Foul Trouble

by John Feinstein

  “Where—” Terrell started to ask, but Danny shook his head.

  “Later.”

  Two burly members of the wrestling team were standing in front of the steps that led down to the locker room. Once Terrell and Danny were safely in the locker room, Danny explained that he’d asked Kelleher to meet them downtown at Carol’s for lunch.

  “He’s talked to a lot of people over the last couple months. Sounds like we need to hear what he has to say.”

  “Is your dad coming too?”

  Danny shook his head. “No. He’s busy. But he knows, and he’s okay with it.”

  They showered and dressed quickly, then ducked out the way they had come in—through the front door. It was a bright, windy October afternoon, and the fall foliage had turned Lexington into a picture postcard of a New England town. For all that Terrell had said about wanting to go to college somewhere warmer, he did love it here.

  Carol’s was a favorite local restaurant, with a counter up front and tables in the back, though most of them were empty since it was after two o’clock. There was a TV in the corner of the room that had a college football game on. Boston College was leading Maryland, 17–7, in the third quarter.

  “There’s a guy waiting for you,” Polly Shannon, one of the waitresses, told them as they paused by the television set.

  “Thanks,” Danny said, and they walked to the back of the room, where there was a door that led to a small private room with two tables. Coach Wilcox often used it after games to gather a few friends in a quiet place. It had now become a place where Danny and Terrell often went so they wouldn’t be interrupted constantly. It wasn’t as if the room was a secret; everyone in town knew about it. There was just an unspoken rule that during basketball season, you didn’t go back there unless invited.

  Kelleher was sitting at one of the tables, reading the Boston Globe and sipping coffee. There was a TV in the corner, and Kelleher had it on with no sound. He had found a different game: West Virginia at Texas Tech.

  “This is what it’s come to,” he said, looking up from the paper and gesturing at the TV. “West Virginia in Lubbock, Texas, to play in the Big Twelve.”

  Danny wasn’t that much of a football fan, but he knew that conference realignment had completely turned college athletics upside down. Boise State and TCU had joined the Big East then quit. The Big Ten would soon have fourteen teams, and the Big Twelve had ten teams. Danny had joked to Terrell that he should forget all the big-time schools and go with him to Harvard so they could play in the Ivy League, which would always have the same eight teams no matter what other changes occurred in college athletics.

  They sat down, and Polly showed up a split second later to take their orders. On Danny and Terrell’s recommendation, they all got cheeseburgers, French fries, and milkshakes.

  Once Polly had left, Danny looked at Kelleher and said quietly, “So, Bobby, why don’t you tell Terrell what you told me back at the gym.”

  Kelleher looked at his watch. “Have you guys got a while?”

  He explained that he had spent about four months, “so far,” working on a story about how corrupt college recruiting had become. His paper, the Washington Herald, had initially given him the summer to work exclusively on the project, but by the time Labor Day rolled around he had unearthed more questions than answers.

  “Are you getting close to anything?” Terrell asked.

  “Yeah, a nervous breakdown,” Kelleher said. He smiled grimly. “I’m close to a lot of things. I know a lot of things. But getting it on the record is the hard part.”

  “So what do you know?” Terrell asked.

  Kelleher picked up a file folder that had been sitting on the chair next to him and slid it across the table. “In there are profiles I’ve put together on the top twelve high school seniors in the country, according to a consensus of the major scouting services. Look at the names; see if you think I’ve left anyone out. You met all of them during the summer except for Anthony Johnstone and Jonathan Blixt.”

  “Blixt, the kid from Utah?” asked Danny, who seemed to know every player alive. “He’s seven-four. His parents wouldn’t let him go to any of the camps or play summer tournaments. He’s pretty much a lock to go to Brigham Young.”

  “You don’t need to read any of the details,” Kelleher said. “Just tell me if I’ve left anyone out who you think is a surefire NBA player. These are the kids the scouts have pegged as one-and-done, or at the very most, two-and-out.”

  Terrell and Danny glanced through the folder. The names were familiar. Omar Whytlaw was included for some reason. The only one that surprised Danny a little was Alex Mayer. “Alex Mayer told me he wanted to stay in college for four years,” he said. “And why is Omar Whytlaw in there? He’ll never play again from what I’ve heard.”

