SteVo+ 3,702 Posted February 24, 2017 | | | | Knights of Andreas Part VI Chapter Sixty-Nine – Infected Players hit the practice field Tuesday with the confidence of a 5-0 team as they prepare for their first divisional game of the year against the 2-2 Chiefs. Coaches display their share of confidence when discussing the game plan, and everyone believes the Knights are in line for an easy win if they execute. Towards the end of the day, Maverick feels a little nauseous. It passes by the time practice ends, so he doesn’t think anything of it. Luck has the same experience, but he feels worse as the day goes on, eventually bedridden when he gets home. He’s so sick he has to skip Brenda’s ultrasound. Randall feels fine when he gets home, once again firing up the generator for power. He eats dinner, watches some more film, and goes to sleep before waking up sometime in the middle of the night running for the toilet. Schneider summons Phillips to his office Wednesday morning with a deliberately urgent tone. Phillips makes some calls, tidies up a bit, and limps to the next office. It’s been almost five weeks on these crutches. Any day now, he’ll be able to put some weight on it, and the cast comes off in two weeks. Or so the doctors say. Schneider spots Phillips and says, dramatically, “Close the door. Have a seat.” Phillips does so, setting his crutches against Schneider’s desk. “What’s on your mind, Wayne?” “Relocation.” “I see.” Phillips knew this topic would come up again, though he didn’t think it would be so soon. “As I’ve been saying, we can only deflect the Rams and Chargers for so long. The pieces are already moving faster than last year, so I’m afraid we’re running out of options.” Phillips keeps a straight face, but that sounds ominous. “Where is this going?” Schneider takes a breath before reciting the line he has crafted and memorized. “Well, as owner of the franchise, it is my job to place this team in a viable market. I did that with Los Angeles. And if a second team is unavoidable, then I have to consider other markets, and I’ve found one.” “Whoa, whoa,” Phillips says involuntarily, holding his arms up. “I realize this is a little shocking—” “A little?!” “It’s business, unfortunately.” Schneider gives Phillips a moment, so he tries to collect his thoughts. After the initial shock wears off, he thinks about what other market Schneider means. San Antonio? Las Vegas? Actually, Vegas wouldn’t be such a drastic move. Phillips could probably keep his family in Los Angeles in that case. “What market are we talking about?” “London.” Phillips’ eyes widen. “Are you fucking kidding me?” “It’s a significant proposition, I’m aware.” Schneider knew Phillips would react this way, and understandably so. But Phillips needs to understand this isn’t just speculation. “We both know the league’s been eyeing London for some time. An American franchise was bound to make its way over there, and right now, it looks like that’s going to be us. Chance, I need you to mull this over. Nothing’s happening today or tomorrow. Sleep on it. I don’t think we’ll get anywhere by talking about it now.” “No, definitely not.” “Think it through. Talk it over with your wife, if you must, though I’d caution against telling your kids.” “Why?” “Kids talk. I can’t stress enough how critical it is that this not get out. None of the other owners know this is in the works, and that’s how it has to stay if this is going to succeed.” What if I don’t want it to succeed? Phillips catches himself, instead saying, “I understand. I think I’ll look over some scouting reports.” “Very well.” Schneider smiles, a confident, restrained smile. This could have gone much worse. “Thank you, Chance.” Phillips nods, grabbing his crutches and pressing them down, lifting himself from the chair. He limps back to his office, not confident in his ability to be productive today. On the practice field, the offense runs plays from the Kansas City playbook against the scout defense. They focus on McKenzie’s new favorite formation: I-Form 3WR, with Bishop lining up at fullback. Since Marcus Peters and Eric Berry should give Wilkes plenty of attention, the Knights will predominantly line him up in isolation with Harper and Watson on the opposite side, where they will find plenty of space. Maverick drops back, casually setting his feet against an invisible pass rush and throwing to his right. He and Harper are in perfect unison; the extra work they put in this summer is paying off. Maverick doesn’t, however, feel the same about Watson. So he throws some off-target passes, forcing him to make tough catches. Coach McKenzie blows his whistle and yells, “Shotgun! Trips left! Logan, start next to Fowler then we’ll move you wide right.” Everyone lines up accordingly with McKenzie shouting plays. Maverick takes a snap and throws for Wilkes on a post route. The ball skips, hitting the ground five