by Tim Green
"How was the concert?" Clark asked.
"Symphony," Jerry corrected him. "It was Vivaldi and it was excellent."
Clark lay back. Jerry fixed the electrodes on either side of his neck with an elastic strap and wedged a wet rubber grounding pad under the small of his back. The frigid conductive gel under the electrode pads sent a shiver down Clark's spine.
"Tell me when you feel it," Jerry said.
When the needles of current bordered on pain, Clark said, "Okay."
Jerry backed it down a stop, forced another smile, and walked away. Clark followed the trainer with his eyes. The bad neck hindered his view, but he saw enough to detect a slump in Jerry's shoulders that wasn't normally there. There had been something about his tone of voice and his tight expression that disconcerted Clark. As much as anyone in the downstairs level of the facility, Jerry had his finger on the pulse of the team. He had no reason to be personally mi fifed at Clark. That meant something else was amiss.
The rest of the morning only confirmed Clark's initial suspicion. It was nothing overt, but there were enough subtle signs: the other trainers not looking him in the eye, the equipment man offering him an extra pair of socks, the weight coach's distracted look when Clark asked about the starting date for the offseason program. So by the time Clark returned to his locker after a shower he wasn't surprised at all to see a note taped to his stool. Coach Gridley, the headman, wanted to see him.
Clark tried to tell himself that whatever happened was God's will. But as he sat in his scruffy jeans and a faded green golf shirt outside the head coach's office, worry gnawed away at his insides. An injured player was always on tenuous ground no matter how many good things he'd done in the past. And Clark was an expensive injured player. He'd signed a new multimillion-dollar contract only last summer. When the secretary told him to go in, Clark jumped from his chair and was through the door before the coach had replaced the phone on its receiver.
"Clark, sit down," Gridley said somberly. He was a heavyset, dark-featured man, young for someone in his position, but already his sagging jowls and eyes were marked with care from his serious intensity. He had none of the cheerful enthusiasm many people associated with a young football coach. He looked more like a draconian colonel in some third-world secret service.
Clark sat.
"How's the neck coming?" Gridley said in his low bass, looking pointedly at the still-bright scar traversing the length of Clark's neck. They had opened his throat from the front, pushing aside his trachea, esophagus, and muscles in order to get at the anterior of his spine and fuse the two vertebrae with a sliver of bone from his hip.
"Great," Clark replied enthusiastically, twisting his neck from side to side to prove it. There was no need to mention that his right shoulder and arm were still only about half their normal strength as a result of the nerve damage. Gridley, Clark knew, gpt a weekly report from the doctors.
"Well, I'm glad for that," Gridley said with a forced smile of his own. "Clark, this is the part of this job that I like the least, but you know as well as I do how this game has changed since free agency . . . Coaching a team is as much about accounting these days as it is putting in a good offensive game plan. I don't like it any more than most of the players, but that's how it is . . . Clark, I've got to release you."
Clark felt his stomach knot up. He had nothing to say. It was dizzying.
"I don't want you to think I don't want you as part of this team," Gridley continued solemnly, "but we just can't afford to keep you at your salary. I know you'll want to see what you can get on the open market, but I want you to know that I'm going to strongly recommend to Mr. Ulrich that we make a strong play to re-sign you. I'm sorry. I hope you understand."
It wasn't the money that bothered Clark. It was the rejection, to sit there and have to hear that he'd become too expensive, as if he wasn't worth everything he'd done for this team.
"It's business," Clark said with a scowl. "That's fine. I get that. And you're right. I will test the market. My neck is fine. I'm the same player you signed to a six-million-dollar deal last year. I can still block and run and catch, and I'm worth every cent of my contract."
Gridley inclined his head. "I'm not saying you're not worth it, Clark. I'm just saying that we've got salary cap constraints and Mr. Ulrich is determined to get a big free-agent running back. He's convinced, and he's right, that if we can upgrade our ground game we can win a championship.