  Kelleher nodded. “I know about Mayer. But he’s good enough that he could go sooner. As for Omar, you’re right. But that’s one reason why he’s willing to talk to me. He’s got nothing to lose.”

  “You’ve talked to Omar?”

  “Several times. He’s in a rehab center. He’s hoping to walk on crutches by the end of the year.”

  Terrell shut the folder. “Okay, so what’s the point of this list?”

  “My point is that I am about ninety-nine percent certain you’re the only guy on the list who hasn’t yet taken a handout of some kind.”

  “Alex hasn’t taken anything,” Danny said.

  “Yes, he has. Not as much as some others, but he definitely has taken things.”

  “Like what?” Danny said defensively.

  “Like a car,” Kelleher said. “Technically, his father bought it for him. But I’ve got the bank wire records that show Paul Judson sent his dad forty thousand dollars about a month before he bought the car.”

  “How’d you get that?” Danny asked, eyes wide.

  “I have friends,” Kelleher said. “I can’t use the info right now, but I know it happened. Still, Alex has been given considerably less than these other guys.”

  “Except me,” Terrell said.

  “Right.” Kelleher paused. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “You haven’t taken anything,” Kelleher said. “But there are people in your life who have been negotiating on your behalf. Normally, these guys try to get to your summer AAU coach, because they always have a hand out. But you were coached by Danny’s dad during the summer, and Coach Wilcox made it clear he’d blow the whistle in a second. So they’ve had to go around him.”

  “To who?” Terrell asked.

  Kelleher sighed. “To Coach Stephenson. And, through him, they hope, to your mom.”

  Terrell felt a hot flash of anger. His first instinct was to reach across the table, grab Kelleher by the shirt, and call him a liar. But he knew that Kelleher wasn’t lying. He might be wrong—he hoped he was wrong—but he wasn’t lying.

  It was Danny who responded first. “I just don’t believe that,” he said. “I think someone is giving you bad information. Terrell’s mom wouldn’t sell him out that way.”

  “I don’t think she’s sold him out at all so far,” Kelleher said. “But I think people are making repeated and persuasive arguments that she owes it to Terrell to help him take advantage of his situation. Unfortunately, Terrell, these days if you’re a star the way you’re a star and you just take the scholarship, most of your peers are going to think you’re a chump. It’s a one-way deal: The school makes millions off of you and you aren’t guaranteed a dollar.

  “Let’s say you go to Duke. Krzyzewski is about as straight a shooter as there is in this crooked business. Midway through your freshman season, you tear up your knee and you lose a step and you go from being a lottery pick to a D-league player—”

  “D-league?” Terrell said.

  “NBA Developmental League. The minors. Minimum salary in the NBA is about $500,000 a year. Minimum salary in the D-league is about $500 a week. You know what Krzyzewski does? He sighs, says he’s really sorry—wh
ich he is—but then goes out and recruits another player. Duke keeps making millions from TV and from athletic fund-raising and from selling Terrell Jamerson jerseys as artifacts. What do you get? Because Krzyzewski’s an honorable man, he’d probably keep you on scholarship. A lot of coaches wouldn’t.”

  “Well, that’s worth something, isn’t it?” Danny said.

  “Yes, it is,” Kelleher said. “But it’s not the big payoff you could be getting. Right now.”

  “It sounds like you’re saying I should be taking stuff from all these guys,” Terrell said.

  Kelleher shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. Because then they own you. If Danny’s buddy Alex Mayer doesn’t do what Paul Judson wants him to do, Judson will out him. If that happens while he’s in college, he could lose eligibility and not be able to play. If it happens after college, well, not as bad. The NBA doesn’t much care about the NCAA’s rules. But it will taint him in the eyes of corporate America. That billboard you guys all dream about? Not gonna happen.”

  Terrell had to admit he had fantasized about seeing himself up on a billboard promoting Nike or Under Armour or Brickley someday.

