Knights of Andreas 3.05: Season Tickets

[SteVo+ 3,702]

Knights of Andreas

Part III

Based on Characters Created by:

badgers

Bangy

Barracuda

Bay

BigBen07

BwareDware94

Chernobyl426

DonovanMcnabb for H.O.F

eightnine

FartWaffles

Favre4Ever

JetsFan4Life

Maverick

monstersofthemidway

OAK

RazorStar

RevisFan81

Sarge

seanbrock

SteVo

Thanatos19

theMileHighGuy

Vin

Zack_of_Steel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-One – Season Tickets

 

After a long night of Tweeting and writing, Adam Javad wakes up to a ringing alarm and a dirty apartment. He clears some beer bottles off his desk, along with a greasy pizza box, and goes back to work.

 

Working at the L.A. Mobile, an up-and-coming exclusively online journalist publication, has its advantages, especially working from anywhere Javad can access his phone and laptop. In other words, everywhere.

 

Javad turns on his preferred morning radio shows as he always does Monday mornings. As sports writer for the Mobile, Javad reports, interviews, speculates, and Tweets everything related to the Dodgers, Angels, Lakers, Clippers, Kings, and Knights. But today, the largest draw will be the Knights and their 2-4 record. With the bye week depriving him of a pre-game article to write, Javad’s work this week will be editorial, so he needs to get a feel for the city’s pulse before writing. He knows fans are angry and suspects they’ll be calling for an organizational overhaul.

 

It doesn’t take long to confirm those suspicions.

 

“How can it get worse for the Los Angeles Knights? Beaten by the coach you fired and probably knocked out of the playoffs. How can it get worse?”

 

“So what happens now? Can you let Harden go after one year?”

 

“Phillips has to go. Firing Daniel was definitely the wrong move, and that falls on him.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t see any way you go into next offseason with Chance Phillips as your GM.”

 

Though he’d rather have a face-to-face conversation, Javad sends a text to the most important number in his phone: “Any changes coming? Have to ask.”

 

He listens to more radio coverage and monitors Twitter while waiting for an answer.

 

 

 

One by one, men in suits sulk into Wayne Schneider’s office and fall into all seats of the table in its center. The mood is tired and dreary. Everyone in the room knows it’s not going to be a normal—or pleasant—meeting.

 

An earful from the team owner was inevitable, but it seems like Schneider wants his money’s worth. Hours after the Chargers game, he scheduled a 1pm meeting with upper level decision makers: CEO, chairman of the board, various stockholders, etc. And the general manager, of course.

 

Chance Phillips studies those around him as Schneider picks up something from his desk. These are men seasoned for business, not football. They operate on the side of business Phillips avoids, and the least contact he has with them, the better. The only men in the room on Phillips’ side are Paul DeMartine and Merle Harden, weak voices in a crowd like this.

 

“Anyone want to guess what I have here?” Schneider says, holding up a packet of stapled paper. “Anyone?” Schneider speaks with an arrogant, condescending tone, unlike the more subtle approach Phillips is used to seeing. “What I have here, people, is our waiting list for season ticket holders.”

 

Phillips sees a few people shift in their seats. They must know what this is about.

 

“Die-hard Knights fans,” Schneider continues. “Die-hard fans waiting and willing to purchase season tickets to Farmers Field. The core of our franchise, people. The heart of everything we do.”

 

Schneider prolongs a dramatic pause as he circles the table.

 

“When we first opened the greatest stadium in the league, there were ten thousand names on this list. On the waiting list. By the end of last season, there were four thousand. Anyone want to guess how many are on it now?”

 

No one shows any interest in responding.

 

“As of this moment, two thousand four hundred ninety three. Less than twenty-five hundred names, people. You know what that means? That means we are drawing dangerously close to open seats!” Schneider stops circling, at the head of the table, and presses his fists against it, his face red. “Let me make something crystal clear. Anything less than sell-out attendance is completely unacceptable. Farmers Field is much more than just the newest stadium in the league.”

 

Phillips sighs quietly, knowing where Schneider is going with this one, something hasn’t stopped talking about since the decision came down in May.

