Game On

by Barbara Oliverio

  “Oh, she’s ecstatic about that. He’s her favorite,” Anthony said, doing the same with his piece of cake.

  “Uh, no,” I noted. “You know the favorite would definitely have to be Father Sammy.”

  “Nah.” Joey waved his hand. “That’s only AFTER he became a priest. I’d have to say, if there’s a favorite, it’s the baby and the only one with eyes of violet.”

  “Of course.” I punched his shoulder and batted those selfsame eyes. “Why not?”

  Anthony opened his mouth as if to say something, but with one challenging glance from me, laughed and changed his thought.

  “It’s a pretty sweet deal to move into Uncle Dante’s apartment, though,” he said instead.

  Even though Phyllis and I were best friends, Anthony had the closest relationship to Uncle Dante, who had been his idol growing up and who had always coached him on his running back moves. Uncle Dante was just as devastated as the family was when Anthony was injured and his football career was sidelined.

  “I feel kinda bad taking the apartment without paying rent, though.”

  “Don’t. Uncle D loves you as much as he does Phyllis. He’d never take a dime,” Anthony said, absentmindedly rubbing his bad knee.

  Joey and I both caught the move. We all knew that even though Anthony had made peace with losing his dream, being relegated to a career that was only related to sports was a tough load to bear for someone who was once the top Heisman candidate. To keep his spirits up, the rest of us assured him that with all the wild cards in the family, at least someone needed to be well-versed in the law. Pop agreed that producing a priest and a lawyer was good insurance—but of course he never said that out loud when Ma was around.

  I hopped up and looked at my watch.

  “Gentlemen, let’s get to it. We’ve got to get on the road and stop halfway by midnight so that we can go to Mass in the morning and get home by tomorrow evening. We need to stick to the plan.”

  They threw crumpled sandwich wrappers at me, and we got back on the job.

  11

  You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

  I stood in the elevator leading to the KDW offices and flashed back to the day I had interviewed. Would Campbell Casey get on my elevator again as he had done that day?

  Not today. I completed a solo ride to my floor, took a deep breath, and stepped out into my new workplace. I was greeted by the receptionist, who directed me to Addison Thornton’s office in HR to take care of normal employee initialization duties. Checking in new employees was obviously below Addison Thornton’s pay grade, and an efficient HR associate had my packet ready for my review and various signatures. Once my credentials were laminated and dangling from my neck, however, the efficient Ms. Thornton stepped in to take over the rest of the chores. Yet again, she looked as if she had emerged directly from a refrigerated container, not one hair amiss.

  On the other hand, someone seeing the two of us together would more likely have described me as less than perfect. My signature wavy bob was pretty much in place—for me, that is—and in getting dressed, I had approximated what I thought was best for business casual based on what I had seen others wearing when I had interviewed. I’d even sought Phyllis’s approval for my slouchy wide-leg, cream-colored trousers; black sleeveless chiffon blouse, with Peter Pan collar; and pair of black wedges with crepe soles.

  “Too dressy? Not dressy enough?” I had questioned her.

  “Think about it, Mais. Do you even have anything in your closet that is very different than what you are wearing?” she had wisely asked.

  I didn’t even have to answer and went back to preparing for the day, because she was right. My style is my style, take it or leave it.

  Walking next to Addison at that moment, however, I felt … windblown.

  We reached a bullpen of desks. I knew which was mine before she even pointed it out, since it was the only one that was unadorned. Though all were exactly the same size and kitted out with the same chair, electronics, and desk lamp, they bore the personalized markings of each occupant. I knew instantly who the baseball fans were versus the football fans versus the outliers with their soccer, basketball, or lacrosse paraphernalia. Denver is a haven for sports fans of all types. I could also see the college loyalties and chuckled at the Nebraska Cornhusker seated next to the Iowa Hawkeye. Football season would be filled with exciting talk with those two. In addition to sports trappings, each desk had photographs and other toys and gizmos.

