hits them, Rome is going to get sacked!
Sunday, September 11, 3:30 p.m. EDT
Cleveland, Ohio
The gold coin twinkled as it spun between Rileyâs thumb and index finger. Although it was still the fourth quarter of the game, he was showered and dressed and sitting in front of his locker. Word of what was now being referred to as the Gatorade Incident had spread quickly. Within three minutes, Coach Medley had come to the bench where he was sitting and told him in no uncertain terms that he was no longer welcome on the sidelines. Riley was all too happy to oblige.
He flicked the coin again with his right index finger and watched it spin. The walk back to the tunnel had been interesting. It was the first time all day that he had been cheered. Even the Dog Pound was giving it up for him. All the random comments had eventually coalesced into a resounding chant of âPhone Boy, Phone Boy, Phone Boyâ that had spread throughout the stadium. He had smiled and waved to the crowd before going under the seats, knowing that on a day like today, he could use all the friends he could get.
Riley flicked the coin again. This time it went bouncing across the carpet. He jumped up after it, stopping its roll with a stomp of his foot. After picking it up, he sat down at his locker and examined it. The reverse side had the Statue of Liberty on it and made it clear that the coinâs value was one dollar. On the obverse side was a picture of a president. Zachary Taylor, he read, 12th President, 1849â50. I know thereâs a story to that short tenure, but for the life of me, I canât remember what it is.
Placing the coin back between his thumb and index finger, he spun it again. The only positive thing to come out of the situation so far was that he was no longer wired for sound. Mike Novinger from HBO had removed his mic so that he could shower. When he came back out, he fully expected to have the mic replaced. But Novinger didnât approach him. Even the cameras kept a respectful distance. The only explanation he could think of was that Bellefeuille had demanded they back off.
As he sat there, Riley entertained himself with thinking of all the things he wished he had saidâall the comebacks he could have nailed Bellefeuille with, all the zingers that would have rocked the man back on his heels. Why am I always so good thirty minutes after the fact? I desperately need to take a course at the Scott Ross School of Witty Repartee.
Suddenly, the activity around him began to increase. The rising scramble of the Warriors locker-room minions told him that the game was just about at an end. He craned his neck so that he could check out the big screen that was hanging on the wall above and to the left of him. Sure enough, there was 1:03 left and the Bulldogs were going to kneel it out.
Riley pocketed the coin and prepared to meet the press onslaught. Lord, help me to not do anything even more stupid than what Iâve already done today.
The doors burst open, and his teammates began filing in. Riley kept his head down, not wanting to put anyone in an awkward position. In the PFL, the doghouse is a lonely place to be. Most players try to shy away from demonstrating any support, in case it could be perceived as choosing sides against the ownership.
Add to that the lousy performance not just from Riley but from the whole team, and he didnât expect a whole lot of post-game banter.
As the foul-smelling men moved past him, a dirty cleat kicked up against his Merrell; then a small paper cup dropped to the ground. Looking up, Riley saw it was Don Bernier, who just kept walking without acknowledging him. He fished the cup from the floor, wondering what his friend was up to. It didnât take long to figure out. On the inside of the green Gatorade cup, Bernier had used a grease pencil to draw an angry face with a phone to his ear and smoke curling up the sides.
Riley laughed to himself as he balled up the cup,
Sunday, September 11, 3:30 p.m. EDT
Cleveland, Ohio
The gold coin twinkled as it spun between Rileyâs thumb and index finger. Although it was still the fourth quarter of the game, he was showered and dressed and sitting in front of his locker. Word of what was now being referred to as the Gatorade Incident had spread quickly. Within three minutes, Coach Medley had come to the bench where he was sitting and told him in no uncertain terms that he was no longer welcome on the sidelines. Riley was all too happy to oblige.
He flicked the coin again with his right index finger and watched it spin. The walk back to the tunnel had been interesting. It was the first time all day that he had been cheered. Even the Dog Pound was giving it up for him. All the random comments had eventually coalesced into a resounding chant of âPhone Boy, Phone Boy, Phone Boyâ that had spread throughout the stadium. He had smiled and waved to the crowd before going under the seats, knowing that on a day like today, he could use all the friends he could get.
Riley flicked the coin again. This time it went bouncing across the carpet. He jumped up after it, stopping its roll with a stomp of his foot. After picking it up, he sat down at his locker and examined it. The reverse side had the Statue of Liberty on it and made it clear that the coinâs value was one dollar. On the obverse side was a picture of a president. Zachary Taylor, he read, 12th President, 1849â50. I know thereâs a story to that short tenure, but for the life of me, I canât remember what it is.
Placing the coin back between his thumb and index finger, he spun it again. The only positive thing to come out of the situation so far was that he was no longer wired for sound. Mike Novinger from HBO had removed his mic so that he could shower. When he came back out, he fully expected to have the mic replaced. But Novinger didnât approach him. Even the cameras kept a respectful distance. The only explanation he could think of was that Bellefeuille had demanded they back off.
As he sat there, Riley entertained himself with thinking of all the things he wished he had saidâall the comebacks he could have nailed Bellefeuille with, all the zingers that would have rocked the man back on his heels. Why am I always so good thirty minutes after the fact? I desperately need to take a course at the Scott Ross School of Witty Repartee.
Suddenly, the activity around him began to increase. The rising scramble of the Warriors locker-room minions told him that the game was just about at an end. He craned his neck so that he could check out the big screen that was hanging on the wall above and to the left of him. Sure enough, there was 1:03 left and the Bulldogs were going to kneel it out.
Riley pocketed the coin and prepared to meet the press onslaught. Lord, help me to not do anything even more stupid than what Iâve already done today.
The doors burst open, and his teammates began filing in. Riley kept his head down, not wanting to put anyone in an awkward position. In the PFL, the doghouse is a lonely place to be. Most players try to shy away from demonstrating any support, in case it could be perceived as choosing sides against the ownership.
Add to that the lousy performance not just from Riley but from the whole team, and he didnât expect a whole lot of post-game banter.
As the foul-smelling men moved past him, a dirty cleat kicked up against his Merrell; then a small paper cup dropped to the ground. Looking up, Riley saw it was Don Bernier, who just kept walking without acknowledging him. He fished the cup from the floor, wondering what his friend was up to. It didnât take long to figure out. On the inside of the green Gatorade cup, Bernier had used a grease pencil to draw an angry face with a phone to his ear and smoke curling up the sides.
Riley laughed to himself as he balled up the cup,
Similar Books
