Foul Trouble

by John Feinstein

  “Who the hell is Lenny Cooke?” Jordan asked.

  “Exactly,” Danny said. “He and LeBron James were both at this camp. They were the ‘next ones.’ Cooke was rated ahead of Amar’e Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony. He tried to turn pro without playing in college. Never got drafted, never played a minute in the NBA. He and LeBron were Terrell and you or Omar Whytlaw a dozen years ago. One of them’s an icon. The other one’s forgotten. Maybe you’ll be the icon and Terrell will be Lenny Cooke. Or maybe it will be the other way around.”

  “Or maybe we’ll both be LeBron,” Jordan shot back.

  “Possible,” Danny said. “But the odds are better you’ll both be Lenny Cooke. Most of the guys making the big NBA money weren’t big stars in high school. A few, but not many.”

  They were wheeling into the parking lot now. Jordan headed right for the front row of parking spaces nearest the building. A yellow-jacketed security guard was blocking the road, but as soon as he saw the Lincoln approach, he moved out of the way and waved at Jordan, who waved back. They pulled into a spot no more than fifteen yards from the back door.

  “Ray took care of these guys at the start of the week,” Jordan said as he put the car into park.

  “What a surprise,” Danny said.

  Jordan turned and looked right at him. “Listen, Wilcox, I really don’t need any life lessons from a slow-assed white point guard who will be lucky if he gets to be on court with me next year so I can dunk on him all night. I know how good I am, and I’m not the only one who knows it.” He looked at Terrell. “And I’ll tell you something, choir boy, you’re a fool if you listen to him and his father. There’s just too much candy on the table to walk away. And if you’re afraid of being some lame Lenny Cooke, then you’d better take what’s on offer now.”

  He turned around, jumped out of the car, and slammed the door, leaving Danny and Terrell sitting there with Mayer. It took only seconds for the car to start to feel hot with the air-conditioning turned off.

  “He’s headed down a bad road,” Danny said as they watched Jordan stop to high-five several people as he headed for the door.

  Mayer shrugged. “You might be right,” he said. “But a lot of guys go down that road and end up just fine. If you can play, people will always take care of you. Michael can play.”

  “How’re his grades?” Terrell asked.

  Mayer laughed. “Come on, Terrell, now you do sound naive. You know that doesn’t matter. If he needed someone to take the SAT for him, it would get done. If he needs to change schools to ‘get his grades up,’ that’ll be done. Seriously, when was the last time you heard of a star player who wasn’t eligible to play? All these guys like Ray and the shoe guys and the big-time college coaches—they’ve figured the system out. The NCAA doesn’t want to catch them.”

  Danny sighed. Mayer was right. The rules, he realized, might exist for someone like him or possibly even for Alex. But for Terrell Jamerson, Omar Whytlaw, and Michael Jordan, they didn’t.

  Terrell also suspected Mayer was right. But even though the game was rigged in his favor, he felt a little sick.

  The three of them got out of the car before it turned into an oven and walked inside the gym, their path unimpeded by any dudes or hangers-on or even coaches.

  Most people were watching the two o’clock games. Since their meeting wasn’t until three thirty, they had some time to kill, so they went and sat high up in the players’ section of the bleachers to watch.

  “So why didn’t you guys play yesterday?” Alex asked once they sat down.

  Danny started to say something, but Terrell put up a hand. “Honestly?” he said. “I screwed up. I went out with my pals and got high, and Danny tried to cover up for me, which our coach didn’t appreciate.”

  If the revelation surprised Alex, he didn’t show it. “Yeah, I think Michael’s friends hook him up too,” he said.

  “Really?” Danny asked.

  “I’m just guessing. We’re friends, but not like you and Terrell. We go to different schools back home.”

  “That was my first time,” Terrell said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Very seriously.”