  I placed my bag on my chair and my box of individuality on the desk, to be arranged after Addison had completed her perfunctory duties.

  “Mike from IT will be along shortly to provide you with your laptop and phone,” she said.

  “Is everyone at a meeting? Should I be somewhere, too?” It was odd that people weren’t at their desks.

  “They’ll be along shortly, I’m sure.” Her tone indicated that any further questions on the topic wouldn’t be welcome.

  “Okay. Well. Thank you so much, Addison—” I began, but she cut me off.

  “Right. I’ll let you get settled. Let my office know if you have further HR questions.” And she was off.

  “People come and go so quickly here, Toto,” I muttered, shaking my head, sitting in my chair and preparing to unpack my box.

  “You aren’t Dorothy, and this isn’t Oz,” a voice whispered in my ear and startled me. I whipped around to confront the voice.

  Alek, of course.

  “Wipe that grin off your face, Markovich. Are you trying to kill me on my first day—no, in my first hour?”

  He plopped down in one of the other chairs and swiveled back and forth.

  “How’s it going, Mais?”

  I turned my chair toward him and matched him swivel for swivel, noting that he was dressed in his trademark black jeans and high-tops. That day’s black T-shirt was a Green Day concert shirt. I think we had gone to that concert together, as a matter of fact.

  “So far so good, I guess. Where is everyone?”

  “Downstairs at Java Junction. They’ll be here in a few.”

  “Pretty loose on timing, isn’t it? And didn’t I pass a break room here in the office with coffee in it?”

  “Our staff meeting is in fifteen minutes, but all the guys like to get a hit of coffee from the Junction on the mornings that Lola is working.”

  “Does she make that great a cup of coffee?” My own recent stint as a barista came swiftly to mind.

  “She has, let’s say, other qualities, that the guys appreciate.”

  I rolled my eyes. Up until now, without a female presence in this bullpen, I was sure that a locker room attitude was all too prevalent. Well, we would see how things progressed. Not that I expected these guys to be any different than any all-male group I’d worked with before. But my father taught me how to stand up for myself—hello, I had to with six ruffians in the house. I would be willing to take bets, however, that the reason Addison dashed off was that she was above dealing with the frat boys. I asked Alek his opinion of our frosty co-worker.

  “Ah, she’s okay,” he shrugged.

  “Don’t you get the feeling that she is some sort of perfect fembot? Nothing ever out of place? Does her tight smile even move from her lips?”

  Alek considered all my questions and gave me one of his own smiles, that boyish, crinkly, all-the-way-to-his-eyes one.

  “Maisie, you are too funny. I wouldn’t spend too much time worrying about Addison. She’s one of the good ones. Right now, you better think about the horde of sports reporters coming down the hall who are just itching to know why the first woman in our little group is little old YOU.”

  “Calliope Newsome does guest shots here,” I said. The auburn-haired former Miss Wyoming did special fluff pieces and was known for her piercing green eyes, if not her less-than-piercing interview skills.

  “Not the same. The anchors and guests are in a world of their own. Calliope and your man Campbell Casey are royalty.”

 
“My man? What?” I started, but Alek stood and whistled to the others as he pushed my chair into the aisle. He was correct. They hastened their steps and pounced with razor-sharp questioning skills. By the time we were ready for my first staff meeting with this group, I was just a bit exhausted from the grilling.

  We trooped into the conference room for our meeting with Mathis Bosch, who was dressed much the same as he had been the day I interviewed, in khaki shorts and another Hawaiian shirt. The meeting was fast-paced, and assignments were made quickly and in a rapid shorthand. I noticed that everyone had tasks but me, and I was ready to ask about that when Alek kicked me.

  Mathis looked at me, clapped his hands, and asked, “Has everyone met our newbie, Maisie?”

  A chorus of claps and whistles erupted.

  “So, guys, I think Maisie is perfect to cover the chessboxing tournament.”

