The Someday Jar (17 page)

As if on cue, the elevator bell chimes and the doors swoosh open. In come smells of damp concrete, steamy showers, sweaty sports gear, and musty locker room air.

I inhale as if it’s my last breath.

Wes laughs.

“Follow me.” Becca walks through an open set of double doors. “The boys will be in any minute. Feel free to take a quick peek around.”

Down two concrete steps and I stand inside the Arizona Cardinals locker room. Painted on the floor, covering nearly the length and width of the room, is a red-and-black Cardinal
head with the words
Protect the Nest
in bold underneath the beak. Discarded towels and cleats hanging by their laces adorn lockers that line each side of the room. A banner hanging on the far wall reads NFC C
HAMPIONS
.

“I can’t believe it. This is so amazing.” My hand trails along the glossy wood benches as I study the personalized spread-eagle jerseys displayed above each of the lockers.
#38 Ellington. #21 Peterson. #58 Washington.

My heart skips a beat when I see it—
#11 Fitzgerald.

I motion Wes over. “Look at this. It’s Fitzgerald’s locker.” A pressed rich-looking charcoal suit and burgundy-checked silk shirt hangs inside. “He’ll probably change into this after the game. I sound like a total creeper, don’t I?”

“Yes.” He laughs.

On the shelf above Larry’s clothes rests an eyeglass case, a silver watch with a gold clasp, and a framed picture presumably of him as a kid, standing knee-deep in snow with what I’m guessing is his brother, mother, and father. Next to that is a bobblehead of himself.

“I don’t have that one.” I wiggle Fitz’s head.

Becca’s steps echo as she nears. “Your favorite?”

“Isn’t he everybody’s?”

“Pretty much.”

Becca and Wes move to a whiteboard with
X
’s and
O
’s scribbled in formations. I admire Larry’s locker until concrete vibrates beneath my feet and deep voices bounce off the walls. The team stampedes through the double doors. Three-hundred-pound bodies with testosterone spewing from their pores fill the room.

Wes steps beside me and I quickly rattle off, “There’s Jaron Brown and Calais Campbell.” My eyes dart at each face. “There’s
Catanzaro the kicker. I don’t know who the blond guy is, but next to him is Andre Ellington.” I can’t believe Ellington’s a stone’s throw away from me, close enough to decipher the tattoos on his tree-trunk-sized arms.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Arians says, smacking chewing gum. “Quiet down, now. Becca’s brought guests.” He tucks a clipboard under his arm and says to her, “Just for a second, though. We’ve got a game to win.”

“Thanks, Coach.” She gestures toward us. “This is Lanie and Wes.”

Sweet Jesus, the Arizona Cardinals team looks at me. The whole friggin’ team. I smile and hope there is nothing stuck in my teeth.

They say, “Hey,” “Hi,” and “What’s up?”

“Enjoying your tour?” Coach Arians asks.

“Absolutely. It’s the best day ever.”

“Nice jersey,” says a familiar voice. “You watch much football?”

I look over and see the brilliant, white-toothed smile of Larry Fitzgerald.
Me. He’s talking to me.
I clear my throat and hope no one can tell my entire body shakes like a tree in a Category 4 hurricane. I mumble, “Um.”
Um? All I can say is
um
?

“Yes,” Wes answers for me. “Ever since she was a kid.”

“Really?” says the blond player. He leans his southern-fed build against the wall, clutching his helmet against his belly. I still don’t recognize him and his tone sounds irritated with my presence. “So, tell me, little girl . . .”

Little girl?

“Should we start the game with a two-block-four-over running play or a three-step wide-out pass up the middle?”

Snickers resonate through the room. I scan the players and the
several coaches standing by the whiteboard, all waiting for my response. Heat prickles up my neck, but I maintain my cool and return my gaze to Blondie.
Nice try.
“Is that a trick question?”

He laughs. “She don’t know football, Larry.” He elbows #11. “Just another sucker to buy your jersey. Ask her about shoes or something.”

Hearty chuckles reverberate in the room.

“No, wait,” I interrupt, my voice loud above the chatter. The guys quiet down and all eyes are again upon me. With confidence, I start to explain. “It’s a trick question because you Cardinals are one of the few teams in the NFC West that routinely defers the ball for the first half. You won’t have the ball for the initial play because the defense will take the field. And in that case, I suggest you shore up the defensive line with a three-technique-tackle and watch the zone coverage.”