"He's looking for places to cut the payroll. That's business. It's going to affect other guys on this team, too. Unfortunately," he added, with all the kindness he could muster, "you're hurt right now. I don't doubt that you'll be full go by next year. That's why I'd love to have you back. But on the market--and that's what this is all about--on the market, your price goes down. You know that. . ."
"I--" Clark began, but then closed his mouth and stood to go.
The coach stood, too, and extended his hand. Clark gripped it with his weakened hand and put as much into it as he could.
"Maybe we'll work something out," Gridley said. "I meant what I said, Clark. I'd like to have you back."
"Sounds good," Clark said, withdrawing his nearly limp hand.
In the main lobby Clark realized that a bevy of reporters, TV as well as newspaper, were clustered just outside the main entrance.
"Shoot," he muttered to himself. Word of his release must have already been leaked, and he didn't want to have to deal with any questions. He smiled sheepishly at the receptionist, who gave him a sympathetic frown, then made his way back through the offices to go out the side door by the players' parking lot.
Clark wasn't one to overuse his car phone, but before he had even started the engine of his Expedition he was punching up his agent's number, breathing so hard he was close to hyperventilating. He'd never felt this way before. It was like having a girl you loved tell you there was someone else, only ten times worse. It was a rejection so painful that Clark forgot to pray. He could only react.
"Caldburn, Baxter and Thrush," said the receptionist of the law firm Clark had dialed.
"This is Clark Cromwell," he said. "I need to speak with Madison McCall, please."
"Just a moment. . ."
Clark looked through the windshield at the Juggernauts facility, a modern smoked-glass configuration tucked up next to the three expansive emerald green practice fields. In the distance beyond the border of royal palm trees were the mountains that looked down on Orange County from the east. On a clear day it was a magnificent place to come to work. Apart from an initial two-year stint in Seattle, he'd been here for his entire NFL career. It was home, but now maybe it wasn't.
"Ms. McCall's office."
"Sharon, hi, this is Clark. I need to speak to Madison."
"She's in court right now, Clark. Can I help you, or do you want to speak with Chris?"
"Is Chris there?"
"I just saw him go into the conference room, but I'll let him know it's you."
While Clark waited, a long white limousine pulled into the circle in front of the Juggernauts main entrance. The reporters crowded around the car, and Clark felt a pang of shame at having thought they were waiting for him. He wondered if the receptionist had picked up on his foolish presumption.
"Hi, Clark," came Chris Pelo's cheerful voice. He was Madison's assistant, also a lawyer, who handled the nuts and bolts of the sports agency business they both ran for the firm. Madison was the real boss, but Chris was no slouch. Clark heard that Pelo had worked his way through law school as a police investigator.
"Chris, they cut me."
"What? Wait a minute, they cut you?"
"Just now," Clark said. "I just came from Gridley's office. Salary cap stuff, he said, my injury."
Clark watched three black men file out of the limousine. The last two looked like players, especially the last one. Clark knew by his size and the way he moved. The cornrows in his hair and the dark glasses reminded him of Trane Jones. Then, as the trio passed through th
e reporters on their way into the team's offices, Clark saw the distinct nickel-size scar under the player's left eye. It was Trane Jones. He was the free-agent running back, the reason Clark had just been cut.
"I don't believe it!" Chris said incredulously. "I talked with Ulrich just last week about your bonus money and he never said a word . . ."
"What am I going to do?" Clark said. He didn't mention Jones to Chris. He was afraid of sounding like a whiner.
There was a long silence before Chris regained himself. "We'll start calling around today! There are plenty of teams that would love to sign you."
"At a reduced salary," Clark complained.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Chris responded. "I don't know about that at all. Your neck is fine. The doctors will vouch for that. Your shoulder will come back. San Francisco needs a good fullback, and the Jets. . ."