  Hello? Did I hear him correctly? Chessboxing? What the what?

  I looked at him, and he had a straight face. I had two choices. I could laugh in an attempt to acknowledge that he was joking with me and wait for the actual assignment. Or I could ask for more details and be the butt of the joke for being the ditz who thought that chessboxing was real.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Time passed while I decided how to respond. I could feel all eyes on me, waiting to laugh at the new kid, no matter what I said! Finally, what seemed like hours later, I took a breath and said the only thing I thought made sense.

  “Are you sure that a rook-ie should cover this? I wouldn’t want to just be a pawn for the other reporters. Then again, I could KO all of them.”

  Pause.

  Everyone burst into companionable laughter. Great. I still didn’t know if he was joking or not.

  “I knew I liked you, Valenti.” Mathis slid over a press packet.

  Huh. Turned out chessboxing was a real thing. I didn’t know whether to be happy that I didn’t make a fool of myself by not knowing this or to be annoyed that I was given such a bizarre assignment. I glanced over at Alek, and his return look affirmed my conviction: shut up and be happy. All rookies get the weird assignments. I didn’t even bother to ask about a cameraperson. I knew it would be me, my own camera, and the chessboxers. All righty, then.

  The meeting broke, and we retreated toward the bullpen. My co-workers gave me backslaps and shoulder punches on the way back. I hoped that meant I was accepted.

  Alek walked alongside me.

  “So. Will you set me up with a camera, or do I have to cover it using my iPhone?” I asked.

  “We’ll set you up.”

  “So, chessboxing. And according to the literature, it is just what it says. Competitors fight in alternating rounds of chess and boxing.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you mean, you know?”

  “I found the tournament for Mathis. He asked me to find the oddest thing in Denver to give you for your first assignment. You’re welcome.”

  “What! I have you to thank for this!” I beat him with the press packet.

  “It could have been worse. It could have been extreme ironing. You should be happy. This sounds interesting at least.”

  “Oh, definitely,” my voice dripped with sarcasm. “But I don’t even believe that extreme ironing is a sport.”

  “Look it up,” he shrugged.

  “Whatever. Hey, why wasn’t Campbell at the meeting?”

  “I told you. Royalty.”

  “I bet Prince Campbell wasn’t asked to cover extreme chess ironing as his first assignment,” I conjectured.

  “It’s extreme ironing and chessboxing. Keep it straight.”

  “Uh-huh. Big difference, pal.” I stopped in my tracks because we had reached my desk. How had my co-workers had time to decorate it like a chessboard and hang a pair of boxing gloves from the chair?

  “Ha,” I said and added loudly, “just so you guys know, I’m keeping these, and I know how to use them.”

  Phyllis laughed loudly later when I recounted the day’s events to her. We were in our pajamas, sitting at the small table in our apartment, sharing cold meatballs from a Tupperware container. My mother had stocked our refrigerator with food, as though there were no grocery stores in the city and as though she couldn’t be reached by phone to bring over emergency provisions.

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny, Phyllis.”

  “Oh, come on, you know it is.”

  “I guess it is. The guys are really nice, though.”

  “Any nice-looking ones?”

  “Are you thinking about for me or you? You know I never stand a chance when you sashay your model body and perfect face anywhere near a male. Maybe not at the moment, though,” I said, eyeing her nighttime getup.

  But even with her hair in a careless topknot, wearing her soda bottle glasses, and dressed in one of her dad’s rattiest football jerseys and her Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms, she was still one of the most gorgeous women in the world.

  “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” She smiled to display meatball and bread between her teeth.

  “Ha! Remember, I knew you when. And also remember, you could have snagged any of my brothers long ago at any time if you wanted a nice-looking boy.”

  “Ick! That would have been like dating my own brother.” She threw her napkin at me.

  “Yep. Oh well. Too late now, even though both of our mothers would have loved that marriage.”

