St. Nick

by Alan Russell

  “We’re not expecting you to guarantee a win or anything,” said Danny, “but we figured that coming and seeing you couldn’t hurt, especially with Denver in town.”

  Nick knew that many athletes were superstitious. Some made a point of going through the same ritual before every game. The Sea Lions, he thought, must have decided that he was their rabbit’s foot.

  “Well,” said Nick, “it is my job to ask what people want for Christmas.”

  The quarterback took that as a signal. He looked back to his henchmen, but they were avoiding eye contact. “Well,” said Danny, “go on you guys.”

  The huge men showed a sudden bashful interest in their shoes.

  Danny said, “Don’t tell me I have to hold your hands like I did with my little girl?”

  Still, nobody moved.

  Danny shook his head. “What’s Denver going to think when they hear you guys were too scared to see Santa?”

  The quarterback’s taunt worked. One man, the biggest of them all, broke from the group and walked towards the sleigh. He had a shaved head, a black goatee, and a gold earring. He looked like a four-hundred-pound pirate. For someone so huge, the man moved very gracefully. He bypassed the stairs, lifting one of his huge legs, and then the other, up and over the edge of the sleigh. Everything in the sleigh was vibrating, including Nick.

  “Wait a second!” shouted Nick.

  The big man paused. Nick stood up, and then motioned for the man to sit. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit on you.”

  The man glowered at Nick for a moment, but then nodded and took a seat. The sleigh shook so much Nick had to hold on to keep his balance. The gathering crowd laughed and cheered as Santa took a seat in the man’s lap. In most pictures Nick knew he looked huge next to the children. This was a role reversal for him. The lineman dwarfed him, making him feel like a child himself. Despite that, Nick had the adult questions to ask.

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Tank Mobley,” he said. The athlete’s voice was so deep it sounded like a growl.

  “Tank’s your nickname, isn’t it?”

  Nick thought the man nodded his head, but it was hard to determine where Tank’s head stopped and his neck began. He didn’t offer his real name, and Nick didn’t ask.

  “So what would you like for Christmas, Tank?”

  “I want to beat Denver tomorrow.”

  This time Nick wasn’t about to guarantee a victory. Tank and his teammates might not take kindly to a broken promise. “Well, Santa will have to see what he can do about that.”

  Darcy approached the giant with not a little trepidation. “Do you want your picture taken with Santa, Mr. Tank?”

  From the cavern of his huge chest came the answer: “Yeah.”

  Darcy set up the shot, telling Tank to look at the camera. He stared as if he was sizing up the lens to eat it.

  “Beat Denver,” Nick said.

  Tank’s expression changed. A huge smile came over his face, and Darcy clicked the picture.

  As other players followed Tank’s example, an impromptu spirit rally broke out. Angie fished pompoms out of her Christmas bag, and started shaking them.

  Nick didn’t have time to be surprised. He was too busy hearing the same Christmas request of every lineman—a victory over Denver. More and more spectators gathered to watch the players visiting with Santa. The onlookers crowded the floor and hung over the railings, and Angie began leading them in cheers. Cell phone cameras were clicking away, and flashes were going off.

  At the crowd’s urging, the Sea Lions and Nick posed for a group picture, and the flashes erupted. The visit to Santa put big smiles on the faces of all the football players. Everyone was laughing, even Tank Mobley.

  Angie made sure the spectators had as good a time as the players. Shaking her pompoms, she yelled, “People in the front, let me hear you grunt; people in the middle, shake it just a little; people in the back, show us where you’re at.”

  There was grunting, shaking, cheering, and clapping. At some point Forster had arrived and now he sidled up to Nick and the two of them watched the Elf move back and forth. Forster said, “I’ll bet that makes you want to dance, Nico.”

  “Not even a little.”

  As Darcy lined up one last picture of Santa and the players, Nick faced the team and said, “After you guys win tomorrow, it’s Santa that needs a little favor.”

  Danny Brown spoke for them: “What can we do for you?”

