Knights of Andreas 7.02: Ghosts of Seasons Past

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Knights of Andreas
FOUR YEARS LATER

 

Chapter Eighty-Three – Ghosts of Seasons Past

“Don’t ever play this game scared.” –Merle Harden

The two men sit in stools at the middle of the bar, no one near them. Others talk in hushed tones under dim lighting and a soothing atmosphere. Some fill the air with cigarette smoke. The two at the bar each nurse glasses of whiskey, one neat and one with a giant ball of ice.

“So it’s finally happening, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

“Carolina.”

“And you’re calling the plays.”

“Yep.”

“Shit. Well, then, cheers to you, Merle.”

Mac raises his glass. Merle does the same. They both drink. Mac’s ice jingles in the glass as he puts it down, getting a glimpse at the clock. It’s a little past ten.

“So you’re the guy now,” Merle says. “Can’t imagine the boosters have a problem with it, but if they do, I’ll straighten ‘em out. So cheers to you, Mac. You’re a college head coach.”

They raise their glasses again and drink.

“What did it for you?” Mac asks.

“What?”

“You’ve had offers the last couple years. Why now?”

“Hell if I know. Just felt like time, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

Mac takes a drink and looks up at the clock. It’s quarter to twelve.

“We’re gonna have a good team this year, Merle. You could be walking out on a championship.”

“I’m not an idiot, Mac.”

“Sure hope you’re not picking now to give me an easy start, prevent me from going on the hot seat too fast.”

“You think I’m fucking soft? The hell is it with you tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Merle drinks. Mac drinks, looks at the clock. It’s a little past nine.

Mac stares at his glass as a thought grips him. He looks around, at the place, at the bar, at the clock. He looks again at his drink and at his friend.

“How are the guys?” Merle asks somberly.

“As good as they can be, after a 1-1 start. Don’t know what happened last week.”

“I’m sure Chet’s too soft with his play calling. I told him not to be.”

“No, you told him to run his defense how he wants to run it.”

“That’s right.”

“The guys are good, it’s just…”

Mac searches for the right words as Merle looks curiously at him.

“It’s tough,” Mac says.

“I know, I know.”

“I miss you, Merle.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Merle looks back to his glass and downs it. Mac takes a sip.

“What’s it like, being gone?” Mac asks.

“Not so bad.”

“You’re just saying that.”

They both drink. The music slows.

“Do me a favor,” Merle says.

“What’s that?”

“The big seat is tough. I know it is. But don’t stand there and tell me all your troubles are just football.”

Mac blinks a few times, suddenly trying to find his balance. “What are you talking about?”

Merle stares at him, inching forward on his stool. Mac feels scared. He wants to leave.

“Merle, what do you mean?”

Merle rises from his stool and steps closer, leaning in, inches from Mac’s face…

“You think I don’t know?”

Everything goes black. Merle’s words echo into the new world, coming into focus. McKenzie lifts his head and blinks, sees his arms, a desk, and the rest of his office appears.

McKenzie sits up as his office around him comes into focus. He checks the time—2:32. He must have fallen asleep watching film. At this point, he may as well try for some more sleep here. He staggers from his office toward the sleeping quarters down the hallway.

 

The 35-13 drubbing in Pittsburgh resonates on both floors of the MedComm Center, but the Knights lift the fog with a solid 31-13 win against the Dolphins. They head into week 4 with a 2-1 record, facing back-to-back road games in Green Bay and Detroit.

Wednesday’s practice concludes, players head to the weight room or clinic, and both coordinators head to the press room for their weekly conferences. The offensive coordinator speaks for what feels like two minutes, then Ripka takes the podium.

He fields a much more pleasant round of questions than last week, plus the usual batch of injury and game plan inquiries: preparing for Aaron Rodgers, game planning against Caden Daniel (who he played under for three seasons), etc. Reporters occasionally get into the X’s and O’s of plays from the previous game, where Ripka is happy to go into detail.

“Coach,” one reporter eventually asks, “at the end of the half, when Miami was driving—it was still a close game at that point, only 14-10—you guys ran an interesting play where it looked like the two safeties were cheating up, almost showing blitz and then ended up switching sides of the field.”