feet in front of him. “Yo,” Wilkes says. “What the fuck is that?” Maverick blinks, shaking off cobwebs. “Sorry. Had to get it out of my system.” Everyone lines up for another try. Maverick catches the snap, waits, and throws over the middle. He doesn’t see where the pass lands, instead falling to his knees and lifting his facemask as a load of vomit flies out of his mouth. “Whoa!” Wilkes says. “Take it easy, McNabb!” Other players and coaches react loudly enough to get most of the field’s attention, and everything stops for a moment as trainers escort Maverick toward the sideline to hydrate. Kellen Clemens comes out to run the offense, an unwelcome sight that everyone brushes off, expecting Maverick to return quickly. Five minutes later, Grodd goes down with an apparent ankle injury. Trainers surround him and ask where it hurts, to which he responds, “My ankle’s fine, I just can’t get up. I’m lightheaded.” Grodd eventually does get to his feet, staggering toward the sideline for some water. Everyone has barely had time to process what’s going on when Randall and Schwinn start puking within seconds of each other. Thirty minutes later, practice has come to a standstill as Schneider, Phillips, and Harden watch Dr. Evans make his rounds throughout the field, examining every player who looks sick before reporting to them. “Earning your paycheck today, huh, doc?” Schneider says. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Evans says. “Bugs can go through locker rooms, sure, but never in a way that presents symptoms so quickly.” Nobody responds. Schneider goes back inside without a word, and before long, the entire team does the same, congregating in the locker room to enjoy some air conditioning, at the very least. No one knows if practice is over, if the team will be heading back onto the field at some point, or something else. So everyone sits at their locker with pads on, hanging on their body’s ever move, wondering if the slightest muscle twitch is a prelude to vomiting. With no warning, Watson throws up through his facemask, and a puddle of murky vomit covers the purple floor around his cleats. Players rush in, holding Watson upright as he regains his energy before being taken away for evaluation. Within the next few minutes, Bishop, NesSmith, Mann, Martin, Adams, Brock, and McCabe make their own contributions to the vomit-lined floor. Upstairs, Schneider and Phillips wait nervously in Schneider’s office. Phillips tries to figure out what could be going on, though Schneider doesn’t seem to have any interest in contributing to the conversation. The phone on the desk beeps, and Schneider’s secretary says, “Mr. Schneider, the gentlemen from the CDC are here.” “Thank you.” Schneider rushes out down the hall. Phillips hurriedly swings his crutches to keep pace. “CDC?” he asks. Schneider says nothing. “Wait. Center for Disease Control?” Schneider zips past the elevator and down the stairs. “Wayne, wait—damn it.” Phillips taps the elevator button, waiting forever for the doors to open. Emerging from the elevator onto the first floor, Phillips expects stereotypical government-looking men in black suits, so he’s floored to see two figures in neon yellow hazmat suits standing next to Schneider. “Don’t be alarmed, sir,” one of the suits says to Phillips, apparently noticing his distressed expression. “This is probably just precautionary.” “What’s going on, Wayne?” Phillips asks. “We need to speak with the players,” the other suit says. Schneider escorts them to the locker room. He opens the double doors, and a rancid stench of sweat and vomit hits him. “Jesus Christ!” Schneider says. “It smells like Oakland in here.” Players look up at their owner, but the sight of two figures in hazmat suits startles everyone. “Whoa, what the fuck?” “Holy shit.” “We’re gonna die!” Bedlam erupts as an insurmountable noise level dominates the room. Schneider raises his arms and tries to calm everyone down, to no avail. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLES!” Harden screams, silencing everyone. He takes a breath and clears his throat. “Keep cool and listen to whatever these guys want.” One of the hazmat suits steps forward. “Okay, first off, we need to know when symptoms began presenting. Did anyone feel sick prior to today?” Maverick, Luck, and Randall each describe their symptoms yesterday. Randall catches plenty of dirty looks when he mentions throwing up last night but defends himself by insisting he felt fine this morning. “Very well,” the suit says. “Has anyone left the country recently? Sometime in the last month?” Wilkes’ hand shoots up. “I went to Japan a few weeks ago.” “For what purpose?” Brock jumps in. “To shoot a Victoria’s Secret commercial.” “It was Fruit of the Loom, bitch!” “Okay,” the suit says. “Anyone else?” Everyone looks around. Nobody’s hand is raised. “So be it,” the other suit says, turning toward