by Jason Elam
“Thanks,” Riley called as Bernier slipped out the door.
Riley walked through the now-empty locker room. Thirty seconds later a horn blew, indicating the beginning of practice. Anyone not out there was one step closer to the end of his football dreams and could also expect his wallet to be $1,500 lighter come tomorrow. Although training camp didn’t officially start until tonight, the pressure and the fines started this morning.
It didn’t take long for Riley to find his locker. At the top was a piece of athletic tape with Covington written across it. It had been a number of years since he had seen his name on anything other than a laminated plaque. A weird feeling of déjà vu caused him to pause for a second and reorient himself.
Placing his bag on the ground, he lifted the bench seat at the front part of his locker. After looking around, he reached into the bag and pulled out the .357 Sig. He quickly pulled the paper coating off the Velcro strips that were attached to the holster and secured the weapon on the underside of the top of the storage area. Mr. Bellefeuille and Coach Medley knew about the gun, but no one else—and Riley really wanted to keep it that way.
After a few minutes of emptying out clothes, deodorants, and lotions from his bag, he found the door Bernier had told him about and went to find out why they called the equipment manager “Stump.”
Monday, July 27, 11:41 a.m. EDT
Warriors Park, Ashburn, VA
Riley found it bizarre being in the red and yellow of the Washington Warriors instead of a blue and orange Mustangs uniform. In fact, as soon as Riley had gotten back from seeing Stump—I’m still not sure why they call him that, and I probably don’t want to know—he had quickly dressed out, taken a picture of himself with his cell phone, and texted it to his family and friends.
Then, after the initial excitement of the new uniform wore off, he had spent the next couple hours studying the playbook that had been left at his locker. Many of the plays looked familiar because both clubs ran the same type of defense. And even though the codes were different, Riley was used to that. The Mustangs had gone through two defensive coordinators while he had been there, and with each new administration came a new playbook.
There had been a brief flurry of excitement in the locker room when the players had come back from the field at 10:30 and moved into position meetings. But other than that and the occasional trainer or equipment person coming up for a quick introduction, Riley had had the place to himself.
When the third staff member introduced himself, it really hit Riley that he was a stranger in a strange land. Back in Denver, he had known all the trainers, equipment managers, field personnel, and media people—everyone from the front office to the janitorial staff. Trying to get to know all the members of the new organization seemed a near-impossible task.
Glancing up at the wall clock, he saw that it was 11:43 a.m. Time for the photo shoot.
Sure enough, a kid in his early teens came walking toward him. “Mr. Covington? My name is Brad Wiens. I’m supposed to take you to your photo shoot,” the boy said in a nervous voice.
“Good to meet you, Brad,” Riley said, shaking his hand. He reached back and grabbed his helmet out of the locker. “Let’s go.”
As they walked, Brad said, “It’s just so awesome to have you here. I’ve got so much respect for you—like, not only as a player, but as a person, too.”
“Thanks, Brad. That’s nice of you to say.”
“No, seriously. All my friends couldn’t believe it when I told them I was going to meet you today. . . .”
Brad’s voice faded into the background as soon as he turned Riley toward the practice field. Riley had thought the shoot would be indoors, but it looked like they were heading right out to the media. Here we go, he thought as Brad opened the door for him, saying, “. . . autographs for all my friends, but my dad said that wouldn’t be cool to do.”
Immediately, camera flashes started going off all around Riley. His name was called out by hundreds of different voices. He smiled, keeping his head down, and gave a quick wave.
In the midst of the crowd, a hand grasped his, and a man said, “Riley, I’m Jonny Wiens. I’m the head of PR here. I hope you don’t mind me sending my son to get you. He couldn’t give a flying flip for any of the Warriors players, but as soon as I told him you were going to be here today, he was practically on his knees begging me to let him meet you.”
“Dad!” Brad protested through the noise.