 

“It is the most technologically advanced, most luxurious stadium in the league. It offers the best combination of modern technology and architecture while offering an unrivaled game day experience for fans. It is the crown jewel of NFL stadiums, and that’s why it was awarded Super Bowl 50.”

 

A predictable pause to let that last line sink in.

 

“Imagine that, people. Imagine the league’s golden Super Bowl in a stadium that can’t sell tickets to its own fans. I won’t have it. I won’t allow it. Farmers Field has a 72,000-seat capacity, so I want at least 72,000 bodies at all eight home games. Anything less will not be tolerated.”

 

He unbuttons his suit and purses his lips, lowering his voice a notch.

 

“There is blame on both sides here. Mr. Phillips? Coach Harden? 2-4 is completely unacceptable. We all know the talent we have on this team. It needs to show the rest of the season or there will be consequences. The rest of you? Well, you know where I’m going with this. Look, I get it! It’s 2013. Fans would rather be at home, where the beer is cheap, the smartphones are charged, and the Internet is fast. So let’s even the playing field. I want solutions for higher technology, faster Wi-Fi. We need to make Farmers Field more accessible, more appealing for the technologically inclined. We cannot settle for fans contently watching us from home; we need them to want to be here. To experience game day in a crowd full of Knights fans, seventy thousand strong. And that marketing starts with a winning product.”

 

Schneider’s eyes ultimately fall on Phillips, as he expected they would.

 

“Let’s get this thing turned around. Now. I don’t like being forced to make decisions.”

 

He doesn’t need to pause for that last sentence to hit hard.

 

 

 

When their time in Schneider’s office finally finishes, the trio of Phillips, Harden, and DeMartine leave together, Harden towards the elevator, Phillips and DeMartine towards the GM’s office.

 

“See what you’re missing on the second floor, coach?” DeMartine says jokingly.

 

“Ah, Wayne’s not too bad,” Harden says. “Can’t blame him for putting some pressure on, but he’s a good owner as far as I can tell.”

 

Phillips purses his lips. If Harden only knew.

 

“And don’t worry, gentlemen. The team’s playing good football. It’ll show up in the standings soon.”

 

“Wait,” Phillips says as they pass his office. “What do you mean playing good football?”

 

“Nine times out of ten, we beat San Diego. We caught an unlucky break at the end.”

 

Harden stops in front of the elevator and presses the button. The doors open.

 

“Merle, all due respect, we’re 2-4. How can we be playing good football?”

 

Harden steps into the elevator and pushes the first floor button. “Well, I guess I’m looking at the team in a way only the head coach can.”

 

The doors close, leaving Phillips and DeMartine alone in the hallway.

 

 

 

Jay Cooper shuts the door behind him after another shitty Monday at work. Today, however, he was at least able to remain distracted.

 

He munches on two-day-old Chinese leftovers, turns on the TV, and takes a shower, all the while going through everything again. He’s been looking at the situation from every possible angle, and nothing tells him it’s a bad idea.

 

Cooper watches Knights coverage, and a reporter mentions that since 1978, only 7.8% of teams to start 2-4 have gone on to make the playoffs. Annoyed at that statistic (which he’ll surely hear again over the next two weeks), he mutes the TV, takes out his phone, and finds a number he hasn’t called in several months.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Well, howdy, Merle. It’s been awhile.”

 

“Oh, Christ,” Harden says. “What do you want, Coop?”

 

 

 

By the time Chance pulls into his driveway Tuesday night, it’s past seven, and the last of daylight is fading. He spots next-door neighbor Gary mowing his lawn, waves hello from a fair distance, and unlocks the front door. Melissa is in the kitchen preparing dinner. At least he hasn’t missed it.

 

“Hello, dear,” Chance says.

 

“Hi, hun,” Melissa says, focusing on the vegetables she’s slicing on the cutting board.

 

“Give me the rundown.”

 

“Jack had a good day of practice, Max got an A on his spelling test, and Kimmy’s going to need new shoes soon.”

 

“New shoes…won’t be the last time.”

 

“You’re not as late tonight. How is everything?”

 

“The same. Merle hasn’t been taking it easy on the players, and Wayne hasn’t been taking it easy on anyone.”

 

“So, better?”

 

“Well, Penner and Flash got fined instead of suspended, so I guess—wait a minute.” He’s been too distracted to notice until now, but something’s up. “You seem bothered by something.”

