Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

“I don’t understand you sometimes. What are you hoping to get out of all this nicey-nice stuff you’re always doing?”

Riley leaned back in the booth. “I don’t do it to get anything out of it. I do it because it’s the right thing to do.” Seeing that Ricci was still smirking and shaking his head at him, Riley went on. “I don’t know how to explain it, Reech… A couple of years back, there was a big fad here in the U.S.-I don’t know if you saw anything about it in Germany. Everyone had stuff with the letters WWJD on them-bumper stickers, shirts, key chains-anything anyone could make a buck off of, they stuck the letters on it.”

“Yeah, I saw some of that stuff. ‘What would Jesus do,’ right? In Germany, the letters were WWJT-‘Was würde Jesus tun.’”

“Exactly. For many people it was just a cool saying, something to make them feel spiritual. For me, it’s really how I try to live my life.”

Ricci scooped out another helping of the spinach supreme from the family-style dish. “I guess that makes sense. You see someone who has a problem, you give them what they need, and, bam! you’re one step closer to heaven.”

“Not quite, Sal. I don’t need to get any steps closer to heaven because of my belief in Jesus Christ. Doing all the good things only-”

Ricci’s cell phone interrupted the conversation. He looked at the caller ID, flushed, and then hurriedly said, “Sorry, I have to take this.”

Riley watched Ricci walk out of the room. He wondered what could have thrown him off like that. Sal probably received a few dozen phone calls every day. What was it about this one that had made him bolt from the table? Sal’s moods were often a little unpredictable, but Riley had always written that off to his friend’s being European. Probably just something going on at home.

His thoughts were interrupted by a frightening, high-pitched version of Travis Marshall’s voice carrying across the room.

“Oh, we will fight, fight, fight for the Indians

When the Big Green team appears…”

Ricci slid back into the booth. He seemed a little more composed, but Riley noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.

“That was quick. Everything okay with Megan and Alessandra?”

“What? Oh, Meg? Yeah, no big deal. Alessandra hit her head on the corner of our coffee table. I think Meg just wanted someone to tell her she’s not a bad mother.”

Riley eyed his friend. The Italian’s mind was clearly a thousand miles away.

When Marshall finally finished his fight song and escaped back to Riley’s booth, Gorkowski made his way up on top of the linemen’s table, his left foot planted squarely in the middle of a mound of potatoes au gratin. “Can I have your attention, dear friends and teammates,” he slurred. “In honor of our beloved dozen rookies who are paying for this feast, I would like to propose a toast. I hold in my hand a bottle of Macallan 1964 single malt scotch, which I would like to pass around. It is a most exquisite beverage, as it should be for $2,500 a bottle. I would like to thank you boys for-whoops!”

A collective gasp sounded around the room as the bottle “accidentally” dropped to the table and shattered. “Oh my,” the All-Pro center teased. “Me and my butterfingers. Well, you know us linemen-we’re not supposed to hold anything.”

Everyone burst into laughter-everyone except the rookies. They were too busy doing mental mathematical gymnastics with the numbers 12 and 2,500. The conversation kicked up again as the dessert cart was brought around and each table ordered one of everything. Ricci remained subdued, so Riley and Marshall did most of the talking.

“You know, where I grew up they called this pudding,” the rookie offensive lineman said, looking down at the crème brûlée. “Here, they burn it, give it a French name, and charge $8.95 a pop.”

Riley laughed. “Well, when I was growing up, most of our cuisine came from the kitchen of a world-renowned culinary master-the great Chef Boyardee.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anna, the waitress, trying to get his attention. She was holding up a large bag. Riley made an attempt at a meaningful look and a nod toward Marshall.

“Hey, what’s that all about, Riley?” Marshall asked, turning to look back. “You siccing Gorkowski on me again?”

“Way to blow the surprise,” Riley said to Marshall. He signaled for Anna to come to the table.

She presented the bag to the shocked lineman. Marshall rifled through the sack, opening everything up and devouring the smells. “I don’t believe this. Who does this kind of stuff, Pach?”

“Hey, anything to keep you out of my kitchen.”

Mercifully, the night was coming to an end. As everyone piled out of the restaurant, Riley caught up with Garrett Widnall. Together they worked out a deal for him to cover Widnall’s portion of the night’s expenses with payback coming out of the anticipated play-off bonuses.

“Thanks, Pach. You saved my skin tonight.”

“You just make sure you do your part to get us into the postseason, or else you’ll be working it off this spring mowing my lawn or painting my house or sanitizing my garbage cans or polishing my car or rubbing my feet or all of the above.”

“Rubbing your feet, huh? Maybe we need to rethink the terms of our arrangement,” Widnall laughed.

Driving home that night, Riley couldn’t get Ricci’s abrupt change of mood out of his mind. He knew that the man had some secrets. Asking him about his past was like asking Ebenezer Scrooge for the PIN to his checking account. He couldn’t count the number of times he had tried to delve into Ricci’s history, and within five minutes his friend would find a way to turn the conversation around so they were talking about Riley again. The news agencies had given the basics about his childhood in an Italian orphanage and his gradual rise to national attention, but as he thought about it, Riley realized he knew little more about his friend than anyone with Internet access might know.

Glancing down at the seat next to him, he saw the blue glow of his cell phone and debated whether he should give Ricci a call. He picked up the phone, tossed it a couple of times in his hand, then set it back down. There’s a fine line between trying to help and prying. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow on the plane.

Finally arriving home four hours past his usual bedtime, Riley tossed his keys, which went sliding across the granite countertop in his kitchen and into the sink. He punched a button on his phone that automatically dialed his voice mail, then put the receiver on speaker.

A call from his mom wanting to talk. Another call from his mom. A call from Robert Taylor asking if he’d come in a half hour early to do a video interview with ESPN. A call from his dad wanting to know if he knew his mom wanted to talk.

Riley hung up the phone, stretched, and moved toward the bedroom. He dropped his clothes onto the hardwood, set his alarm, and climbed under his comforter. Just before turning off his bedside lamp, he spotted the bag with the gloves on his dresser. He willed himself back out of bed, grabbed the gloves, retrieved his keys from the sink, and set them both by the garage door. As he slid back under the covers and closed his eyes, the last thing he heard in his head as he drifted off to sleep was a strange falsetto voice serenading him:

We’ll have a touchdown, touchdown, Indians!

And raise the Green and Gold!

Saturday, December 20

CTD North Central Division Headquarters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

6:00 a.m. CST

“I can’t believe those idiots aren’t going to shut down the mall,” Scott Ross said as he threw his half-full bottle of Yoo-hoo Lite into the trash can, swearing he would never again touch that perversion of perfection. His head was still spinning from the whirlwind trip that had brought him from discovery of the Mall of America as the likely target: grabbing his always-packed bag, hopping a CTD jet with Tara Walsh, flying through much of the night, and finally making their way to the North Central Division headquarters in downtown Minneapolis. “Don’t they realize what’s about to go down?”