Part 5: Out of The Frying Pan… And Into The Grease Fire

Setting: The Indianapolis Crowne Plaza Hotel – 123 West Louisiana Street, Indianapolis, Indiana

Ext. Taggart’s Bar & Lounge, inside the Crowne Plaza.

Drinks in hand, Pete Carroll & John Schneider are decompressing after a harrowing few days.

Pete Carroll: I didn’t know you could drive like that.

John Schneider: Had to. (Bears GM Ryan) Pace just wouldn’t get off our tail.

PC: How did he even find us?

JS: Fuck if I know. He does have a reputation for hiding in hallways, waiting for a drunken GM to happen by with a quarterback offer.

But given his budget, he probably knows every busboy at every three-star steakhouse in Chicago. If I had to guess… someone at Ditka’s must have called him. I bet it was the server who ‘special sauced’ my steak!

PC: That tears it – I’m never eating there again. Thank God you paid someone to keep the car running while we ate.

JS: Couldn’t wait to leave. In fact, I didn’t want to eat there in the first place. We have an account at the Marriott for Christ’s sake!

PC: Yeah yeah yeah. But how did he know we were in Fargo?

JS: I don’t know. All those Missouri Valley Conference schools had their pro days on the same day. I figure he would have stayed local and gone to Illinois State or Southern Illinois. But there he was – sitting alone in the bleachers like the fat kid at a school dance.

I guess Virginia (Halas McCaskey) won’t let him visit the South anymore because of how Trubisky turned out.

PC: I don’t even think he knew who he was there to evaluate. He just kept talking to you, louder and louder. It almost sounded like he was begging.

JS: Nothing he said made any sense. And when I said I didn’t get what he was talking about, he actually started crying!

PC: What was that he kept screaming?

JS: Something like, “DON’T MAKE ME DO IT!”

PC: He sounded desperate, almost like he was in a suicide pact. Why didn’t you walk away?

JS: I tried to leave. He wouldn’t let go of my leg!

PC: What did he offer for Russell – something like seven first-round picks? League rules stipulate only four years as a max.

JS: I tell you, he’s out of his mind. Just kept staring at nothing with those serial killer eyes.

PC: What was that last thing he said?

JS: Can’t recall exactly, but something about a “ginger bitch”. Didn’t make sense.

PC: Not to me neither – I’m more of a Mary Ann guy myself. Love that pie.

JS: I don’t th- **shakes his head**  Anyhoo – thank God we finally lost him around Eau Claire.

PC: I’ll say. I had to pee so bad I thought my back teeth were floating.

JS: Serves you right for buying a Super Gulp.

PC: It saves money versus buying a regular, and I get points on my app. 

JS: *shakes his head*  So Pete, you were hell-bent on getting here. Why exactly are we in India-no-place?

PC: The Draft Combine, silly. (chuckles to himself)

JS: Pete, you idiot! The Combine was cancelled this year.

PC:

JS: It’s all pro days instead. That’s why we were going to all those campuses, and why we had to fight for spots. Why else would I go to Fargo fucking North Dakota?!

PC:

JS: (exasperated)  Okay Pete – why do you think we were visiting all those colleges?

PC: I thought it was to get some strange. I know you talked about getting your first millennial stamp.

JS: Well, that too. I’m willing to be someone’s bad decision.

PC: Well, yeah. Everyone knows that – you paid $10 million for Matt Flynn.

JS: Fuck you, old man.

PC: (pleased with himself)  Look, I was just following along. You asked me to be your wingman and distract her friend, and I did.

JS: I’ve been meaning to ask – just what the hell did you two do for two hours?

PC: Well, given that she was also a cheerleader, we talked about players.

JS:

PC: Don’t give me that look. We show up to scripted dog & pony shows like pro days all the time, and all these kids look the same – throw a mile; windsprints; “yes sir!”. She had season-long sideline access to watch these kids. I tell you, John, those girls are a real valuable source of insider information.

JS: 

PC: Screw you, man. She was very forthcoming. Very happy someone was asking her for her opinions. Said she was thrilled to finally be talking about film with a professor, rather than being filmed by one.

JS: That reminds me – you threw away those fake ID badges, right?

PC: Sure did. Just outside of Gary. “Dr. Pietro Carolina” is now taking up residence at the Broadway CITGO just off the Frank Borman Expressway.

JS: **shakes head**  Okay, then. Let’s go over the list. But first, it’s time to top-up. Garçon!

The server comes over to the table.

Server: (sighs)  Yes sir?

JS: Hey big man, how’s about you Irish up another coffee for me, and don’t be cheap with the Jameson’s. Oh, and I guess another iced tea for my dad here.

Server: **rolls eyes**  Is that correct, sir?

PC: Actually, Carl, I’ll have a glass of the house white, please.

Server: Very good sir.

JS: (to Pete Carroll)  Atta boy, Pete. Now we’re talking!  (to the server)  Hey Big Man – make sure that white’s a wine, not a gravy!  **snorts**

Once again, John Schneider ensure the froth on his drink will also be part human.

JS: Okay, who’s first?

PC: **leafing through a binder**  Dillion Radunz, from North Dakota State. Or, as you just put it, the reason you were in Fargo fucking North Dakota.

JS: Wait a minute – is that the kid that had “pro day” on his jersey?

PC: Yup.

JS: Jesus. What’s he going to wear if he meets Russell? A suit that says, “Church”?  **snorts**

PC: Good one, John.

JS: Anyway, where’s he slotted?

PC: **flipping pages**  Consensus says… third round, but could go late-second or fall to early-fourth.

JS: Good. Put him in the pile. Who’s next?

