#001/#002 - Back to the Start & Catalyst [CROSS RECOBA CD]
Feb 23, 2020 18:12:57 GMT -5
Hyperion likes this
Post by Cross Recoba on Feb 23, 2020 18:12:57 GMT -5
OOC Note: These were published originally as CD pieces elsewhere, their inclusion is to give more background to the character and should not count towards scoring of any kind.
There were few places to escape Vegas on the Strip. The lights, the noise, the allure; all were only ever a couple of footsteps away at any one point. It was why almost every trip to Sin City ended up being a costly one even for those with the most hardened resolve.
That made where the couple found themselves special. Far below them were countless souls each hoping that the next spin or turn of a card could bring all they desired, but what they were looking for wasn’t found in a Baccarat shoe or a game of Keno. They were pinning their hopes and dreams not on the twist of a card but instead on the word of one man.
The gentleman checked his watch, a gesture made redundant by the clock that hung above the PA’s desk. He was running late, and each minute that passed seemed like a lifetime for he and his wife. They had flown down the day before from Illinois purely for this meeting, an old family friend he had come to ask a favor of.
He felt the touch of his wife’s hand on his wrist, an act meant to soothe but she wasn’t the one who needed to be back that night.
“Relax, Pippi, if it isn’t meant to be, it isn’t meant to be.” Her words were calm as if talking to an insolent child, her tone drenched in accented English.
He moved his hand to her pregnant belly, stroking it affectionately.
“Sophia, you know it isn’t as simple as that. We agreed this would be our last. He’s an old friend, been part of our lives since we arrived and now, he’s in a position to help our youngest child if he needs it. We’d be building stronger links to a powerful ally…” Pippi knew she was going along with this reticently, but she was still going along with it.
“Then why didn’t you ask him when it was Turi or Maria?” Though both were whispering her words almost formed a hiss.
“Neither of them had bad godparents, an ex-mayor and a publisher aren’t exactly bad choices, are they?” While his words retained their accent he had benefitted from being around more native speakers.
Sophia rolled her eyes, this wasn’t the first time the topic had come up and, now that Pippi looked to be getting his way, she hoped it might be the last.
“We always said that we didn’t want any of our children to follow you into that business of yours - is Alberto as his godfather going to help th-”
“He’s the owner of a casino, a Vegas casino. You want to talk about an American dream, it’s Vegas. Fifty years ago this place was a speck of desert, and now? Now it’s rich and prosperous. Isn’t that the American dream? Start with nothing and build your own fortu-”
“From dirty money!” Sophia’s tone remained hushed but the indignant tone remained.
In his heart, Pippi knew this was true. The man he was to meet had steel in his heart, was ruthless in business and in both sides of loyalty but this wasn’t something for them to be concerned with. He knew that by the time his son came of age that it’d be a moot point, the casino would wash away the sins of the past. His thoughts washed over as he heard the words.
“Mr Costello will see you now…”
The major checkpoints in life never flag themselves as such. A motorcade around a block, a routine journey and an impulse to buy a sandwich, an agreement of reparations - none of these things were anything more than humdrum the morning of them but each proved to be costly.
That was, on the face of it, how this seemed. Another Friday Night Football game. No big rivalry, no championship on the line. The score was heavily tilted in the home team’s favor with the game deep into the third quarter.
The score was beyond doubt, the visiting team’s bus journey home would be one of introspection, the deficit going past the twenty-five point mark. The home team’s fans, though excited, knew that this was a game they should be expected to win handily and thus, although they cheered, there was almost a muted ambience.
The offensive line held the field for them, lined up ready for the snap. Santino Recoba stood out wide, his receiver duties understood. This was his escape, while a first-string wide receiver had done little to stop the jibes he’d become used to years before, it did somewhat obscure the slurs slung his way.
The Albino Guinea Pig
The Wop with the Mop
Dash Dago
All stung in the hallways of school but on the football field, he could flourish outside of the constraints of his ethnicity. His blonde hair made him stand out but that was a double-edged sword when your name immediately flagged where your ancestors came from. He’d tried, to some success, to go by Cross but that only did so much when the name on your back read ‘RECOBA’.
He glanced to the stands and spotted his mother in her usual seat, her attendance record for matches was unwavering. The seat next to her sported a perfect attendance in that it, as always, remained empty. He knew she bought it in case his father turned up, only thirteen years of waiting and counting. That he’d come back to the house and instantly head to the football field, that’d he come back at all.