“Yep,” Ripka says. They ran that play design two times in the Dolphins game: just before halftime on third and six, and the middle of the third quarter on second and twelve, both from the nickel.

“Some people on Twitter caught this one,” the reporter continues. “That design actually looks like the same play the Bears ran in the playoffs back in ’03, against Philly, that play where you intercepted the pass in the end zone.”

Ripka looks away from the small crowd, tracing his memory. “Which game?”

“Divisional Round, 2003. You lined up on the left side of the field, came into the box pre-snap, then floated to the right side, ended up intercepting the pass in the corner of the end zone.”

Ripka’s eyes wander. He had the privilege of playing in several playoff games in his career, so he searches for that particular game. He remembers flying to Philadelphia, remembers Urlacher’s big pre-game speech, remembers a somber flight home after they blew the lead in the fourth quarter…

“Coach?”

Ripka blinks his focus back to the reporter.

“Sorry. Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to say it’s the same exact play, but of course, you draw influence from old plays wherever you can. You’re not always reinventing the wheel from scratch. So, that’s part of the process, yes. I’ll say that much.”

Another few generic questions later, the conference concludes. Javad types his final note into his phone, then glances across the room to Jessica, planning to ask at lunch if she has the same question he does.

 

Knights 20, Packers 10, 8:45 to go. The sky is now nearly invisible against fully lit Lambeau Field. A buzz of nervous energy fills the stadium as Aaron Rodgers leads the Packers into the red zone.

Randall watches Rodgers calling audibles, adding a few of his own. Grantzinger hears one and shifts off the line of scrimmage. Rodgers takes the snap. Randall and Grantzinger float over the middle of the field, keeping all green jerseys close. They watch as Rodgers launches a back-shoulder fade for Davante Adams, who spins and catches it for a touchdown. Randall and Grantzinger look at each other nervously.

The Knights take over and McKenzie sticks to a pass/run balance. Maverick finds enough receivers to move the chains and work the clock. They cross midfield as the clock hits 6:00 and McKenzie calls a deep shot. Maverick drops back, feels pressure, steps up, and readies a heave to the end zone. He gets hit from behind, falls forward into a crowd of linemen, and turns around looking for the ball.

Grodd finds himself on the bottom of the pile and spots the ball. He reaches for it, ignoring the clawing of his arms, but can’t grab it. Officials soon clear the pile and declare Packers ball. Lambeau Field screams louder than it has all day.

From his assigned suite, Phillips feels precisely what his players and fans feel: the sudden gut punch of momentum swinging the other way, a 3-1 record falling to 2-2. He watches helplessly as Rodgers takes over and picks apart the Knights secondary, ultimately handing off to Aaron Jones on a draw that Jones takes into the end zone. Packers 24, Knights 20, 2:58 to go.

Phillips, wanting to be on the field for the end of the game, gets up from his seat and begins the long journey down. He walks nearly the length of the field toward the private elevator, joins a security escort through the bowels of the stadium—hearing a concerning amount of cheers from the home fans—and emerges from a tunnel with celebration around him. He views the scoreboard: still 24-20, 0:53 to go, but the Packers have possession. Whatever comeback the Knights mounted has already failed.

A few kneeldowns end the game, and Phillips rushes the field with everyone else. He conservatively hovers near the Packers’ tunnel, eventually spotting their head coach and extending his hand.

“Nice win, coach,” Phillips says, “congratulations.”

“Hey, Chance,” Caden Daniel says, not breaking stride. “Thank you.”

“Tried to find you before the game. I know you’ve got to get back.”

“How is everything? Family good?”

“Yeah, everything’s great.”

Phillips looks up; they are just steps from a tunnel he will not be allowed to enter.

“Hey, what do you say we do a rematch in February?” Daniel says.

“I’ll see you in Tampa,” Phillips says, extending his arm again. They shake hands, Daniel departs, and Phillips looks back around the most mythical stadium in the league. In the shadow of legendary names—Starr, Favre, Lombardi—he expects a heavy wave of nostalgia and admiration to wash over him.

It doesn’t. All he can feel is the pressure of being general manager of a struggling team with a 2-2 record.

