Wishbone #8: Monica Lewinksy, Revisited?

Follow Casey Thompson, star quarterback for the Los Angeles Condors, as he struggles to come out of the closet and win - both on and off the field of play.

Sunday, September 21, California Condors vs. Dallas Cowboys, Dallas, TX

1st Quarter:  On the opening set of downs, Tommy Tidwell, Casey Thompson’s backup is sacked simultaneously from two directions, leaving him with a concussion and a broken collar bone on his throwing arm.  In comes Casey Thompson:  Eight plays later, the Condors have a 7-0 lead over the Cowboys.

2nd Quarter: The Condors’ nickel back intercepts in the end zone, and Casey Thompson, on the first play of the set of downs, hits his friend Petrius Jackson on a post that turns out to go for 80 yards and a touchdown.

3rd Quarter: Casey throws two more TDs, including a bootleg back across his body to the opposite corner of the end zone to, again, Petrius Jackson.

Final Score:  28-0, Condors over the Cowboys

After the game the mood in the locker room was intensely upbeat.  Casey was, quite naturally, as high as a kite.  As Casey and Petrius showered and got ready for the post-game interviews, they both kept laughing and joking, like college kids after the big game.

“Casey, boy, I guess there will be no living with you now!”  Petrius was sitting in front of his locker, across from Casey’s. 

“Got that right, Petey.  And from what Annie has told me over the years, there’s no living with you at anytime.”  Casey laughed and threw his shoe at Petrius as Coach Ocasek came into the locker room. 

“Hey, guys, great Goddamn game!  Listen up.  We’re hitting the airport in an hour and half, so finish up.  Casey, Petrius, the press wants to talk, so follow me to the post-game.”

The three made their way out to the post-game interview room where Coach Commons was already sitting, fielding questions.  Question after question bounced towards Casey, about his return to the starting role, about his great game, and, most of all, about the criminal case involving the bar fight that had just been dropped against him.

True to form of the modern day athlete, Casey repeatedly deferred to “his team”, “his coaches”, “just trying to play every game as it comes”, and on and on.  As the group got up to leave the press conference, Casey bent over to whisper into Petrius’ ear, “Hey, Trish and I are coming over to your place tonight when we get back to L.A.  Steaks are on you.”
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The steaks were huge and the meal lasted for hours.  The four friends sat outside by the Jackson’s pool, talking and eating as the warm evening settled into night.

“Annie, did you think when you were growing up that you would spend your life watching adult men act like little boys once a week?”  Trish reached for her wine, laughing, and awaiting an answer from Annie Jackson, Petrius’ wife.

“Once a week?  Who you kidding!  I’d settle for once a week!”

The group laughed and continued kidding Petrius about his euphoric attitude and playfulness.  As Annie brought out desert, Trish’s phone rang.  “Hey, sorry, guys.  I gotta take this.”  Trish walked away from the patio table to take the call in private.

As Trish walked back to the table, her expression was sullen, and Annie asked her what was wrong.  Trish waved it off as “just business bullshit” and went back to desert.  After an hour or so more, the dinner party ended, and Trish and Casey got into Trish’s car to head out.

“Wishbone, we have a real problem.”

“Jesus, Trish.  Can’t I get one day without a problem?  Let it go – we can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Nope, honey, we can’t.   Steve Morris.  Name sound familiar?”

“Nope.”

“Well, how’s Craigslist Steve.  Sound familiar now?”  As Trish said this, Casey turned white.  “Yeah, I thought that would ring a bell.  Well, Wishbone, he’s got a sperm sample from you.  From his underwear.  And he’s threatening to go to the press with it unless you pay him $100,000.  Shall you right a check, or do you want to use Visa?  Do whores take Visa?”

“I can’t believe this.  I just can’t fucking believe this!”  Casey leaned back in the passenger seat and put his hand to his brow, looking out the window.

“Look, it’s blackmail, so he’s not getting a penny.  And, if we wanted to, we could get the Feds on his ass for RICO violations.  But that’s not the point, honey.  This little shit has your sperm sample, and we both know how he got it.  And that, Wishbone, is going to come out in a matter of days, no matter what we do.  That’s what’s going on here.”

“Trish, just drop me off at home.  Not tonight.  I don’t want to deal with this tonight.  I can talk with you tomorrow, but not tonight.”

Trish pulled up in front of Casey’s place, and Casey made his way up to his apartment.  As Casey walked into his living room, he looked around, stood still, then threw his keys across the room, shattering a lamp.  “GODDAMN IT!” 

After a few minutes, Casey sat down on a stool in his kitchen, with his head tucked into his folded arms, lying across the counter.  And then a letter, lying next to his elbow, caught his eye.

It was his aunt Martha’s handwriting.  He reached for it and opened it up.  Two notes fell out.  The first was from his uncle Jimmy, and it read:

“Casey.  This letter was on your aunt’s desk, and I found it the day after you left.  She didn’t have a chance to mail it before she passed.”

The other note, a longer note, was from his aunt Martha.  The last paragraph of the note read:

“Casey, honey, no parent could ever be more proud of you than your uncle and I are.  Not because you are some football star, but because of the person that you are.  You are family, you are our pride.  God made you beautiful.  God don’t make no mistakes.  Even if you’re gay.

Love, Martha”

Casey was stunned, and felt flush heat in his cheeks.  He re-read the note, again and again, and began to cry.  After a while, Casey walked into his living room, reached over to the phone, and called Trish.

“Trish, it's Casey.  Set up a Press Conference for tomorrow afternoon.  I’m gay, and it is time to let everybody know it.  It’s time for me to know it.  Period.”

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A Cubs and Northwestern fan, Joe Moag is a major sports junkie, and although he still runs, he hasn't been able to dunk anything more than a donut for decades.