Glass doors open onto a backyard with a stunning view of the Hills. Earth tones, tables that appear to be made of reclaimed wood. In Evans's living room, there's not a single hint of his Captain Americaness. Grabbing two beers from a fridge that's otherwise basically empty, Evans says, "I just want to see Goodell hand the trophy to Brady. Like any self-respecting Pats fan, Evans is super-wicked pissed at NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for imposing that suspension on Tom Brady for Deflategate. No, Evans will be heading to the Super Bowl with his brother and three of his closest buddies. As he tells it, "First thing I say to him: 'Am I going to be okay where I parked?' He was like, 'Where did you park?' I said, 'At a meter.' And he was like, 'Did you put money in the meter?' And I said, 'Yep.' And he says, 'Well, I think you'll be okay.' I was like, this is off to a great fucking start." Stating the obvious here: Evans did not get the part. Walking by an open office, he heard Affleck, in that thick Boston accent of his, shout, "There he is!" (Evans does a perfect Affleck impersonation.)īy then, Evans had hit the big time for his turn as the Human Torch, Johnny Storm, in 2005's Fantastic Four, but he still got starstruck. Evans was walking down a hallway, looking for the room where they were supposed to meet. Evans has, however, humiliated himself in front of Affleck.Īround 2006, Evans met with Affleck to talk about Gone Baby Gone, which Affleck was directing. For the record, he's never met Damon, and his only interaction with Wahlberg was a couple years ago at a Patriots event. Like any self-respecting Pats fan, Evans is super-wicked pissed at NFL commissioner Roger Goodell.Įvans won't be rolling to SB LI with a posse of Beantown-to-Hollywood A-listers like Mark Wahlberg, Matt Damon, and Ben Affleck. "Oh my God," he says, doing a little dance.
You bet your Sam Adams–guzzling ass he's going to the game in Houston. The point is, he's a Patriots fan, and with Super Bowl LI, between the Pats and the Falcons, just a few days away at the time, it's about the only thing on his mind. Evans is from a suburb of Boston, one of four kids raised by Dad, a dentist, and Mom, who ran a community theater. Our handshake in the doorway is interrupted when his dog rockets toward my crotch. The dude who opens the front door is in jeans, a T-shirt, and Nikes he has on a black ball cap with the NASA logo, and his beard is substantial enough that for a second it's hard to be sure this is the same guy who plays the baby-faced superhero. meditation retreat-there's even a little Buddha statue on the front step. He lives atop the Hollywood Hills, in a modern-contemporary ranch in the center of a Japanese-style garden. I ask Evans the same thing when we first meet, the evening before our jump, at his house. The rat is running circles in my belly.Īnother crew member asks, "So whose idea was this, anyway?" So I figure our odds are pretty good."Īgain the crew member shouts, "Who's going first?"Īgain I look at Evans again he looks at me. "It's, like, 0.006 fatalities per one thousand jumps. Just really embrace it and jump out of that plane with gusto." Evans also shared that he'd looked up the rate of skydiving fatalities. And then I was like, if you're gonna do it, let's just pretend there is no way this is going to go wrong. So what? Do I close my eyes? Hopefully, it would be quick. "You're not gonna pass out you're gonna be wide awake. ". . .Those last minutes where you know." As in you know you're going to fatally splat. While we were waiting to board the plane, Evans told me that as he lay in bed the night before, "I started exploring the sensation of 'What if the chute doesn't open?'. . ." Is it like foreplay? Do they rush off to the car after landing and get it on in the parking lot? They give us the thumbs-up and they're gone. Moments later, the plane's at ten thousand feet, and the next to go are a Middle Eastern couple in their late thirties.
The last Canuck to exit into the nothingness is a freakishly tall stud with a crew cut and a handlebar mustache just before he leaps, he flashes a smile our way. For them it's a training exercise, and Jesus, these crazy bastards are stoked. Out drop the eight commandos, all in black-and-red camouflage, one after the other. In whooshes freezing air and the cold reality that this is actually happening.
Although it's a warm winter day below in rural southern California, up here, not so much. Our plane reaches an altitude of about eight thousand feet the back door opens. The Canadian commandos are the first to jump.
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