I came to LA to kidnap the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. Mission accomplished. Now, I'm dragging him across Greg's front lawn.
The Packers are Greg's favorite team, even though he was born and raised in California. I regularly make fun of him for this. And, me? I grew up in Maine, but I love the Rams. Greg regularly makes fun of me for this.
So I get Greg, and he gets me back. We have a lot in common. We're best friends, but that doesn't mean we always have to like each other.
This is the first time I've seen Greg’s new house. It's perfectly American with two blue rocking chairs on the white wooden porch, a green lawn finely manicured, and in the driveway, a brand new pickup truck, fire engine red and freshly detailed. Shiny. Sparkling like a bowling ball in the sun.
Perfect home. Perfect truck. Perfect LA weather. It’s all blue skies without a muck of clouds in sight. All of this for perfect fucking Greg.
So anyway, this Packers quarterback, Darren Rogers, he’s twice my size and heavy as heck, but his hands are zip-tied behind his back. And my adrenaline is soaring like a bald-fucking-eagle on acid listening to Sabbath. I have the power of ten, nay, eleven men. Plus, with all that formaldehyde in his system, Darren can barely move.
I drag him to the middle of Greg's lawn and hold him up by the shoulder pads like a hunter lifting the antlers of a dead buck. "Hey, Greg," I shout. “Get out here and see what I brought you.”
I can hear Greg rustling around inside the house, cursing my name to his perfect girlfriend. The perfect screen door opens, and he steps out onto the perfect porch.
Greg is a full head taller than me, blonde, and physically fit. He’s probably more capable of kidnapping a pro football player than I am, too. I bet that's what he's thinking right now. He thinks he's so much better than me, but I’ve got news for him: he's not.
So, anyway, Greg is just standing there looking stupid as hell, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, awestruck, wearing only his boxers and an old Kanye t-shirt. My old Kanye t-shirt. I thought I lost it years ago, but now I know where it went. The thief. The mother-fucking thief.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, pointing at Darren. "Is that Darren Rogers?"
From across the lawn, I yell, "Is that my t-shirt?"
Greg looks down and points to his chest. "This shirt?”
“Yes,” I say.
“This is mine,” he says.
"Bullshit!" I punch Darren in the back of the head to show Greg that I mean business.
“What’s going on, man?” He steps off the porch onto the perfect grass. "What are you doing with Darren Rogers? Why is he on my front lawn?"
I shrug, panting, fuming. "Tradition.”
***
We love to joke around together. We used to go back and forth like this when we were neighbors in New York, pulling little pranks on each other.
One time, he wrote my phone number on a Jenga block at a bar. Strangers called me at all hours of the night for months. To get him back, I put his number on a Boston Craigslist ad saying he had an autographed Larry Bird jersey for free. That one got him good. Greg hates the Celtics.
Then there was the time I passed out drunk on Greg’s couch. The next morning, he stole my wallet and went on a shopping spree. He came back later that afternoon and woke me up by slapping me across the face with my empty wallet. I opened my eyes to see Greg strutting about his apartment wearing an Armani fucking suit and Gucci sunglasses, and a Rolex (looked fake).
I had to retaliate. So what did I do? That night, I broke into Greg’s apartment and took a baseball bat to all of his electronics—iPad, laptop, the big TV hanging on his living room wall. I peed in his ice cube trays. I cut up his mattress with a butcher’s knife and stabbed his pillow into the wall. I took a ketchup bottle from the fridge and squirted, "WATCH YOUR BACK," on the ceiling above his bed. Then, I left. Greg never mentioned anything about that night, and so I never got to tell him it was me. He was probably scared shitless. Probably called the cops. Probably sleeps with one eye open now.
You see? It’s tradition. Greg and I have always had our little fun.
***
So, anyways, Greg walks across his perfect fucking lawn and stops a few feet in front of me. We stare each other down. In between us, Darren writhes.
"Please, buddy," he mutters up to Greg. "You gotta help me. This guy is a maniac, man. He's gonna kill me."
“Shut up,” I say. "I am not going to kill you. I’m only joking around."
"Let's bring him to the police," says Greg.
“Why? So you can have me arrested? No way."
"We'll drop him off a few blocks away from the station.
“Fuck you, Greg.”
“Then you and I can go get a beer somewhere and talk about… whatever it is that’s bothering you."
"You," I say, poking Greg in the chest hard enough to hurt my finger. "You are what's bothering me! And drop this cool guy act. Stop showing off for Darren."
Greg shakes his head. "You can't keep him. You know that, right? You have to let him go eventually, bud."
"Don't ‘bud’ me, pal.”
"Here,” says Greg, opening the door of his perfect fucking truck. “Let’s load him in. I’ll help you bring him back to the stadium.”
"Why would I do that, hmm, Greggy? So the Packers can beat the Rams, is that it? Fat chance, bud.”
“Have you lost your mind?” he says to me.
“And anyway,” I say, ignoring his bullshit, “I know what this is really about: you're afraid of losing to me.”
“You mean like, the fantasy league championship?”
“Admit it."
"I don't care about fantasy football right now,” says Greg. "I care about you, and, this is really bad, man."
He is so full of shit.
***
Greg and I have always been competitive. I started our fantasy league when he first left New York just to keep him in check. Just to kick his ass from across the country. Just to remind him who is best. Today is the fantasy championship. Only two teams remain. Me and Greg.
Greg's team is good, way better than mine. His fantasy QB is Darren, stupid little Greg's perfect little hero. I have the Rams QB on my team. The Packers are in LA to play the Rams this afternoon, and if Darren doesn't show up for the game, the Packers will have no starting quarterback, and neither will Greg. He'll lose the championship.
