Monday Night Jihad (38 page)

The rookie back speared some fresh melon wedges, six slices of sourdough toast, and a 24-ounce glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was trying to eat a little bit lighter than usual. His insides had been bothering him the last couple of days, which he was sure related more to his nerves than to any virus.

When the players’ stomachs were full, the team boarded buses and headed to the Rose Bowl—site of the big game.

Simply making one’s way to the bus was an ordeal. Hundreds of fans crowded the driveway, forcing the uniformed members of the LAPD to create a pathway with their bodies. If Tuesday is this bad, Emrick wondered, what will Sunday be like?

When the buses arrived at the stadium, the players went to the locker room to dress in their uniforms—no pads—and then headed onto the field for the daily hour of interviews.

Emrick had played in eleven different PFL stadiums and countless college ones, but this field was different. Fifteen years ago, he had come to this stadium with his father and watched Tyrone Wheatley lead the Michigan Wolverines to a 38–31 victory over the Washington Huskies. That day he had decided he would do whatever it took to become a running back in the PFL. He breathed in the cool air, wishing his dad, who had died two years ago, could be here to see that dream fulfilled.

On most days during PFL Cup week, tents were set up at the practice facilities, and the press lined up to interview the players there. But today was special. This was the mother of all media days. Each player and coach was stationed in a different part of the stadium, and the press could talk to any or all of them at their leisure.

Because of his rookie status, Emrick’s table was placed in the upper rows of section 24. He sat down and pulled out a paperback, figuring no one would want to make the trek up just to talk to a second-string rookie. When the media were let loose, he barely had time to read half a page before he had to put the book down for the day.

The sheer number of print, radio, and television reporters was staggering. They had come from all over the world. Rarely was any player without at least one reporter, while some of the star players would have fifty to seventy-five waiting at any given time. Emrick never had more than seven in his line, but the number never dropped below four.

He had just finished an interview with a lady from the Peoria Journal Star when up stepped a man from Japan’s TV Asahi. That interview completed, a TV crew from Eurosport moved to the front of the line. Once he even had a reporter from Al Jazeera put a microphone in his face.

At first all the media attention was a bit of a head trip for Emrick. People actually wanted to know his opinion of the coaches, the other team, the refs; they wanted to know his history and where he saw his career heading. Soon, however, the excitement wore off and tedium set in.

Despite the massive amount of media, the questions rarely varied from reporter to reporter. Emrick had heard offensive linemen constantly answer the question, “Do you feel that you guys on the line get the respect you deserve?” Kickers were asked countless times, “Is it a lot of pressure knowing that the game might ride on one kick from you?” Emrick’s déjà vu question was, “Is it a dream come true to make it to the PFL Cup your rookie season?” He found it difficult to keep up the enthusiasm the fiftieth time he answered, “Yes.”

And these were just the mandatory interviews. In addition to the thousands of reporters and tens of thousands of questions asked during this hour and the other daily media times, Emrick had a couple hundred requests for private interviews waiting for him back at the hotel. And he knew that his little stack of requests was nothing compared to the ones the big-name players faced.

Yesterday, one of the veteran players had seen him sorting through his pile. Emrick had been wrestling with his need to keep balance in his schedule and his feeling of obligation to fulfill at least some of these requests. The vet had snatched the stack from Emrick’s hands, dropped it in the trash, and said, “See how easy it is? Keep your head in the game, boy. You ain’t got no necessity for making these guys’ jobs easier.”

But ignoring the media requests was often easier said than done. Last night, more than a dozen Liberty players had received 1:30 a.m. phone calls from a reporter pleading, “Come on, man, do me a solid! Set me up with an interview tomorrow!” Needless to say, the tactic had been less than effective. The next day, all the Liberty players had reregistered in the hotel using pseudonyms. Emrick had been christened Bill Glover by one of the veteran running backs who said Emrick reminded him of his toddler’s television hero, Little Bill. The quarterback moseyed around acting out his new name—John Wayne. The starting left guard asked to be renamed Anne Heche—everyone was sure there was a story behind that, but they were all afraid to ask.

