Brennan and entourage made their way into the room. Stevie could see that three camera crews were set up in front of three separate mini-stages. Lesley Visser was sitting on a set with the CBS logo in the backdrop. Next to her was a similar set for ESPN and Chris Berman, and next to Berman he could see Susan Carol and Whitsitt sitting not in comfortable armchairs like the others but on tall stools. There was a third stool between them that was obviously for Brennan when it was their turn.
Stevie found a spot in the back of the room so he could stay out of sight and out of everyone’s way. Eddie Brennan, having been given his marching orders already, headed straight for the empty chair on the CBS set. There were several calls for quiet, the CBS technicians turned on the shooting lights, and Visser spent the next ten minutes asking about, as she called it, “the remarkable journey” that had brought him to the Super Bowl. Brennan’s answers were, Stevie thought, warm and genuine. He had done this before; he was a pro—and yet he managed not to fall into jock clichés.
As soon as they were finished, the CBS lights went out and Brennan moved over to the ESPN set, pausing to take the coffee someone had brought him. “I need a towel,” he said. “Hot under these lights.” A towel was magically produced.
Visser was walking toward the door when she veered off and walked directly over to Stevie.
“Lesley Visser,” she said, putting her hand out. “Sean tells me you’re going to be working with us this week. I think it’s great.”
Visser was tall—though not as tall as Susan Carol—and had huge brown eyes and brown hair.
“Thanks,” he said. “I hope I’ll do okay.”
“You’ll be fantastic,” she said, lowering her voice because quiet was now being called for again. “I’ll see you soon.”
She slipped out the door as Chris Berman began his intro.
“You realize, don’t you, that the Schwam picked you guys to be here,” he said, turning to Brennan.
The Schwam was a swami-like character Berman had created to predict the winners each week during the NFL season. Stevie could almost hear Kelleher’s voice in his head as he listened: “Typical TV guy—it’s always about him.”
Brennan was clearly unbothered by the answer posed as a question. “You picked us to beat the Redskins two weeks ago, I know that,” he said. “But where’d you have us when you made your preseason picks?”
Berman got a little huffy. “Well, I thought you’d be better than last season, but I guess not this much better. Who could have seen this coming?!”
“Peter King had us in the Super Bowl,” Brennan said with a smile, referring to Sports Illustrated’s football expert. “So did Tony Kornheiser. Now that was visionary!”
“Yes, well, now that you’re here, let’s move on to the important stuff.” He launched into a number of technical questions about how the Dreams would attack the Ravens’ defense, which led to an interview that wasn’t nearly as interesting, at least to Stevie, as the one Visser had conducted. The strengths and weaknesses of each team were well known already, and Brennan surely wasn’t going to give away his team’s strategy six days before the big game. When they were finished, Berman barely managed a handshake before being whisked off the set by several ESPN producers and suits.
“Lot to do today,” he said, as if explaining his hasty exit. “They never let me rest during Super Bowl week.”
Brennan wasn’t even listening. He had his ESPN mic off and was walking to the USTV set. He was shaking hands with Susan Carol and Jamie Whitsitt when Stevie heard a voice from just off the set say, “Hey, what’s he doing in here?”
Tal Vincent, who had been his producer until four days ago, was standing directly behind one of the cameras pointing a finger at Stevie.
“I invited him,” Dewey Blanton said before Stevie could find his tongue to try to respond. “He’s on Eddie’s schedule once you’re finished.”
“Fine, then,” Vincent said. “He can wait outside in the hallway. This is my room right now and I don’t need some former employee lurking around.”
Stevie could feel steam coming from his ears. He had never liked Vincent very much when he was working for him, and he liked him even less now.
“Tal, ease up,” Blanton said. “He’s not lurking. He’s doing what I told him to do.”
Vincent walked over to Blanton. “Well, now you can do what I’m telling you to do and get him the hell out of here.”
Part of Stevie wanted to just leave. No sense making Dewey Blanton’s life any more difficult. Part of him wanted to slug Tal Vincent. And part of him was waiting for Susan Carol to say something in his defense.
