“Guys, every team has an opportunity to do something great…”
No no, that sucked.
“Guys, we came a long way to get here through some tough shit…”
No.
“Guys, a lot of people said we couldn’t do this. A lot of people are fags…”
Then came the knock on his door. It was Schotty.
“It’s time, Rex,” came the muffled voice. “Let’s go.”
Rex was torn. One last White Castle 16-pack to go. He was behind schedule all day today. But the team needed him. He’d just have to stick with the hoagie.
The whole team was in the locker room, still buzzing about what the Post was saying about their chances against Peyton. Someone had the balls to whisper, “Peyton’s got our number, man,” before Rex made it to the middle of the room. Probably that ass Cromartie.
“Alright guys, settle the fuck down,” he yelled. “Alright, so here we are, guys. We’re in the playoffs. We’re right where we need to be, at this stadium here in Illinois. And this game is really important for a lot of reasons.
“Y’know what really matters about this game? The city needs it. The city of New York. All five, six burroughs. Because we had 9/11. And the city hasn’t won anything after 9/11. Everyone is waiting for us to finally bring one home, for the city. Now–”
“Coach,” came a voice in the back. “Coach, umm, the Yankees won like last year.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said (Brad) Smith. “They beat the Phillies.”
“Okay well aside from that–” started Rex.
“Don’t forget the Giants too,” came the voice again.
“Shut the fuck up!” said Rex. “Does it matter? We’re the only team left standing in New York, like the Empire State Building. And the Chrysler Building. We’re the new skyscrapers of New York, and we’re gonna play like it, okay?”
The team nodded, giving him enough time to take another four inches off the hoagie.
“Nowf we’re here, andf we’re going upf againft duh tuffest QB in the league.” He swallowed. “That means we have to play harder than we ever have before. And I know we can do it, because our mission, our destiny, this year, is to go to the Superbowl. And then win it. That’s like fours games we need to win before we get there. We win four first–”
“Coach, coach,” came the voice again. “We need to win three first, and then we’re in the Superbowl.”
“God dammit nobody cares!” yelled Rex. “Now, we need to win like three games, and then we just win one more. But tonight we have to win this one. So I want to lead the league in fucking wins, with four.”
He held out the correct number of fingers when he said “four,” and everyone clapped.
“And you know what guys? Hey, I think we can win it all. We can win all these games. Like I said, we want to get right out there, and I think we’re the best Jets team ever assembled. Aside from the one Parcells coached and shit. We can beat the fuck out of that one,” said Rex.
“Even better than the Superbowl-winning one?” came the voice.
“What?” said Rex.
“Yeah coach, the one with Namath,” said Conner.
“Namath? What? That’s impossible. Have you fucking seen what him?”
“No, it’s true coach,” came the voice. Rex just shook his head.
“Okay guys, so let’s beat this piece of shit Peyton Manning here in Illinois, okay?” Everyone started clapping, but before Rex could speak again, the voice shot up.
“Coach, we in Illinois. It’s next to Indiana, but we in Indianapolis. Y’know?”
“No, I do know,” said Rex. “You know what? Whoever the fuck you are, you can just get out! You’re not even benched, you’re benched… in the stands! Or seated, I guess! Just get the fuck out of this locker room!”
Darrelle Revis got up and crept out, muttering “Thank God,” along the way.
“That’s what I don’t want to see,” yelled Rex. “Fucking backtalking, fucking backstabbing… the only thing you can do to my back is rub it. By the neck. But we don’t fucking backtalk our coaches here. We’re… this is team unity, okay? We can’t win without a unit. Being a unit. We are a unit and we’re gonna win this fucking game!”
Everyone cheered, and this time they sounded like they meant it.
“So let’s go out there, let’s get the ball to Rick… so he can get the ball to some of you, okay! Let’s fucking win one for the team and the city! By the end of the night, I want Peyton Manning dead! I want his torso torn apart, disembodied so I can plop it on my desk every night and rape it myself, every night! You understand? Let’s fucking rape!”
* * *
Even with the biggest game of the season (thus yet) coming up at the end of the tunnel, Rex still had his mind elsewhere. He made all the big preparations for the team earlier this week: the hotel had the best available room service, he beat enough kids on Madden to get a real good feel of a gameplan, he ordered the best flavor of Gatorade for the bath (Riptide Rush), and he submitted “rexcellent” and “rexpectation” to Webster’s. He should have felt good.
But Peyton’s face was on the Jumbotron as soon as they made it out of the tunnel. There he was, that cylinder-headed bastard, staring him down from on high. Highlights of a Superbowl. A Superbowl the Jets never won. Or maybe they did. Namath kept saying he did but fuck him. This was Rex’s team now.
“You ready, Rick?” he said to Sanchez as he took some warmup tosses. Sanchez didn’t respond. “Rick!” he yelled, slapping him on the back.
“Coach?” said Sanchez, turning to him.
“You ready to win?” said Rex.
