the clutch?” This remark caused at least three players to spit out their drinks, which led to a series of colorful comments from the recipients of the spray.
Captain Flores and First Officer Davis were having a hard time completing their work through the tears in their eyes. “Tell you what,” Riley said to them. “I’m going to take my position test out in the cabin while you guys finish up your work.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Flores agreed, wiping his eyes.
“I certainly don’t want to overstep my bounds, but there are a few guys I’d love to mess with back there once we get in the air.”
“As long as we aren’t breaking any FAA regs, I’d love to hear what you have planned next.”
Riley made his way back to the coaches and found Rex Texeira. “Hey, Tex-Rex, mind if I knock out that position test?”
Texeira handed over the test without even looking up. Both men knew the test was merely a formality. What made Riley such a great player was that he was not only physically blessed with strength and speed but was also one of the smartest players in the league. He had tremendous instincts, always knew his assignment—often better than the coaches—and never had wasted steps. He usually recognized where the play was going before the snap and routinely disrupted it immediately.
Riley began the examination as the plane took off and quickly breezed through the test; he drew lines to where he was responsible for filling various gaps, he identified the men he was to pick up on pass routes, and he showed the proper zone drops he had to cover. The plane was climbing past fourteen thousand feet when he finished. He walked back to the cockpit, taking a quick detour to look out the galley window and admire the snow-covered Rocky Mountains.
Riley entered the cockpit and leaned between the pilots. “How’s everything looking, fellas?”
“Good call on the turbulence,” Davis, the copilot, said. “The PIREPs are showing moderate to severe instability all the way to flight level 400.”
“All the way to forty thousand feet? Perfect! I think it’s about time I address the passengers again,” Riley announced with a mischievous smirk.
“Go for it,” Davis laughed as he handed Riley the mic.
Riley sat back in the jump seat and crossed his leg over his knee. “Ladies, gentlemen, and Mr. Gorkowski, this is Captain Covington from the flight deck. As you can tell, we are encountering significant chop, and from what the planes ahead of us are saying, it’s not going to stop. Give an extra tug on those seat belts—or for you offensive linemen, those seatbelt extensions—and remember the airsick bags are in the seat pockets in front of you. I’ll be right back.” Again keeping the mic keyed, he asked, “Hey, cool radio, Captain. Does it get FM?”
Riley released the button on the mic and looked to Captain Flores. “Would it be okay to push the Warning button the next time I’m talking to the guys?”
“Well, it’s not exactly authorized procedure, but . . . go ahead. I’m enjoying this.”
A voice came over the radio. “United 1918, climb—maintain flight level 340.”
Riley immediately keyed the mic. “Up to three-four-zero, United 1918.” As he released the mic, the plane made another shift right and dropped about a hundred feet, causing Gatorades throughout the plane to fall into laps and aisles. An angry protest came from some now-queasy players.
Switching back to cabin communications, the fake captain said, “Sorry, folks, sometimes I don’t know my rudder from my aileron. There’re just so many buttons up here.” Turning slightly from the mic, he continued, “Hey, Captain, do you have the owner’s manual up here? I can’t for the life of me remember what this little doohickey here does.” Just then, the plane hit more turbulence and took another sharp jolt. About this time, some guys were probably beginning to wonder if Riley was still playing or if they had a real
Captain Flores and First Officer Davis were having a hard time completing their work through the tears in their eyes. “Tell you what,” Riley said to them. “I’m going to take my position test out in the cabin while you guys finish up your work.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Flores agreed, wiping his eyes.
“I certainly don’t want to overstep my bounds, but there are a few guys I’d love to mess with back there once we get in the air.”
“As long as we aren’t breaking any FAA regs, I’d love to hear what you have planned next.”
Riley made his way back to the coaches and found Rex Texeira. “Hey, Tex-Rex, mind if I knock out that position test?”
Texeira handed over the test without even looking up. Both men knew the test was merely a formality. What made Riley such a great player was that he was not only physically blessed with strength and speed but was also one of the smartest players in the league. He had tremendous instincts, always knew his assignment—often better than the coaches—and never had wasted steps. He usually recognized where the play was going before the snap and routinely disrupted it immediately.
Riley began the examination as the plane took off and quickly breezed through the test; he drew lines to where he was responsible for filling various gaps, he identified the men he was to pick up on pass routes, and he showed the proper zone drops he had to cover. The plane was climbing past fourteen thousand feet when he finished. He walked back to the cockpit, taking a quick detour to look out the galley window and admire the snow-covered Rocky Mountains.
Riley entered the cockpit and leaned between the pilots. “How’s everything looking, fellas?”
“Good call on the turbulence,” Davis, the copilot, said. “The PIREPs are showing moderate to severe instability all the way to flight level 400.”
“All the way to forty thousand feet? Perfect! I think it’s about time I address the passengers again,” Riley announced with a mischievous smirk.
“Go for it,” Davis laughed as he handed Riley the mic.
Riley sat back in the jump seat and crossed his leg over his knee. “Ladies, gentlemen, and Mr. Gorkowski, this is Captain Covington from the flight deck. As you can tell, we are encountering significant chop, and from what the planes ahead of us are saying, it’s not going to stop. Give an extra tug on those seat belts—or for you offensive linemen, those seatbelt extensions—and remember the airsick bags are in the seat pockets in front of you. I’ll be right back.” Again keeping the mic keyed, he asked, “Hey, cool radio, Captain. Does it get FM?”
Riley released the button on the mic and looked to Captain Flores. “Would it be okay to push the Warning button the next time I’m talking to the guys?”
“Well, it’s not exactly authorized procedure, but . . . go ahead. I’m enjoying this.”
A voice came over the radio. “United 1918, climb—maintain flight level 340.”
Riley immediately keyed the mic. “Up to three-four-zero, United 1918.” As he released the mic, the plane made another shift right and dropped about a hundred feet, causing Gatorades throughout the plane to fall into laps and aisles. An angry protest came from some now-queasy players.
Switching back to cabin communications, the fake captain said, “Sorry, folks, sometimes I don’t know my rudder from my aileron. There’re just so many buttons up here.” Turning slightly from the mic, he continued, “Hey, Captain, do you have the owner’s manual up here? I can’t for the life of me remember what this little doohickey here does.” Just then, the plane hit more turbulence and took another sharp jolt. About this time, some guys were probably beginning to wonder if Riley was still playing or if they had a real
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