 

“Oh, it was nothing. Just Gary.”

 

“What about Gary?”

 

Chance steps closer. Gary has always been a vanilla type of neighbor. After all, he’s an accountant who works downtown. Chance has actually met his boss a few times.

 

“Nothing about him, just something he said.”

 

“About what? Talk to me, Melissa.”

 

She stops, puts the knife down, and looks up for the first time.

 

“I was getting the mail, he was doing the same, and he just mentioned something about you—it was just in passing, sort of wondering how the team was doing. But he made some comment about people having to get fired if the team doesn’t do better, and—it just made me think about moving again, Chance. It’s not Gary’s fault. We both know it’s been in the house, even if we haven’t talked about it.”

 

“Where are the kids?”

 

“Upstairs.”

 

“Keep them there.”

 

Chance ignores Melissa’s protests as he flies out the front door, strutting across the yard towards Gary, the idiot fucking accountant.

 

“Hey there, Chance!” Gary says.

 

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Chance yells, within twenty feet now. Gary panics immediately, fumbling for something in his pockets as he backtracks. “You ever talk to my wife like that again and I’ll run you over with your own fucking lawnmower. Understand me?”

 

Gary finally pulls his phone out from his pocket, still backtracking as Chance narrows the distance between them.

 

“You have complaints about the Knights, call in to a goddamn radio show. Are we clear?”

 

Gary points his phone at Chance, and the panic on his face fades into a smug look of triumph.

 

“And, we are now recording! Anything you’d like to say for the record, Mr. Phillips?”

 

Chance freezes a few feet away, knowing he’s finished. What a coward.

 

“In fact,” Gary continues, “would care to comment on the team’s 2-4 start?”

 

Chance grinds his teeth together, feeling his face turn red.

 

“What’s the matter? Strike a nerve, princess?”

 

Seeing no salvaging the situation, Chance turns around, walking back as normally as he can.

 

 

 

Coach Harden knocks on the half open door and enters, stepping into the grandest office in the MedComm Center.

 

“Afternoon, coach,” Schneider says, hanging up the phone and rising to greet his team’s head coach.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Schneider,” Harden says, wiping away sweat to shake Schneider’s hand.

 

“A little early to end practice, isn’t it?”

 

“No, we’re right on time. I have some film to watch, but I wanted to catch you before the weekend. Missed you yesterday.”

 

“I see. What’s this about?”

 

“A strange situation, to be honest. Do you remember the name Jay Cooper?”

 

Schneider’s smile fades, and he sulks back to his seat, rubbing his temples.

 

“How the hell do you know him, Merle?”

 

“Oh, we’re just drinking buddies. Met by chance a few years ago, if you can believe it. In the grand scheme of things, I’m just the middleman here, the communicator.”

 

“Sent to communicate what?”

 

“He wants his season tickets back.”

 

Schneider springs out of his seat, pacing quickly to the window, oddly frantic. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at the sunset.

 

“No. The degenerate’s not gonna go streaking in my stadium and then get a free pass back in. No fucking way.”

 

“Mr. Schneider, I gotta be frank with you.” Schneider turns around and faces Harden. “I don’t know what it is Cooper’s holding over you, but from the sound of things, you’re better off appeasing him than pissing him off.”

 

“We can’t put a streaker in the seats, coach. His face his all over YouTube. His fucking balls are all over YouTube, for Christ’s sake. He’ll be recognized. What message does that send? What picture does that paint for our organization?”

 

“I’m not saying I disagree, sir, but there’s gotta be a middle somewhere.”

 

Schneider looks back to the sky, thinking.

 

 

 

The television in Javad’s apartment shows Sunday Night Football between Indianapolis and Denver, a luxury Javad can watch on a quiet night. The Kings are off with a 6-3-0 record, the Dodgers’ season ended two days ago to set up a Cardinals vs. Red Sox World Series, the NBA opener is nine days away, and the Knights are on a bye week.

 

Javad’s phone buzzes, showing a different number than he’s been in touch with lately. He opens it quickly.

 

“I enjoyed your column,” reads the text form Phillips, his first response of the week.