The only other person to take the seat would be Turi but he was married now and his kids had started grade school themselves. Besides, he was most likely putting in all the shifts he could with the police force to try and endear himself to the decision-makers. He’d blow off their sister’s marriage if it meant he could advance his career.
“Testa di cazzo!” Cross muttered to himself loudly enough that a defenseman raised his head quizzically.
As he put his head down he spotted what he thought might be a college scout. He knew his best chance of getting an education rested on getting a scholarship. His mother’s income wasn’t enough to run the house, that was why he and his sister had gotten jobs as soon as it was legally possible. His coach had mentioned that he had contacts at Michigan State that he’d be happy to invite down but if that fell through he’d be scratching around to afford community college.
He looked ahead and saw the space for his route inside his head. The play was one they’d run in training the last few weeks but never in a game. This game was a dead rubber before the kick-off, now it was going to be used as a training exercise. Cross looked across the line to where he needed to be.
Santino always found it comforting in the moments before the snap, the silence that washed over him as he waited for the call. He’d always imagine he was playing the European style of football, his helmet and jersey replaced for the pink of Palermo, that he was Simone Pepe breaking past a defender on the byline.
The call.
Then carnage.
He sprinted forward, shrugging off his opposing man, and focused on the fifteen yards ahead…
He saw the cornerback encroaching on his periphery but more importantly as he looked up he saw the ball pitching towards him.
He leapt to reach the ball and managed to wrap both hands around it.
Then he got the first hint that something might have gone wrong when he landed awkwardly, his knee not taking the weight without complaint.
The cornerback had now closed the gap and compounded the pain by buckling the knee with a tackle that rocked the ball from Recoba’s control.
He lay there looking at the night sky, his knee feeling like it was on fire. He’d heard the reaction of the crowd and knew that the tackle must have looked fierce. The ref blew a halt on the play and Santino tried to get back to his feet but he felt the knee buckle once more.
“Some help?” Cross called out across the field but his team-mates were slow to move.
He tried once more to stand but again found himself unable to. He looked round and saw two of his team-mates come to his aid. They draped an arm across their shoulders and gently lifted him to the sideline. His coach offered little in the way of comfort
“Hard break, son. That looks like you’re done for the season.”
There were few places to escape Vegas on the Strip. The lights, the noise, the allure; all were only ever a couple of footsteps away at any one point. It was why almost every trip to Sin City ended up being a costly one even for those with the most hardened resolve.
That made where the couple found themselves special. Far below them were countless souls each hoping that the next spin or turn of a card could bring all they desired, but what they were looking for wasn’t found in a Baccarat shoe or a game of Keno. They were pinning their hopes and dreams not on the twist of a card but instead on the word of one man.
The gentleman checked his watch, a gesture made redundant by the clock that hung above the PA’s desk. He was running late, and each minute that passed seemed like a lifetime for he and his wife. They had flown down the day before from Illinois purely for this meeting, an old family friend he had come to ask a favor of.
He felt the touch of his wife’s hand on his wrist, an act meant to soothe but she wasn’t the one who needed to be back that night.
“Relax, Pippi, if it isn’t meant to be, it isn’t meant to be.” Her words were calm as if talking to an insolent child, her tone drenched in accented English.
He moved his hand to her pregnant belly, stroking it affectionately.
“Sophia, you know it isn’t as simple as that. We agreed this would be our last. He’s an old friend, been part of our lives since we arrived and now, he’s in a position to help our youngest child if he needs it. We’d be building stronger links to a powerful ally…” Pippi knew she was going along with this reticently, but she was still going along with it.
“Then why didn’t you ask him when it was Turi or Maria?” Though both were whispering her words almost formed a hiss.
“Neither of them had bad godparents, an ex-mayor and a publisher aren’t exactly bad choices, are they?” While his words retained their accent he had benefitted from being around more native speakers.
Sophia rolled her eyes, this wasn’t the first time the topic had come up and, now that Pippi looked to be getting his way, she hoped it might be the last.
