Monday, December 29

Centennial, Colorado

Riley drove away from the Inverness hotel at 7:30 a.m. His day was open until 2:00 that afternoon, when he needed to be back at the hotel for chapel and the pregame meal, then to drive himself to the stadium, arriving no later than 3:30.

One of the things that made Monday night games at home so great was the same thing that made Monday night games away so terrible. For both home and away games, all the players spent the night at the hotel. However, when they were at home, they could leave the hotel anytime after 6:30 a.m. and spend the morning doing whatever they wanted to do. At away games, the players were stuck in the hotel all day.

Riley had a loose schedule for the day. He was on his way right now to meet his friend Mike Robertson at the Kiowa Creek Sporting Club to shoot some clays. He was fairly certain this wasn’t on Coach Burton’s list of approved activities, but it sure helped relieve some of the pressure on a late game day.

Riley liked to get out shooting at least once a week. Because Robertson worked at the club, Riley was able to shoot all the typical guns he owned plus a few of the “atypical” ones that had happened to find their way into his collection-usually gifts from his old AFSOC buddies. For shooting trap today, Riley had snagged his 12-gauge Perazzi MX2000 with its over-under barrel and beautifully made custom stock. But he also brought along his compact Glock 19 9 mm-midnight black with ten in the clip. And, just for fun, he packed his Crimson Trace laser that attached to the top of the Glock for some pinpoint target practice.

Later, he had designs on the best pastrami sandwich in town at the New York Deli News with Pastor Tim, and sometime in between he had to take Alessandra Ricci’s Christmas present back. Sal and Meg had been very gracious when their nine-month-old girl pulled open the box and yanked out the size 3 Little Mermaid dress that Riley had picked up at The Disney Store. “The others just looked so small,” he had explained. Meg offered to exchange it, but Riley insisted on doing it himself-more out of embarrassment than anything else.

Ricci had been like a different person at the team dinner last night. All the surliness was gone, and he was back to his old self. He had even arranged for a dish of lemon Jell-O with a little whipped cream happy face on it to be delivered to LeMonjello Fredericks. The big lineman’s threats almost got the name of the culprit out of the poor waiter who delivered it, but the second fifty-dollar bill that Ricci had promised him if he survived LeMonjello’s assault was enough incentive to cause temporary amnesia.

Although Riley tried not to think too much about the game, it was never far from his mind. The Predators’ passing game was good, but their running game was great. Their lead halfback, James Anderson, had the size of Jerome Bettis and the speed and cutting ability of Barry Sanders. Riley knew that whatever the ultimate outcome of the game, he was going to be exhausted and in pain. At least when all was said and done tonight, he could hop into his truck and drive home. There was nothing worse than a long flight back to Denver when you were too sore to even sit.

Monday, December 29

United States

The faint metallic smell from the warming brass reached his nose. Hakeem sat at his desk, nervously rubbing the disk between his fingers. All the plans had been made. His men knew their roles, and he expected that they had been ritually purified by now. His own part was ready to go-checked and rechecked and re-rechecked over the past few days.

He held up the disk and read the word that was engraved on it in seven languages-honor. That’s what today is about-restoring my family’s honor. Who did this to you, America? The family of Qasim! Never forget that name. And even if you try to erase it from your memory, I’ll make sure you are reminded.

Hakeem reached into his bag and brought out a hammer and a narrow awl. Getting down on the floor, he placed the tip of the awl at the exact point where the three daggers met. With one strong, well-placed hit of the hammer, the awl punctured the brass disk right through the middle. Hakeem then reached back into his bag and brought out a new fourteen-karat gold chain and threaded it through the hole. Placing the chain over his head, he stood and looked in the mirror. There, the symbol of your honor is back over your heart where it belongs-where Uncle Ali originally intended it to be.

After admiring the necklace for a minute, he tucked it under his shirt, feeling its weight against the pillow of hair on his chest. Everything was ready. All that was left to do now was wait.

Monday, December 29

Aurora, Colorado

“Are you ready for some football?” Marti and Kevin Goff called from the back bedroom.

“Yes, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for the last half hour!” Michael called back. It had actually only been twenty minutes since he had gotten home from work, but for those twenty minutes he had been forced to stay in the living room. This meant that he could neither change out of his work uniform nor take care of an even more pressing need, since both bathrooms were down the hall in the “forbidden” area.

“We said, ‘Are you ready for some football?’” Marti and Kevin called out together.

“Yes, I’m ready for some football! Please give me some football! Seriously, I’m so ready for some football-and I better get it soon or else I’m going to be ready for some paper towels.”

Marti came walking out from the back rooms. Michael shot her a pleading look.

“I know, I know,” she said with a mischievous look on her face. “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great honor to introduce to you… Kevin Michael Goff, world’s greatest Mustangs fan.”

Michael and Marti started clapping and cheering. Kevin came running down the hall and leaped into the living room. Michael stopped clapping, stared with his mouth hanging open, then fell on the floor in hysterics. Kevin was shirtless, and exactly half of his body from forehead down to waistline was painted orange and half was painted blue-although what had looked blue in the store was tending toward purple on the body. Then, smack-dab in the middle-painted in brilliant white-was the letter M. Kevin was dancing and flexing his little eight-year-old muscles, all the while chanting, “Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!”

Michael laughed so hard that the earlier serious problem quickly became an emergency. He stumbled past Kevin and Marti-laughing all the way down the hall and into the bathroom.

When he came back out, Kevin gave a yell and struck an Incredible Hulk pose. Michael lost it all over again.

“He desperately wants to hug you, but I told him he couldn’t because he’s still wet,” Marti told her husband.

“Oh, Kev, you’re killing me,” Michael said, slowly regaining control. “You look half Oompa-Loompa and half Violet Beauregarde. And why is there only an M? Shouldn’t you have done CM for Colorado Mustangs?”

“Didn’t need to.”

“And just why didn’t you need to?” Michael asked, fearful of what the answer was going to be.

“’Cause someone else is going to be the C.”

“Are you talking about Mom? Because I didn’t get her a ticket, and it wouldn’t be proper for her to go shirtless at the stadium anyway.”

“I’m not talking about Mom. I’m talking about the person who’s taking me to the game.”

“You couldn’t be talking about the person who’s taking you to the game, because I’m the person taking you to the game, and there is no way this side of a presidential proclamation that I am going to go out in forty-degree weather and take off my shirt.”

“C’mon, Dad. Please. Maybe we’ll even get on TV.”