 

Javad wrote several columns this week, but he knows which one Phillips is referring to: a Tuesday-morning editorial titled “Is the end near for Chance Phillips?” in which Javad contemplated potential organizational moves in January should the Knights finish with a losing record. It wasn’t nearly as scathing as the title indicated.

 

Javad replies honestly: “Business. Not personal.”

 

Ten minutes later, Phillips replies: “Just giving you a hard time.”

 

Javad: “Similar columns can be prevented in future.” That’s an aggressive comment, but he needs to make his willingness known.

 

Phillips, after a few minutes: “You’ve gotten enough.”

 

That’s fair. Javad did get the scoop on the Merle Harden hiring, and his “guess” that the Knights liked draft prospect Jamari Price ended up being correct.

 

His career is going much better than Phillips’ is, for the moment.

 

 

 

Without a game to analyze, Phillips spends more hours than usual on the practice field throughout the week as the Knights prepare for the Bengals. This also keeps him further from Schneider’s office.

 

Tuesday morning, Harden prowls along the field as his defense runs through drills, focusing on linemen and linebackers. When he finds a moment to watch from the sidelines, Phillips walks up next to him.

 

“Good morning, coach.”

 

“Good morning.”

 

Phillips focuses on Jamari Price, running agility drills.

 

“How’s Price doing?”

 

“The same.”

 

Harden doesn’t sound at all interested in having a football conversation, and Phillips knows why: when Price fell to sixteenth overall in the draft, Harden was the least happy man in the war room. Confident in Brock’s ability, he didn’t consider outside linebacker a need. Still, Phillips knows it was the right decision based on Price’s talent and Brock’s (lack of) reliability.

 

Things got worse in the second round when the Knights took Wesley Mann. Harden was once again insistent that Phillips was drafting a position the Knights didn’t need, even though Damian Jones has hardly proven to be a competent backup, let alone a quality starter. And six games into the season, both the game tape and statistics show Jones is struggling. If it were up to Phillips, Mann would be splitting reps, at least.

 

“How about Mann?” Phillips asks.

 

“Same,” Harden says. “Gotta run, Chance.” He walks back toward the field, barking at a few players.

 

It’s not like Harden to be confrontational like this, even if he disagrees with Phillips. He has always been respectful of higher authority on football decisions. Still, Phillips suspects this is his own doing.

 

Though firing Daniel was obviously not his decision, he spent the entire offseason wondering if hiring Harden was the wrong move. After six games, he’s now almost sure of it. Picking Harden as a replacement was an impulse decision, going against every principle Phillips has ever used, and it’s costing the team wins.

 

Even worse, if Harden tanks, and the Knights finish this season in last place, that’ll probably be the end for Phillips. That’s how it works in sports. The coach goes first, then the GM. It won’t matter how young the Knights are, how much potential they have, or anything else. It’s Phillips’ fourth year, and based on last December, Schneider could pull the plug on him at any second.

 

These could be Phillips’ final months in Los Angeles.

 

 

 

Thursday evening, Phillips and DeMartine go through a familiar ritual: crunch numbers in Phillips’ office until the clock hits five, declare traffic too abysmal to endure, and keep working.

 

“Any theories?” Phillips asks, looking at some team statistics. From the best analysis the front office can do, the Knights should be 4-2, at worst 3-3. They’re in the top half the league statistically with good players across the board, including one of the league’s most underrated offensive lines and linebacking corps.

 

“I know where this is going,” DeMartine says. “That discussion where we see how long we can go without saying ‘x-factor.’”

 

“Is it something we can quantify, something we can measure? Or is it just variance?”

 

“You can calculate variance, mathematically.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

“We agreed, Chance, years ago, and still agree, that there are certain aspects of football we simply cannot measure that play a critical role in the game.”

 

“Does it fall on leadership, then?”

 

DeMartine leans back, thinking. Phillips knows what’s about to be said.

 

“You know I was never crazy about Harden,” DeMartine says after a minute.

 

“I thought he was the guy. At the time. I really, really did.”

 

“If you’re right, he’ll get it turned around. If you’re right, we’ll know by the end of the season.”

 

“And if I’m wrong?”

 

A knock on the door breaks their concentration. It opens, and Schneider’s face appears.

