Set in the shadow of the decaying buildings and streets of Baltimore, The Rules of Play Action is a startlingly funny, kaleidoscopic novel about three kharacters with no plans for the future – or even the present – who become entangled in a curious romantic triangle. Rikki-Tikki-Deadly trains his incisive gaze on these participants in the media circus that surrounds the AFC Championship and treats their posturings and agonies with a mixture of acrid hilarity and compassion while exposing the moral vacuum at the center of their lives. Taylor changes boyfriends every time she needs new material for an album and she might or might not be writing anonymous love songs to driven, championship-focused Rashod, a wide receiver who sees so many of his efforts to get separation come to naught as his quarterback abandons the pocket, and Peter, a sportswriter whose constant fawning over NFL management often leads others to question his commitment to the craft of journalism. The Rules of Play Action is a poignant, hilarious take on the death of genuine competition in the NFL in favor of a league-directed narrative.

RASHOD

I get up early, for a Friday, sometime after breakfast. I take a shower and kind of remember about this play concept Todd Monken has drawn up where I’m supposed to get the ball (but won’t, because Lamar will take off running for yet another first down). I smoke a couple of cigarettes, watch the Frog sleep, pace. I can’t believe I have a roommate whose name is Duvernay. I go up to the practice facility in Owings Mills because there’s nothing else to do. Fridays suck anyway and I’ve never been to an AFC Championship before so it shouldn’t be too boring. I get to Owings Mills but end up on the wrong field, with the first team defense. Then I remember that the wide receivers are supposed to be meeting inside, but I go to the wrong room but then I find the right room even if it looks like the wrong room. It’s the wide receivers coach’s office and there is no one here. I’m not that late either, and I wonder if maybe they’ve changed rooms. If they have, then I’m putting myself on the injury report as doubtful, I’m not going to put up with that kind of bullshit. The office smells like Gatorade though, so I stick around in case someone comes back with more. I sit at the desk, look for signs of what this game plan is all about. But I can’t find any. So I go back to my room. The Frog is gone. Maybe I’ll take a ride, go to Pikesville. Maybe I’ll take a nap. Fridays suck.

PETER

I call Rashod up. Someone answers the Ravens phone.

“Yeah?” Person is obviously stoned.

“Can I talk to Rashod Bateman? I think he lives upstairs,” I ask.

“Yeah.” Really long pause. “If he’s asleep should I wake him?”

“Yes. Please.” He’s probably asleep.

I look at myself in the mirror and turn away. Next door, either Mr. Goodell (I’m not allowed to call him Roger anymore) or Jeff Pash is taking a shower. The TV is still on. I reach over and turn the volume down.

“Yeah? Hello?” Rashod says. “Rashod?”

“Yeah? Who is this? Fitzpatrick?”

Fitzpatrick? Who the hell is Fitzpatrick? “No. It’s Peter.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah. From Sports Illustrated. Remember me?”

“No. This better be good,” he says.

“I just wanted to know what’s going on,” I say. “Who’s Fitzpatrick?”

“No, Peter. That’s not it. What did you want?”

“Were you asleep?”

“No, of course I wasn’t asleep.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was just about to go to the Dress To Get Screwed By The Refs party,” he says.

“With who?” I ask. “With Fitzpatrick?”

“No.  With the person who’s been leaving notes with lyrics in my box,” he says loudly, laughing. “Some writer from The Athletic.”

“Are you?” I ask, sitting up.

“No, I’m not. Christ, you call me up to check on who I’m going with to the party?” he yells into the phone. “That’s kind of sad.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I apologize.”

“It’s okay.” I can hear him yawn.

“So … who are you going with?” I ask, after a while.

“No one, you idiot!” he yells.

“I was only joking. Calm down. Can’t you take a joke?” I ask. “Don’t people from the South have a sense of humor?”

There’s a long pause and then he says, “When we’re around funny people.”

“Brett Favre was from the south, and he had a sense of humor.  One of the best.”

“Rock’n’roll. Deal with it,” he mutters.

“Yeah.” I try to laugh. “Deal with it.”

“Listen, I’m going to the party, okay?” he says, finally.

“Well….”

“I’ll see you next week,” he says.

“But I’m coming to the game on Sunday,” I say.

“Right. Sunday,” he says.

“I’m sorry for calling,” I say.

“Sunday. Bye.” He hangs up.

I hang up too, then touch my face, and drink another Allagash White with a slice of citrus; wonder whether the Quiet Car is going to be full of noisy football fans.

TAYLOR

Brittany’s room. Brittany and I decide to wear togas to the Dress To Get Screwed By The Refs party. Not because we want to all that much, but just because we look better in the togas. At least, I look better in the toga than in the cardigan I was going to wear. Brittany looks good in anything. Besides I don’t want to go back to my room to get the cardigan since Harry might be there, though he also might not, since I told him I thought Harry’s House was the most boring album I’ve heard of his yet (worse than Fine Line) and he had this violent seizure (capital S: he shook, he turned red) and stormed out. Plus I don’t want to see if Tom Hiddleston called back. He called earlier today and demanded to know why I haven’t been watching Loki. I told him I forgot my Disney+ password. But I’m in a good mood anyway, mostly because Shellback, my new producer says I show a lot of promise and because of that I’ve been working on more EDM tracks, some of them pretty good; plus Brittany and I might buy some Ecstasy tonight and that seems like a good idea and it’s a Friday and we’re in front of her mirror trying make-up on and “Hey Jealousy” is on the radio and I feel okay.

Brittany says that someone left a hog carcass on their front lawn the other day.

“It was probably Coach Sneed,” I say.

“His name’s Reid,” she says.

I stand up, look at the toga. “How do I look? Do I look insensitive?”

Brittany checks her lips, then her chin. “No.”

“Intolerant?”

“Nope.”

“Like I’m engaged in cultural appropriation?

“Definitely not.” She moves away from the desk and over to the bed where she finishes drinking a Vitamin Water, singing along with “Hey Jealousy.” She tells me that she went off the Pill on Monday and says that she’s already lost weight and I guess she looks thinner. Planned Parenthood supplied the diaphragm.

“Planned Parenthood is doomed,” Brittany says. “There were a bunch of those Westboro freaks out front claiming they’re going to get it shut down.”

“Are we going to buy the Ecstasy or not?” I ask.

“Only if he takes American Express,” she says. “I forgot to cash Patty’s game check today.”

“He probably does,” I murmur.

I look good, standing in front of the mirror, and it makes me sad that I’m surprised by this; that I haven’t really gotten excited or dressed up to go out to a party since Jake left, and when was that? Last September? Nightcrawler premiere? And I don’t know why, but “Hey Jealousy” on the radio reminds me of him, and I still have mental pictures of him, standing around trying to look Persian, somewhere in my mind that resurface at the strangest moments: like a certain soup served at lunch, or flipping through GQ or seeing a movie with his sister in it like Secretary or Crazy Heart. Once, it was a book of matches from Morgan’s in New York that I found beneath my bed last Sunday.  But I’m still feeling pretty good as we leave Brittany’s place and from upstairs in her hallway we can hear the music calling to us from across Commons, accompanied by shrieks and muffled shouts in the night.

But then Brittany has to ruin it as we’re walking out of her house, the night autumn cold, both of us shivering in our togas, heading toward the music at Wooley.

“Have you heard from Jake?” she asks.

I hated saying it, but did anyway. “You mean Travis? I’m with Travis now.”