On a typical day during the PFL Cup week, once the interview hour was mercifully concluded, the teams broke into position meetings until lunch. There was rarely anything new taught in these meetings. All the Liberty’s plays and assignments had been thoroughly hashed over the previous week in their New Jersey training facility. The meetings were mainly to make sure everyone was still keeping their focus and that each player’s memory of his role in every play was perfect. Then, after lunch, it would be practice until dinner.

Today was different. Rather than breaking into the meetings, the players all gathered together for a team photo. Emrick stood with the backs in the third row.

Quite a few pictures had to be taken; it seemed that every shot caught either half the team with their eyes closed or someone doing something obnoxious to one of the rookies. On the third attempt, the veterans on either side of Emrick gave him simultaneous wet willies. It took him two more pictures to get over the sensation of having those guys’ damp fingers wiggling in his ears.

When the exasperated photographer finally declared that he had gotten the best photo he was going to get, the players lined up to have their network headshots filmed. These were the short video clips that would be shown when each player was first introduced and again when he did something worthy of either commendation or derision.

As Emrick stood in line, he could hear comments from the TV crews like “A little more smile . . . That’s it” and “Now we’re going to toss you a ball” mixing with less G-rated taunts from the waiting players. Each player’s shoot took about two minutes, after which they were free to stand to the side, where they could return some of the verbal abuse that had been hurled at them.

Just before Emrick’s turn, a crash echoed through the room as one of the players knocked over a Lowel ViP Pro-light from one of the other video areas. While everyone’s mocking efforts were directed at that hapless player, Emrick quickly directed his video crew to get his shoot over with. They complied, and he slipped away verbally unscathed.

When the headshots were completed, the players were shown to a room where long tables were set up. Emrick found his designated chair. Laid out in front of him were five black Sharpie Ultra Fine Point pens. When each player had taken a seat, souvenir PFL Cup footballs were passed down the tables. A conveyorlike efficiency was soon achieved as each player took the ball that was passed to him, signed it, and then passed it to the guy on his other side.

At the end of the line, each ball was checked over. Oftentimes, instead of signing their names, some of the players would write other messages on the balls—messages that parents wouldn’t want in the hands of their seven-year-old Liberty fans. Once the balls were approved, they were boxed up for later distribution to owners, coaches, staff, players, friends, and family. Emrick had already put in a request for one that he could give to his mom. Many of the autographed footballs ultimately ended up in the hands of dealers and collectors.

After a half hour of autographing balls—just as Emrick’s hand really began cramping—the team packed up and headed back to the hotel. The Liberty were staying at the Four Seasons Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, and the Dragons at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel Los Angeles. Emrick was pretty sure the Liberty had gotten the better end of that deal.

At the hotel, it was time for another buffet feast. For the carb addicts, there were three different kinds of pasta, baskets of freshly baked bread, and a cornucopia of cooked vegetables—some plain, some loaded with butter, and some smothered with cheese. For the protein eaters, there were deli trays, chicken, sausages of various types, and a large warming tray filled with premium quality tenderloins. If anyone walked away from this lunch hungry, he just wasn’t trying.

Emrick fixed himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a plate of fettuccine Alfredo—not a combination his mom would approve of but filling nonetheless. He sat with one of the veteran fullbacks, who had two overflowing plates—one a sampling of many of the food choices, the other piled high with spaghetti Bolognese and meatballs.

The fullback looked at Emrick’s plate, and then his eyes flashed back to his own. “Rook, you gotta eat more than that if you’re gonna keep up your energy.” He used his fingers to pick out two large meatballs covered with red sauce and dropped them in the middle of the rookie’s plate of Alfredo. “I don’t want you leaving this table until you’ve snarfed every last bite of that, ya hear?”

Emrick’s insides churned as he wondered where those fingers had been. But experience had taught him that it was useless to argue with this man, so he quietly cleaned his plate, internally chastising himself for picking this table to sit at.