Schneider. “We need to quarantine the building and get bloodwork from everyone immediately. Again, I’d say this is just precautionary, but it’s still a good thing you called, Mr. Schneider.” Nervous chatter fills the room, most players repeating the word “quarantine.” “Hang on,” Schneider says, “how serious is this?” “Because nobody’s condition is worsening beyond nausea and fever, it’s probably nothing more than an exotic flu strain. But we don’t want to take any chances.” “Hold up,” Wilkes says, standing up. “That commercial shoot was weeks ago, though. And I ain’t even sick!” “That doesn’t necessarily matter,” the other suit says. “You could have contracted the bacteria there and transmitted it to others here weeks later. Some of these things have latency periods where the symptoms don’t manifest for quite some time.” “Oh,” Wilkes says, only comprehending about half of those words. Harden walks over to Schneider and Phillips, fixating his gaze on Schneider. “You called these pricks?” “I have to take every precaution. I didn’t know they’d shut the place down.” “Thanks a lot.” Harden walks away, leaving Schneider to contemplate a response he never vocalizes. He instead says to Phillips, “Well, we have to put together a statement. This will hit the wire within the hour, if it hasn’t already. Can’t have everyone thinking we’ve been hit by bioterrorism.” “Quarantined with the flu? It’ll be embarrassing,” Phillips says. “Rather embarrassing than frightening. This city’s had enough horror.” More CDC workers arrive, establishing a perimeter around the building and solidifying the quarantine. Players and coaches call home, describing the situation and asking if their wives/girlfriends/children feel sick. No one receives a bad report, so the mystery illness is apparently confined to the MedComm Center. Maverick is in the main lobby when he finishes his phone call, one of the first in line to submit bloodwork. “Okay, I’ll text you when I know more,” Maverick says into the phone. “Love you, Trish.” Smiling, he hangs up, about to go for bloodwork when he sees Harden at the other end of the lobby, staring him down. His smile fades as he walks away. Players take showers and change into street clothes, nothing to do but wait. Word spreads that it’ll take twelve hours to get results, so they’re stuck here overnight. Groups of players eventually congregate in meeting rooms and tune TVs to live coverage. One group sets up shop in what is normally the offensive line’s room, trying to pick a channel. Someone mentions trying to figure out what caused this sickness, and Wilkes’ investigative brain clicks on. “Wait a minute,” Wilkes says dramatically, eyes bulging and mouth hanging open. “It was Florida!” Flash: “Oh shit. We got the Zika flu!” Wilkes: “No no, at the end of the Jags game. The sun shower! I told y’all that was fucked up!” Schwinn: “Rain don’t get you sick, shit for brains.” Martin: “Exactly. And even if it could, that Jacksonville game was, what, ten days ago? We would have been puking way before today.” Wilkes: “Man, didn’t y’all hear what that dude from the CIA said? About symptoms lying low and shit.” Wilkes continues acting out his flair for investigative journalism, rebuked by his teammates at every turn, though he doesn’t seem to care. Coaches come and go in Harden’s office as position coaches keep tabs on the health of their players. They eventually move to an upstairs meeting room, and Harden leans against the table with McKenzie next to him. “Play on Thursday, get some extra rest, and for what?” Harden says. “All to shit.” “Yeah,” McKenzie says, “terrible luck for a 5-0 team.” “And they had their bye last week. Against Andy Reid coming off a bye, we’re coming off a bad acid trip. CHET!” Ripka, who had just disappeared into the hallway, instantly reappears. “How many sick starters on D?” Harden asks. “That depends on what you mean by ‘sick.’ Some guys haven’t puked but are definitely—” “Fine. Fine! For fuck’s sake…okay, if we assume anyone who’s sick doesn’t play, where does that put us?” “That puts us…” Ripka tallies names on the paper in front of him. “…without two linemen, three linebackers, a corner, and both safeties.” “So, fucked sideways with a steel dildo.” “In so many words, yeah.” Harden clenches his fist against the mahogany table. He feels like he wants to puke—for psychological reasons. Most of the players invariably gather in the auditorium, with live TV coverage set up on the projector. Despite the sickness, this is more entertaining than the time they usually spend in this room every Tuesday morning, listening to Coach Harden downplay their latest win and talk about how hard they’ll have to work to win again. By now, the media has picked up on the quarantine at the MedComm Center and understood that the matter is not as serious as it appears. The coverage evolves into something of a joke, but scattered