her back to the “paint room.” “Tell you what,” she told him over her shoulder, “if you let me paint this on you now, I promise to help wash it off tonight.”

  “Hmm, suddenly body paint doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. . . .”

  Monday, December 29

  Platte River Stadium

  Denver, Colorado

  The temperature had dropped to thirty-six degrees, and a light mist hung in the air. Not necessarily the perfect temperature for tailgating, but traditions must be kept. The four couples—the Markses, Rawlinses, Newmans, and Ashtons—met in their usual place in a small parking lot just off the 21st Avenue exit. They had been doing this for so many years that they had the setup down to a science.

  One corner of an awning was attached to the top of Paul and Carol Marks’s Suburban, with the other connected to a corner of the shell on Doug and Abby Rawlins’s Dodge Ram pickup. The awning was long enough to fit eight chairs and a barbecue, which the Rawlinses brought each week in the back of their truck. The only element that varied was the food. There were eight home games every season, so each couple was responsible for bringing the meat two times.

  This week promised to be an experience. Andy and Liv Newman, always the adventurous couple in the group, had recently bought Steven Raichlen’s The Barbecue! Bible and were anxious to try out some recipes. This week they brought evapi—a Bosnian burger recipe that blended beef, pork, and lamb with various ethnic spices. Carol was excited about trying it out, but Paul grumbled to Gil Ashton about how no one seemed to be able to just bring brats soaked in beer anymore.

  When the barbecue was finally heating up and everyone had a cup of Carol’s spiced cider in their gloved hands, Doug Rawlins spoke up. “Well, Buckaroos, we’ve got an announcement to make. With Doug Jr., Jim, and Kelly all living around Phoenix now, and with my retirement last year, Abby and I have been deciding what we want to be now that we’re all grown-up. The answer that we both came up with is that more than anything we want to be grandparents.”

  As Carol listened, her eyes began to tear up. Please don’t say it, Doug; please don’t.

  Doug’s own voice was starting to crack a bit. “We’ve got three kids, three kids-in-law, and seven grandkids down there, and up here all we have is you. Now, don’t . . . please, don’t get me wrong. You all were the whole reason why this was a hard decision to make. But family’s family. I want my grandkids to know their granddad. I want to be a part of their lives. So . . . this will be our last game, fellow Buckaroos. We’re both so sorry.”

  A chorus of “Don’t be sorry” and “Of course you have to go” and “We’d make the same decision” came from everyone—except for Carol. She stood with her back to the others as she fiddled with the thermoses that held the cider.

  Abby walked up and put her hand on Carol’s gently trembling shoulder. “Carol, are you okay with this?”

  Carol turned and burst into tears. “Of course I’m not okay with it, but . . . but . . . well, hang it all, it’s the right thing to do. Oh, Abby, I’m going to miss you guys so much.” She fell into her friend’s arms, and they both cried together.

  After a few minutes, Carol looked up and saw that everyone was silently staring at them. “Well, don’t just stand there, Buckaroos. This is our last game before two of our members ride off into the sunset. Let’s make tonight a shindig we’ll never forget!”

  * * *

  “C’mon, Manny, let me have the hot chocolate. You know when it gets like this no one’s going to be buying Cokes. This is beer and chocolate weather.”

  When Todd Penner had arrived at Platte River Stadium and discovered that he was scheduled to tote around cold drinks, he saw his hopes of getting the ring out of layaway fading. He knew the way things worked, and “cold drinks” was not where he wanted to be.

  Todd gave his biggest smile. “Please, boss, I need the money. I’m using the tips to get Jamie’s ring. Do it as a favor to me.” He saw that he was getting nowhere, so he clasped his hands together, batted his eyelashes, and added, “Better yet, Manny, don’t do it for me; do it in the name of true love.”

  Manny’s resolve never stood a chance. Todd had been too good a worker for too long, and the boss broke into laughter at this performance. “Okay, lover-boy, you can have hot chocolate. But careful on the whipped cream—you go through twice the cans that everyone else does.”

  “What can I say?” Todd responded, still batting his eyelashes. “I like my chocolate extra sweet.”

  “Get out of here, you freak, before I change my mind.”

  Todd was totally stoked when he left the room. All his plans were coming together. As he walked across the ramp, his mind went back to his clandestine meeting with Jamie’s dad yesterday. They had met at the Starbucks in Arapahoe Crossing; Todd offered to buy.

  “In that case, I think I’ll splurge,” Brian Starling had said. “Order me a venti caramel macchiato.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Starling.” Todd turned to the menu board, mentally comparing what he saw with what he knew was in his wallet. He said to the barista, “The gentleman will have a venti caramel macchiato . . . and make mine a tall drip coffee.” Then, turning back to Jamie’s dad, he said, “Go ahead and have a seat, sir, and I’ll bring the drinks over.”