It wasn’t Susan Carol who spoke up, though; it was Eddie Brennan.
“Hey, pal, tell you what—if the kid goes, I’ll go too,” he said, setting the USTV microphone down on his stool. “The league asked us to cooperate with all of the media and I’m willing to do it. But I know what you guys did to him last weekend, and I’m not going to stand here and watch you bully a fourteen-year-old kid.”
“Look, Eddie, we’re all just trying to do our jobs here and—”
Brennan cut him off. “Your choice. You want me to do this interview, then the kid stays. I’m fine either way.”
There was complete silence for several seconds that felt to Stevie like several minutes. Finally Tal Vincent nodded in the direction of the set and said, “Jamie, Susan Carol—whenever you’re ready, let’s roll this.”
There was no further discussion of Stevie’s presence. As the interview proceeded, he could still feel himself shaking with tension and anger. He wasn’t really listening to Susan Carol as she introduced Brennan, but he almost laughed out loud when it was Whitsitt’s turn. His opening question was “Dude—Harvard? What’s that about?” He looked closely to see if Susan Carol had an off-camera reaction, but her expression didn’t change. Though she did laugh when Eddie answered, “Dude! A mind is a terrible thing to waste!” As soon as Susan Carol had thanked him and closed the segment, Brennan was on his feet. He shook hands with Susan Carol and Whitsitt and bounded off the set past Vincent without saying a word.
He walked directly back to where Stevie was standing and put out his hand. “Eddie Brennan,” he said. “Walk with me down the hall and I’ll talk to you about Darin.”
“Thanks,” Stevie said, falling into step as Dewey Blanton and the security people took up their positions around Brennan. “But thanks even more for what you just did for me.”
Brennan looked down at Stevie, his face quite serious. “I don’t like bullies,” he said. “I’m surprised your friend is still doing the show without you….”
“I told her to keep doing it,” Stevie said, breaking in. “There’s no reason for her not to.”
Brennan put a hand on his back. “Well, you’re a good guy for saying that, but that show’s going down in flames with Mr. Boy Band. Dude doesn’t know a thing about sports.”
Stevie remembered throwing something at his television set earlier in the fall when Brennan had dominated the Philadelphia Eagles. Now Brennan was rapidly becoming Stevie’s favorite football player. Seeing that they were approaching the locker room, Brennan braked to a halt, nearly causing a ten-person pileup in the hallway. “So, tell me what Darin told you,” he said, changing the subject.
“He told me about E-D Special,” Stevie said, figuring that would be a good starting point.
Brennan laughed. “Giving away old secrets, huh? And I’ll bet he told you the key to the play in the state championship game was his block.”
“He did say he knocked the guy down.”
Brennan nodded. “It’s true, he did. We’ve always argued about whether I’d have been able to get around him if Darin hadn’t blocked him. Mobility has never been my strength. The best part about it is that I don’t think our coach has ever completely forgiven us for running the play without telling him.”
For the next ten minutes, he talked about his high school friend, a warm smile on his face throughout.
“So,
here’s your big scoop for the day,” he said, seeing Dewey Blanton not-so-subtly pointing to his watch. “Darin and I have violated league rules this week.”
Blanton appeared to turn a bit pale. Eddie plowed on. “We bet on the game,” he said. “Gambling is, of course, strictly forbidden in the NFL.”
“What’d you bet?” Stevie asked.
“Dinner at the Summit Inn,” Brennan said. “Best restaurant in our hometown. If the commissioner wants to suspend me from the game for that, he knows where to find me.”
Stevie saw Blanton sigh in relief. “Give me your notebook,” Eddie said as Stevie was about to shut it. “And your pen.”
Stevie handed them over. Brennan wrote something on the back cover. “That’s my cell,” he said. “You need anything during the week, you call me.”
Stevie thanked him, then thanked Blanton. He could see another gaggle waiting for Brennan just outside the locker room door. Brennan rolled his eyes as he said goodbye to Stevie. “Talking-to-playing ratio is way too high this week,” he said, and was gone, the security wave following behind.