“Don’t worry, Brad,” Riley said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, too. And you tell your dad how many autographs you need for your friends, and I’ll be sure to get them to you.”
Brad’s face lit up but fell again when his dad said, “I’ll take him from here. Thanks, buddy.”
Brad nodded, then faded into the crowd.
Wiens put his arm around Riley’s shoulders and led him toward the practice field. Walking through the media reminded Riley of being at a movie premiere—all the shouts, the flashes, the microphones, everything except the tuxedos and the red carpet.
Once they cleared the press gauntlet, Wiens turned and put his arms up, quieting the mass of people. “If you’ll check your schedules, you’ll see that Riley will have a press Q&A tonight at six. Until then, I’ve asked him not to answer any questions. However, you’re welcome to take all the pictures you want.”
Leaning into Wiens, Riley asked, “Any chance I can get one of those little schedules, Jonny, so I don’t miss any of the wonderful things you’ve already got planned for my life?”
Flustered, Wiens said, “Oh, sure, sorry. I’ll get one to you as soon as we finish here.” As he answered Riley, another man with a camera came out to them. Wiens introduced him. “Riley, this is Mack Kinsey. He’s the team photographer. I’m going to leave you in his hands. After you’re through, you can grab some lunch with the rest of the team.”
Riley and Kinsey shook hands. “Good to meet you, Riley. Let’s get you in the center of the field here, and I’ll snap a few pics and get you on your way.”
“No problem.”
Except there was a bit of a problem. Now that he was away from the roar of the press contingent, other voices began calling out to him. It was only then he noticed a bunch of the players eating lunch at some tables set out on a long, second-level balcony.
“Strike a pose, superstar!”
“It’s a bird; it’s a plane; it’s Captain America!”
“Come on, Covington, smile! No, bigger! No, bigger!”
“Look at them pearly whites!”
“Oh, be still, my heart! He’s beautiful!”
And right in the middle of them was Don Bernier, who seemed to be the most vocal out of all of them. Riley couldn’t help but laugh. How many times had he done the same thing to his buddies on the team? He probably couldn’t count that high.
Riley pointed to Don and gave him a threatening scowl. That set off a whole new round of taunts.
“Better watch it, Nails; Covington’s probably packing heat!”
“He’s coming to get you, Nails.”
“Best be careful; I heard Captain America can shoot lasers out of his eyes!”
As embarrassing as it was to be standing in the middle of the field posing for pictures and looking like a doofus, it was also good to hear the taunts. That meant that at least the ice was broken. After a couple more days, the novelty of having Captain America in the locker room would fade, and the players’ attention would go back to where it belonged—torturing the rookies.
Saturday, August 22, 6:45 p.m. MDT
Platte River Stadium, Denver, Colorado
Riley shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Something about his situation seemed extremely familiar, but his brain felt too fuzzy to put the pieces together. The rich smell of the bluegrass blend that was separated from his face only by the side of his helmet’s cage told him that he was home. But home isn’t really home anymore, is it?
An arm reached down and hit him on the chest, then stayed low to help him
up. As Riley’s eyes followed the arm up to its owner, everything fell into place. He laughed to himself as he let the hand pull him up.
When he was back on his feet, he reached over and slapped the opposing player on the helmet. “Ain’t gonna be no third time, Zerin.”
“We’ll see about that, old man,” Muhammed Zerin Khan answered, then turned to go back to his huddle. However, he stopped and faced Riley. “You sure you’re okay?”
Riley laughed. “It’ll take more than you to put me out, Rookie.”
“I may not have put you out, but all it took was this rookie to put you down . . . twice,” Zerin answered with a wink and a turn.
Although it was all in good fun, Riley could feel the teasing starting to get to him. Sure, this was only the second preseason game, but Riley still felt like he had something to prove coming back home. After all, in many ways this game really was all about him.
Tonight was the first game in Platte River Stadium since the terrorist attack last December that had killed more than two thousand people. There had been talk about closing down the stadium, but the public outcry against letting the terrorists win had finally convinced the city and the Mustangs organization to repair and reopen the stadium.
