Damon eased himself to a sitting position in the steam room. He planned to stay there for twenty minutes or so, loosen up some, and let the tension drain from his body. Leaning his head back, the intense heat and the sweat pouring out of his body felt good. His troubles drifted away and he began to think about the game. Twenty-five minutes later as he prepared to leave the steam room and step into a lukewarm shower, reality set in. It was time to focus on game strategies. He gathered his towel and gripped the door handle to let himself out. It didn't move. It was locked from the outside.
Half an hour later, Jeff turned the ignition in his black Ford Explorer, eased out of the driveway of his Blooomfield Hills condo and headed south to Ford Field. At the first traffic light, he popped two painkillers into his mouth and channel-surfed on the radio until Barry White's booming romantic bass voice filled the SUV. He was singing that old Billy Joel standby "I Love You Just the Way You are." Proud of his ear-shattering state-of-the-art sound system, he began to sing along to the oldies music that he and Maria loved. Grabbing his Detroit Lions Hawaiian Blue baseball cap, Jeff pulled it low over his dark sunglasses. Soon he approached the first of the tailgaters near Eastern Market, the open-air venue where farmers sold their fresh produce. The market also housed specialty shops selling worldwide meats, foods and delicacies. He always liked to take this route, even though it was a little out of the way.
Braving the chilly air outside their SUV's, the fun-loving fans sat on lawn chairs, cooked meat on their grills and swigged beers. It was the Fourth of July in January as each one tried to outdo the other with their barbeque pits, chairs, tables and decor. As he passed them, he wanted to roll down the Explorer's window and inhale the tantalizing aroma of hot dogs, bratwurst and steak. Smacking his lips, he thought better of it. That's all he needed, to be recognized by some overzealous fans. Vigorously pulling at his arthritic right knee, he tried to rub the pain away. The pills had already reduced the pain to a dull throbbing. If he didn't have additional surgery, next year he'd be a tailgater too, he mused as Ford Field loomed ahead. The constant bumping and grinding of football sometimes elevated the pain to toothache level. And the cold weather was an additional aggravation. While the idea of retirement was scary, it also fulfilled an exciting fantasy. As a professional tailgater, he could follow his favorite teams all around the country. He already was a frequent visitor to the tailgating websites. Hell, maybe he could start one of his own.
"Hey, that's pure fantasy. Right now I'd settle for a few minutes in the steam room," he thought. "But that would have to wait until after the game." Jeff Samuels pulled his Ford Explorer into the players' parking area at Ford Field. It was noon and so cold, he could see his gray breath as he exhaled deeply after turning off the vehicle's heat. He smiled nervously as he looked around for Damon's Jeep Cherokee. It wasn't there. The POCA situation probably wasn't as bad as Damon thought, as he recalled their earlier conversation.
"Man, I just tore out of POCA headquarters. I was running faster than if a 350-pound linesman from the Minnesota Vikings was chasing me into the end zone," Damon had said excitedly just a few hours ago.
"What'd you mean, man?" Jeff had asked, perplexed by Damon's remarks.
"I had promised some of the guys in public relations that I would get them tickets for this afternoon's game. When I entered the office reception area, I overheard voices in the Board's conference room." Then he related the rest of the conversation and how Raymond Shoemaker seemed to be involved in some kind of bogus report to the stockholders, as well as the investment bankers on Wall Street.
"We'll talk about it after the game," Jeff had assured him. "Right now let's concentrate on winning. This is a big game for us."
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