  “So the system is corrupt on both sides,” Danny was saying. “You play by the rules: The colleges get rich and you don’t. You don’t play by the rules: Some sleazy agent or sneaker company guy ends up owning you.”

  “Danny, you advance to the lightning round,” Kelleher said. “You’ve got it exactly right. Pretty picture, isn’t it?”

  Terrell didn’t want to discuss Kelleher’s dark vision of basketball at that moment. “Can we get back to my mom and Coach Stephenson?” he asked.

  Kelleher opened up one of the files. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what I know so far.”

  When Kelleher closed the file, Terrell didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just get up and walk out of the room.

  The way Kelleher told it, Barrett Stephenson had been approached by Athena, the up-and-coming apparel-and-sneaker company that was trying to take on Under Armour. According to what Kelleher had found out, it started with Athena expressing interest in supplying Stephenson’s team at Concord with gear. This wasn’t uncommon. In fact, many high school coaches were paid by the big-name companies to put their players in their gear and to promote the company. Concord wasn’t exactly a name program and Stephenson wasn’t coaching anybody who was going to be a big-time recruit. The Athena rep, someone named Aubre Andrews, had told Stephenson that Athena was just looking for exposure anywhere it could find it to build the brand.

  Soon after Stephenson accepted that offer, Andrews came back with his boss, Stan Montana, offering to pay for Stephenson’s summer camp. The camp was hardly a big deal: two weeks of day camp at Concord. Stephenson ran it with three other high school coaches in the area, but it was a modest business. The four coaches usually ended up splitting between $10,000 and $15,000 in profits each year.

  Athena wanted to pay for the camp and expand it to three weeks because it could use its contacts to bring in some semi-high-profile players. It would also supply the gear for all the campers. The offer meant that Stephenson and his partners would double their profit—or more.

  There was just one small catch: Stephenson needed to convince Terrell Jamerson to attend the camp for one week. This would be good for everybody: Athena, the camp, and, of course, Stephenson and his partners.

  Stephenson had been unsure at first but had ended up saying yes.

  Terrell knew that was true because he had spent a week at the camp.

  “He was honest with me about it,” Terrell said to Kelleher. “He said Athena was interested in the camp, and me being there would help a lot.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kelleher said. “That’s how they get, if you’ll forgive the expression, their foot in the door.” He turned to another page of notes. “Terrell, you remember being introduced that week to a guy named Donald Tucker? Big guy, about six-six, former player? Very outgoing.”

  Terrell nodded. “Yeah, he said he had played at Kansas.”

  “He did. Sort of. He averaged 1.4 points a game for four years and never graduated. But he’s real smart and he helped start Athena. He came to town partly to meet you but also to tell Coach Stephenson that he was so pleased with the camp, he was going to put him on the payroll in the fall.”

  “Is that legal?” Danny said.

  “Absolutely. In fact, I don’t think anyone involved here has broken a rule yet.”

  “Yet,” Terrell said.

  Kelleher nodded and went on. “Everyone was happy with the new arrangement—especially when you announced the five schools you were going to visit. Tell me, Terrell, how’d you put that list together?”

  It had actually been pretty simple. Terrell and his mom and the two coaches he trusted—Wilcox and Stephenson—had sat down one night after dinner with a list of about thirty schools that had already been in touch and had whittled them to nine very quickly. Three were automatics as far as Terrell was concerned: Duke, North Carolina, and UCLA. The first two had Hall of Fame coaches and he had seen the campuses—both were beautiful. UCLA had a very good coach in Steve Alford, and he’d really wanted to see the campus.

  That left six others for two spots: Kentucky, Connecticut, Kansas, Indiana, Mass State, and the University of Atlanta.

  Kentucky was a one-and-done school. That was what Coach John Calipari sold: Come here and you’ll be NBA-ready in a year. No thanks. Connecticut had a great tradition, but they also had a brand-new coach and had just been on NCAA probation. No thanks. He didn’t know that much about Kansas and Indiana, but both had storied basketball traditions and coaches who came across as good guys: Bill Self at Kansas, Tom Crean at Indiana. Mass State and Atlanta were up-and-coming programs whose coaches, Mike Todd at Mass State and Grant Hathaway at Atlanta, were selling the notion that Terrell would be the breakout player who would take their school to places they had never been before.