You see? It's an airtight plan. A bulletproof plan. A waterproof, fireproof, run-it-over-with-a-tank-proof plan.
***
"So what are you going to do with him now?" Greg asks. "What's the rest of your airtight plan?"
I have no idea, and I don’t like being questioned, especially not by Greg. "Stop being difficult," I say.
"You are the one who is being difficult."
"Well, you're being a bad friend."
Greg sighs and shakes his head. "I'm just looking out for you, bud."
"I'm just looking out for you, bud," I say, mimicking his dumb deep voice. “This could’ve been avoided if you weren’t such a jerk yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“In the group chat. You said I suck.”
True story. He said that to me in front of all my friends, can you believe it? I can't. Some might say it was friendly trash talk, that it comes with the territory of Fantasy sports. Not me, though. I know Greg too well. I had to retaliate.
“That was friendly trash talk,” he says. “This is kidnapping. This is a crime. If you don't get him back to the stadium, the cops will start looking for him. You're going to get busted.”
“Oh, so what, you know everything about the law now, too, smart guy?”
But. Fuck, man. Greg is right. I contemplate. Darren interrupts me.
"He's right," says Darren.
I punch Darren in the head harder than before. He passes out. I let him fall to the grass, then turn my attention back to Greg.
"You're a wuss," I say, poking Greg in the chest again. "And that's my t-shirt."
"No, it isn't. Stop saying that." Greg pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales obnoxiously loud. "How about this: we'll drive him up to Runyon Canyon and drop him off on a random jogging trail. Then, I’ll drive you to the airport. By the time he finds his way to the stadium, you'll be on a plane back home."
“I don’t have money for a ticket home.”
“I’ll pay for it,” says Greg.
“You’ll rat me out,” I say. “I’ll probably get sacked by security at the airport.”
"I'll never mention this to anyone,” says Greg. “You have my word.”
I hesitate, mulling over the offer. "Fine."
I grab Darren by the shoulder pads, Greg takes his legs, and together we carry him over the lawn to the driveway.
"But I'm only doing this on one condition," I say, grunting along the way. "You have to bench Darren today.”
“No.”
“Yes. You have to play the championship game without a quarterback in your lineup."
"You're out of your mind," says Greg.
"Do we have a deal or no?"
"Hell no."
I let go of Darren. He thuds onto the pavement. I cross my arms and stand like a real bitchy fellow. “I’m afraid those are my terms."
We stand there in silence for a moment, exchanging dramatic sighs over Darren’s unconscious body. Eventually, Greg agrees. We spit in our palms and shake on it, then we load Darren into Greg's sparkly little red truck.
"What do you think of the new whip?" says Greg as he closes the tailgate.
“Sucks,” I say.
“No, it doesn’t.”
"Stop trying to show off for Darren," I say.
***
Darren is sliding all over the bed of the truck on the way to Runyon Canyon. And Greg's got a lead foot. He can't drive worth a damn. Never could.
At the top of a random trail, we unload Darren like a sick old dog we're too afraid to shoot. We prop him up against a big rock. Joggers are passing, staring at us, so we play it cool.
“Act natural,” says Greg.
I put my sunglasses on Darren’s face to cover up his black eyes. We make small talk and pretend he’s talking back, like we’re all having the goddamn best ever weekend at Bernie's. Greg and I stand there for a little longer, smoking cigarettes, pretending to take in the view. Then, we casually get back into the truck and leave.
No one will question what you're doing as long as you do it with confidence, even if what you're doing is dragging a pro football player out of the bed of your truck and leaving him for dead at the top of Runyon Canyon.
I learned that from Greg.
***
He drives me to LAX. At my terminal, he gets out of the truck and hugs me. I don't hug back.
"I love you," says Greg.
I say nothing in return.
"Thanks for this,” says Greg.
“Thanks for what?”
"Today. All of it. I'll never forget the time we kidnapped Darren Rogers together.”
"Who's 'we'? You got a mouse in your pocket? I kidnapped Darren Rogers! You just stood there making a big damn stink about it."
"Yeah,” says Greg. He turns to leave and stops before getting in his truck. He takes off his t-shirt (my t-shirt). He balls it up and hands it to me. "This is yours."
"I know,” I say.
Shirtless, Greg waves goodbye as he drives away.
***
It takes forever to get through security. I make the flight, but just barely. I did not get tackled by security.
I plop down in my seat and check my phone. News alerts, dozens of them. Articles about the Darren Rogers kidnapping and information about his arrival at the stadium. He made it in time for the game. He stumbled in on foot, disoriented and bloody. He told reporters he doesn’t remember anything about his mysterious disappearance.
I check my fantasy app. There is no quarterback in Greg's starting lineup. Darren is on the bench. He kept his word.
I text Greg: I love u back
Then, I fall asleep.
***
I wake up as the plane lands in New York. I turn on my phone to find hundreds of missed texts in the fantasy group chat, mainly from Greg, talking shit about me, calling me a loser and a chump, saying I suck again.
Greg won the championship. He beat me.
I check my fantasy app. I check Greg’s roster. Darren Rogers played the best game of his life, and the Packers beat the Rams. But Greg kept his word. He benched Darren, but he still won our championship.
I check my roster. Jerd Gerf didn't score a single point.
My phone chimes. A text from Greg, a link to a news article. The headline reads: LA RAMS QUARTERBACK GOES MISSING BEFORE KICKOFF. Witnesses claim they saw a tall, shirtless, blonde man load him into the bed of a shiny red pickup truck in the stadium parking lot. He hasn’t been seen since.
Greg. That son of a bitch. Perfect fucking Greg, and his perfect fucking prank. I'll get him back, though. I will retaliate. I have to.
After all, it’s tradition.