  They watched in silence for a while, although Terrell wasn’t really paying attention. Which might have been why he didn’t notice the man in the suit walking up through the bleachers in their direction. He stopped one row short of where Danny, Terrell, and Alex were sitting. Even then Terrell avoided eye contact. He really had no interest in dealing with another agent, and the suit—even though the man was wearing an open-collared golf shirt, as opposed to a button-down and a tie—made it clear that this was yet another agent.

  “Terrell Jamerson? Danny Wilcox? Alex Mayer?” the man said.

  “Uh-huh,” Danny said in a bored tone, hoping rudeness would convince the man to leave them alone.

  “I’m Frank Parsons, from NCAA enforcement,” he said, flashing his wallet as if he were a cop—which, in a sense, he was. “I need to speak to the three of you right now.”

  Terrell looked up at Parsons, who appeared to be in his midthirties. He was African American, with short-cropped hair and a look that would best be described as no-nonsense. Terrell’s heart skipped half a beat. Why would he want to talk to him and Danny and Alex? Before he could say anything, Alex, who was still leaning against the back of the bleachers, said, “What do you want to talk to us about?”

  “Come with me and I’ll tell you,” he said.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about,” Alex said.

  “I’d advise you to change your attitude in a hurry, Mr. Mayer,” Parsons said. “You’re already in trouble.”

  “For what?” Danny blurted.

  “You’ll find out in about five minutes,” Parsons said. He turned and began walking down toward the floor.

  Terrell looked at Danny and then at Alex. “What do you think?” he said.

  “I think we’d better go,” Alex said. “If only to find out what this is about.”

  The three of them followed Parsons in the direction of the locker room. Terrell noticed that Parsons never turned to check to see if they were behind him.

  Parsons walked into the locker-room hallway and paused at the room where the press conferences had been held all week. Terrell saw Danny smile. “What’s so funny?” he whispered.

  “Who would’ve thought I’d be hoping there were reporters inside,” Danny whispered back.

  There were no reporters. Instead, they found Michael Jordan; the coach of the Riverboats, whose name Terrell didn’t know; and another man dressed a lot like Frank Parsons.

  “This is Michael Olander. He works with me,” Parsons said. “I believe you both know Mr. Jordan. And this is Coach Woolard, who’s coaching the team Mr. Jordan and Mr. Mayer are playing on here.”

  “Dave Woolard,” the coach said, standing to shake Danny’s and Terrell’s hands. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you both, except for the circumstances.”

  “What are the circumstances, Coach?” Alex asked.

  “Have a seat,” said Olander, who was leaning against the podium at the front of the room. He had barely nodded at Terrell, Danny, and Alex. Now he pulled a notebook from his breast pocket, flipped it open, and began to read. “ ‘Four players, identified as Jordan and Mayer from the Mississippi team and Wilcox and Jamerson from Massachusetts, were observed having lunch at Houston’s restaurant in Teaneck with a Ray Leach. Mr. Leach has been employed in the past as a bird dog for several agents, as a representative for at least two apparel companies, and as a representative for a number of Division One basketball programs.’ ”

  “Has he ever actually been sanctioned by you guys for any violations?” Coach Woolard asked.

  “We can’t sanction him, because he doesn’t fall under our jurisdiction,” Olander said. “But he has been named in a number of our investigations that have led to sanctions.” He whirled on Danny, pointing a finger. “How did you come to have lunch with Mr. Leac
h?”

  Danny opened his mouth to answer, but Terrell gave him a shove. “Before we answer any questions, I’d like to have my coach here,” Terrell said. “I’m sure Danny feels the same way.”

  Danny nodded, grateful.

  “You don’t need your coach,” Parsons said. “This isn’t a police station. No one has read you your rights. We’re just asking a few questions.”

  “But Mike and Alex have their coach here,” Danny said. “We should have ours here too.”

  Before Parsons or Olander could say anything, Coach Woolard jumped in. “He’s right, and you two know he’s right. Either let them call their coach or we’re all leaving.”

  The NCAA duo did not look happy.

  “Go ahead and call your daddy,” Olander said in a sneering voice. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  Danny didn’t argue with the ridiculous deadline. He pulled out his phone and hit his father’s number on the speed dial.