 

“Chance, can you come into my office for a second?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

DeMartine looks uneasily at his boss as he disappears into the hallway.

 

Phillips takes a seat, as instructed, and notices that Schneider seems different. His tie is loosened, his top shirt button undone. Physically, he seems relaxed and stressed at the same time.

 

“So,” Schneider says, “we’ve had some really creative ideas about increasing the season ticket pool, making the stadium more interactive. Very exciting stuff.”

 

“That’s good to hear.”

 

“Will there be similar progress on the field?”

 

“Wayne, you know the story. We’re 2-4, big game this week against Cincinnati. One week at a time.”

 

“You know, I grew up in Los Angeles.” Schneider spins his chair and looks outside. Changing the subject throws Phillips off a little, not sure where Schneider is going with this. “It’s a beautiful city. A great city. But at the same time, it’s very…spread out. Everything’s all over the place. Everything and everyone. Unlike any other city I’ve seen. I always wanted to bring a football franchise here, but I knew it’d be a challenge. The struggles we’ve had selling tickets aren’t surprising.”

 

“I see,” Phillips says, not sure how else to comment.

 

“There’s a reason it took so long for the NFL to get back here. But now that it has, we can’t blow it. What’s it going to look like if we came all the way just to go back to Oakland? Or somewhere else?”

 

“I don’t think we will, Wayne. I know we’re still struggling, but we’ve had quite a turnaround from when we started.”

 

“I know. We’ve had this discussion.” He spins his chair back toward Phillips, his face tightening with a stern expression. “It’s the second step. Going from good to great. We agreed we needed a new coach to do it.”

 

“You agreed.”

 

“After which, you decided Harden was the guy we were looking for.”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

Schneider doesn’t say anything, for once giving Phillips the opportunity to drive the conversation.

 

“Wayne, you have told me on multiple occasions that you consider me the best general manager in the league. And I appreciate that. We’ve both followed this league long enough to know that you don’t get every decision right. But if you look back on every decision this franchise has made the last four years, we’ve been right more often than not. And in the long term, those results will get us into the playoffs.”

 

“I understand, Chance. But you have to understand, as I think you do, that this is a bottom line business. No matter what that ratio is, getting it right vs. getting it wrong, nobody is irreplaceable. Not the quarterback, not the head coach, not the general manager.”

 

Phillips’ mouth feels very dry. Schneider has made his position clear, though he’s not sure just how serious he is. Is this his final warning?

 

 

 

Knight’s End fills with patrons for Friday afternoon Happy Hour, Jay Cooper and Cassie Sampson among them, as usual. Many gear up for game two of the World Series, still bitter about the Dodgers’ loss in the NLCS and eager to see the Cardinals lose.

 

“So guess what?” Cooper says, halfway through his first beer.

 

“Sex change operation?” Cassie says.

 

“No, but just as surprising.”

 

“Oh, this should be good.”

 

“I’m back at Farmers Field. I’ll be there for the Eagles game.”

 

“You’re what? How the hell—”

 

“Let’s just say I have my sources.”

 

Sampson gulps down his beer, trying to process the news.

 

“Back in your old seat?” he asks after a minute.

 

“Nah, they couldn’t do that. Putting someone who went streaking in the middle of the crowd creates a poor public perception, or some bullshit. They got me in a luxury suite instead.”

 

“A suite?!”

 

“I have to ‘maintain a low profile,’ whatever that means.”

 

“Must be nice.”

 

“Listen, I was able to get something from negotiations.”

 

“And what was that?”

 

“You can join me, if you want. In the suite.”

 

“Nah, I’m okay.”

 

“Cassie, please. It’s a fucking luxury suite. At the stadium.”

 

“I’d rather watch here. Maybe every now and then. I’ll let you know.”

 

They drink quietly and survey the menu for dinner options.

 

“You’ll be here for road games, though, right?” Cassie asks.

 

“Definitely. This Sunday included.”

 

 

 

Chance looks out the back window and sees Jack and Max throwing the football around. With daylight fading and dinner on the horizon, that seems a good way to spend fifteen minutes.

 

“Anything new?” Melissa asks from the kitchen.

 

Chance doesn’t turn around. “It wouldn’t hurt to start looking at real estate.”

 

“But where, though?”

 

“Anywhere besides here.”