 

Monday morning, Knights arrive at the MedComm Center all too aware of the landscape: the Knights are square with the Chargers in the AFC West, looking up at the 3-1 Broncos, and miles behind the 4-0 Chiefs. Early season variance aside, no one wants to be tied for third place after the first quarter of the season.

McKenzie tries to find a happy medium in his address to the players. Yes, the season has grown urgent uncomfortably soon, but this week they get the 1-3 Lions. As long as they develop a solid game plan and execute, they win, go to 3-2, and all is well.

Coaches are engrossed in film for hours while players complete their brief Monday routines. A little after noon, most of the coaches hit the weight room themselves for a workout/discussion. They all work out for varying lengths of time, but after an hour, McKenzie is the only one still going, running furiously on a treadmill, surrounded by his offensive staff, still putting together their game plan.

“Wilkes can beat Rose in coverage. He’s done so plenty of times.”

“I’m sure he can, but we shouldn’t rely on six catches from him.”

“I agree. Have Wilkes draw Rose and let us take our chances with Flash.”

McKenzie keeps running. He feels his heart thumping against his chest. His breaths become wheezing gasps.

“If Wilkes can’t draw Flash, it’ll be tough to find open guys.”

“Like I said, the run game will be huge for us this week.”

“Hey, Mac, you alright? You’ve been on there forever.”

“Yeah, want a breather?”

He turns up the speed on the treadmill. His run becomes a hurried sprint. His feet pound the moving ground.

“Whoa, Mac…”

“Hey, take it easy, it’s ok…”

He ignores them as he coughs. His hands clutch the rails of the treadmill, propelling his run…

“Hey! Coach!”

“Shut it down! Shut it down!”

The whole weight room crowds around the treadmill. McKenzie keeps going. From the crowd, Ripka struts toward the front of the machine and slams his fingers on it. The treadmill’s hum fades, as does McKenzie’s pace. When everything stops, McKenzie is clutched over, desperately drawing as much air as he can.

He looks up and locks eyes with Ripka, who stares him down. Ripka shoots him a stern look, thinking, Yeah, I know.

McKenzie finally breaks eye contact, and Ripka leaves the room. The rest of the coaches wonder what just happened, ultimately deeming continued formulation of the game plan the best idea.

 

By Friday, the game plan has been set, practiced, refined, practiced, and printed. Coaches enjoy their shortest day of the week, leaving MedComm before most of Los Angeles leaves work. Ripka, however, suffers through an hour of traffic before arriving at his monthly appointment.

The medical office is small, with few patients still there this late in the day. Better still, none of the doctors are affiliated with the Knights, just the way he wants it. Ripka only waits ten minutes before being called in.

His neurologist takes him through the usual motions, checking his vision and conducting some memory recall tests. Then, he asks the question.

“Any symptoms at work the past month?”

“Yes, actually,” Ripka says. The doctor pauses, obviously not used to this particular answer. Ripka sighs and goes on. “I was doing a press conference last week.”

“When?”

“Wednesday. One of the reporters asked me about a game I played about seventeen years ago. I didn’t remember it.” The doctor looks at him pensively. “I looked it up later. He was right about the game. I remember practicing for it, I remember flying there, I remember flying home. But I didn’t remember the game. I don’t remember the game.”

The doctor’s eyes bob around as he thinks, then land on his patient.

“Any other symptoms in the last month? Or the last year, that you haven’t told me? Headaches? Mood swings? Dizziness?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not that concerned.”

“Not that concerned I can’t remember a football game I played in?”

“You most likely suffered a concussion during the game, which is affecting the memory from it. That is not uncommon among anyone who suffers a concussion, football players or otherwise.”

Ripka nods politely, looks down, suddenly trying to run through every game of his whole career. How many others can’t he remember?

“Chet,” the doctor says. He looks up. “It doesn’t mean you have CTE.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“You have been seeing me for almost a year now, and over that time, including what you have told me today, my conclusion remains the same: your symptoms are consistent with a former football player who sustained multiple concussions over the course of his career, not necessarily a former football player suffering from CTE.”

Ripka nods again, feeling slightly better this time.

“I want you to keep the same routine,” the doctor continues. “Document anything unusual. And make sure your wife and co-workers are aware and do the same.”