Stevie watched for a minute and then headed down the hall in the opposite direction. He had a story to write. A story no one else would be writing that day. He didn’t miss TV at all. But he did miss Susan Carol.
7: UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT
THE FIELD WAS ALMOST EMPTY when Stevie walked back down the tunnel. A number of TV crews were still doing stand-ups, but all the players and team and league officials were long gone. Stevie noticed that Susan Carol and Whitsitt were doing a stand-up in front of one of the goalposts, the one right in front of the tunnel he had to walk through to get back to the media area. Tal Vincent was standing a few feet behind the two cameras and, for an instant, Stevie thought about walking over to say something to him. He decided against it, though. He’d already won the battle; no need to start a war.
He walked to his right as he passed the area where USTV was set up and noticed that a makeup woman was redoing Jamie Whitsitt’s forehead while Susan Carol waited. She didn’t even glance in his direction as he walked by. Unfortunately, Vincent did.
“Hey, Thomas!” he yelled. Apparently he was taking the approach that if you lose one battle, you start another one. Stevie stopped and waited until he walked up to him.
“I don’t care if some PR guy invited you or not, I don’t want to see you around any of our shoots the rest of the week,” Vincent said.
“What makes you think I have any interest in your shoots?” Stevie said. “Do you think I’m going to steal questions like ‘Dude—Harvard, what’s that about?’”
Vincent reddened slightly. “Look, I know you’re jealous of Jamie. He’s got your job and your girlfriend. Deal with it.”
Stevie had an urge to tackle Vincent—who wasn’t that much bigger than he was—but resisted. Instead, he changed the subject. “Look, Tal, Eddie Brennan made a fool of you in there,” he said. “Deal with it.”
He started to turn away, but Vincent grabbed his arm. Stevie stiffened and pulled away. “Don’t you touch me,” he said, his voice now raised, turning back to face Vincent, who was completely red-faced. “I’m going now. I can’t wait to give Bobby Kelleher a note about what Brennan did to you.”
“You put that in the paper and…”
“And what? You’ll fire me?”
“And I’ll never speak to you again.” The speaker was Susan Carol. She had dropped her mic and left her stand-up position to walk over to the argument. Her arms were folded and she was glaring at Stevie. Her drop-dead smile was nowhere in sight.
“What?” Stevie said. “Are you defending him?”
“He was doing what the network people wanted him to do,” she said. “He told me that a few minutes ago. Mike Shupe doesn’t want you around this week and Tal was just following orders. You don’t humiliate someone for that.”
Stevie could feel his heart racing. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “Oh—but it’s okay for him to humiliate me because the network told him to? Because it’s his job to be an arrogant—”
“Stop it, Stevie. It’s not the same.”
“You really have lost it,” he said. “Do you hear yourself defending this suck-up, two-bit TV producer who has now twice tried to pick a fight with me?”
He realized his voice was shaking with anger and emotion. Susan Carol looked like she might cry. “I have work to do,” she said.
“Yeah, work,” Stevie said. “That’s some great journalism you’ve got going on the Pretty Dude and Dudette show. Very impressive.”
Susan Carol stared at him for a long second as if measuring a response. “Go to hell, Stevie,” she said finally and turned to walk away.
“Got a minister’s daughter to tell you to go to hell,” Tal Vincent said, the sneer returning to his face. “Impressive.”
Stevie knew Vincent had a point—which made it even worse. Chances were good that Susan Carol had never told anyone to go to hell in her life. He didn’t respond to Vincent’s final gibe. It was time to leave the building.
As soon as he turned his cell phone on, it started to ring. “Did you get Brennan?” Bobby asked. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Stevie said, trying not to sound glum. He must have failed.
“What’s wrong?” Kelleher asked.
“Nothing important,” Stevie said, not wanting to get into it. “I’ll fill you in later. I’m going back to my room to write.”
“You want to eat first?”