One of the coaches crumples a piece of paper and throws it at Blondie. Claps ring through the room while Larry smiles ear to ear and several other players goad Blondie about being outfoxed by a girl.

Wes nudges his shoulder on mine.

“Hey, Coach.” Fitz waves his helmet in the air and signals Arians. “How about we let Lanie lead us out the tunnel, maybe do the coin toss with me?”

I stare at Arians, the man who will single-handedly determine if I can die a happy woman.

He hesitates, then says, “Yeah, sure.”

My mouth drops open. “Did he just say yes?”

“He did,” Wes assures me.

“All right, guys. It’s game time.” Arians commands the group’s attention. “This is our day. No one walks on our field and takes our day.”

“Hell, yeah!” a massive voice belts out from somewhere in the crowd.

“Our day,” another player shouts.

Some guys smack their hands against their helmets, some jounce their feet against the floor, and all stand like warriors, solid and ironclad. Grunts of battle echo throughout the room. These guys are pumped.

“C’mon.” Becca escorts Wes and me up the locker room stairs. The tunnel out to the field is on our left. “Sorry, Wes, but this is where we say good-bye. Security requires a pass for any field presence.”

“No problem. Thanks for the tour.” He faces me. “Have fun out there.”

“I will, thanks.”

A few minutes later, the team funnels behind me and the coaches as we walk toward the end of the tunnel. Light from the field shines inside. Stopped by several security guards at the tunnel’s exit, we wait until the announcer says over a loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome your Arizona Cardinals.”

Our cue.

Arians nods and we start running. Footsteps pound behind me. This is unreal. God, I wish Dad were here to see this. I’m leading the team onto the field. Thank you, Larson Gates. I will
never
forget this moment.

We exit onto the grass and into the open-roofed stadium among a sea of red seats, jerseys, and #1 fingers waving in the air. The smell of fresh-trimmed grass tickles my nose. The hollers and cheers compete with the Guns N’ Roses song—“Paradise City”—that blares through the speakers. The stadium vibrates with energy. The announcer introduces the team’s starting lineup.

Becca calls me over and I meet her at the sidelines.

“That was incredible!”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

After an ASU sophomore girl sings the national anthem—which chokes me up—Fitzgerald steps close and says, “Come with me.”

Explode. I’m about to explode.

We jog onto the grass until we reach two referees and a 49ers player standing midfield.

Larry points at the big screen hanging at the far end of the stadium. “You’re on TV.”

Oh, God. I hadn’t thought about this part.
My hands are squeezed tight, which makes them look red and blotchy. I release them, suck in my stomach, quickly fluff my hair, and smile even broader.

Larry laughs.

One of the referees draws my attention as he tosses a football from one hand to the other while a second referee pulls out a shiny quarter. He asks Larry, “Heads or tails?”

Larry looks at me for an answer.

“Heads.”

“Heads,” he confirms with the referee.

We watch as the referee flips the coin into the air.

The 49ers player, who is the width of a Mack truck, steps back as the quarter bounces near his feet.

Heads.

Yay!

“All right, young lady, you better make your way back.” The referee nods toward the sidelines. “Time for the teams to get to work.”

“Right,” I say, disappointed that my moment is over. I shake
Larry’s hand. “Thanks again. This was a moment I’ll never forget.”

“My pleasure,” he says.

I turn toward the sidelines, mindful that the TV screens are still on me, so I try to run impressively, like a gazelle or something.

Becca motions me toward her and when I’m nearly there, an image of my dad pops into my head. Is he watching the game? Does he see me? Would he be happy to know that this is a slip from my Someday Jar?

I stop.

I haven’t completed a slip. I haven’t touched a Cardinals game ball. Time is running out. I’m a few steps from Becca. A few steps from
Tour over, please go find your seat
.

She waves me over.

I quickly scan the sidelines for a random football, but amid the players, cameramen, and tables topped with Gatorade jugs, I don’t see any.
Seriously? Not one?

I remember.

The referee. He spun the game ball in his hands.

All I need is a quick touch.

“Lanie, off the field, please,” she says.

“Right, sure.” But I spin around and sprint toward Larry, who still talks with the ball-holding referee. Though I don’t stop and check, the jumbo screen must display me because the crowd roars. The music switches to a siren. Even above the noise, I hear a man’s voice yelling from behind, “Stop! Get off the field.”

