Shitty Books

Athletes don’t say much of anything in interviews. Everyone knows this, and it isn’t a big deal - we understand that pro athletes belong to a subculture that prides itself on privacy, the sports media encourage athletes to be quoted in abstract platitudes, every locker room has the “What You See Here, What You Say Here” sign somewhere, etc. But every so often you get a glimpse of something special in the locker room - usually from ex-beat reporters, more infrequently from ex-athletes. It’s the athlete-interview equivalent of what Frank Kogan once called a “free lunch.” I’m talking about the knowledge that Athlete X has a really big hog.

If you’re a dude who’s often naked in the locker room at your gym, the following thoughts enter your mind, in roughly descending order of regularity:

“Holy shit, look at that dude’s weiner!”
“Oh, god, a little kid! I hope I don’t accidentally look at his weiner!”
“Holy shit, that dude’s weiner is even smaller than mine!”

Given what you already know about “Monday Night Jihad,” then, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that this type of common, everyday toilet talk is as strictly sidestepped as any other prurience. But there’s still something kind of jarringly unbelievable about the lack of anything approaching hijinks among the Colorado Mustangs - at some point the veterans make the rookies take them all out and buy them steaks, but that’s basically it. When Riley bumps into an oddly nervous Sal Ricci on the team plane, the Italian curses at him, causing Covington to literally ask if Sal “kisses [his] daughter with that mouth.”

And even readers who’ve grudgingly accepted the fact that they’re in this for the long haul (at this point, we’re about a quarter of the way through “Monday Night Jihad”), who are all too familiar with Riley Covington’s puritanical ways, might raise an eyebrow at this passage, which takes place mid-flight:

Slipping earbuds into his ears, Riley toggled his iPod to A Decade of Steely Dan, closed his eyes, and absorbed the smooth tones of “Deacon Blues.”

Now look. Really. Find me a starting PFL linebacker who pumps “Aja” on the team plane, and I’ve got a shiny half-dollar with your name on it. There’s nothing but love for the Dan in Shitty Books HQ, but how many jockish dudes in 2009 rep the Purdie Shuffle?

But I digress. For as the Mustangs wend their way west with nary a gag or jape in the cabin, TERROR STRIKES THE HEARTLAND. Our Arab buddies have shed their North Central United States deep cover and are ready to sever the hand of American capitalism. Not even the Fashion Bug is safe!

Luckily, the crack team at CTD, which apparently possesses the most advanced CCTV network in the world, has scanned hours of footage from bus stops and Canadian car-rental places, and they’ve dispatched Jim Hicks, Scott Ross, and the rest of the best of the best to the Mall of America to save the day. As zero hour draws near, Elam can barely contain his passive-voiced excitement:

A CTD sniper who had been following Aamir with his crosshairs and half depressing the trigger of his M24 SWS eased his finger back the rest of the way. The 7.62 mm round exited the barrel of the rifle traveling at 2,800 feet per second and a tiny fraction of a second later exploded the head of Aamir al-Hasani.

Soon enough, a Yoo-hoo-gorged Scott has stabbed the other guy, the detonators are secured, and panic is beginning to grip Camp Snoopy. (Note: it’s been long enough since I’ve actually been to the Mall of America that I still assumed Camp Snoopy was there.) Then a third, yet-unintroduced confederate blasts himself into oblivion in the parking lot, presumably destroying dozens of innocent DFLer votermobiles in the process. A CTD man-on-the-scene describes it to Jim Hicks:

“When lockdown was called, about fifteen cops came bursting out the doors, surprising the bejeebers out of some guy who was about to enter. The perp took off running, so two of the officers went after him. He gets out here, holds out his hand, and then vaporizes. Unfortunately, he took the two cops with him.”

But does the bejeeberin’ mainstream media report CTD’s heroic foiling? Heck no!

The government was remaining tight-lipped about the attack on the Mall of America, so the news channels had exhausted their facts on the failed terrorist attempt hours ago. Until new information broke, they were just filling time with stories like the girl with the big hat who worked in the third-floor Hot Dog on a Stick who had confessed to staring in shock as the liquid rolled back and forth in the slushie machines immediately after the explosion.

Back in Oakland, a somber mood has overcome the Mustangs. Many players begin to pepper Riley Covington with questions, hoping to gain “a military perspective on what had happened in the mall and what America’s response should be.” And on the bus, Sal Ricci, Riley’s lifelong chum and a man whose recent irritable, erratic behavior should not be misconstrued or considered suspicious in any way, takes an unusual interest in the events:

Sal Ricci made his way to Taylor’s row and said, “That’s Minneapolis, isn’t it? My wife has some old friends there. Can you check a different Web site?”

“That’s all I’m seeing on these sites. We’ll be at the Hyatt in a few minutes; you can check the news there. In the meantime, let me call some of my network sources.” Taylor immediately started dialing numbers, while Ricci stood in the aisle leaning over his shoulder.

This would be a completely different book if they all owned TwitterPeeks.