  Nick pointed over to the toy enclosure. “We got a toy drive going on for kids who really need a Santa Claus in their lives, and every night we’re sending out trucks filled with toys and a Santa. I’m hoping one night next week all of you will volunteer for Santa duty and help deliver toys.”

  Tank didn’t even need to consult with his teammates. “Bring us an early Christmas present tomorrow, Santa, and we’ll do your deliveries every night next week.”

  Game ball in hand, Nick visited the hospital. Raymond was still in the ICU, but Easy had arranged it so that Nick could deliver his present. She had warned Nick that the boy was sedated, and that in all likelihood wouldn’t be able to respond to him, but she had also said that Raymond’s condition had improved.

  As Nick entered the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, all he could think about was how much he wanted to get out of there before his heart broke in the midst of so many critically ill children. There were enough monitoring devices inside to make it resemble the Pentagon War Room. As soon as he stepped through the curtained area to see Raymond, Nick felt claustrophobic. It was like being inside a shroud, and what he saw intensified that feeling. The emaciated child on the bed wasn’t Raymond. He couldn’t be. There was a resemblance to be sure, but this boy was a pale imitation of Raymond. Machines moved this boy’s lungs. Equipment pushed and sucked.

  The boy showed no signs of consciousness, except that every so often parts of him twitched. There were little jerks of his arms, legs, and eyes. The movements kept startling Nick. He looked at the boy, not quite knowing what to do. Finally he placed the football under Raymond’s inert arm.

  “It’s a game ball, Raymond, signed by Danny Brown himself.”

  Raymond didn’t respond to his words.

  “When you wake up,” Nick said, “I got all sorts of stories to tell you. We had these huge football players that came to the mall. That crazy Elf I told you about was doing all these funny cheers. And you can’t believe how many people have left presents for that girl who wrote me the letter.”

  The boy’s eyes didn’t open, and Nick’s voice trailed off.

  “Yeah, lots of stories to tell you,” Nick whispered.

  He rocked on one foot, and then another. Nick wondered if Raymond was able to hear him, or whether he was just talking to himself.

  “Next time I hope you’re awake, kid,” Nick said. “We can toss the football around, and drive the nurses crazy.”

  Nick lightly patted the football cradled in the boy’s arms, and then he touched Raymond’s cheek. “Whenever you decide to go long,” Nick whispered, “I’ll be there to toss the ball your way.”

  All Nick wanted to do was go home and sit in his easy chair, but he had the commitment of toy deliveries.

  He walked into the locker room and saw Angie’s three Santa recruits already getting dressed. Without even thinking about it, Nick quickly put on his costume. By now it was second nature to him. He looked over and saw that two of the men were applying makeup, heavily rouging their cheeks and nose. They looked more like clowns than Santa.

  “I’d reconsider that makeup,” he said. “If you leave it on, it’s going to get on your beard and wig, and stand out like Rudolph’s nose.”

  It was a small room, and everyone heard. The locker room grew quiet. The men stared at Nick expectantly, and he wondered when he had become the voice of experience on being a Santa Claus.

  The third man stepped forward, pointed to his white facial hair, and said, “I’m having trouble with my mustache drooping
. How’d you get yours to stay up?”

  “White bobby pins,” Nick said. “You do ’em from behind so they don’t show. I’ve got some extras if you want them.”

  Another man held up an unruly white beard. The fibers were going every which way. “Any way to tame this beast?”

  “There are a couple of ways to smooth out your beards and wigs,” he said.

  Nick took off his cap, and ran his hand along the fur. “I usually run the back of my cap down along my beard like this. Short of a cold iron, nothing seems to work better.

  “Now, did any of you bring water bottles? Because you’re going to need water tonight, trust me. And sodas won’t do. They’ll stain your beard and make it sticky. And I’d suggest that before you put on your pants you take a long restroom break. You’re going to find that it’s not easy getting in and out of your costume …”

  Chapter 26

  I Saw Three Ships

  December 15

  The phone rang just as Nick was about to leave for the mall. When he picked up, Charlotte didn’t even wait for him to finish saying “hello.” She shouted, “I think I found her!”