  “As it is now, it would be like the marriage of, oh, I don’t know, chess and boxing?”

  “Exactly!” I laughed, and we returned to reviewing the press packet for my bizarre assignment.

  12

  Despite the dubious title of the sport, my first assignment covering chessboxing was quite interesting. I researched it before trudging all the way out to the Adams County fairground to cover the event, and when I got there I found a compelling group of competitors and fans. They were skeptical when they met me, but when they found that I had taken the time to learn a bit about the sport and was honestly interested in learning more, they welcomed me with open arms. My one-on-one piece with the champion turned out to be funny and engaging.

  Not engaging enough to warrant more than a minute on the next evening’s sports broadcast, though. Oh well. What did I expect? I didn’t have time to brood because my first weeks at KDW blossomed into a whirlwind of activity. I found myself longing for an assignment to cover any kind of sporting event, mainstream or otherwise, because soon after my initiation, I was mostly relegated to research, fact checking, and other duties that always fall to a newbie.

  I commented on that fact to Alek as we shared lunch at the nearby deli on a relatively slow Wednesday a few weeks into my tenure.

  “Mathis knows I can work in front of the camera. I mean that’s why he hired me. What’s with all the scut work?”

  “Did you expect to be the featured on-air personality the minute you got here?” Alek stole one of my fries. He always stole most of my fries, ever since I’d known him. Why didn’t he just order extra fries?

  “Not featured. But on-air occasionally.” I pulled my plate to the side farthest from him.

  “That’s not how it works here. You’ll get your shot. Mathis just has his own method, Maisie. He didn’t get to be a Peabody Award winner by playing by other people’s rules, you know.” He reached way over me to take another fry.

  “I guess. I just see Calliope ‘Copper Top’ and cringe at how lackluster her reporting is and—stop eating my fries!” I smacked his hand.

  He grabbed the last handful, shoving them into his mouth. My eyes widened.

  “Oh calm down,” he said after he swallowed, and motioned for the server to bring more.

  “There, you’ll get fresh ones. Are you happy?”

  I sniffed, but inwardly I smiled. I kind of missed this french fry game from college.

  “And really, Maisie, calling her Copper Top? What next? Raggedy Ann?”

  “I’d never say that.” Out loud, anyway.

  “You’ll
get your chance. And it will be soon.”

  “Why, do you know something?”

  “No, Maisie,” he shook his head. “But Mathis won’t waste your talent. And how come you complain about Calliope but not Campbell? He’s not exactly Bob Costas or Al Michaels.”

  “I know. But former players are different than former models, I guess.”

  I turned my head so he wouldn’t see my eyes. Even I didn’t believe my shallow response. Darn it! I’d been at that station long enough that I shouldn’t still be starstruck by Thor-come-to-life. I mean, how many NFL players who were actually good had I met through Uncle Dante and Pop?

  We were both uncharacteristically silent for a moment.

  “Anyway, Mathis will give you the right assignment at the right time,” Alek said in a reassuring tone.

  We finished our meal and returned to the station, going our separate ways. Alek strolled off to edit film, and I went to my desk to see what random assignment Mathis had left for me via sticky note. You’d think that in the twenty-first century, he would have caught on to modern technology, but his favorite method of communication was still a bright-yellow square, usually with an assertive “See Me!” penned in thick black felt-tip pen.

  I dropped my bag with a sigh and, picking up my iPad, started to walk to his office to see if he was there. He was probably still at lunch, but I could leave my note among the other responses to his missives. Before I had a chance to leave, a Nerf football sailed my way, and I neatly snatched it from the air.

  “Yo, Valenti.” The voice was my co-worker Perry Kirk, who covered high school and college sports and who was the only other person in the bullpen at the moment. He spun around in his chair and removed his immense headphones, which I knew were pumping out head-banging jams.

  I flipped the ball back.

  “Yo, Kirk.”

  “Did you see your note from Mathis?” he asked tossing back the ball.