 

“Chance…”

 

“I’m gonna be out back.”

 

“No, Chance, listen to me.” He turns around and faces his wife. “I know what comes with marrying a man in football. I know what I signed up for. We were grateful to be in Pittsburgh as long as we were.”

 

“You’re right.”

 

“Here’s what else I know. You’re an NFL GM for a reason. I don’t know anything about trades, salaries, drafts, any of those things you talk about. But I know that if you weren’t good at your job, we wouldn’t be here. So if you want to stay here—if you want your family to stay here—then do something about it. Because this sulking around feeling sorry for yourself isn’t the Chance Phillips I married.”

 

Chance senses that his wife is right, as always. With so much to process, he just nods and says, “Okay. I’ll be outside.”

 

“Dinner in twenty.”

 

He jogs toward his sons, trying to put himself in their shoes, back when football was just a backyard game of catch. Back to a simpler time.

 

 

 

Schneider starts Friday morning at the MedComm Center with a few calls to producers and a phone conference with some stadium employees. Just as the conference ends, his office door opens without a knock, and Chance Phillips marches toward his desk, leans in, and presses his fists against the mahogany.

 

“What can I do for you, Chance?”

 

“Yesterday, we talked about decisions. About getting them right and wrong. I want you to know, unquestionably, that you got it wrong with Caden Daniel. You were wrong to fire him, and you were wrong to do it without telling me. And if you want any proof of that, look at what he’s doing with the Chargers right now. They’re playing well, they’re three games better than us, and I sincerely hope that is a source of personal embarrassment for you.”

 

Schneider doesn’t say anything, his face striking a balance between defiant and intrigued.

 

“But that will be the last time we go through that bullshit. You will never go over my head again. I don’t care if you own the team, I don’t care if you own the league, I don’t care if you’re President of the United States. You know why? Because I am the best GM in the league. I am going to build this team into a Super Bowl champion. And if you truly want that to happen, if you have any respect for how an NFL franchise should be run, you will stay the fuck out of my way.”

 

Phillips lets this sink in, thankful Schneider hasn’t fired him yet, but he won’t. It’s taken a few years, but he now has a feel for how Schneider operates, how he thinks. And now, he can start to control that.

 

“Anything else?” Phillips adds.

 

Schneider smiles as if he’s impressed. “Enjoy your trip to Cincinnati.”

 

 

 

From an executive suite atop Paul Brown Stadium, Phillips watches his football team handle the Bengals with ease. The Knights come out of the gates firing, jumping out to a 14-0 lead, and don’t look back. They go into halftime up 20-3, extend that lead to 27-10 in the third quarter, and ice the game with a late touchdown in the fourth quarter, up 34-10.

 

From Phillips’ perspective, it’s the Jaguars game all over again—except this is happening against a competitive opponent. The Knights operate with efficiency and balance on both sides of the ball, including a few highlight reel plays. Andy Dalton throwing three interceptions doesn’t hurt either.

 

Phillips stops taking notes in the fourth quarter to reflect on the season as a whole, feeling positive about the Knights’ outlook.

 

A 3-4 record is far from optimal, obviously, but all four losses have come against quality opponents in competitive games. Harden claims the team is turning a corner, and after some research, Phillips realizes the upcoming schedule is ripe for a winning streak. None of the Knights’ next six opponents currently has a winning record. After it looked like all was lost, things might be looking up.

 

Despite so much uncertainty, one win can do a lot to ease concerns.

 

Phillips looks up at the closest TV, showing coverage of the game, and sees himself, with an infographic labeled “Chance Phillips, Los Angeles Knights General Manager, 2010-Present.” He doesn’t have audio, so he can only speculate on what the commentators say about him. Are they talking about the pressure he’s under? Are they crediting him for turning the Raiders around? Are they simply musing about his future, as he is?

 

 

 

Chance wakes up Monday morning, pleasantly surprised to find a pot of freshly brewed coffee. He pours himself a cup, sees Melissa sitting at the kitchen table on her laptop, and kisses her.

 

“Good morning,” he says.

 

“Good morning yourself.”

 

“I’ll get the kids up in a minute. I miss anything exciting yesterday?”

 

“Yes, actually. I talked to Lauren. Gary lost his job.”