  In one letter, Hathaway had written, “You’ll be an icon the day you set foot on campus. From there it will only get better.”

  Terrell’s mother had snorted. “No one should be an icon at the age of eighteen.”

  She hadn’t said much during that meeting. Now that Kelleher was asking, Terrell remembered that Coach Stephenson had pushed very hard for Atlanta. “It’s a great city, the weather won’t be too cold, and I think Grant Hathaway has a chance to be one of the next great coaches.” He added that he thought Terrell should consider at least one school with an African American coach. Mike Todd fit that bill.

  Coach Wilcox liked the idea of Mass State too. “You should visit one school close to home,” he said. “You may decide you don’t want to go too far away. I was thinking UConn, but I understand your reservations there. I don’t know Mike Todd that well, but clearly he can coach.”

  Coach Stephenson nodded. “Actually, he did a clinic at my camp this summer,” he said. “The kids loved him.”

  So it had been decided: Duke, North Carolina, UCLA, Atlanta, and Mass State.

  “Stephenson likes Atlanta and Mass State,” Kelleher said. “That mostly makes sense. I have sources—granted, biased ones—who say Stephenson will make a lot of money if he delivers you to Atlanta. I don’t know of a Mass State connection yet—but I’m still digging.”

  Danny couldn’t stop shaking his head. “It all seems so…complicated. All this maneuvering and scheming. Do they really want Terrell that bad?”

  “Think, Danny. Terrell could be their ticket to the Final Four, a national championship, enormous revenues for their school. All the money they’re laying out to entice players like Terrell or Michael Jordan or Jay Swanson? It’s nothing compared to what they stand to gain when their team wins. So, yes, they want Terrell that bad.”

  Danny studied Terrell, wondering how he felt about that. But Terrell wasn’t really paying attention. He was still focused on what he’d been told about Coach Stephenson. And the question he was almost too afraid to ask. Finally, he said, “Does my mom know all th
is?”

  “That I don’t know,” Kelleher said. “That I do not know.”

  SEVENTEEN

  There was another question that Bobby Kelleher hadn’t addressed. What was Terrell supposed to do with this information?

  And: “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Danny tells me you’re going to make your visits to Mass State and Atlanta over the next couple weekends,” Kelleher said. “I’d like to know what goes on during those trips. I’d like to know who you meet and what they say to you and what they tell you.”

  “And what they offer me?”

  “Yeah—that too,” Kelleher said.

  “Why would I do that?” Terrell asked.

  Kelleher shrugged. “Because you don’t seem like you want to play their game. Because exposing these guys is the right thing to do.”

  “And because you’ll get a big story out of it?”

  “Yup,” Kelleher said. “I will. Is there something wrong with doing a story that tells the truth on a subject this secret and this corrupt?”

  Danny had told Terrell that he liked Kelleher for three reasons: He was smart, he was honest, and he was direct.

  “Tell you what,” Terrell finally said. “Let’s talk after I get back from the visits.”

  “Deal,” Kelleher said. “Now, what do I have to do to get more coffee in this place?”

  Six days later, Terrell was headed for Atlanta. He and Danny drove to Logan Airport together as soon as school was over on Friday. Danny was flying to Nashville to visit Vanderbilt for his official recruiting visit.

  Vanderbilt was in the Southeastern Conference, and the fact that they were recruiting Danny, even though they had no chance to get Terrell, was proof of how high Danny had risen in the eyes of college coaches since the summer. Danny’s other visits had been to George Washington, Richmond, and UCLA. And then there was Harvard.

  Terrell knew Danny was torn: He had loved his visit to Washington, D.C., and thought that living on GW’s campus, a few blocks from the White House, would be cool. Richmond’s campus, he had told Terrell, was just as pretty as Duke’s or North Carolina’s. Playing at Vanderbilt, a great school in a top conference, might be a good fit for him. But they both knew that Danny’s dad wanted him to go to Harvard. Yes, he was impressed with Tommy Amaker, Harvard’s coach. But mostly he wanted him to go because it was, well, Harvard.