Clark felt weak and materialistic talking about the money. He always told himself and everyone else it wasn't about the money. But it wasn't money he wanted for money's sake; it was the mark of how much worth a team ascribed to you. Every player wanted to be valuable to his team. Getting released, even if it was just to cram your salary down, was the ultimate sign of disrespect. It was what every player dreaded most.
In a way, Clark wanted to go to one of those other teams that Chris was talking about, just to stick it in the Juggernauts' face. Let them sign Trane Jones, the derelict. Then let him get smashed in the mouth every other play without a good fullback to block for him. But after the initial adrenaline wore off, going to another team didn't seem like such a great idea at all. Clark didn't want to go anywhere. Los Angeles was his home. He liked it there. He liked his teammates. He liked his house in Rancho Palos Verdes, his church, his Bible study group, the coffee shop he went to. Besides, his team was close to winning it all. He knew that. They'd lost in the conference championship game, yes, but they were a young team and they had been just one game away from the biggest prize in sports: the Super Bowl.
"I don't know," Clark said. "Maybe Madison could call Ulrich when she gets back. Maybe it would be worth it to them to not have me going out into the free market. That would make sense for them. I could take a pay cut. Maybe we could get some incentives built in so if I had a good year I could get closer to my original salary."
"It's possible," Chris said dubiously.
"If they want me," Clark added.
"I'm sure they want you, Clark," Pelo said. "It's not a matter of not wanting you. Gridley said that himself. You know it."
"I don't know what I know," Clark said. "But I hope you're right. I've got to go. Will Madison be back anytime today?"
"She should."
"Well, ask her to call me, even if it's late. I really want to talk to her."
Clark started his truck and drove right past the reporters to a quiet neighborhood in Newport Beach. Tom Huntington lived there with his wife and their two young girls. Tom was a former Oakland Raider, a wild player who had lived life on the edge. Then, after almost losing his life to a drug overdose, he had found God. Or, as Tom liked to say, God had found him. Since that day, Tom had worked to build a Christian ministry for professional football players in the Los Angeles area. Clark had heard of Tom's group, the Christian Players, during his days in Seattle. They were very active in doing good works in the surrounding area. And when Clark signed a contract with L. A., Tom had been one of the first people to greet him.
Tom's house was an impressive place with tall Doric pillars and a clay tile roof. In the back a pool sat nestled into a lavish jungle of landscaping. The arrangement of expensive Land Cruisers, Benzes, and Lexuses spilling out of the driveway and into the street wouldn't have raised a single eyebrow with the neighbors except that they knew it meant the Juggernauts faithful were meeting there as they did every Tuesday almost year-round. Sometimes the neighborhood kids would wait around outside and ambush the players on their way to their vehicles when they were flushed with goodwill. The only exception was during the five weeks of training camp, when no one had time for even a prayer meeting.
Inside the house, nearly two dozen teammates were spread out around Tom's living room, weighing down the tastefully plush furniture, each with his Bible in hand. They were reading Christ's parable about the sower of seeds. Clark sat down amid a flurry of good-hearted greetings. He knew by their tones that his teammates had yet to hear he'd been let go. Clark fixed his mind on the seeds that grew among the weeds, choked off by the cares and concerns of this world. That would be him if he let what was happening get him down. He couldn't do that. Clark bowed his head as he listened. He had to turn it over to God, his will be done.
After the closing prayer, Tom Huntington stood up to speak.
"I want to remind everybody that Friday night is the bachelor auction at the Century Plaza for St. Jude Hospital. I hope the married guys will come and bring their wives, just to support the event, and for you single guys. . ." Tom let loose one of his bashful chuckles. "Well, make sure you look your best. Every dollar you raise goes to a great cause. This is the kind of good work that we were talking about at last week's meeting. This is a great way for you guys to use your blessings as professional athletes to witness for Jesus. With all the bad things people see athletes involved in, this is a good opportunity to set an example."