“You got it, doc,” Ripka says, knowing his wife will happily report any symptoms she notices. His fellow Knights, however, have no idea about this.

 

Players and coaches spill out from their cars at the MedComm parking lot. Some venture inside to collect a few things; others are ready to go. The buses have already pulled up and everyone knows their assignment. By noon, the coaches have double-checked attendance—all players and staff accounted for. The buses will have them at LAX in twenty minutes. Forty-five minutes after that, their private flight lifts off. Four hours and fifteen minutes after that, they touch down in Detroit.

People begin filtering onto the buses when some raised voices far away get their attention. Something seems to be happening at the security gate leading into the lot. No one gives it much thought until a lone car speeds into the lot. Suddenly, everyone is on guard as the car heads straight for them, stopping just short of the last bus.

Players scatter and look frantically at each other. The car door opens, and an older man, looking just as frantic, emerges.

“Oh no,” Grantzinger says. Randall, nearby, understands what’s going on.

“ZACK!” the old man screams. “WHERE’S ZACK! WHERE’S MY BOY?”

Grantzinger emerges from the crowd. “Dad! Dad! It’s me. For fuck’s sake.”

Everyone stands in awe and confusion. Those on a bus press their face against the nearest window to see. Some run off the bus for a better view. Phillips, not on his bus yet, jogs to the front of the crowd.

“I got your call! Your message!”

“Keep your voice down…”

“Said you were out driving drunk somewhere—”

“Dad, I’m right here, in front of you—”

“I came to pick you up.”

“Ok, ok, it’s ok. Fucking hell, dad.”

“Oh, I’m goddamn sorry for helping my son after he’s fucked up.”

“What’s going on?” Phillips asks, appearing.

“Get in the car,” Grantzinger says. “I’m ok, dad. I’ll just be a minute.”

He ultimately does so, leaving the door open. Grantzinger turns to his general manager.

“This is my old man. He, uh, has Alzheimer’s. Today is another episode, apparently.”

“What was he talking about, you driving drunk?”

Grantzinger hangs his head, and Phillips understands.

“Give me one second,” Phillips says, extracting his phone from his jacket as he walks off.

Grantzinger stands alone, unable to look at the mass of teammates behind him. Mercifully, one of them approaches him first.

“Now I see what you mean,” Randall says. “What happened to that person you had taking care of him?”

“Good question,” Grantzinger says.

“I guess I won’t ask about what he said.”

“Good.”

“Half the guys probably think it was a hallucination or something.”

Grantzinger closes his eyes, preferring not to dwell on the psychological workings of Alzheimer’s disease at the moment. He is spared by Phillips, who reappears, phone in hand.

“Ok,” Phillips says, “we can have one of our drivers take him home, but I’m sure you’d be more comfortable doing it yourself.”

“I would, but what about the flight?”

Phillips lifts up his phone. “I was talking to Wayne. Once your dad’s home and calmed down, give him a call. His private jet is at LAX. You can take it to Detroit and meet us at the hotel.”

“Oh, ok.”

“No rush, Zack. Just take care of your dad. Everybody will understand.”

Phillips backs off towards his bus, trying to look composed. Grantzinger stays where he is and turns to Randall.

“Square it with the guys.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Randall says. “Anyone who starts shit gets left at the airport.”

“Just square it. No questions. Anyone waiting for an explanation from me might as well keep waiting for Jesus.”

 

A few hours later, the Knights disperse amongst their assigned rooms in a Detroit hotel. Curfew is set, and players make dinner plans. For his part, Phillips has no plans in mind until Jensen knocks on his door.

“Hungry?” Jensen asks.

“I was going to order room service. Why?”

“I used to be a scout here, made my share of connections. I can get us some privacy at a good seafood place.”

And so, forty minutes later, the Los Angeles Knights’ top two front-office decision makers find themselves at a secluded table of a downtown restaurant, each working on a cocktail with appetizers on the way.

“I’m surprised Schneider didn’t make the trip,” Jensen says, balancing a dirty martini in his hand.

“Hasn’t been traveling with the team this year,” Phillips says, sipping a rum and coke. “Hasn’t been at MedComm as much either.”

