Eagles Security Team Practices For Streakers:
A Short Story
The call came early in the morning. Jenkins was still asleep under his vintage Ron Jaworski sheets, but at the sound of his cell phone — the theme from "Rocky," of course — he sat up bolt upright. He saw the number and realized: this was it. This was his moment.
"Mr. Jenkins," the voice on the other end of the line said, "how would you like to come run for the Eagles on Lincoln Financial Field?"
It was the call he'd been awaiting his entire life. Every red-blooded male, and almost every female, in the City of Brotherly Love dreamed of suiting up for the Eagles, of following in the footsteps of giants. Jenkins, alas, stood five-five and weighed a buck-forty even in full puffy Andy Reid jacket. Every year for the last decade he'd tried to work out for the team, and every year he'd been turned away at the gates, hope pierced by disappointment, then slathered with a thick cheesy layer of "wait 'til next year."
But now ... this! His time had come 'round at last! As he drove to the stadium, his thoughts whirled with the possibilities. Would Chip Kelly have him run some 40s to check his wheels? Would Michael Vick have him run routes to practice timing? The possibilities were as limitless as the sort-of blue sky above the city.
When he arrived, the Linc was empty save a few security guards stationed around the green expanse of the field. A man whose voice Jenkins recognized from the phone spoke to him: there are always streakers in NFL games, the security detail needed a bit of practice with its flanking maneuvers, would he mind going for a little jog out there to help them out?
Would he mind? The man might as well have asked Jenkins if he minded breathing! No, he would run like Brian Westbrook, like Reggie White, like a non-puking Donovan McNabb! He would run now for all the moments he couldn't run before!
The security team was clearly a little taken aback when Jenkins actually stripped to the nude just before running, but so be it. This was his time, and he would make it authentic. And when security finally ran him to ground, the burn of The Linc's turf on his bare backside was as welcome as a mother's kiss.
[Via Crossing Broad]
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