Friday, December 19

Inverness Training Center

Englewood, Colorado

Robert Taylor had just enough time to swivel his chair toward his computer screen before the phone pulled him back again. It had been this way ever since he had arrived at the Colorado Mustangs’ training facility in Inverness at 6 a.m. Judging by his full voice mail in-box, the phone had been ringing through the entire night.

Taylor was in his eighth year with the Mustangs, and he still hadn’t completely adjusted to the frenzy. This wasn’t quite how his profs had portrayed it when he was taking his public-relations courses at the University of Colorado. Set a goal, make a plan, PERT-chart it out. Yeah, right! This was complete insanity. The national media attention generated by the Mustangs’ recent success was overwhelming, and Taylor knew it was only going to get worse during the next couple of weeks.

He grabbed the receiver. “Colorado Mustangs Public Relations, this is Robert,” he said, already thinking through possible ways to get whoever it was on the other end off the phone.

“Hey, Bob, this is Steve Growe, PFL Network. Are you busy?”

“Not at all, Steve, I’m just kicking back with my feet up on the desk, eating a bagel, and sipping my coffee. What do you think? I have over 250 player interview requests, and the team is about to head to meetings and film breakdown, which means I have less than ten minutes to get down to the locker room and drop the requests in their lockers.”

“Don’t most of them just throw those requests right into the trash?”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me. It does wonders for my job satisfaction. Anyway, what do you need?”

“Listen; I’m sorry to throw this at you, but my boss is telling me we have to get White, Ricci, and Washington right after they come off the field today. We’d also love to get Riley Covington live if you can pull it off for me.”

“Sure thing. How about I get you the pope while I’m at it? Or maybe you want a shot at the O-line?” Taylor knew it would probably be a whole lot easier to set up an interview with the head of the Catholic Church than with the Mustangs’ offensive line, who were notoriously closemouthed during the season. “You guys don’t ask much, do you?”

“Sorry, Bob.”

“You know I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do. Covington usually does what he can, but there are over twenty requests for him alone.”

“That’s why we want him; he’s the real deal. ESPN is announcing the All Star roster later today and he’s a lock for it this year. Help me out, and I’ll owe you one.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that one before. I’ll call you later.”

Taylor hung up and darted out the door, leaving the phone ringing behind him. White I can get, he thought, and Ricci’s a lock. Not a chance with Washington; he’s in “game mode.” And Covington? Covington would give you the shirt off his back. The problem is he’s only got so many shirts.

Riley bounced up and down on the practice field, trying to get his circulation going. It was another beautiful December Colorado day-the sun was shining, the temperature was in the low fifties, and all around the snow was just beginning to melt off-all around, that is, except for where Riley was standing. The heating coils under the turf of the east practice field ensured that the snow never had a chance to build up.

Riley closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun, feeling its warmth on his skin. He used these brief moments of peace to center himself before everything broke loose again.

The training facility was a madhouse today. The press was everywhere. The players were tense. The coaches were unforgiving. The focus and the mental preparation needed to make it through the next two weeks before the play-offs were taking their toll on everyone.

There was a certain grind that took place in the PFL toward the end of the seaon. It was sort of a Groundhog Day feeling where every day was the same. When certain situations came along and shattered that equilibrium, everyone got out of sorts.

The Colorado Mustangs were experiencing one of those situations. With all the pressure to make it into the postseason, it was as if the play-offs had come two weeks early. The Mustangs on the field all knew the importance of each play, and each was haunted by the “what have you done for me lately” mentality of the fans and the organization that signed their checks.

“Riley, Riley!” a voice called to him, interrupting his calm.

Turning toward his name, he realized too late that it was coming from the long row of reporters, photographers, and videographers who lined the pavement alongside the field.

Seeing him look over, the reporters erupted into calls of “Covington, over here!” and-from the ones who pretended to be buddies of the players-“Pach, my man, this way!”

Riley gave them a smile and a nod, then turned his face back up to the sun. Burton will run them off soon enough. Roy Burton, the head coach of the Mustangs, was known for keeping his practices closed to the media.

The final few guys ran out onto the practice field, making sure they weren’t late.

“Coach, just two more getting their ankles taped,” one of the trainers yelled across the field.

“It’s up to them,” Coach Burton called back, not looking up from his clipboard.

At the pro level, there was never any screaming or yelling if someone was late to practice. Instead, the next morning, latecomers found freshly printed $1,500 fine notifications on Colorado Mustang letterhead sitting in their lockers. The fines had a way of getting a guy’s attention quickly, and repeat offenders were rare.

“If you’re not early, you’re late,” defensive end Micah Pittman muttered to Riley, causing laughter from a few other players around them.

The horn signaling the beginning of practice echoed around the facility just before rookie wide receiver Jamal White darted from the building.

“Got him!” about half the team called out. White didn’t think it was funny as he finished tucking in his jersey. He glared at the veteran players whose tapings had caused him to be late.

The taping system in the PFL would certainly not pass ACLU muster. The taping order was purely based on seniority. Rookies had to make sure they got to practice and to games early, because it didn’t matter how long they had been waiting; when a veteran player came in, he moved right to the front of the line. A guy could be next in line for forty-five minutes and not make any progress. Many rookies, including Jamal White today, learned this $1,500 lesson the hard way.

“All right, guys, let’s get better today. We know what we have to get done, so let’s get it done,” Coach Burton bellowed.

The players slid into their routine quickly, beginning the warm-up phase of practice with a “pat-’n’-go” session. All running backs, wide receivers, and tight ends slowly jogged downfield, and each caught a lazy pass from one of the quarterbacks. No hits, no real exertion-this was just to limber up the body.

Looking over from the defensive drills at the south end of the practice field, Riley watched tight end Sal Ricci catch an easy toss from starting quarterback Randy Meyer. Ricci had really been feeling the pressure these past few weeks. Riley knew that in addition to wanting to do his best for his team, Ricci felt the eyes of all Italy on his back.

Joining the Mustangs had been the final step in a meteoric rise for Salvatore Ricci. Coming up through the Italian Football League-which Ricci had to constantly remind people was not called the “Italian Soccer League”-Ricci had been a big reason why A. C. Milan had taken the 2003-04 Serie A division championship. When Ricci was approached by the Hamburg Donnerkatzen of the International American Football League, he had been apprehensive. He knew how to use his body and his feet; hands were not something he was accustomed to using. But he was a natural athlete, and soon, scouts from PFL teams began showing up at his games. He knew then that it was only a matter of time before he “jumped the pond.” Two years ago the Colorado Mustangs had drafted him away from the IAFL.