 

“He did? That’s a surprise. How’d that happen?”

 

“Apparently he just had some kind of performance review, it didn’t go well, one thing led to another, and he got fired.”

 

Chance sips more coffee, leaning comfortably against the counter. “Really? Wow, that’s terrible.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Cherry 1,302]

Thanks for the guest appearance, Butta. I mean Gary.

 

 

 

Really loved Chance becoming alpha. Gave Schneider (and Cincy) the dick.

Edited May 31, 2015 by Chernobyl426

[Vin+ 3,121]

Gary's probably a Ravens fan anyway.

[Cherry 1,302]

Gary's probably a Ravens fan anyway.

Bet he poses as a soldier on football message boards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited May 31, 2015 by Chernobyl426

[Barracuda 629]

The luxury suite does come with free all you can drink Wild Turkey, right coach? Oh, perfect. Just wanted to make sure.

[Bangy 19]

Chance found those balls he'd lost somewhere in Schnieders pocket. Also Fuck Gary and his bitch ass.

 

Love the Chance POV episodes as it gives both sides of the team and adds depth. Be intersting to see the Bengals game on the field too.

 

Good work bro.

[Zack_of_Steel+ 3,014]

Honestly, this was one of my favorite chapters. Your writing has developed quite a bit since we've started, Stevo. Wonderful job.

[Sarge+ 3,436]

Yea, this was a great chapter. I've been waiting for Chance to clash with Schneider on this kind of level. It's also nice to see more of his family life and how it affects his career. I lol'd at the end when it seemed like he did something to get Gary fired from his job.

 

The Jay Cooper angles were well done, too. Will also be interested to see how Adam Javad continues to fit into the mix.

[RazorStar 4,025]

Excellent work on this chapter. Chance found his balls, MRaven got fired, and we shat on the bengals. Good times all around. Now for next chapter where we undergo crippling disappointment.

[ATL_Predator+ 1,196]

Mravenisms....hm

[Favre4Ever+ 4,476]

Gonna be honest... Not one of my favorites. It seemed to me some of the early interactions were a little forced and unnatural. The stuff with Gary, the connections between the team / staff and Jay Cooper, the MRraven-sim... Just didn't flow well for me and didn't seem natural to what you have built through 30 chapters.

The longer the chapter goes on though the better I think it gets. The showdown between Chance / Schneider was really well done, IMO. Keep it up!

[SteVo+ 3,702]

Thanks for the constructive criticism, Ferve. Serves me right for forcing an Mravenism into the prose.

[Cherry 1,302]

While it did play out a bit unrealistic and was full of "theatrics" I think it was very well-done. The Gary situation was fun to read and added a new layer. The Jay Cooper connection was one of those things that just seems too good to be true. With that said, the world is a very big place. Crazy shit can happen.

[SteVo+ 3,702]

Hump Day/Bump Day

 

[Maverick 791]

A lot of dialogue in this chapter. I liked it, although I'm easy to please lol. However, no Jonathan Maverick in the chapter saddens me.

Edited June 3, 2015 by Maverick

[theMileHighGuy 656]

Kind of a different chapter than what we've read so far. I liked it, though the Gary part and the Harden/Coop connection did strike me as odd. Good stuff tho

[Sarge+ 3,436]

The Gary thing seems a bit odd now, but it probably connects to something that will happen later.

[SteVo+ 3,702]

Since it's come under discussion, my personal take on the Gary situation: (note that even though I'm the writer, everything is open to interpretation, thus everyone can have their own take on the situation)

 

 

 

"Season Tickets" is a Chance Phillips chapter, undoubtedly. We see him under perhaps more pressure than he's ever been under. What we learn in this chapter is how Chance handles that pressure. We learn that he doesn't have any tolerance for that pressure falling on his family, but more interestingly, he's willing to deal with it in ways that Wayne Schneider would admire. I think the ending of this chapter definitely leaves open the possibility that Chance had Gary fired as a personal vendetta. That's a dark act that I wouldn't have expected from Chance normally, but that's the point of Gary's character, and of this chapter: to show exactly what Chance is capable of.

 

So the Mravenism was just a bonus nod to TGP.

 

 

Edited June 3, 2015 by SteVo