There were nods and assurances of attendance as the players filed out into the afternoon sunlight. When Tom gave the call to duty, this group of players went. They were powerful Christians, each of them committed to giving 10 percent of their salary to Tom's ministry, the Christian Players. As a group they declared that if they ever did win the Super Bowl, they would use the opportunity to glorify Jesus Christ, to spread the word, and to let people know that it was the power of Jesus that enabled them to win the big one.
Clark hung back until the rest of his teammates had gone.
"You okay?" Tom said to him, giving his good shoulder a friendly squeeze.
Clark nodded but said, "They cut me."
The ever-present light that shone in Tom's eyes dimmed momentarily. "Are you okay?" he asked, narrowing his eyes with concern.
Clark nodded again and said, "I don't want to get choked off by the cares and concerns of this world."
"Yes," Tom said slowly, "that's right, but that doesn't mean we have to be completely unaffected by traumatic events, and I know this is a traumatic event."
"It's not like someone died," Clark said with a nervous laugh.
"No, but it's like part of you died," Tom said quietly. "Remember, I know what it's about. Sometimes you guys forget I was a player just because I'm skinny and worn out."
"I know you're a player," Clark said.
Tom had played wide receiver for the Raiders in the seventies until drugs and age had slowed him down. Since then, a maniacal regimen of long-distance running had left him thinner than he was as a player. That and a receding line of graying hair made him look nearly frail, one of the last people someone would guess as having played in the NFL The only hint might have been the unusual intensity of his pale green eyes.
"No matter how strong your faith is, it still hurts," Tom said, hugging Clark.
"I know."
Chapter 5
Madison McCall took the dark-paneled elevator to the top floor of the building that was home to Caldburn, Baxter and Thrush. A handsome associate in his early twenties with close- cropped hair and a goatee tried hard to hide the fact that he was checking her out. She warned him off with a frown, but smiled inwardly. She was close enough to forty that it felt good to be mistaken for someone much younger.
In truth, Madison drew looks from men of all ages, even when she wasn't expensively dressed and made up for an appearance in court. Her height was just above average, but her long legs and strong posture gave her the appearance of being taller. Her frame, while athletic, had enough curves to steer well clear of androgyny. Her light brown hair was straight and silky, and by changing how she wore it she could present a different look for alm
ost every working day of the week. Her nose was a little long, but it fit her face, and her eyes were an iridescent bottle green.
Madison's office was in the west corner facing the Colorado River and the Austin foothills beyond. It was the only top-floor corner office occupied by someone who wasn't a direct descendant of Caldburn, Baxter, or Thrush. Madison liked to feel that her office was the result of her prowess in the courtroom, but deep down she knew that it was more because of the money her sports agency brought into the firm's coffers than the clients she defended from an overzealous district attorney.
Outside Madison's office, her secretary, Sharon, sat like a protective gargoyle at her desk. Built like a fireplug, she wore her carrot-colored hair short and spiked. Before Madison reached the end of the hallway, Sharon was already on her feet with her mouth going strong. Madison walked past, absorbing the most important items on the move.
"The DA called and she wants to talk about the Vecchio matter," Sharon said, following Madison through the doorway to her office and into the expansive room. "Mr. Aguillar wants you to call him before the day is over, he says he wants to plead guilty and get it all over with; the Polt deposition has been canceled for tomorrow morning, so I moved your flight to L. A. up two hours, that will let you get in for dinner; and Chris wants you to try to use the extra time to meet with Armand Ulrich because they just cut Clark Cromwell; the dean of the UCLA law school called to invite you to a VIP cocktail party at her home on Friday night; and you're confirmed at the Hotel Bel Air for four days and nights."
"Anything else important?" Madison said as she slumped into her chair with a sigh.
Sharon caught her breath and said, "Nothing too urgent. That guy Cartwright from USA Today called again; just wants half an hour. He'll buy lunch. Everything else is right there in front of you: twenty-seven other phone messages, thirteen faxes, and four e-mails not counting the junk.