Originally some genius at PFL headquarters had thought it would be a splendid idea if the Baltimore Predators—the Mustangs’ opponents on the fateful Monday night when the bombs started going off—returned to Denver to play the first game back in the venue. But player complaints had begun as soon as the schedule was released. The situation came to a head when the Predators organization flat out refused to return to Platte River Stadium.
This put the PFL into quite a quandary until Rick Bellefeuille jumped in to save the day. True to his word to exploit Riley as much as he possibly could, Bellefeuille offered to let the Predators play the Warriors’ scheduled opponent down in Dallas, while the Warriors would take the game in Denver. The PFL jumped at this solution, and the public ate it up. It was estimated that this would be the most-viewed preseason game in professional football history.
In order to remember those who had been killed that horrible night, a ceremony had been held prior to the game. It began with a police honor guard marching out to bagpipes. This was followed by a reading of the names of the deceased by some of the wounded who had survived. The first name was read by a ten-year-old girl in a wheelchair who no longer had legs below midthigh. Next, five more victims joined her, reading off more names. With each new set of names, five more survivors joined in until the stadium rang out with 150 voices simultaneously reading out names of those fallen. This was immediately followed by the release of 2,223 white balloons. All the while Riley, along with most of the players on the opposing sideline, wept openly.
When the ceremony was over, Riley had asked, and been granted, permission to cross the field and join his former team for a pregame prayer. The crowd had erupted in cheers when he had run across the field and again when he came back—facts that both embarrassed him and gave him an even deeper love for the people of his former hometown. By the time he reached his new teammates, he was wondering how he could possibly be able to control his emotions enough to play the game.
Riley’s emotional struggles had started the moment the buses had first pulled up to the stadium. As the doors shooshed open, part of him wanted to just stay on the bus. He could feel himself sweating, and his right leg was bouncing up and down like he had springs on his shoe. When he finally stepped off the bus, he found himself anxiously scanning the underground corridor for anything that might seem suspicious or out of place. Got a little post-traumatic stress going on here? Lord, give me peace in my heart, and please protect us all.
Riley began to calm a little bit when he saw how much tighter security was now than it had been last season. Police were everywhere. Every bag was checked, and every player was wanded. The team was then escorted en masse from the buses to the visitors’ locker room.
At one point before the game, Riley had tried to go stick his head into the Mustangs’ locker room. It had been a month since he had seen Keith Simmons, Afshin Ziafat, and the rest of the team, and he knew they would be having just as difficult a time as he. But when he stepped through the door into the corridor that ran under the seats, he was met by the head of security, who approached from one of two lines of police that formed a pathway from the locker room to the field.
“Sorry, Riley, but the visiting team doesn’t have access beyond the locker room and the playing field,” his old friend said apologetically.
“No need to apologize, Pat. Believe me, I understand,” Riley said as he clapped him on the back and turned around. And that was at least partly true. Mentally, he was very thankful that the PFL had taken the events of last season so seriously. But truthfully, he hated being confined to the visitors’ locker room in what he still considered his stadium.
Yeah, but that was two hours and twenty-one points ago, Riley thought as he leaned into the huddle. Cry your tears later, boy. Now it’s time to get into the game. Although he could see the irony of getting clocked by Zerin again, he was angry at himself for letting it happen—same play, same pass to Jamal White, same letting up by Riley, and same hit by the rookie. Stupid. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, you deserve to clobber me.
But Riley couldn’t really blame himself, just like he couldn’t blame the rest of his former teammates for the current rout being inflicted upon them by a far inferior team. This was anything but a normal preseason game.
“You all right, superhero?” asked Dave Edwards, the guy who played Riley’s old position. Since the Warriors already had a Pro Bowl–quality inside linebacker, Coach Medley had moved Riley to the strong side, a position that he was still getting used to.