Stevie glanced at his watch. It was 12:30 and he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. But he didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment. “I think I’ll just order some room service. I’m a little tired from staying up late last night.”
“That’s fine. Call me in a few hours and I’ll take a look at your story before you send it.”
Stevie agreed and hung up. He was tempted to call Susan Carol’s cell to try to talk, but he knew it was a bad idea. He walked back across the street and into the lobby of the Marriott, which was packed, wall to wall. He put his head down and was trying to maneuver his way through the crowd when he heard someone calling his name.
“Steve, hey, Steve! Steve Thomas!”
He turned and saw a short, middle-aged man with wavy brown hair and glasses approaching. “Randy Merkin,” he said, working his way through a couple of men in Dreams jerseys. “I work for Sporting News Radio. I’m glad I spotted you. We’d love to get you on the air.”
A lot of radio stations sent people to events to broadcast live. Most of them set up shop at one of the downtown hotels and sent producers—like Merkin, Stevie presumed—in search of celebrities they could grab and put on their shows. He was mildly flattered to be asked, but at that moment Stevie wanted three things: to be alone, to order something to eat, and to write his story.
“I’m really busy right now, to tell you the truth,” he said. “I have to write a story, and then I’ve got some stuff to do for CBS….”
“You’re working for CBS now?” Merkin said. “Wow. I didn’t know about that. Actually, I wasn’t thinking about now. I was thinking about four o’clock this afternoon. Your old pal Chip Graber is supposed to come on with us then and I thought it might be fun for you.”
“Chip’s here?” Stevie said. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s promoting a new video game. The Timberwolves play tomorrow night in Chicago, so the team gave him a day off to come here to do promo stuff. Everyone in the world comes to the Super Bowl to pitch products.”
Stevie had read about that but didn’t quite get it. He and Susan Carol had kept close tabs on Graber’s career since the Final Four. After hitting the shot to win the championship in dramatic fashion, Graber had been taken with the twelfth pick in the draft by the Minnesota Timberwolves, his hometown team. A lot of people had been surprised that he wasn’t picked sooner, but some teams had been scared off by his size—he was five foot eleven standing up very straight. The Timberwolves, a team struggl
ing to draw fans, had happily taken a local hero, and the pick had proven to be golden. Graber was averaging fifteen points and seven assists in his rookie year as the starting point guard and, as might be expected when a good-looking white kid makes it in the NBA, he had become a marketing star. With all that had gone on in recent days, Stevie had lost track of where and when the Timberwolves were playing. Now he knew.
“Well, I’d love to see Chip,” he said.
“Just come to the second floor at four o’clock then,” Merkin said. “You’ll see radio stations up and down the hallway. We’re at the far end once you turn the corner, just beyond the escalator.” He handed him a card. “Any problems, just call my cell.”
“So radio row is here?” Stevie asked.
Merkin laughed. “One of the radio rows is. There’s another one at the Hyatt and another one at the convention center. There are probably close to two hundred stations here.”
“Wow,” Stevie said, not even caring that he was using that word again. “That’s a lot more than at the Final Four, isn’t it?”
“Probably double—at least,” Merkin said. “So, four o’clock okay?”
Stevie thought for a second. If there was anyone in the world he would feel comfortable talking to about what was going on with Susan Carol, it was Chip Graber. The three of them would always be bonded by what they had gone through in New Orleans. He knew Chip e-mailed regularly with Susan Carol, just as he did with Stevie.
“I’ll be there.”
He worked his way to the elevator, aware that he was actually smiling. The thought of seeing Graber had certainly picked up his spirits.
Once he was settled in his room and had ordered some food, it didn’t take him long to write the story. Darin and Eddie’s stories of high school glory and friendship were so great he could easily have written 2,000 words. Kelleher had told him anything beyond 1,000 words would get cut no matter how good it was, so he tried to be disciplined and pick only the best material. It wasn’t easy. His first version was about 1,400 words. It took him almost as long to get the story down to 1,033 words as it had taken him to write 1,400. It was nearly three o’clock by the time he called Bobby to tell him he was finished.
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