“So I noticed. It really started after that CBA vote, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. Apparently he’s one of the key owners trying to negotiate a deal. The vote was a bad look for the league, so Goodell wants to announce a deal before season’s end, doesn’t want any more offseason drama.” Phillips takes another sip, catches Jensen’s eye, and adds, “But that’s confidential.”

Jensen nods in understanding. The waitress arrives with two orders of shrimp cocktail, and they dig in, neither speaking for a moment.

“I saw you on the field with Caden Daniel last week,” Jensen eventually says.

“That’s right. Wanted to say hi. Didn’t get a chance before the game.”

“You still have a relationship with him?”

“I don’t know if I’d say that.”

Jensen takes another bite of shrimp, studying Phillips carefully. Phillips drains the rest of his drink and looks for the waitress.

“Daniel was my guy,” Phillips says at last. “He was my twin. Rational, methodical, patient, precise.”

“Yet you fired him.”

“I can’t go into detail on that. But you’ve been in the league long enough to know by now.”

“Know what?”

“Sometimes there comes a point where someone has to pay. Fair or not, right or not, someone has to pay. In ’12, it was Daniel. One of these years, it’ll probably be me. It’ll be you, too, if you have your own team one day.”

“One day soon?” Jensen asks, and Phillips looks at him firmly, understanding exactly what he’s asking.

Rick Jensen will almost certainly be a general manager in the NFL, and soon. Typically, it would be impossible to prevent his ascension to GM of another team. So Phillips thought, anyway, until this offseason, when Schneider floated an idea: installing Jensen as GM of the Knights and promoting Phillips to Team President.

“Nothing lately from Wayne,” Phillips says. “I wish I could tell you more.”

“You’re still hoping for it, right? We’re still on the same page?”

“My thoughts haven’t changed. If you want to be a GM in charge of absolutely everything, running a team the way you want, you have to leave the Knights. If you’re ok with all your decisions going through me, then stick it out here.”

“But you wouldn’t be micromanaging me. You wouldn’t be in the building as much.”

“Correct.”

“Is that what it’s about for you? More family time?”

Phillips chews the last of his shrimp slowly, pondering that question honestly.

“In some ways it is; in other ways, it’s too late,” he says, drifting off in thought before realizing he wants to bring the conversation back to football. “Anyway, the important part is that all the parts of the organization are in sync. That’s what I was talking about regarding Daniel.

“But you got along with Harden pretty good, though, right?”

Phillips suppresses a chuckle when he sees the waitress approach. He gracefully switches his empty glass for a new one and takes a sip.

“You know, that’s the funny part. In many ways, Harden and I were the worst possible match between head coach and GM.”

“How so?”

“I’ll put it this way. We’d scout the hell out of some cornerback, run through medicals and background. Everything. Work the process, and work it right. Scouts come back with a firm third-round grade. But he says the kid’s a first-round pick. So I pick him in the first. It went against every damn principle I believe in as a GM, and I did it because Merle Harden told me to.”

Phillips drifts off again, this time in no hurry to come back. Another round of silence passes between the two as they study the menu and order entrees plus a bottle of Riesling. The wine arrives and they each sip from full glasses.

“Ok,” Jensen says out of nowhere. “Let’s talk trade deadline.”

“Rick, isn’t it a little early to—”

“Chance, we’re off the clock. It’s an unofficial discussion.”

Phillips raises his glass. “That it is.”

“We’re 2-2. After tomorrow, we’ll be 3-2 which puts us in play for the deadline. Due diligence can wait; just humor me. I’d like to throw out some sentimental names.”

“Alright then, as long as we’re reminiscing here. Fire away.”

“Jerome Jaxson.”

“Doubt very much Brady would appreciate them trading one of his weapons, even if he’s not starting.”

“Logan Bishop.”

“He’d give jersey sales a temporary boost and help the locker room, but does he move the needle?”

“I don’t know, Chance, as a second tight end I think he’d be open on a lot of checkdowns. Maverick wouldn’t mind.”

“Since when has Maverick liked checkdowns?”

“He hates checkdowns, but he hates losing more.”

“I bet Jacksonville’s price is too high.”

“You sure?”

“Alright, hell with it, check in anyway.”