  ELEVEN

  Danny breathed a sigh of relief when his dad picked up the phone right away. He was even happier to learn he had just walked back into the gym after lunch. When Danny told him he needed him to come to the interview room to meet with some people from the NCAA, his dad didn’t ask any questions. Maybe he could tell by Danny’s tone that he would get answers once he got there.

  If the scene that greeted Coach Wilcox when he walked in shocked him, he didn’t show it. He patted Danny and Terrell on the back as if to say “Stay calm,” and he shook hands with Coach Woolard. The NCAA men introduced themselves and said they were looking into possible violations committed by the four players in the room.

  Danny’s dad folded his arms and said, “Okay, what have you got?”

  Olander, still reading from his notes, repeated what he had witnessed inside the restaurant.

  Coach Wilcox nodded and looked at Coach Woolard. “Unless there’s something I’m missing, it sounds like these four kids have been accused of eating lunch with a bad guy. I know the NCAA rule book is something like five hundred pages long, but I didn’t know there were rules about who you could and couldn’t eat lunch with.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong,” Parsons said. “There are very explicit rules about student-athletes socializing with representatives of universities that might recruit them, registered agents, or anyone who might represent the athletic interests of a college.”

  “And which of those categories does this Leach guy fall into?”

  “There’s a long list based on his past. In this case, we’re trying to find out which one. The student-athletes can answer our questions now—or later, when we open a formal investigation. Your choice. Or theirs.”

  Danny’s dad shook his head and laughed. “Can you just call them players? Save the ‘student-athlete’ crap for your press releases. Dave, I’m okay with my guys answering a couple questions before that three-thirty meeting. Are you?”

  Woolard nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Olander again looked at Danny. “As I was saying, Mr. Wilcox. Can you tell me what you were doing with Mr. Leach in the Houston’s restaurant today?”

  Danny shrugged. “Sure. I was not eating the bowl of soup I ordered. It was cold.”

  “Who paid for the soup?”

  “I assume Mr. Leach. I had no idea who he was. Never met him before today.”

  “Did he offer you anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Danny said, trying to hide a smirk. “Dessert.”

  Both Terrell and Mayer laughed out loud at that one, earning glares from both the NCAA men.

  “You want to try that one again without being a smart-ass?” Olander said.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Danny said. “I got there late. I had actually already eaten with someone else.”

  “Who would that be?” Olander said.

  “Bobby Kelleher,” Danny said.

  “The reporter?” Parsons asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And he’ll back up your story?”

  “Of course.”

  Olander decided it was time to change his focus. “Mr. Mayer, how did you come to have lunch with Mr. Leach?”

  It occurred to Terrell that this might be a dicey question for Mayer. Saying that Jordan had made all the arrangements would put the spotlight squarely on him—which was, he suspected, what the NCAA guys wanted. Alex didn’t blink. “Mr. Leach seems to know a lot of players here,” he said. “And I know he’s friends with Mr. Tommasino. He offered to buy us lunch. Neither one of us is exactly dripping with money, so we figured why not? We were told not to talk to coaches or agents. He didn’t appear to be either.”

  Olander turned to Jordan. “All this true, Mr. Jordan?”

  “Yeah,” Jordan said, his tone a lot different than the cocky “I’ll do what I want” tone he’d been using on the car ride back. “Yeah. We just had lunch with the dude. That was it.”

  “Did he offer any of you anything other than lunch?” Olander asked.

  “He said he could get us tickets for the ballgame Saturday night,” Mayer said. He glanced at Jordan for a split second. “We told him no.”

  Jordan, clearly picking up the hint, was nodding. “That’s right. We told him no.”

  Terrell was waiting for the NCAA men to ask Jordan about the car he was driving. He didn’t think Jordan would have an answer for that one.

  As expected, Olander asked next about the car. But he didn’t ask Jordan. “Mr. Mayer, how did you get from here to lunch and back today?” he asked.

  “Divide and conquer,” Danny whispered, leaning close to Terrell.