amidst the Knights discussion is praise for the team’s statistical prominence. Maverick leads the league with 16 touchdown passes, and his single interception is fewest among quarterbacks with double-digit touchdowns. Wilkes leads the league with eight receiving touchdowns, and no other receiver has more than five. His 591 receiving yards are also tops in the league, a torrid pace of 118 yards per game that puts him on pace to approach Calvin Johnson’s single-season record. The Knights offense has scored 164 points, most in the league. They lead the league in touchdowns and red zone efficiency. The team, as a whole, has the best turnover differential in football. The defense has not been dominant but boasts plenty of strengths. The Stone/Lucas cornerback duo that doomed the team last year is improved. They’re not playing lockdown defense, but they’re not getting burned constantly. Grantzinger has seven sacks, good for a tie with Von Miller for most in football. He also has five tackles for loss, two forced fumbles, and an interception returned for a touchdown, a résumé reminiscent of his 2014 campaign that could have won Defensive Player of the Year if not for J.J. Watt. Everyone agrees five games is too small a sample size to extrapolate to a sixteen-game season, so the Knights aren’t pushing the annals of football history just yet. But they do have the league’s attention. Just when everyone’s egos have been adequately massaged, they change the channel and find a rerun of today’s Undisputed, and the graphic at the bottom of the screen reads, “Pats, Steelers, Knights 5-0 in AFC,” with the subtitle, “Which team is best?” Shannon Sharpe: “…just think it’s too early to tell. Right now? Give me any of them.” Skip Bayless: “Shannon, as usual, you are wrong. There is an outlier here, and I’m going to tell you why. I’ll put it this way: assuming all three of these teams make the playoffs—which they should—we’re going to do this segment again, and the question will be: ‘Between Tom Brady, Ben Roethlisberger, and Jonathan Maverick, which quarterback do you trust most in January, to lead their team to the Super Bowl?’ And I have to say, one of those does not belong.” Sharpe: “Come on, Skip, I know—” Bayless: “Just wait! Just let me—” Sharpe: “I know where you’re going with—” Bayless: “Just let me finish. Jonathan Maverick is a good quarterback. He might even be a very good quarterback. But he does not belong in a class with these guys.” Sharpe: “He’s got a ring, coach!” Bayless: “Yes! Yes, he does! He rode an elite defense toward that ring. Let’s not forget, he put his team down 14-0 in that Super Bowl with two pick-sixes on his first two possessions. How he won MVP of that game is absurd, and it has yet to be explained to me.” From his seat, Maverick tries to look normal. A few teammates sitting nearby give him nods of encouragement. Bayless: “The AFC will be a battle between Brady and Big Ben, because this year, just like last year, the Knights defense is not good enough.” Maverick shakes his head. A few players pipe up in response, assigning a variety of labels to Bayless, ranging from “idiot” to “blowhard” to “stupid dumbass motherfucker.” “Everything good in here?” says a voice from behind everyone. Players turn around; it’s Coach McKenzie. Maverick waves, motioning his offensive coordinator to come closer. He does, and a few players move closer too. “Coach,” Maverick says, “we should draw up some two-point plays for Sunday.” “What are you talking about?” “How many extra points has Noah missed this year? With the way Wilkes and our O-line are playing, we would make more than half of them!” McKenzie looks around at the faces of linemen and receivers. It’s clear they’ve talked about this before and Maverick is speaking for much of the offense. So, McKenzie grabs a seat, and they discuss the X’s and O’s of potential two-point plays as well as the general strategy of going for it versus kicking the extra point. Some defensive players avoid the auditorium to gather in a film room, studying more tape on the Chiefs offense. Randall leads this group, of course, though his concentration from the film breaks multiple times as he clutches his stomach in pain. “Still?” Grantzinger asks. “Seems like everyone quit hurling hours ago.” “I can’t eat, man,” Randall says. “Everything I eat I throw up. Can barely keep a glass of water down.” “How long have I been telling you to go organic?” “You know what? Maybe this is the beginning.” Grantzinger summons an organic protein bar from his pocket, a bizarre occurrence nobody questions as Randall peels back the plastic wrapper and takes a bite, chewing slowly. “It’s…not terrible,” he says. “I’ll probably be puking this up in a few minutes, but, not bad.” The other defenders in the room perk up. Grantzinger has been touting his new organic diet since mini-camp, and everyone has noticed his