“Sure, coach, but…”
“But nothing. Trust me on this, this new scheme we got, fucking amazing.”
“Coach, I hate to say it but I’m not comfortable with–”
“Relax, we got this, okay? Did this a bunch of times. You’re gonna get six, seven TDs, easily. Okay? Hey, by the fourth quarter, we’ll have Peyton screaming, callin’ us cheatin’ niggers.”
He walked away. The coin flip was coming up in a few minutes.
* * *
The team won. Tails once again came through for Rex. “What’d I say?” he said as he punched Westhoff in the ribs. “I love tail. All kinds of it.”
After Smith returned the ball to the 35-yard-line, Schottenheimer’s voice came into Rex’s headset. “Rex, what the fuck?”
“Yeah, looks good doesn’t it?” said Rex as he eyed some popcorn chicken in the stands across the field.
“What are all these fucking plays?” said Schottenheimer.
“That’s how we’re gonna win. C’mon, Ricky!” Sanchez was taking the field, slowly.
“Rex, there’s not a single fucking run play in this thing. I thought you were joking.”
“No joke, Schotty. We’re in it to win it. I told you I figured some shit out.”
“This is ridiculous! There are like 30 slants in this! And everything else is like, fucking long crossing–”
“Hey, hey, Rick’s a big boy. He knows what to do. Now let’s call a fuckin’ play here.”
Schottenheimer managed to find an acceptable one before the play clock ran out. Two incomplete passes and a Sanchez sack later, they were facing 4th and 17.
“Let’s go for it,” said Rex.
“What?” said Westhoff.
“We’re not gonna show any fear. We’re gonna win,” said Rex. “Let’s go for it now.”
Westhoff had to wave Sanchez back onto the field. Meanwhile, Rex was looking for Peyton on the other side of the field. “Yeah, don’t get up just yet, Peyton!” he screamed. “We’re not afraid of your candy faggot ass!”
But it was to no avail. Sanchez’s deep pass landed out of bounds, and now Peyton was breathing down the defense’s neck.
“Don’t worry Rick,” said Rex as the offense trudged onto the sideline. “We got ‘em tired. By the third quarter, they’ll be callin’ us all sorts of fuckin’ names.”
By halftime, though, things had gone all wrong. 27-0. Sanchez was facing three interceptions. Meanwhile nobody knew where Revis went. The 16-pack mysteriously disappeared from his office too.
“This is a fucking disaster,” said Rex as he flipped over the photo of the Jets’ No. 1 fan, a young, fat boy from Tennessee who reminded Rex of himself. The 16-pack wasn’t there, either.
“No shit, Rex!” yelled Schottenheimer as he slammed the door behind him. “The entire fucking team thinks you’re a retard!”
“No they don’t!” shouted Rex as he grabbed his emergency Twix pack in his desk. The room was silent as he tore into one of the bars. “These plays just need a tweak, okay? We can fuck these guys up! Just get my Xbox.”
“No, Rex. No,” said Schottenheimer. “That shit doesn’t work in real life. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Look, they’re overconfident, we can just–”
“NO, REX,” yelled Schottenheimer. “What happened to ground ‘n pound? What happened to our swarming, choking defense?”
“Ground ‘n pound? That shit’s never gotten us anywhere!” said Rex.
“Rex, just listen to me: let me bring back the old playbook, okay? If our defense holds, we can maybe win this.”
“Not maybe! We will! We will win this shit! Lead the league in fucking winning shit!!”
* * *
The rest of halftime was spent looking for those burgers. The team uneasily ambled out onto the field, with the crowd cheering wildly for the Colts, already warming up.
Rex found Tomlinson milling about the gatorade, the one marked “FOR CELEBRATION ONLY.” He patted Tomlinson on the shoulder.
“Look, Laddy,” said Rex.
“Coach, I said please don’t call me that,” said Tomlinson, trying not to make eye contact.
“Tommy, we can win this, okay? But I need you out there,” said Rex.
“You do? Coach, I didn’t even touch the dang ball once so far.”
“Look, even though you’re blind, you have to be good to be playing in this league,” said Rex as he slapped Tomlinson on the helmet. “So go out there and do what you do: win football games.”
“I don’t un–”
But Tomlinson was out on the field, shoved out there by Rex. “You can do it!” he yelled as Tomlinson stumbled around. He had to return to the sideline, though, as it was the Colts’ ball to start.
A miraculous fumble by Jacob Tamme was returned for a touchdown. Rex was ecstatic. His box of Gummie Worms was red-worm free. “We can win this shit now, guys!” he yelled as the Colts prepared to take the kickoff again. The defense was holding, just like Rex had planned, and Schottenheimer was doing something with Sanchez to make him pass above a high-school level again.
2:56 left to go in the 4th. It was 27-23, and Peyton’s pass on 3rd and 9 was incomplete. The Colts had to punt. The crowd was quiet now, unable to accept the meltdown that was happening before them.
But Rex was pacing. His stomach ground up and growled out. The tension was getting to him. The team needed him to be focused. They needed the best plays they could scrounge up.