  Nick held the phone away from his ear and she asked, “Nick? Are you there?”

  “I am,” he said, “but I might have broken an eardrum.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “It’s just that …”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s great news.”

  “I’m meeting with the girl this afternoon at two, and I’m hoping you can come with me.”

  “I wish I could,” Nick said, “but I’m working at the mall until five. Santa Bret is doing a matinee.”

  Charlotte’s voice announced her disappointment. “I can try and reschedule,” she said.

  “No need,” said Nick. “I’ll be there in spirit.”

  “I’ve signed up to be your driver tonight,” Charlotte said. “If things go right, how about we celebrate with champagne?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better plan,” said Nick.

  The North Pole was busy all morning and through lunch, but then foot traffic noticeably lessened. The frantic driving force of Christmas-is-less-than-ten-days-away seemed to be on afternoon break.

  “Where is everybody?” Angie asked.

  “It’s almost game time,” said Nick.

  It was the Sea Lions final home game of the season. If the oddsmakers were right, midnight would soon be chiming on their Cinderella season.

  Nick felt a twinge of guilt for thinking like that, as if he had betrayed them. He was now emotionally involved with the team. They had come to him, or at least to St. Nick, and had asked for his blessing. It was ridiculous, of course, but that hadn’t stopped him from participating in the charade.

  Not that the players really believed in St. Nick, but the ritual had worked for their quarterback, so they were willing to give it a try. It was a show of unity, a way of keeping the faith—and their playoff hopes—alive. It had been too many years since the Sea Lions had made the playoffs, a drought felt even in laid-back San Diego.

  “If the Sea Lions win,” he told Angie, “there’s something you should know.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to need a tailor to custom make some Santa suits. Some really, really big Santa suits.”

  Late in the fourth quarter a gloomy Nick said, “I guess you don’t have to worry about finding that tailor.”

  Nick and the elves were listening to the game on a radio they had borrowed from an electronics store. Denver was up by fifteen points, and threatening to score another touchdown.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Angie.

  “Are you listening to the same game I am?”

  “You know what they say,” said Angie. “It’s not over until the fat man dances.”

  “You mean it’s not over until the fat lady sings.”

  Angie shrugged and smiled. “Whatever,” she said. “Do you want me to bring out my pompoms and cheer?”

  Nick shook his head.

  The radio announcer, Tom Hammell, was an unabashed homer who’d had little to cheer about. Now it sounded as if he was covering a funeral. “Denver on a first and goal from the Sea Lions five,” he said. “Nader on the handoff goes straight ahead. He’s to the four, the three. He’s stopped. FUMBLE! FUMBLE! The Sea Lions have the ball! They still have a pulse!”

  To dream the impossible dream, Nick thought.

  The clock kept ticking while the Sea Lions eked out two first downs, every one of their yards hard gained. There was no hope. Still, Nick hoped.

  “Denver is showing blitz,” said Hammell. “Brown backpedals, he’s being rushed, he throws. Lincoln’s got it at midfield! He’s at the forty, the thirty, the twenty, the ten! TOUCHDOWN!”

  From around the mall pockets of screams erupted. Not everyone had turned off the game yet.

  “The Sea Lions are going to have to go for a two-point conversion,” Hammell said.

  And they would need another touchdown after that to keep their playoff hopes alive, Nick thought. That took their odds from the improbable to the next to impossible.

  “Sea Lions looking to narrow Denver’s nine-point lead,” said Hammell. “Denver twenty-one, the Sea Lions twelve. Three minutes and thirty-four seconds remaining in the game. Brown finishes conferring on the sidelines. Seventy thousand fans are on their feet! Brown’s coming back to the huddle with the play. Listen to the crowd! They’re lining up for the snap. Danny’s backpedaling. He’s looking right. He’s moving out of the pocket. Great protection, but no one’s open! Brown’s running the ball. He’s trying to turn the corner! Blockers ahead of him! To the four, the two, he’s airborne. He’s IN!”