increased muscle tone. More importantly, they’ve noticed his domination on the field. “Alright,” Schwinn says. “Give one here, partner.” “It’ll lengthen your career,” Grantzinger says, handing off yet another protein bar. Schwinn takes a bite, chewing a few times before he experiences involuntary muscle spasms. His eyes appear poised to pop out of their sockets and he spits out the contents of his mouth, crumbs of half-eaten protein bar and saliva flying everywhere. “Fuck, Bobby,” Randall says after ducking to avoid the projectiles. “A napkin, maybe?” “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Reminds me of that Canadian tequila I had once.” “Canada makes tequila?” “It’s the fruit of the devil, my friend, the devil himself.” “I wasn’t the biggest fan of it at first either,” Grantzinger says. “But I’m telling you guys, a few weeks of nothing but organic food in your system, and you feel five years younger. This is your ticket to playing into your late thirties.” “Oh yeah?” Schwinn says, looking at the plastic wrapper in disgust. “Well, I’d rather retire at 30 than retire at 35 and eat this horse shit.” Near midnight, everyone has submitted their bloodwork, and with no results coming in, sleeping arrangements need consideration. Most of the coaches have dispersed from the upstairs room, though Harden stays there. In the middle of reminiscing with Ripka, McKenzie walks through the door. “Where were you?” Harden asks. “With the players,” McKenzie says, taking a seat next to the head coach. “Wanted to change the game plan.” “They what?” “Mav had some ideas, nothing serious. Though he did make a good point about two-point conversions—” McKenzie looks up and realizes he’s talking to an empty chair. Harden flies down the stairs and beelines for the auditorium. He throws open the door with enough force to turn a few heads, and Maverick is one of them. “Hey!” he says, getting everyone’s attention as he struts down the middle rows where Maverick and some teammates sit. “No changes to the game plan. Cool it with that shit.” “Coach,” Maverick says, “we were just—” “‘We were just’ my ass. We’re not changing the fucking game plan! The game plan is finalized by Wednesday, and it doesn’t change. I’ve been doing that since I’ve been head coach, and I’m not changing it just because we’re all cooped up with a fucking case of cat scratch fever. Got it?” The rest of the players nod in agreement, but Maverick holds firm, quite convinced this conversation is not about the game plan. Harden slowly steps away, to Maverick’s disappointment. The rising sun shines on the MedComm Center as CDC employees dismantle the structures that had air-locked all entrances to the building. The bloodwork results are explained to many and comprehended by few, though everyone is able to understand that it’s nothing more than an aggressive version of the flu. There is no risk of worsening symptoms or widespread biological terror. Of concern, however, is how long symptoms will linger. On this issue, the CDC provides no definitive conclusion. Everyone’s body responds to the virus differently, so some players will be fine by Sunday; some will not. And even those who are healthy will have experienced weight loss. Very few Knights will be at full strength. The week’s end finally comes, and the Knights’ final injury report boasts what is surely the largest collection of players questionable with flu-like symptoms in league history. Phillips is the only one on the second floor still experiencing symptoms, feeling just sick enough to be bothered but healthy enough to work. Schneider took the day off, leaving him one of the few workers on the floor. Despite wavering focus, he puts in some meager work, draft analysis that will be revised later, waiting for the call that comes a little after noon. “Mr. Phillips,” his secretary says after a beep of the phone, “Adam Javad is downstairs for you.” “Thank you, Jennifer. I’ll head down now.” He takes the elevator downstairs, sees Javad, and leads him into a nearby film room. When he first agreed to this meeting, he considered outside in the back of the building, but the memory of their last conversation there is still too recent and too painful. “Let’s get this over with,” Phillips says. “I’m sick.” “You’re not the only one.” “Excuse me?” From his pocket, Javad extracts a slip of paper. He unfolds it and hands it over. Phillips sees a barrage of words and numbers, not sure what to look at first. “That’s a copy of a medical record from Good Samaritan Hospital,” Javad says. “I have a source that gives me the scoop on injuries sometimes.” Phillips skims the meat of the report. “Two cancerous masses, pharynx, larynx, chemotherapy…you considering a career in medicine?” “Look at the patient name, at the top.” Phillips’ eyes fly to the top of the paper, seeing a name he doesn’t recognize. He realizes that’s the doctor’s name and