  “Do you have a comment, Mr. Wilcox?” Parsons said.

  “No,” Danny said. “Absolutely not.”

  “I got a ride,” Alex said.

  “From whom?” Olander said.

  “Mike. He said that Mr. Leach was already at the shopping mall and had asked him to drive the car over there for him.”

  Wow, Terrell thought. That was pretty good.

  “How did Mr. Leach get to the mall?” Olander asked.

  Alex shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Olander made a face indicating that Mayer had upset him by not falling into his trap. He turned to Jordan, who looked a little more relaxed than he had a couple of minutes before. Alex had handed him a possible escape route.

  “Mr. Jordan, do you know how Mr. Leach got to the mall? You know we’ll question him later.”

  “Well, then, I’m sure he’ll explain,” Jordan said. “Before we played this morning, he asked me if I’d do him a favor and drive his car to the mall when we met for lunch because he had to be over there earlier for another meeting.”

  “How did you meet Mr. Leach?” Olander asked.

  “Mr. Tommasino introduced us,” Jordan said with so much confidence that Danny suspected he was telling the truth. “He said he was a ‘friend of the camp’ and that it was okay to talk to him while we were here.”

  Parsons and Olander appeared upset. They looked at each other, as if searching for another direction to go in.

  “Besides loaning you a car and taking you to lunch, what else has Mr. Leach given you this week?” Parsons finally said, looking at Jordan.

  “He didn’t loan me the car—he asked me to bring it to him,” Jordan said. “And that’s it—lunch.” He smiled. “Like Danny said, we didn’t even have dessert.”

  Danny’s dad had apparently heard enough. “Unless you two have some kind of real evidence that any of the boys did something wrong, they have a meeting they’re supposed to be at in about two minutes,” he said. “So are we done here?”

  Parsons glared at him. “We’re done,” he said. “For now.”

  Danny was about to say something to Alex Mayer, like “quick thinking,” once the three players and the two coaches were out in the hallway, but before he could open his mouth, his father said, “We’ll talk to you guys a little later. Danny, I need you for a minute before your meeting. Terrell, wait here a second.”

  He put
his hand on Danny’s back and began steering him down the hall before any of the Mississippi-three could say anything beyond “Catch you later.”

  They walked straight out the back door and into the broiling heat.

  “I want you to listen to me, Daniel, because I’m pretty much through with pulling you back from the cliff every damn day,” his father began.

  Danny knew that his father saying “damn” was a bad sign, and calling him Daniel was even worse. That name only came up when he was in serious trouble.

  “Dad, I swear I didn’t…”

  His father put a hand up. “You did. And I know you like this Mayer kid, but he looked those NCAA guys right in the eye and lied cool as could be just now. That’s the sign of an experienced liar. And if you think for one second they bought that story, you’re crazy. What were you thinking, taking Terrell to lunch with a guy like Ray Leach?”

  “I didn’t, Dad,” Danny said, almost pleading. “He was with Jordan and Mayer when I got there after talking to Kelleher.”

  His dad’s face softened a little. “Okay, okay. Look, those guys won’t let up. They’ll try to find a way to take it out on you because they couldn’t nail Jordan and they have nothing on Terrell. And you’d better drop that smart-ass tone I heard in there.”

  “Dad, the guy was a complete jerk—”

  “They’re paid to be jerks. This Jordan kid is being bought and paid for right under their noses, and you and Mayer give them attitude and a bunch of lies. What do you expect them to do, clap you on the back and say, ‘Good luck tonight’? Grow up, Danny. Now go to your meeting. Try not to get into trouble there. You’re wearing me out.”

  He turned around and walked back inside. Danny stood there alone for a moment, wishing he had the keys to Jordan’s Lincoln, which was sitting a few yards from where he was standing. If he’d had the keys, he would have been seriously tempted to get in the car, drive away, and not look back.

  Instead, he squared his shoulders and walked back inside to find Terrell.

  And then he did get into trouble in the meeting.