  Nick tried to restrain his excitement, unlike those around him. He didn’t want children to wonder why Santa was screaming at a radio. The North Pole was now crowded with listeners; no one was there to see Santa.

  The mood of the crowd quickly changed when Denver received the ball and broke off a long run. The groans turned to cheers when the play was called back on a penalty. The Sea Lions defense held and Denver was forced to punt with less than two minutes on the clock.

  “It’s a high punt that’s drifting back,” said Hammel’s voice over the radio. “Horn’s not signaling for a fair catch. He’s got it at the fifteen, the twenty. He breaks a tackle. He’s at the thirty, and brought down at the thirty-three.

  “The Sea Lions are sixty-seven yards away from pay dirt, and they have ninety-two seconds to push it in. Brown brings the team up to the line.”

  Nick couldn’t stand it. He had to take a walk. He was half a dozen steps away from the sleigh when he heard the groans of disappointment. The sounds weren’t totally despairing, though. A half minute later he heard the same sad, but not quite devastated, wails. Probably another incomplete pass, he thought.

  He wished Danny Brown hadn’t asked him for a victory the week before; it was even worse that Brown and his teammates had come back hoping for seconds. And Raymond should never have asked him for snow. And Laura shouldn’t have written a letter to Santa. Anyone old enough to write should have known that Santa Claus didn’t exist. Everyone had their hand out for a miracle. Didn’t they know miracles were in short supply?

  Glad shouts interrupted Nick’s thoughts. They weren’t the ecstatic kind of screams that accompanied a touchdown, but they were at least first-down material.

  Nick waited for more auditory clues. Nothing. Commercial break, he supposed. He started pacing, and thinking, again. He didn’t dare to believe. Bah, humbug came much easier to him. It was ridiculous for people to expect miracles out of the holidays. The wonder of the season, Nick thought, was that people sometimes remembered to show care and concern beyond their own selves. And that was that. To expect anything more out of the holidays was foolish, not to mention the perfect way of setting yourself up for a fall.

  People started calling out again. Something was happening in the game. Loud cheers turned into disappointed moans. It had to be
a dropped pass, or a penalty must have brought the play back.

  Nick decided it was easier listening to a game than interpreting it through others. As he walked towards the radio a wild celebration broke out. Everyone began shouting the same word: TOUCHDOWN!

  Santa Claus jumped in the air, but he was by no means alone. For half a minute the North Pole was bedlam, even if the celebration was premature. The drama still wasn’t concluded. The Sea Lions were still a point down.

  Ted Hammell said, “Danny Brown is conferring on the sideline with head coach Ed Farley. Will the Sea Lions kick for one and take their chances in overtime, or will they throw the dice and go for the two-point conversion?”

  “They’ll kick, of course,” said Nick. “They have to play the percentages.”

  “Sometimes life isn’t about playing the percentages,” said Angie. “They’ll go for two.”

  “Angie,” said Nick, “you might know the elf business but you don’t know football.”

  Hammell shouted, “It looks like they’re going for two! No kicker is coming out on the field. Brown brings everyone into the huddle!”

  “It’s just a ploy,” said Nick. “They’re trying to get Denver to jump offside.”

  Instead of answering, Angie just gave him her Mona Lisa smile.

  Nick said, “Can I bite someone else’s nails? I’m afraid I don’t have any left to chew.”

  There was some nervous laughter that was quickly hushed. Everyone stared at the radio, concentrating on it as if they could control the words being reported to them.

  “Two yards separate the Sea Lions and their playoff hopes,” said the announcer. “Danny Brown brings his team up to the line of scrimmage. Johnson is in the backfield. The two tight ends are in close, the two receivers out wide.

  “Brown gets the snap. He’s in the pocket. Heavy rush coming. Pump fake, the throw—deflected!”