spots the name below it. His heart skips a beat. He has to squeeze the paper tightly between his fingers to hold onto it. “Is this legitimate?” Phillips asks. “How reliable is your source?” “He’s never given me anything wrong.” “Oh, Jesus Christ…the weight loss, the hair loss.” Javad nods. Like Phillips, he never thought much of it, and now he can only wonder why. Phillips keeps inspecting the report, as if he might find some salvation in it. He brings his hand to his face, suddenly needing to wipe away moisture from his eyes. “He just turned 60 a few months ago,” Phillips says. Javad doesn’t respond. After composing himself, Phillips realizes Javad is still standing there, awkwardly. “Why hand this off? Why to me, especially?” “Publishing it is an ethical gray area, and me, right now…” “You don’t have that kind of flexibility.” Javad nods, staring with as much disdain as he can. Phillips is the reason he lacks that flexibility, and he better know it. “What do you want me to do with this?” Phillips asks. Javad shrugs and backs away. “Whatever you want. Burn it, for all I care.” Javad disappears into the hallway, and Phillips crumples up the paper, wanting to throw it into the nearest trash bin, but he pockets it instead. He waits a moment, focusing on slowing his breathing, before taking the elevator upstairs to his office, planning to keep the door closed awhile. Fans pack Farmers Field on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The temperature peaks at 72 degrees with a slight breeze, a perfect day for football. After pre-game warmups, the Knights get a final count: twenty-seven players are 100%, sixteen feel slightly weak or lightheaded, and nine are vomiting on an irregular basis. Coaches watch the game’s opening snaps carefully, listening to feedback from coaches in the booth to see which players are sluggish. Harden hears plenty from upstairs confirming what he sees: weakness up the middle. Mann is getting pushed backwards on every snap, leaving a sick Randall and healthy-but-old Martin to hold things together. Spencer Ware, filling in for an injured Jamaal Charles, runs through gaping holes and moves the chains in embarrassing fashion. The Chiefs take their two opening drives into the red zone, where the Knights tighten up and force field goals. Offensively, things aren’t any better. In the trenches, Penner is the lone bright spot among an abyss of poor blocking. This cripples every idea McKenzie has for the offense, and they only look competent after Grantzinger forces a fumble, setting them up on the outside of field goal range. Six plays and ten yards later, McCabe makes a forty-eight yarder. The game’s opening quarter ends with the Chiefs on top, 6-3, making it clear the Knights will have to fight their sickness to get a win, a proposition that makes fans uncomfortable. Normally, a 5-1 record would be just fine, but the Knights do not want to start 0-1 in the AFC West, especially with Denver looking every bit like the Super Bowl champions they are. McKenzie involves Maverick in sideline discussions, realizing the game plan needs a radical transformation. “So much for no pass rush,” Maverick says, quiet enough so none of the linemen can hear him. McKenzie nods. The Knights were counting on a clean pocket for Maverick, so the playbook includes plenty of deep throws and slow-developing routes. All of them can probably be scrapped. “Let’s try some rollouts, then,” McKenzie says. “That’ll get us going, at least. We can draw up some reverses at half.” The Knights won’t wait for the offensive line to improve. They need to find ways to get Wilkes and Harper involved, priorities that would be much easier with a healthy roster. Harden, on the other hand, doubles down on his strategy of attacking up the middle. Faced with few healthy players, he simply blitzes more people. This forces Alex Smith out of the pocket on multiple plays, and the secondary plays breakdown-free. McKenzie’s adjustments get the Knights a few more first downs, but they still fail to cross midfield, prompting light boos from the crowd. The Chiefs, meanwhile, add a field goal to their lead. With the defense on the field, Maverick sits on the bench and sips water, slowly, making sure he keeps it down. “Hey!” Wilkes says nearby. Maverick doesn’t bother looking at him. “I’m open every play, man! Against Peters! You know how hard that is?” “I’m not a hundred percent, D-Jam.” “Then let Brian play.” “You serious?” Wilkes gesticulates in every direction, releasing as much stress as possible as he continues to bitch at anyone who will listen, up and down the sideline and into the locker room as the half ends with the Chiefs leading, 9-3. The second half starts with music blaring and the home crowd into it, but half the Knights players just want things to end. After the Chiefs take their first drive sixty yards in nine plays, resulting in a