  As he waited for the drinks, he went over his spiel again in his head. It had taken him half the night to process through exactly what he should say. He felt he had put together a fairly persuasive presentation—even alliterating his main points: facts, figures, future, and faith. The drinks came, and with them came the moment of truth.

  Sitting down across the table, Todd began, “Mr. Starling . . .”

  “Satchmo.”

  “Okay . . . uh . . . Satchmo.”

  “No, the music playing in the background. ‘What a Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong, also known as Satchmo. One of my favorite songs.”

 
“Yeah, it’s definitely a great song. Do you want me to wait to talk until it’s over?”

  “No, go ahead,” Brian said.

  Todd couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the man hiding a smile behind his coffee cup. “Thanks. Okay. Well, sir, Jamie and I have known each other for a long time now. . . .”

  “I know, Todd. I was there.”

  When Todd had called Mr. Starling to request this meeting, he assumed Jamie’s dad probably had at least a strong hunch about its purpose. But so far, this was turning out to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  “Right. Stupid me. Of course you were there. So you know that I’ve known Jamie for a long time. I’ve also had strong feelings for—”

  “Strong feelings, huh? You know, Todd, I have strong feelings for my wife’s meat loaf. Do you consider my daughter on the same level as my wife’s meat loaf?”

  “No, of course not. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do have strong feelings for Mrs. Starling’s meat loaf—it’s incredible and all. But what I’m trying to say is that I’ve loved Jamie for a long time.” Todd paused for a moment, doing his best to regroup. Okay, “facts” is not going so well, and I can’t even remember what “figures” was about. Time to wow him with the future.

  Todd opened his leather business portfolio—a graduation gift from his high school accounting teacher—and pulled out a copy of his and Jamie’s business plan. “If you’ll look here, Mr. Starling, you’ll see the plan we’ve created to make sure we can be financially self-sufficient. And not just self-sufficient but prosperous. If you’ll look at this ten-year graph . . .”

  “Todd, stop, please.” Brian was laughing now. “Listen, are you going to take care of my daughter?”

  “Of course, sir. It’s all right here, if you’ll just look at—”

  “Will you love her with all your heart your whole life?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “And do you understand that if you ever do anything to hurt my daughter—physically or emotionally—I will cause you pain? And not just the oh-that-stung-a-little-bit-but-I’m-fine-now kind of pain, but the oh-Lord-just-take-me-home-’cause-I-don’t-want-to-live-anymore kind of pain. The kind of pain that will make your unborn great-grandchildren scream out. The kind of pain that will cause old women on the street to have great pity upon you until they hear what you’ve done to my daughter, at which point they will beat you with their walkers, then kick you when you’re down. The kind of pain that the government—”

  “Mr. Starling? I think I get the picture.”

  “Good. Then put the graph away and ask me what it is that you brought me here to ask.”

  “Sure, of course.” Todd cleared his throat. “Mr. Starling, will you give me permission to ask your daughter for her hand in marriage?”

  Brian looked Todd in the eye and said, “Son, I can think of no man I would rather see Jamie spend the rest of her life with than you. You have not only my permission but my blessing. I pray that God will give you two the years of joy that He’s given to Jamie’s mom and me.”

  As Todd remembered his future father-in-law’s words, tears came to his eyes. He slipped the belt for the loaded hot chocolate tray over his head, looked at the single can of whipped cream, and called out, “Better give me a second can.” Forget what Manny says. Life is too good to skimp. Tonight, we let the whipped cream flow!

  Chapter 15

  Monday, December 29

  Platte River Stadium

  Denver, Colorado

  The first quarter and a half went well for the Mustangs. The Baltimore Predators had come into the game ranked second in their division, so both teams were battling hard for a play-off spot. But as the game went on, it became apparent that Colorado had some of the “Monday night magic” going on. In the first quarter, Randy Meyer threw two touchdown passes, both over 30 yards and both to Antwon Thatch, who was known for his perfectly executed routes. Tory Girchwood tacked on a 43-yard field goal six minutes into the second quarter.

  The defense had also been on fire, holding the Predators to just 36 yards in the first quarter. The one time Baltimore running back James Anderson broke loose for the end zone, he was caught from behind by Keith Simmons, who stripped the ball as he brought him down and then recovered the fumble. Later, Riley picked off a tipped pass, giving the Mustangs a +2 in the turnover column.

  Halfway through the second quarter, the score was 17–0, and the Mustangs had all the momentum. The game had the makings of a blowout. But Riley knew all too well not to take any victory for granted. In week three, the Mustangs had been in the same situation against the San Diego Thunder. The defense had let its guard down, and that game had ended in a humiliating Thunder comeback victory.

  Riley, as the middle linebacker, gave the call in the huddle. “Okay, guys, keep it burning. Don’t forget these guys are good. Forty-four Cover Three Sky—Forty-four Cover Three Sky! Break!”