“We always said that we didn’t want any of our children to follow you into that business of yours - is Alberto as his godfather going to help th-”
“He’s the owner of a casino, a Vegas casino. You want to talk about an American dream, it’s Vegas. Fifty years ago this place was a speck of desert, and now? Now it’s rich and prosperous. Isn’t that the American dream? Start with nothing and build your own fortu-”
“From dirty money!” Sophia’s tone remained hushed but the indignant tone remained.
In his heart, Pippi knew this was true. The man he was to meet had steel in his heart, was ruthless in business and in both sides of loyalty but this wasn’t something for them to be concerned with. He knew that by the time his son came of age that it’d be a moot point, the casino would wash away the sins of the past. His thoughts washed over as he heard the words.
“Mr Costello will see you now…”
*****
The major checkpoints in life never flag themselves as such. A motorcade around a block, a routine journey and an impulse to buy a sandwich, an agreement of reparations - none of these things were anything more than humdrum the morning of them but each proved to be costly.
That was, on the face of it, how this seemed. Another Friday Night Football game. No big rivalry, no championship on the line. The score was heavily tilted in the home team’s favor with the game deep into the third quarter.
The score was beyond doubt, the visiting team’s bus journey home would be one of introspection, the deficit going past the twenty-five point mark. The home team’s fans, though excited, knew that this was a game they should be expected to win handily and thus, although they cheered, there was almost a muted ambience.
The offensive line held the field for them, lined up ready for the snap. Santino Recoba stood out wide, his receiver duties understood. This was his escape, while a first-string wide receiver had done little to stop the jibes he’d become used to years before, it did somewhat obscure the slurs slung his way.
The Albino Guinea Pig
The Wop with the Mop
Dash Dago
All stung in the hallways of school but on the football field, he could flourish outside of the constraints of his ethnicity. His blonde hair made him stand out but that was a double-edged sword when your name immediately flagged where your ancestors came from. He’d tried, to some success, to go by Cross but that only did so much when the name on your back read ‘RECOBA’.
He glanced to the stands and spotted his mother in her usual seat, her attendance record for matches was unwavering. The seat next to her sported a perfect attendance in that it, as always, remained empty. He knew she bought it in case his father turned up, only thirteen years of waiting and counting. That he’d come back to the house and instantly head to the football field, that’d he come back at all.
The only other person to take the seat would be Turi but he was married now and his kids had started grade school themselves. Besides, he was most likely putting in all the shifts he could with the police force to try and endear himself to the decision-makers. He’d blow off their sister’s marriage if it meant he could advance his career.
“Testa di cazzo!” Cross muttered to himself loudly enough that a defenseman raised his head quizzically.
As he put his head down he spotted what he thought might be a college scout. He knew his best chance of getting an education rested on getting a scholarship. His mother’s income wasn’t enough to run the house, that was why he and his sister had gotten jobs as soon as it was legally possible. His coach had mentioned that he had contacts at Michigan State that he’d be happy to invite down but if that fell through he’d be scratching around to afford community college.
He looked ahead and saw the space for his route inside his head. The play was one they’d run in training the last few weeks but never in a game. This game was a dead rubber before the kick-off, now it was going to be used as a training exercise. Cross looked across the line to where he needed to be.
Santino always found it comforting in the moments before the snap, the silence that washed over him as he waited for the call. He’d always imagine he was playing the European style of football, his helmet and jersey replaced for the pink of Palermo, that he was Simone Pepe breaking past a defender on the byline.
The call.
Then carnage.
He sprinted forward, shrugging off his opposing man, and focused on the fifteen yards ahead…
He saw the cornerback encroaching on his periphery but more importantly as he looked up he saw the ball pitching towards him.
He leapt to reach the ball and managed to wrap both hands around it.
Then he got the first hint that something might have gone wrong when he landed awkwardly, his knee not taking the weight without complaint.
The cornerback had now closed the gap and compounded the pain by buckling the knee with a tackle that rocked the ball from Recoba’s control.
He lay there looking at the night sky, his knee feeling like it was on fire. He’d heard the reaction of the crowd and knew that the tackle must have looked fierce. The ref blew a halt on the play and Santino tried to get back to his feet but he felt the knee buckle once more.
“Some help?” Cross called out across the field but his team-mates were slow to move.
He tried once more to stand but again found himself unable to. He looked round and saw two of his team-mates come to his aid. They draped an arm across their shoulders and gently lifted him to the sideline. His coach offered little in the way of comfort
“Hard break, son. That looks like you’re done for the season.”