Jensen rounds off more names, Phillips deflects as politely as possible, and the two enjoy the rest of their wine and food as the final hours of night slip away.

 

Lions fans pack Ford Field with as much pre-game enthusiasm as they can for a 1-3 team with a head coach on the hot seat, but the opening frame gives them—or anyone—little reason to cheer. Both defenses shut down the opposing offense, barely allowing first downs, and the first quarter ends in a scoreless tie.

On the visitors’ sideline, the Knights remain calm, focused, and worry-free. The defense will continue to lock things down, and the offense will get it in gear eventually. They appear poised to do just that, just shy of midfield on second and two. Then a shotgun snap flies over Maverick’s head, a third-down screen gets stuffed, special teams suffers a long punt return, and the Lions are across midfield.

Four plays later, Matthew Stafford finds Kenny Golladay in the end zone, and Ford Field celebrates the first score of the day.

McKenzie tries to drown out the crowd noise, louder than usual in a dome, and finds his quarterback before the next drive.

“Leaning on you now,” McKenzie says. “No sweat, just execute.”

“No problem, coach,” Maverick says, always happy to unleash his side of the playbook.

The Knights take over, and Maverick surveys the secondary from shotgun, focusing almost exclusively on two familiar faces.

His primary read on most plays, Wilkes can barely find clean grass against Malik Rose, so Maverick stops looking. Elsewhere, it seems every time a white jersey is about to get open, Griswold “Flash” Johnson appears to fill the gap. Maverick can’t find anyone open beyond five yards, and the Knights punt after a six-play, fifteen-yard drive.

Maverick falls onto the bench, resisting the impulse to throw his helmet and start screaming.

“Might as well just run the fucking ball every play,” he says. “We’ll get the same amount of yards.”

“I’m on board with that,” Grodd says. “Can’t handle Flash and Rose in the same secondary?”

“Between the two of them, there’s nowhere to go except these pussy ass checkdowns.”

“Makes you appreciate when we had ‘em both, huh?”

“I don’t know how we ever lost.”

“I can beat him,” Wilkes says. “I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah?” Maverick says skeptically.

“C’mon, Mav, I know how to get in his head. Let me break him.”

“Go ahead. Just do us all a favor and spare us the fourth quarter dramatics. Let’s just get out of here with a win.”

On their next drive, Maverick gets a first down, and McKenzie decides to use the trick play he was saving for the second half. Maverick takes a snap and fires sideways to Wilkes. White jerseys move toward him for a bubble screen—Wilkes lobs it back to Maverick, who spots a receiver downfield. Finally. His sixty-yard throw doesn’t miss, and the equalizing touchdown silences the crowd.

The offenses trade failed two-minute drills, the rest of the half proceeds without excitement, and it’s a 7-7 tie at halftime.

The Lions take the first possession of the half and start marching. Ripka scrambles to find the right play call with Detroit suddenly in rhythm. He calls a cover zero blitz on third and seven from midfield. Grantzinger surges around the edge and hits Stafford as Randall leaps from a carnage of linemen to tip the pass, but both miss their target by a fraction of a second. The lob pass finds an open Danny Amendola for a thirty-yard gain. A few plays later, on second and goal, Stafford sneaks it in for a touchdown.

Thanks to successful locker room lobbying, Wilkes takes the field as the primary target on offense. He has beaten Rose in coverage five times today, and Maverick only threw to him once. Now he runs deeper routes, going for the kill and talking trash after every play. He runs his first two routes aggressively, shoving off a little on the break to get separation, but the ball doesn’t come his way.

“What’s the matter, Malik?” Wilkes says after a play. “The wrong side of thirty slowin’ you down?”

“I only need to go half-throttle to keep up with your ass,” Rose says.

Wilkes spends the third quarter focused on Rose, frustrated with his lack of targets (and the quality of Rose’s trash talk). A long Detroit drive leaves him too much time on the bench but ends abruptly when Randall takes an interception to the house to tie the game. Celebration around him, Wilkes feels disappointed he has to wait longer to get back on the field.

The Lions re-take the field against a tired defense and, as the game crosses into the fourth quarter, put together another long drive that ends in a fifty-yard field goal. 17-14, Lions, 12:33 to go.