PC: Spencer Brown, Northern Iowa.

JS: He was that real tall fucker, right?

PC: Yup… six-foot-eight. That’s a big boy.

JS: Can’t teach height! But can you teach him to play in the pros?

PC: I made George Fant a lot of money, didn’t I?

JS: Point taken. Where’s this kid projected?

PC: The binder says… second or third round, so he’s another keeper.

JS: I tell ya Pete – once we stopped high-end shopping, we started finding some real gems.

PC: It’s like the frat boys say: “If an available girl is below your standards…” 

Both: “Lower. Your. Standards!”

JS: Nice to see you loosening up.

PC: I think I’ve been on the road too long.

JS: Nonsense! But sure, let’s call it a night. Before we go, who’d we see out at the Catholic Compound today?

PC: It was a 1-2 combination – Tackle Liam Eichenberg & Guard Aaron Banks.

JS: Boy, it’d be pretty good to get them both. 

PC: Don’t think that’s possible, though. Eichenberg’s range is late-first through to the third, and Banks is projected…second through fourth.

JS: So, you’re telling me there’s a chance?

PC: (missing the reference)  No, what I’m say– hold on. My phone’s vibrating.

JS: I thought you didn’t give that girl your number!  **snorts**

PC: Not that, dummy. It’s Twitter.

JS: Aww Christ – what did Russell say now?

PC: … it’s not Russell.   **shows phone to John Schneider**

Notre Dame OT Liam Eichenberg, one of the draft’s top O-linemen, is among the Fighting Irish players who isn't in Indy for medical evals after testing positive for COVID-19 after his Pro Day, sources say. DE Ade Ogundeji & OL Aaron Banks also tested positive & aren't in Indy.

— Ian Rapoport (@RapSheet) April 8, 2021

JS: Well, cuts that short, then. Short like Rapoport!  **snorts**  Now, if that concludes the evening’s business, Mr. Speaker…

A strange voice interrupts John Schneider’s condescension.

“Pardon me, gentlemen.”

Both men look up to see a stranger in white sitting in the booth next to them.

Which was strange, as they didn’t recall that booth having been there when they arrived.

Stranger: I’m sorry to interrupt your private conversation, but I couldn’t help but overhear your chagrin at the ravages this pernicious pandemic has wrought to our fair city. I feel your disappoint at not being able to pursue all avenues for your business venture.

JS: Hey pal. Sorry we didn’t see you there. I hope we haven’t interrupted your evening.

Stranger: No worry, good sir. Please, let me offer to buy you a drink, on behalf of the local Chamber of Commerce, as a form of apology from The Crossroads of America™ to you, for what misery has befallen your excursion.

Two glasses of what appears to be scotch are placed down by the server.

JS: Why, thank you Mr. … uhh – I didn’t catch your name?

Stranger: It’s James… James Syria. And the only thanks I need is an assurance that you will, once this virus has been subdued, again visit our little hamlet and take advantage of everything Indianapolis has to offer.

JS: Well, I don’t know if you’re the mayor, but you’ve sold me. C’mon Pete, let’s toast this fine fella.

PC: **whispering to John Schneider**  I don’t know, John. This all seems kind of strange.

JS: (aggravated whisper)  Jesus, Pete. What’s your deal. Dude just wants to buy us a drink. Loosen up.

Stranger: Gentlemen, please. If you consider…Carl?

Server: Macallan 18, sir.

Stranger: … to be too common for your palates, maybe I should meet you at your hometown bar for a sample of what you consider a pedestrian libation?

JS: (irritated tone)  C’mon Pete. You’re making us look bad.

PC: Well…okay. To you, Mr. Syria.

JS: To you!

Stranger: To us.  **winks at the server**

All three tip their heads to knock back their drink. In a flash, Pete Carroll is able to pour his into an adjacent planter and then bring the tumbler to his lips. He feels a slight tingle, like the time Marshawn got him to try Fugu…

Stranger: Well, gentlemen, I shall leave you to your own devices.  (Gets up to leave)  Again, I hope you enjoy your time here, and look forward to a chance meeting again in the future. (Departs the bar area)

PC: I’m out of here too, John. Gotta get up early if we’re going to start heading down into SEC country.

JS: Okay, Pete. I’ll see you in th– oof. That’s hittin’ a little harder than I thought. I think I’ll sit here a second & let this pass.

PC: Okay. Good night, John.  (leaves the bar)

John Schneider stares at the TV screen, the picture getting fuzzier by the second. It takes him a few seconds to realize it’s not the picture that’s getting blurry, but his own vision. The scotch! “That bastard!” he thought to himself. “I’ve been roofied…oh no – my kidneys!” As he began to black out, John Schneider swore he spied the image of the returning stranger. And he was laughing…

John Schneider awakens. He looks around the room and quickly notes he is not in his Room 314, but in an actual suite in what he hopes is the same hotel. Fearfully, he lifts the sheets to find some relief that his pants are still on and no recent surgical scars appear to be present.

JS: Oof…my head. Where the hell am I?

He hears murmuring coming from another room. He strains to understand what is being said.

JS: Hello?

The voice gets louder. It’s definitely not female. The words appear to be slurred.

JS: Hello? Is anyone there?

The voice is now just feet away. What danger awaits him around that corner?

JS: Hell- oh. Oh. OH MY GOD! NO!!!

Jim Irsay: God-DAMN! I’d never seen anyone shove peyote up their own ass before! You hardcore sonofabitch! I don’t even remember getting back from the Wild Beaver. I think we were singing ELO. THAT was one hell of a night! Now, let’s talk draft picks…

To be continued…