Coach Burton finished with the Lord’s Prayer, and the players jumped up from their knees and headed for their lockers.

As Riley wiggled out of his uniform and pads, he noticed a familiar smell beginning to permeate the room. The postgame locker room odor was something that all veteran ball players were used to, though for the novice it could be quite overwhelming. There was always an underlying rank stink-mostly sweat mixed with doses of whatever else might come out of a body during its various stress-related processes. After a loss, the stench sometimes seemed overpowering. But after a win, the locker room had the smelly pungency of victory. Today, the steam that clouded up eyeglasses and camera lenses didn’t seem quite so bothersome; the humid heat that flattened fabric of any kind against skin seemed a little less sticky. The piles of equipment and wads of tape strewn across the floor seemed a little less hazardous. Victory made everything and everyone more beautiful.

The media were finally allowed in, and there was a mad rush to the lockers. Riley answered the same questions seven times before he was able to break free and hit the showers.

After dressing, the players packed their bags, grabbed a sack lunch and a Gatorade or soda, and hopped on the bus. Finally, the players were able to sit back, relax, and enjoy the win on their way back to Denver.

Police escorted the four buses out of Golden West Stadium and all the way to the Oakland airport. The team went through the regular security process, then boarded the plane and grabbed their seats for the two-hour flight to Denver.

It was a raucous scene on the United charter 1918. The cabin microphone was put to use quite a few times by a number of players. In comparison to Riley’s microphone usage on the trip out, these players demonstrated much less complexity in their vocabularies and much more alcohol in their systems. Everyone was exhausted by the time the plane landed in Denver at 9:25 p.m.

After exiting the plane, the players boarded buses to take them to Inverness. When Riley saw his Denali in the player parking lot, all he could think of was home, bed, and sleeping in as late as he could manage in the morning.

Tuesday, December 23

Aurora, Colorado

“Merry Christmas to you,” Michael Goff sang as he opened the back door to his house. He had just returned home from another twelve-hour shift as a security guard at Sky Ridge Medical Center. The smell of homemade meatballs filled the kitchen-a smell so good it almost diverted him from his mission.

He caught his wife’s eyes as she turned from the stove and gave him a curious look.

Michael gave her a wink and continued his song. “Merry Christmas to you.” He moved into the living room, where his eight-year-old son, Kevin, was playing Madden football on the Xbox-as usual, Kevin’s team was the Mustangs. “Merry Christmas, dear Kevster,” Michael sang with much flair as he positioned himself between his son and the television.

“Dad, you’re in the way. Besides, Christmas isn’t for two more days,” Kevin scolded. But even as he halfheartedly complained, he was clearly intrigued by the look on his father’s face.

“Merry Christmas toooooo yooooooouuuuuuuu.” Michael dropped to his knees, pulled two tickets out of his parka, and waved them in front of his son’s face.

“Are those… are those Mustangs tickets?”

“No, Kev, they’re for Disney On Ice. I hear they’re doing the princess tour. What do you think, you knucklehead?”

Kevin dove for the tickets, snatching them out of his dad’s hand. The colorful background was a scene of Randy Meyer wearing an old orange jersey and throwing a perfect spiral. He ran his finger over the raised lettering. “‘Colorado Mustangs vs. Baltimore Predators. Monday, December 29. 6:30 p.m.’ Dad, these are the real thing!”

“Oh, are they? Sorry, I must have picked up the wrong ones.”

Kevin suddenly spun the tickets to the ground and began his best impersonation of Danie Colson. He cocked his arms to his side, thrust out his chest, and began moving in a circle in what could best be described as a chicken walk. “Hoodaman?” he called out.

“Yoodaman!” his father answered.

“Hoodaman?”

“Yoodaman!”

“Hoodaman?”

“Yoodaman!”

They fell into each other’s arms, laughing.

“Dad, you’re the most awesome dad ever! How’d you do it?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Michael began to explain as he dropped onto his beat-up La-Z-Boy and lifted Kevin onto his lap. “I called up Coach Burton, and I said, ‘Yo, Burt, my kid’s the biggest Mustangs fan on the face of the earth. We need tickets to the Monday night game. So fork ’em over, or do I have to come down there and give you a signature Goff smackdown?’ Half an hour later these came by special courier.”

“Yeah, right,” Kevin laughed and gave his dad another big hug. “Hey, let’s go tell Mom!”

They began a chant of “Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!” and formed a mini conga line. They danced their way into the kitchen, where Marti Goff, who had heard everything in the small house, feigned shock and surprise when Kevin waved the tickets at her. She joined the conga line behind her husband as it snaked through the kitchen and down the hall to the bedrooms.

“So, how’d you swing that?” Marti whispered over Michael’s shoulder.

“Larry Gervin had these two tickets he was looking to trade away. In exchange, I promised to cover his shifts on Christmas and New Year’s Eve.”

Marti slapped his arm. “You’re going to be gone Christmas?” Then, after a few seconds, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the side of his neck. “You’re a good dad, Michael Goff… Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!”

Tuesday, December 23

Denver, Colorado

Todd Penner stepped out of Trice Jewelers and into his 1986 Oldsmobile Cutlass. He had just paid the second-to-last installment on the layaway he had stashed in the vaults of the jewelry store. Walking the steps of Platte River Stadium with his tray of drinks at next Monday night’s Mustangs game should net him enough in tips to finally take the ring home. For now, home for this twenty-year-old was still Mom and Dad’s. But the ring-that precious circle of gold with its microscopic diamond chip ensconced firmly in its center-that ring was for her. The one. Sweet Jamie.

As he got into the car, he could still smell the remnants of the Chick-fil-A combo he had scarfed on his way here. Food’s great, but it takes a week to get the smell out, Todd thought. He took a swig of his large Dr Pepper (really the primary reason he went to Chick-fil-A to begin with) and successfully started up the car-not necessarily a given considering the 236k on the odometer of the vehicle that his friends affectionately referred to as “ La Bomba.” True, it may be a bomb, but it gets me where I need to go… usually.

Back to Jamie-sweet Jamie-the girl he had been “dating” since sixth grade. At that time, dating meant hanging out together at church youth group and sitting together for lunch at West Middle School. There had certainly been some rough times in their relationship as they had both grown up at their own pace. But love overcame all odds, and eight years later Todd was ready to make things permanent.

He had the proposal all planned out. On New Year’s Day (a perfect day for a new start), he would drive her up to Red Rocks Amphitheatre. That was their special spot. They had seen concerts there by everyone from Kelly Clarkson (her choice) to Evanescence (his choice). The best concert of all, though, was back in 2003 when they spent an evening listening to James Taylor. Sure, he was possibly older than the rock formations themselves, but he was a favorite with each set of their parents. Thus, both Todd and Jamie had grown up on JT’s music. The summer night had been perfect, with thunderstorms way out to the east providing a light show to accompany the legend’s exquisite voice. It was an evening they would tell their grandkids about.