The ensuing possessions showcase not an exciting offensive back-and-forth of skill, but a grinding field position struggle. Meanwhile, the clock ticks. At last, Ripka calls a cover zero blitz at the perfect time, resulting in a sack, and the Knights get the ball back with 2:12 on the clock.

“Enough bullshit, ladies,” McKenzie says to whichever offensive players are listening. “Game’s in front of us right here. Let’s get six and go the fuck home.”

Maverick commands the huddle with intensity and reminds everyone of the protocols: get out of bounds when you can, listen for audibles. From the shotgun, he fires on quick passes, trying only to move the chains, doubtful he can find anyone open for the deep shot he desperately wants. The front office has surrounded him with fast receivers, but he misses guys like Joseph Watson, whose game-breaking speed was unmatched.

After a nine-yard pass to Wilkes (officials separate Wilkes and Rose without throwing a flag), it’s third and one. McKenzie calls a simple run up the middle. Grodd, relieved for a run, digs his feet in and surges forward. He sees bodies piling up to his right and he knows what has happened: run stuffed, fourth and one.

In a quick huddle with the clock ticking, Maverick calls the play, another run, and says, “Stick your guys. Stick ‘em in the fucking mouth. One yard on the ground and I’ll take it from here. Let’s go.”

Grodd lines up, listening for the cadence with the stadium in an uproar. He times his release perfectly, pushing his man ahead a few yards. The crowd cheers. Grodd turns around, seeing the officials spot the ball far enough for a first down, he thinks. The clock stops. Players stand around apprehensively as the chains come out to measure the ball—inches short. Turnover on downs. Lions ball.

Ford Field rumbles as the Knights offense sulks back to their sideline. Grodd suppresses his rage at back-to-back runs stuffed for no gain. He remembers a time when the Knights, with he and Brian Penner, would dominate the inside run game. Given back-to-back plays like that, at least five yards were guaranteed.

Having burned all but one of his timeouts, McKenzie can only stand and watch as the Lions run out the rest of the clock, and the game ends.

Maverick begrudgingly trots around the field, shaking hands, looking for old teammates. He finds Rose, and the two share the briefest of smiles.

“Good job being a pain in my ass,” Maverick says.

“You know I respect you,” Rose says, “but I love beating you.”

“I got you. Give my best to Eva and the girls.”

Post-game ceremonies continue and, despite the frustrations and tribulations since the Super Bowl in January 2018, Knights fans must confront something the previous two seasons never wrought: a losing record.

 

McKenzie gives his players the silent treatment and sticks to it, per the Merle Harden philosophy: if you’re not sure what to say to your team, say nothing.

It’s well past nightfall when players and coaches disperse from the MedComm Center toward their homes.

McKenzie drives through the southern California night, barely breaking the speed limit. He navigates the highways, then the smaller roads, finally pulling into the gravel driveway. A million thoughts race through his mind, each moving too quickly to hold down. He needs a good night’s sleep, though he knows he won’t get it.

He approaches the front door, and the dog is there to greet him, but McKenzie barely pets him, instead locking up the quiet house, getting a glass of water from the kitchen, and heading upstairs.

He opens the bedroom door, takes off his shoes, and tiptoes toward his side of the bed. He eases the glass onto his end table and lightly falls into the bed. The frame creaks as his lays back onto the pillow.

The woman next to him rolls over, leaning against his shoulder.

“Rough game,” she says.

“You watched?”

“A little.”

McKenzie says nothing.

“You’ll get through it, Ron. Just try to get some sleep.”

She grabs his hand tenderly, sliding her fingers over his wrinkled knuckles

“Thanks, Mel,” he says.

Hurried legs trot into the bedroom, and McKenzie feels the foot of the bed sink as the Doberman pinscher leaps onto it, inching his way up and laying down with his head pressed against McKenzie’s other hand.

“Hey, Bowser,” McKenzie says, petting him. “Good boy.”

Melinda rolls back over, and McKenzie’s hand pets Bowser subconsciously, his eyes fixed open staring at the ceiling.

[Thanatos 2,847]

2-14 record confirmed. I mean, the Lions? Yeesh.