He checks himself out in the locker room mirror, paying special attention to the way his uniform covers him in his most vulnerable areas, his hands, neck, the backs of his knees, his inner elbows, and his inner groin, all sections of his body which, for one reason or another, can’t be adequately protected. Turning his back to the mirror, he sees a gold 13 on his jersey and above it the gold letters MANN, his number and name, wrinkle free and totally legible, the final item on his checklist.

Fully dressed and ready, he sits down on a bench, closes his eyes, and starts psyching himself up for the game.

It’s 10 p.m. He has two hours before it starts.

Friday, January 1, 2010

“Let me try and summarize this heart stopping situation for you, football fans,” enunciates Timothy Enge, the renowned Voice of Football, facing the camera. “We have two minutes left on the clock. The San Francisco Prospectors trail the New England Minutemen 116 to 121. The Prospectors have the ball with 225 yards to go for a touchdown. They must score to win, and they’re going to have an extremely hard time doing it. The Minutemen’s defense, which has been murderous all day, has toughened up even more in these final minutes. Nothing is getting through.”

He loosens his tie and unsnaps his tunic, a gesture which, to his millions of viewers, each and every one thoroughly familiar with his compulsively fastidious nature, goes farther than anything he can say to convey the degree of pressure in the air. “The Prospectors play the ever threatening brand of football that could still pull this game out of the fire. Twice this season, they’ve been down by one touchdown late in a game, and T.K. Mann has brought them back to win both times. The question is, can he make it three?”

Enge turns from the camera. “Let’s get down on the street and find out.”

As the opposing teams line up on Van Ness, an estimated 250 million Americans watching at home collectively hold their breath.

T.K. Mann takes the snap, fakes a handoff and drops back between two overflowing garbage cans to pass. The line holds. He has all the time in the world.

Nobody opens up.

T.K. breaks a tackle. He almost falls when his tackler stubbornly clings to him long enough to open a fleshy knife wound in his left knee. T.K. cuts behind a light pole.

The clock runs out, making this the last play of the game. Nobody opens up.

T.K. reverses direction, scrambling for time, looking for his receiver.

At last! Wide receiver Fred Gradington shakes his man and breaks from the sidewalk into the street. There’s nothing between him and the bay but 200 yards of wide open space.

T.K. cocks his arm.

Bumbo Johnson, All-Pro linebacker, six eleven, two eighty four, plunges through into the backfield and leaps.