field goal and a 12-3 lead, fans boo louder, and players realize they’ll need to push the envelope to escape this game with a win. Grodd runs as fast as he can on a swing block, crushing a helpless defender to spring Jameson to a big run. A few minutes later, he’s listening to the offensive line coach when a few projectiles of vomit escape his mouth, causing his fellow linemen to scatter. Randall surges through the line and levels Alex Smith, bringing the crowd to its feet. He jogs off the field and throws up in the first bucket he sees. Schwinn tracks a pass headed Travis Kelce’s way, watches it soar over his head, and strikes the leaping tight end, throwing him sideways in the air. Schwinn spends the next few minutes laid out on a trainer’s table, on the verge of passing out, mumbling a language no one understands. Maverick navigates a collapsing pocket, eyes downfield, barely escaping toward the flat, where he throws a dart downfield to Wilkes a split-second before taking a huge hit. Grateful he’s near the sideline, he beelines for a bucket of his own. He gets back on the field before the next play, but after the ensuing field goal, he returns to the bench so pale, McKenzie has Brian Roosevelt warm up, a sight that makes fans feel nauseous. Field position tilts in favor of the Knights, and Maverick quells his stomach enough to fire downfield, springing Wilkes and Harper on double moves and breathing life into the offense. The Knights enter the red zone for the first time with the third quarter almost over. McKenzie pounds away with Jameson, but it doesn’t work. The Chiefs are still stacking the box and the Knights’ offensive line still isn’t getting enough push. Facing third and eight, Maverick drops back, rolls right, and sees everyone covered. Instinctively, he sweeps back to his left, surrounded by white jerseys. He jukes and slides through defenders as best he can, feeling dizzy, and reaches open field. He doesn’t think he’s past the line of scrimmage, so he looks downfield, seeing Wilkes double covered. He lobs up a throw and shields himself from a rushing linebacker. In the end zone, Wilkes plants his feet between two defenders and jumps for the ball. He outjumps one Chief, getting his hands on it as the other tries to wrangle it away. He lands in the end zone and wins the shoving battle, emerging with a touchdown. Maverick doesn’t celebrate, instead staggering toward the bench in search of a bucket. Healthy teammates pat him on the back aggressively, making the bucket search even more urgent. The Chiefs’ ensuing possession takes the game into the fourth quarter. Harden, as convinced as ever his aggressive strategy will work now that the offense has woken up, keeps the blitzes coming. After a three-yard run by Ware, Smith drops back under pressure and floats one over the middle right into Flash’s arms. Chiefs bring him down quickly, but the Knights set up shop on the edge of field goal range. After a Jameson run goes nowhere, Maverick throws for Watson on a screen, but the ball lands short. In the huddle, Maverick hears the play call and relays it, suddenly out of breath. “Mav, you okay?” Penner asks. “I’m fine. Let’s get this first down.” The huddle breaks, and they line up with four wide receivers. Maverick drops back, tracking Bishop on a slant route. He fires, and the pass sails off target, dangerously close to Eric Berry’s hands. The field goal unit comes on as Maverick sits down, hoping his energy comes back. McCabe lines up for the fifty-five yarder and boots it. It sails through the air, down the middle, and over the cross bar by a few feet. The stadium rocks as McCabe gets mobbed in celebration. McKenzie shakes his head. “I don’t get this kid,” McKenzie says to whoever’s listening. “Misses extra points all the time but nails fifty-yarders like they’re nothing.” Whatever the case, McCabe’s kick gives the Knights a 16-12 lead with 13:04 to go. Despite the quarantine, the vomiting, the lost practice time, and the continuing illness, the Knights are thirteen minutes from remaining one of the four unbeaten teams in football. Harden’s defense continues attacking, and the Chiefs inexplicably abandon the run, leading to a quick three and out. The Knights get it back, but Maverick is still on the verge of passing out, so McKenzie dials up a reverse to Watson and some sweeps for NesSmith. This gets one first down before the Chiefs tighten up, and the Knights punt it back. Alex Smith repeats the previous drive, throwing short, safe passes into tight coverage and going three and out. The Knights take over with 7:36 to play. They appear doomed to punt, but Maverick connects on a back-shoulder fade to Harper for a twenty-yard gain. McKenzie calls a fake reverse screen to NesSmith that gets ten more yards, and the Knights cross midfield with the clock ticking. Maverick fights off heat flashes with everything he has. They need a touchdown on this drive to seal the game. A field goal won’t cut it. A few more stuffed runs and short passes get the Knights into field goal range, with Maverick letting the play clock wind down. They soon face first and ten from the seventeen-yard-line, 2:58 to go. Jameson runs off-tackle left, breaking a few tackles for five yards. The Chiefs call timeout. 