In a departure from our normal analysis, and as a change up to the ways we pass the time leading up to the NFL Draft, I would like to share with you all a fictional short story I’ve been working on. I originally started writing this after the game between the Carolina Panthers and Denver Broncos last season, but felt the desire to finish it now during the offseason. It is eight chapters in length, with each one being fairly brief, but hopefully compelling enough to keep you all reading. I hope you enjoy it.

Super Bowl 73

A short story by Erik Sommers

Chapter One

As the sun rises on another cold February morning in the Catskills Mountains of western New York, an old man throws another log onto a smoldering fire. The flames glow a bright orange, and the sap inside the wood crackles like popcorn popping in an iron kettle as the man takes his seat in an old leather recliner front and center. The mantle is decadent but worn. The stones have smoothed over completely from years of wood dragging over their face, and the finish on the mahogany trim is beginning to peel, revealing a less impressive hue of grey in spots. A line of trophies and plaques sits atop the shelf, each dustier than the last, serving a reminder of days gone by and better days alike. At the edge sits a dusty remote control that theoretically controls the great eighty inch flat screen TV mounted above the mantle, though it hasn’t seen use in quite some time.

Steam pours off the coffee mug in his right hand, which is emblazoned with the shield of the National Football League, or “NFL” for short. The “N” is starting to peel off at the left edge, as this well loved piece of clay again rubs the bony knuckles of the man’s grasp. In his other hand he holds a Microsoft Surface Pro 21, an older model for sure, but it suits him fine for reading the news, chatting with his grandchildren, and checking his email. As he thumbs through the headlines, one in particular catches his attention:

“Super Bowl LXXIII to be Held Today in New York”

He pauses for a moment, glances up at that dusty remote atop the mantle, then shakes his head and continues on to more relevant stories.

“Windham City Council Approves New Commercial Development on Route 23”

“What are they up to now?” questions the man as he taps on the headline.

As he finishes the first paragraph, he looks out the window noticing a car heading down the long driveway. The car is a luxury model, not the most current in its line, but still retains a brilliant black sheen that reflects the early morning light through the window panes. Emerging from the car is a tall man with broad shoulders, younger than he, but certainly no spring chicken. The brown and grey hair on the periphery of his head, and the crows feet peeking from the corners of his gold trimmed aviators bring truth to the lies told by his sharp suit and spry demeanor. He approaches the weathered front door and gives a heavy handed knock.

The golden retriever on the rug behind the couch gives a half hearted bark, springing to his feet in a manner that suggests he’s ready for anything, though one good look at his grey jowls would tell you the bite left the bark behind long ago.

“Easy Elway.” says the old man. “It’s just Peyton.”

The dog sinks back down and rests his jaw back atop his paws, his excitement spent for one day, as the old man rises from his chair and walks slowly over to the door. He has no need for a cane yet, but gradually things are taking just a bit longer in his life with each passing year. He slides back the deadbolt and opens the door with a smile.

“Peyton Manning, as I live and breathe.” he says with an outstretched hand which the younger man embraces enthusiastically.

“Hello, Mr. Goodell. It’s great to see you.”