Emrick had been looking forward to Tuesday ever since the team’s arrival on Sunday because today the team had the afternoon and evening off. For some, that meant hanging out in the players’ massive game room, which had been fully stocked with Xboxes, GameCubes, and pinball machines in addition to the pool tables, foosball tables, poker tables, and dozens of other amusements. Any player who had relatives with him might grab a car and spend the afternoon with his wife and kids, who would be staying at a nearby hotel. Getting hooked up with a vehicle was as easy as calling the team’s concierge and asking for one. Some of the big-name quarterbacks, running backs, and wide receivers might find a Lamborghini Murciélago, a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano, or a Rolls-Royce Phantom awaiting them. Special teams players and others would be handed the keys to a Cadillac Escalade or maybe a Mustang convertible.

Once free from the confines of the hotel, the players with kids would most likely head toward Disneyland or Universal Studios. Or maybe they’d just go to the beach for some romping in the sand. Many of the players who were accompanied only by their wives or girlfriends would cruise to Rodeo Drive for some serious shopping.

Emrick had already determined that Rodeo Drive was one place he had to avoid. Having come through the play-offs all the way from the wild card round, he, along with every other member of the team, already had $73,000 worth of postseason bonus share coming his way. If they could win the big game, that figure would double—the losers receiving a measly $38,000. But Emrick had heard that on Rodeo Drive, it wouldn’t be hard for someone like him to blow his whole bonus share in one afternoon.

Emrick’s real hesitation at leaving the hotel was the fans. They were everywhere. It was hard enough getting in and out of the hotel due to the throngs camped out in the parking lots and driveways. But once you were out, players who didn’t hire their own personal bodyguards were taking a risk.

During the day it wasn’t so bad. People were still in good moods, and the exchanges were often friendly. However, when the evening rolled around and people got a little alcohol in them, the tone changed. Often harsh words were exchanged. Shoving matches ensued. Players were sometimes called out for fights by drunken fans trying to prove they were just as tough as some “overpaid, punk PFL player who’s never worked a day in his life.” These incidents steadily worsened as the week went on and the tension level of the team members continued to grow. Those who could, let the taunts roll off their backs; they had their eyes on a greater prize. Those who couldn’t, just didn’t leave the hotel.

Emrick decided to stay at the hotel; after all, it was hard to beat luxury like this. He dreaded the possible confrontations if he went out, and he had no family with him. His mom hadn’t been able to get off work to come to the game, and his two younger sisters were both freshmen at Georgetown University, thanks to his signing bonus. So for him, a day off meant relaxing by the pool if the afternoon warmed up enough and taking advantage of the full-service spa. Hopefully an outdoor California cabana massage could ease his frazzled nerves.

Dinner tonight would be no different for the players than any other night. Each team member was responsible for his own meal—although each was given $120 per diem to do it. Emrick had already arranged with a couple of other rookies to take a car (a Toyota Land Cruiser) and head to Houston’s in Century City. Great food, good friends, quiet atmosphere—a perfect way to cap off the team’s one down day. Player curfew was 12:30 a.m. Each man was sure to be in bed on time, knowing that the next morning the circus would begin all over again.

Tuesday, January 27

Rose Bowl Stadium

Pasadena, California

“Secret Service is going to have two snipers on the press box, two more up in the south scoreboard, and two more behind us in the north scoreboard,” Jim Hicks was saying to Scott, Khadi, and Riley. Skeeter stood about twenty feet off to Riley’s left.

“What about aircraft?” Riley asked.

“I asked Craig LeBlanc that very question. He said they’re putting up their makeshift control tower just west of us on a little par-three hole at Brookside Golf Course. And they’re stealing the fairways to the north of us as our helipads. The city of Pasadena is throwing a fit. Typically those fairways are reserved for parking, so our security is creating a huge mess for them. Apparently the mayor started making all kinds of threats. So LeBlanc pulls out his cell phone, dials a number, says a few words, and then hands the phone to the mayor. Turns out it’s the president on the other end of the line. Shut him up pretty quick!”