2:51. Maverick lines up in shotgun for a pass, audibles to a run, and hands off to Jameson. He runs through a hole but Penner can’t hold on to his defender, and Jameson goes down for a one-yard gain. The Chiefs call timeout again. 2:45. McKenzie calls a pass but instructs Maverick, “If nothing’s there, take the sack to keep the clock rolling. Don’t go out of bounds or throw it away.” Maverick drops back, looking for Wilkes—blanketed in double coverage. He looks right, but the pocket collapses. He steps up, escapes, sees green grass, and commits. He runs for the pylon, reaching full speed with defenders closing. He feels his legs shaking, every inch of his body ordering him to stop running. Inside the five, he lowers his shoulders, cradles the ball, dives… …and he’s lying in the end zone, without the ball, teammates on top of him. He can’t tell if the crowd is cheering or booing, but they’re loud. While two players help him walk back to the sideline, he asks, “What happened? Did I fumble?” “Nah man, you scored!” “Yeah, you dove across the goal line and did an Elway into the end zone. It was badass, man!” “Oh,” Maverick says. “That’s good.” He remembers diving across the goal line, losing the ball, and throwing up—but he’s not sure in which order. The trio walks past Harden and McKenzie, who both look shocked. “You know something,” Harden says. “I’ve never been able to say I saw a quarterback win a game on sheer guts before.” “Why’s that?” “Because his guts are all over the goddamn end zone.” McKenzie nods, preferring not to look. McCabe knocks the extra point through, and the Knights lead, 23-12. Home fans expect a two-minute drill from Kansas City to set up an interesting finish. Instead, Smith is sacked by Grantzinger, throws incomplete, and gets sacked by Grantzinger again, forcing a punt, essentially conceding the game. Plenty of fans head for the exits, eager to head for home or a nearby sports bar to watch game 2 of the Dodgers/Cubs NLCS, which starts in about ten minutes. The duties of handing off to Jameson and kneeling down are passed to Roosevelt as Maverick recovers on the bench. Only seconds pass before Wilkes takes a seat next to him. “Glad we’ll all be over this in the next couple days,” Wilkes says. “Gotta be at our best next week.” “What? Why?” Maverick asks. Wilkes’ look says it all. “Oh,” Maverick says, remembering. “Rose.” Wilkes nods, and Maverick thinks about the looming matchup with San Diego. Sick or healthy, puking or not, next Sunday won’t be easy. 5 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Sarge+ 3,436 Posted February 24, 2017 You know, Steven. I remember you telling me you were a bit worried about making the last part a memorable ending. I don't think that's going to be an issue. This was a big time chapter, man. Definitely one of your best, and I have a feeling there is more to come. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
RazorStar 4,025 Posted February 24, 2017 And they never got the stink out of farmer's field. Haha this chapter was great. 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Bay 2,003 Posted February 24, 2017 (edited) https://youtube.com/watch?v=CdcfeinlASU You and me have a disease You affect me, you infect me I'm afflicted you're addicted Edited February 24, 2017 by Bay Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
SteVo+ 3,702 Posted March 1, 2017 Hump Day Bump Day Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Vin+ 3,121 Posted March 5, 2017 Comebacks like this never happen in real life. SteVo pls. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Zack_of_Steel+ 3,014 Posted March 28, 2017 -Probably my only real criticism of KoA is that sometimes drama seems to pop up for the sake of it. Everything coming together this season seems a bit over the top, especially with Schneider mentioning London. Chance's "Are you fucking kidding me?" was great-Let the Chargers move to London with Bangy. Or we can all just play for the Chargers and stay in L.A. that way.-Holy hell, I get that it's in character for D-Jam never to relent, but you do a great job of irritating us with his whining.-idk how I haven't said it before, but Schwinn is hilarious. Glad he fucked Kelce up.-McCabe shutting me up on cue with a clutch 55 yarder. -Mav had to put on that performance with the flu after the Skip Bayless crap. Pretty sweet.-2 sacks to end the game, but no mention of Sean and his benching. How's he reacting to watching Zack wreck shit? Share this post Link to post Share on other sites