  Forty-four gave the formation—four linemen and four linebackers. Typically the Mustangs ran a 4–3 formation, but Coach Burton, expecting a handoff to Anderson, had added an extra linebacker. The rest of the play call directed each player to cover his proper gap in the offensive line.

  The Predators approached the line of scrimmage. Riley, seeing the tight end go to the left side of the line, called out “Leo! Leo!” The call of “Leo” echoed throughout the defense. Everybody tensed. Riley homed in on the quarterback as he gave the call.

  “Blue Eighty-nine! Blue Eighty-nine! Go!” Holguin, the Mustangs’ right end, launched himself into the Predators’ line, then realized that no one else had moved. Whistles blew and flags went in the air. Everyone stood and walked back to their huddles.

  Riley watched the sideline as he walked. He saw Coach Burton say something behind his hand to the defensive coordinator, who then signaled a play to Riley. Riley nodded, then jogged to the huddle.

  When the defense had gathered around Riley, he reached across and gave Holguin a light slap on the helmet. “That’s what I’m talking about, Hulk! Keep it focused!”

  “Won’t happen again, Pach,” Holguin replied.

  “Okay, Crank Jet Forty-four Mike Box Cover One—Crank Jet Forty-four Mike Box Cover One! Break!”

  As they ran back to the line, Riley knew that this run coverage play had him covering the “A” gap, to the left side of the center. Burton was betting on another run up the middle, and Riley’s job was to sprint to that gap and kill it.

  As the Predators lined up, Riley saw that the tight end had moved to the other side. “Rex! Rex!” The rest of the defense followed his lead.

  “Red Sixty-five! Red Sixty-five! Go! Go! Go!” The ball snapped, and Riley shot to his gap. He saw the quarterback lodge the ball in Anderson’s hands and saw the halfback come straight for his hole. Just before they met, Riley felt a leg whip catch him down low, sending him falling to the ground. He caught Anderson’s jersey enough to slow him down before Simmons came flying in, placing his helmet right on the running back’s hands.

  The ball flew into the air, bounced once, then landed immediately in front of Riley. Riley tucked the ball under his body just as five fully loaded cement trucks dropped onto him—at least that’s how his brain deciphered the sensation. Hands began reaching under him for the ball. But those weren’t the hands he was concerned about. The first of the two that disturbed him was reaching under his face mask. A thumb was in his left nostril, and the rest of the fingers were digging for sockets. The second hand of concern delivered a third punch to an area of his body that no man wants to have assaulted in any way. This punch was enough for Riley to momentarily lose his grip on the ball, which he felt quickly slide from underneath him. Just like that, what should have been the third turnover became an offensive fumble recovery.

  After everyone unpiled from him, Riley rolled over and lay there until Simmons came and pulled him up. He slowly made his way back to the huddle, trying to catch his breath. When he got there, the defensive coordinator signaled in the call.
Riley turned to his teammates and said in a shrill falsetto, “Forty-four Strong Safety . . .” He cleared his throat while the rest of the guys laughed. “And that, my dear boys, is why we never forget our hard plastic friends. Okay, Forty-four Strong Safety Delta Box Three Zone—Forty-four Strong Safety Delta Box Three Zone! Break!”

  It was third and 11 for the Predators on their own 38 yard line, facing the south end zone. Both teams came out of their huddles.

  The game clock ticked down: 7:05, 7:04, 7:03.

  * * *

  Todd Penner knew he had a sale. He was walking section 530 and working his way south when he saw some crazy guy and his kid whip off the blanket they had been huddled under, revealing their fully painted bodies. They started screaming and dancing around as all the folks around them cheered them on. That’s a kid who desperately needs some hot chocolate, Todd thought.

  When he finally made his way down the stairs next to the colorful duo, he said, “You two interested in a little warming up?”

  “Good call,” the dad answered. “We’ll take two.”

  “You look like a kid who likes whipped cream,” Todd said to the boy.

  “You betcha!”

  “All right, two chocolates—one with super massive mongo amounts of whipped cream—coming right up.” Gotta work the tips, Todd thought as he lifted the belt off of his neck and set the tray down on the steps.

  * * *

  Carol was doing her best to enjoy the game, but her mind was far away from the stadium. She had purposely sat on the far end of the line of eight seats so she could process. She tried to pretend the reason she was so quiet was that she was really into the game.

  Sure, there will still be three couples left. And it isn’t like Paul and I haven’t discussed this very eventuality umpteen times. But the reality of it actually happening is like a slap in the face. Why couldn’t they just be snowbirds living half the time here and half in Arizona? Well, that makes a lot of sense, you goose—if they were here for Mustangs season, they would be spending winters here and summers in Arizona. Oh, why am I even worrying about this? What’s done is done.