“Yeah, just getting acquainted with old friends,” Riley answered.
Edwards nodded, then gave the call for the next play. “Okay, Tite Mocka Blitz, Tite Mocka Blitz! Break!”
On two of the three previous first downs, the Mustangs had come out with short screens that had netted them eight and six yards respectively. Apparently Coach Medley was banking on Coach Burton trying to capitalize on his success with another screen.
Knowing what he did about Burton, Riley highly doubted that the Mustangs coach would go for it again. But a play call was a play call. So he readied himself as the Mustangs came to the line. Zerin moved to the right side of the line, and Riley heard Edwards call out, “Rudy! Rudy!”
At the start of quarterback Randy Meyer’s call, Riley and the two other linebackers rushed the line, timing their arrival just right with the snap of the ball. Immediately Riley knew that it wasn’t going to be a screen. He tried to adjust as he watched Meyer hand the ball to running back Bob Rhine, but before he could shift his body, Travis Marshall wrapped his beefy arms around him, taking him out of the play.
“What? You losing a step, Pach?” Marshall asked after Rhine had gained seven yards and the play was blown dead.
“Just be careful, Marsh. Sometime this half, I’m going to embarrass you,” Riley said as he turned to trot back to his huddle.
“You better hurry,” Marshall called after him. “You’ve only got six minutes left.”
Yeah, the whole country is tuning in to watch you, Riley thought, and so far you’ve pretty much done squat!
“Rip Tomahawk Double Quad Set! Rip Tomahawk Double Quad Set! Break!” Edwards called out. The team clapped once and moved to their positions.
This play called for a strong-side blitz, which would give Riley a chance to take his revenge against Travis Marshall. Kinda feel sorry for the boy—but only kinda.
“Lenny Tiger! Lenny Tiger!” Edwards called out.
Sure enough, it was a two-tight-end package, and Riley could see Zerin lining up on the left side next to a second rookie tight end whose name Riley couldn’t remember.
As soon as Meyer began his call, Riley began easing toward the line.
“Green 23! Green 23! Go! Go! Go!”
R
iley had heard Meyer use that cadence many times before, so he bolted on the first Go and reached the line of scrimmage just as the ball was snapped.
Travis Marshall barely had time to come out of his crouch before Riley’s hands reached his shoulders and pushed him back down to the grass. Riley was past him in a flash and saw that there was now nobody between himself and Randy Meyer. He saw Meyer spot him, but the quarterback didn’t seem concerned about him. Suddenly Riley understood why. A huge body moved into Riley’s path.
Great, Gorkowski. Riley ran into the oversize center’s chest at an angle, rolled off the man’s left side, and wrapped his arms around a surprised Meyer, pulling him to the ground.
A cheer echoed through the stadium, then died quickly as the crowd remembered that Riley had just sacked their quarterback. But as Riley stood up and pulled Meyer back to his feet, a chant began to build until it thundered through the venue. “Riley! Riley! Riley! Riley!”
Riley stood in the middle of the field with tears again forming in his eyes. These are my people. What am I doing in Washington when my people are here? Slowly he turned and took it all in.
“Wave to them, you idiot,” Chris Gorkowski yelled into the ear hole of Riley’s helmet so he could be heard over the cheer.
Feeling like a fool, Riley half raised his hand and gave a little wave. The crowd exploded. People were going crazy cheering in the stands. The tears were flowing down Riley’s cheeks now.
Finally a ref came over, took Riley by the arm, and guided him over the line of scrimmage and to the Warrior huddle.
Dave Edwards put his hand on Riley’s face mask and pulled him down into the huddle. “Hey, Captain America, it’s great they love you and all, but it’s still only third down. Forty-four Reader Long Cover One! Forty-four Reader Long Cover One! Break!”
The rest of the game was a blur for Riley. He got two more sacks and four tackles in the three quarters he played of the Warriors’ 44–17 victory.