“Okay, we gotta run this 2-minute offense, Rick,” he said to Sanchez as he pulled his helmet on.
“Coach?” asked Sanchez. “It’s not 2:00 yet.”
“It will be soon enough. The earlier we do it, the better,” said Rex. “Trust me on this. I’m taking over, Schotty.”
“What? Why?” came Schottenheimer’s voice.
“We need to do something bold. Trust me, I got this figured out,” said Rex. “These fucks won’t know what hit ‘em. Let’s go Rick!”
“Why do you keep calling me Ri–” But again Sanchez was forced out onto the field.
Rex adjusted the mic to his face, now that the ribs were done. He licked the sauce off his lips, savoring the taste for a second, before beginning.
“Okay, Rick. Handoff to T1000.”
“What?” said Sanchez into his radio.
“Hand it off to Conner. End-around.”
“Coach, we have to go 86 yards and we’re doing the 2-minute drill, remember?”
“They won’t expect it.”
Sanchez stared at Rex as the play clock passed 20 on its descent.
“What’re you waiting for? Let’s fuckin’ do it!”
And so Conner did… for -2 yards. Undeterred, Rex ordered up a quick slant to Holmes for 3 yards. But on third down, Sanchez turned what was supposed to be a draw play into a miraculous pass over the middle to Edwards for 38 yards. With two timeouts and 1:32 left to go, Rex was pissed.
“What the fuck was that, Rick?” he yelled.
“What, coach?” said Sanchez as he jogged to the sideline. The whistle sounded for the 2-minute warning.
“I said to do a draw!” he yelled.
“Coach they were blitzing,” said Sanchez.
“So what, you’re scared now?” he yelled. “You want me to get Mark in here?”
“Coach…”
“HIT THE BENCH, RICK.”
Sanchez staggered to the bench where Brunell was busy making sure no one was molesting his daughter in the stands. He didn’t hear the first five times Rex called his name, but the sixth time, he was up and ready.
“What happened, coach?” he asked as he jogged over to Rex.
“You’re in. Ricky Rick is too bitchy bitch to play anymore. I want you to go in there and fuckin’ do this.”
“Okay coach,” said Brunell as he ran out.
Brunell did exactly what he was sent out to do. Three plays and 1:14 later, the Jets were on the Colts’ 40-yard line. A daunting fourth down marker seemed miles down the field.
“What now coach?” asked Brunell.
Rex pondered. Maybe Rick was on the right track after all. The draw play… they blitzed, expecting a run… Sanchez did the unexpected… the unexpected…
“Fake.”
“What?” asked Brunell.
“Fake the kick.”
“Coach, we’re down by three. We need a touchdown to win. There’s no time for a field goal!”
“That’s the point. They won’t expect it. This has worked before, trust me. Let’s do it!”
The kicking unit had to be told three times to take the field. In haste, they assembled just before the play clock hit 5 seconds. Folk glanced at Weatherford, who was on the verge of hyperventilating.
The ball was snapped. Every single Colt lunged forward at Weatherford as he grabbed the ball and shakily rose to his feet. He could only see blue flashes climbing over white blurs, all coming at him. He instinctively raised his arm and pushed it forward just as Robert Mathis hit him.
The ball sailed forward, finally landing on the turf 3 yards away.
“Holy fuck,” said Rex. How could that have happened? How? He almost sank to his knees. Even the trace amount of barbecue sauce he found on his chin was no consolation.
Rex could hear nothing as the clock ticked down to :00. The Colts held on. Rex felt himself drifting to the center of the field with the mass of Jets coaches and players. Everyone was somber, save for the deafening crowd and Peyton, always smiling, shaking hands with Cromartie and Taylor. At some point he shook some people’s hands, but his eyes couldn’t leave Peyton. He stayed away. He wouldn’t give Peyton the satisfaction. Not today. Not ever. Not on his watch.
As he drifted back to the tunnel, he heard someone yelling out “Coach!” But the his guys had already left. He looked up, his eyes nearly overwhelmed by the stadium lights.
It was him. His mouth full of burger patty and pickles. A whole burger, in his mouth. Revis was in the front row. An empty White Castle box was on his lap.
Revis laughed. Rex did not. There was no joy in Rexville.
* * *
The office was quiet. Everyone had left. Even Schottenheimer. There was just a whiteboard with the words “FUCK” scribbled on it. It used to read “FUCKIN’ WIN.” Was the board psychic?
His stomach growled. Losing made him lose his appetite, but not for long. But this one hurt. This one hurt, deep down inside where the rexperience was smoldering after crashing. His stomach hurt more than when he cut himself open to pull the lap band out.
This day couldn’t get any worse. He had to take his mind off of it before he lost it. He glanced at his laptop. Maybe some porn would be on it. But no. It was his Hotmail account. He looked at some new mail. His heart dropped another five stories.
The subject line read: “Dear Mr. Ryan: Webster’s regrets to inform you…”