Okay, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

But I can’t give up now. The ball is within reach. I can read
Spalding
imprinted on the side.

Just a few more feet.

With the force of a sledgehammer, someone shoves me from behind. All the air escapes my lungs as I’m flung forward. My arms flail wildly in the air, desperately searching for something to grab onto. Desperate for something to prevent my body from smacking the ground and my chin from skidding across the grass like a horse-drawn plow.

Larry reaches for me.

In midair, I stretch toward him and grasp his hand. But with the momentum of the shove, my fingers slip through his. In a final effort to save myself I aim for the towel dangling from his waistband, readying for a good grip. My hand skims through the towel and with an urgent clutch I grab onto Larry Fitzgerald’s . . .
balls
.

“Aagh,” he groans.

Oh, shit. Did I just grab his—?

The crowd goes nuts.

“What are you doing?” Fitz yells with his legs crossed and a slightly higher-pitched voice. He stares at me like I’m some sort of freak who sprinted onto the field and grabbed his balls.

Oh, right.

“You’re in big trouble, young lady,” says a panting security guard approaching from behind, presumably the one who pushed me. He grabs my arm and shakes me like a rag doll. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His other hand hovers above the trigger of his Taser.

“Hold up,” Larry says to the guard. “What
are
you doing, Lanie?”

“I wanted to touch a ball. It’s a dream of mine.”

“Huh?”

“No, not yours. His.” I point at the referee, who places a hand over his tenders.

“No, not your balls, either.”
God, this is embarrassing.
“That ball.” I motion toward the football.

“This ball?” He grabs it from the ref.

“Yeah.”

He hands it to me. “Take it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Stay off the field, okay?”

“Of course, yes. Thank you so much.” I clutch the ball to my chest. “Sorry about everything.”

Fitz winces as he adjusts his cup.

“Good luck today,” I say as the guard hauls me away. “Be careful you aren’t sandwiched between defenders up the middle.”

“You got it.”

The crowd claps and cheers as I’m escorted—with a rather tight grip—toward the sidelines. My face is still plastered on the big TV and, when I wave the ball in the air, the crowd hollers even louder. Okay, I’ll admit it. I enjoy the attention.
I did it.
Not exactly as I had in mind—probably not what Fitz had in mind, either—but I still did it. I touched a Cardinals ball. Or should I say, balls?

After an acerbic lecture from the head security guard, who regrettably spits when he says any word ending in
s
, and a cross-armed Becca, I’m released to my seat.

“Hi,” I say to my group, and slide beside Evan. Wes and Paige are next to us. “Did you guys see me?”

Evan doesn’t look at me. His eyebrows are furrowed together like a long worm resting on his forehead. He’s furious. And still in need of that wax.

Paige picks at her nails.

Wes, God bless him, laughs. “Yeah, half of America saw you. What was that about?”

“Yes, Lanie, just what the hell was that about?” Evan snaps.

I’m taken aback by his tone. “I wanted to . . .” I stammer. “Well, I wanted . . .”
Jesus, Lanie, buck up.
Throwing my hand in the air, I say, “It was one of my Someday Jar slips—touch a Cardinals ball. And, I did. Well, technically, I touched a couple.” I chuckle.

“What you did was run out on the field like a lunatic, making a complete fool of yourself and me. Are you
trying
to destroy the reputation of my firm?”

“There was no harm done. Who cares?”

“I care! I care about the perception of my firm in this town. What will our clients say, watching you grab an NFL player inappropriately?”

“You mean in the balls?”

“Have you forgotten I’m trying to land the biggest deal of my career?”

“You’re worried what Hollis will think?”

“One of us should be.”

“Don’t. Hollis will be too busy laughing. If he says anything, he’ll probably ask if I copped a good feel.”

Evan shakes his head. “Embarrassing.”

“Evan, I had fun.”

“There’s more to life than fun.”

Whatever.
I refuse to give in to his mood. I’m still walking on air, recounting how perfect my day has been. I met the players, stood in their locker room, smelled the sweat, felt the vibrations through the tunnel, made friends with Larry Fitzgerald, and on top of it all, got a game ball. Now, in my seat,
I’m only a few feet away from the field. How much better can it get?