Read Online Monday Night Jihad by Steve Jason & Yohn Elam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Jason & Yohn Elam
Ads: Link
steak back onto Marshall’s plate, and said, “We’ll be waiting.”
When the center had gone, Marshall looked at the others with desperation in his eyes. “Riley, Sal, can’t you guys do something?” he begged.
Riley laughed. “Well, since the air force took away all my access to heavy artillery, I’m kind of at a loss.”
“Just go and get it over with,” Ricci said. “It’s all part of the game. You should have seen what I had to put up with. At least you came from an American university. I arrived from the Hamburg Donnerkatzen.”
“Yes, the mighty Thundercats, widely recognized as the worst club nickname in all of global sports,” Riley laughed. “You should have seen it—he’s getting all these Lion-O and Panthro and Cheetara references thrown at him, and he’s got no clue what anyone’s talking about.”
“Apparently, we Italians were not quite cultured enough to have the ThunderCats cartoon broadcast on canale cinque.”
But Riley was laughing so hard by now that he didn’t even hear Sal. “And then the singing! I think at different times throughout the evening Sal had to sing the Italian national anthem, the German national anthem, the A. C. Milan fight song, and the Hamburg Donnerkatzen theme song.”
“I didn’t realize the Donnerkatzen had a theme song,” Marshall said.
“They don’t,” Ricci responded. “I just made up a song in what the guys thought was German. It was actually mostly Italian with some ja, jas and an Ach, du lieber or two mixed in. It’s not like they would have known the difference.”
“Yeah, and it’s a good thing they didn’t have an Italian-to-English dictionary handy. From what I remember, most of the song had to do with the lineage of your fellow receivers and their various romantic attachments to barnyard animals.” Tears were streaming down Riley’s face as he fell sideways into the booth. When he finally caught his breath, he turned back to Marshall and said, “Just go and do it, Marsh. The night will be over soon enough. Besides, these guys are so smashed, they won’t remember a thing in the morning.”
The servers scurried around as fast as they could, knowing there would be an enormous tip awaiting them at the end of the night. Riley caught one girl’s attention and waved her over.
“Hey . . . uh . . . Anna,” he said, reading her name badge, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Could you get two New York strip steaks—how did Travis have his steak cooked, Sal? Medium well?—yeah, cooked medium well. Include sides of the chateau potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and angel hair pasta. Then I want you to box it all up, stick it in a bag, and bring it back here.” Riley slipped her two hundred-dollar bills. “You keep the difference. And keep this strictly between us, all right?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Covington.”
Riley saw Ricci grinning at him and shaking his head.
“What? This is probably cheaper than him coming over and raiding my pantry.”
“I don’t understand you sometimes. What are you hoping to get out of all this nicey-nice stuff you’re always doing?”
Riley leaned back in the booth. “I don’t do it to get anything out of it. I do it because it’s the right thing to do.” Seeing that Ricci was still smirking and shaking his head at him, Riley went on. “I don’t know how to explain it, Reech. . . . A couple of years back, there was a big fad here in the U.S.—I don’t know if you saw anything about it in Germany. Everyone had stuff with the letters WWJD on them—bumper stickers, shirts, key chains—anything anyone could make a buck off of, they stuck the letters on it.”
“Yeah, I saw some of that stuff. ‘What would Jesus do,’ right? In Germany, the letters were WWJT—‘Was würde Jesus tun.’”
“Exactly. For many people it was just a cool saying, something to make them feel spiritual. For me, it’s really how I try to live my life.”
Ricci scooped out another helping of the
When the center had gone, Marshall looked at the others with desperation in his eyes. “Riley, Sal, can’t you guys do something?” he begged.
Riley laughed. “Well, since the air force took away all my access to heavy artillery, I’m kind of at a loss.”
“Just go and get it over with,” Ricci said. “It’s all part of the game. You should have seen what I had to put up with. At least you came from an American university. I arrived from the Hamburg Donnerkatzen.”
“Yes, the mighty Thundercats, widely recognized as the worst club nickname in all of global sports,” Riley laughed. “You should have seen it—he’s getting all these Lion-O and Panthro and Cheetara references thrown at him, and he’s got no clue what anyone’s talking about.”
“Apparently, we Italians were not quite cultured enough to have the ThunderCats cartoon broadcast on canale cinque.”
But Riley was laughing so hard by now that he didn’t even hear Sal. “And then the singing! I think at different times throughout the evening Sal had to sing the Italian national anthem, the German national anthem, the A. C. Milan fight song, and the Hamburg Donnerkatzen theme song.”
“I didn’t realize the Donnerkatzen had a theme song,” Marshall said.
“They don’t,” Ricci responded. “I just made up a song in what the guys thought was German. It was actually mostly Italian with some ja, jas and an Ach, du lieber or two mixed in. It’s not like they would have known the difference.”
“Yeah, and it’s a good thing they didn’t have an Italian-to-English dictionary handy. From what I remember, most of the song had to do with the lineage of your fellow receivers and their various romantic attachments to barnyard animals.” Tears were streaming down Riley’s face as he fell sideways into the booth. When he finally caught his breath, he turned back to Marshall and said, “Just go and do it, Marsh. The night will be over soon enough. Besides, these guys are so smashed, they won’t remember a thing in the morning.”
The servers scurried around as fast as they could, knowing there would be an enormous tip awaiting them at the end of the night. Riley caught one girl’s attention and waved her over.
“Hey . . . uh . . . Anna,” he said, reading her name badge, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Could you get two New York strip steaks—how did Travis have his steak cooked, Sal? Medium well?—yeah, cooked medium well. Include sides of the chateau potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and angel hair pasta. Then I want you to box it all up, stick it in a bag, and bring it back here.” Riley slipped her two hundred-dollar bills. “You keep the difference. And keep this strictly between us, all right?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Covington.”
Riley saw Ricci grinning at him and shaking his head.
“What? This is probably cheaper than him coming over and raiding my pantry.”
“I don’t understand you sometimes. What are you hoping to get out of all this nicey-nice stuff you’re always doing?”
Riley leaned back in the booth. “I don’t do it to get anything out of it. I do it because it’s the right thing to do.” Seeing that Ricci was still smirking and shaking his head at him, Riley went on. “I don’t know how to explain it, Reech. . . . A couple of years back, there was a big fad here in the U.S.—I don’t know if you saw anything about it in Germany. Everyone had stuff with the letters WWJD on them—bumper stickers, shirts, key chains—anything anyone could make a buck off of, they stuck the letters on it.”
“Yeah, I saw some of that stuff. ‘What would Jesus do,’ right? In Germany, the letters were WWJT—‘Was würde Jesus tun.’”
“Exactly. For many people it was just a cool saying, something to make them feel spiritual. For me, it’s really how I try to live my life.”
Ricci scooped out another helping of the
Similar Books
