Cover-up

by John Feinstein

  “Finally,” Stevie said.

  “Amen to that,” Susan Carol added.

  At Andy Kaplan’s invitation they lingered in the CBS compound for a while, not wanting to deal with any more media queries than they had to.

  Stevie and Susan Carol both turned their cell phones back on once the interview was over. Stevie had one message—from his parents. Susan Carol gasped when she saw she had nineteen messages. “How did all these people get my number?” she asked. She looked through the calls on the “received calls” page, shaking her head no at each number she didn’t recognize. She stopped at one, looking surprised.

  “Wonder what this is about?” she said.

  “What is it?” Stevie asked.

  “Jamie,” she said. She had already pressed the button to call the number back, which, in spite of everything she had said all week, still made Stevie feel a little queasy.

  “Jamie,” she said. “It’s Susan Carol. I see you’ve left three messages for me the last couple of hours. I’m sure you know I’ve been a little bombarded here, but if you really need something, I’ll have the phone on for a while. Otherwise, I’ll see you postgame—unless the rumors that I’ve been fired are true.”

  She looked at Stevie as she hung up. “What’s that look for?”

  “Why would you call him back?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m telling you he isn’t a bad guy. It might be that he’s just concerned about me.”

  Stevie wasn’t buying. “Yeah, concerned about you.”

  “Stop it, Stevie,” she said. She moved closer to him and said quietly, “There’s only one boy I’ve kissed this week, and you know who he is. Okay?”

  Stevie nodded, feeling a little embarrassed and a little weak in the knees. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  He still wished she hadn’t called Whitsitt back.

  About thirty minutes before game time, they decided to go upstairs to the press box. There were two—the main box halfway up in the stands and an auxiliary box at the very top of the building. Stevie and Susan Carol were in the auxiliary box, Bobby and Tamara in the main box.

  “You guys should be okay up there,” Kelleher said. “Anyone asks you anything, just say, ‘We stand by our story and we’d just like to watch the game now.’”

  They took the elevator to the auxiliary box level and stepped into a place that was so far from the field it made Stevie almost dizzy to look down. “Good thing they have TV monitors all over the place,” Susan Carol said. “We wouldn’t see much from up here.”

  The auxiliary press box was huge. It stretched from one 20-yard line to the other 20-yard line and had three rows of chairs lined up with desks in front of them. Some writers had already set up their laptops at their seats. Others were in their seats working, no doubt on pregame notes. There were TV sets hanging over the desks, each of them about three seats apart, meaning everyone had a good view of a TV even if the field was in another time zone.

  “I wonder if the regular press box is as big as this one,” Stevie said.

  “I think Bobby told me it’s bigger,” said Susan Carol. “There are more seats down there than up here, if you can believe that.”

  Kaplan had told them downstairs that he would be working throughout the game, so Susan Carol could sit in his assigned seat next to Stevie. CBS had gotten him a seat, which was actually a good thing because it was in the front row, as opposed to the seat assigned to him for the Herald in the back row. They worked their way to their seats and, for the first time in twenty-four hours, no one seemed interested in talking to them. The focus—at last—was on football.

  The player introductions and the pregame ceremonies seemed to take forever. The NFL brought in a different singer to sing every patriotic song ever written. “Oh God, not him,” Susan Carol said when Lee Greenwood came out to sing “God Bless the U.S.A.”

  “You’re not ‘proud to be an American’?” a voice said behind them.

  Stevie turned and saw Pete Alfano, a columnist for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram he had met at the U.S. Open, sitting one row up with a smile on his face.

  “I am,” Susan Carol said. “I just can’t stand that song.”

  “Used to be, the national anthem was enough,” Alfano said. “The only one they haven’t done so far is ‘America the Beautiful.’”

  “That’ll be halftime,” Stevie said.

  Finally, at 6:25—seven minutes after the designated kickoff time of 6:18—the game began. The Ravens’ Matt Stover kicked into the end zone and the ball came out to the 20-yard line. When the Dreams’ offense trotted onto the field, a loud buzz went through the crowd. Jeff George was the quarterback.

  People in the auxiliary press box immediately began shouting at one another. “Is that George? What in the world is going on? Someone turn the sound up on the TV—see if CBS knows anything.”

  The sound came up on the TV hanging just over Stevie and Susan Carol’s heads.

  “…complete surprise to us,” he heard Nantz saying. “We will try to get a report from the sidelines on what is wrong with Eddie Brennan as soon as possible.”

  The Dreams had told no one of the quarterback change. With Jeff George in charge, they quickly went three and out: two running plays picked up three yards, and then George had to throw the ball away with Ray Lewis bearing down on him on third down. So they punted, and Steve McNair, the Ravens’ veteran quarterback, began moving his team down the field.

  The Ravens had just picked up a first down at the Dreams’ 22-yard line when an announcement came over the press box PA: “Jeff George is starting at quarterback for the Dreams due to a coach’s decision. The Dreams have not reported any injury to Eddie Brennan.”

  That didn’t really tell anyone anything. Reporters began leaving their seats, no doubt to go downstairs and see if Dewey Blanton or someone from the league could shed more light on the situation. “I bet anyone with money on the Dreams isn’t too happy right now,” Susan Carol said. “The NFL would never admit it, but one of the reasons they’re so obsessed with making all injuries public is that they know it affects the betting lines.”

  Stevie hadn’t even thought in those terms, but it made sense. The Dreams clearly were a different team—no matter what Don Meeker thought—with George at quarterback instead of Brennan.

  The Dreams’ defense was still solid, though, and they held the Ravens out of the end zone. Then Matt Stover came on and kicked a twenty-eight-yard field goal to make it 3–0. “Hasn’t he been in the league for like a hundred years?” Stevie said.

  “Since 1990,” Susan Carol said.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I read the media guide,” she said. “Do you ever read anything?”

  “I’m going to read The Caine Mutiny as soon as I get home.”

  She shot him a look, but said nothing.

  The Dreams had the ball again, but when Jeff George was sacked at the 6-yard line, the Dreams had to punt again. The Ravens returned the punt to the Dreams’ 41-yard line on a great run from B. J. Sams. From there, it took McNair only six plays to get his team into the end zone. He ducked a blitz on third-and-four from the 13, raced to his right, and, on the run, threw a strike to tight end Todd Heap in the back corner of the end zone. With 2:44 left in the first quarter, the Ravens were up 10–0.

  “This game will be over before halftime if this keeps up,” Susan Carol said.

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Stevie said, thinking of Meeker.

  The first quarter ended with George overthrowing a wide-open receiver and being intercepted at midfield. Someone tapped on Stevie’s shoulder as the teams were changing ends of the field. It was Andy Kaplan.

  “Our guys want to know if you can shed any light on the Brennan situation,” he said. “No one from the Dreams is saying anything. We’re wondering if it has anything to do with your story.”

  Stevie and Susan Carol looked at each other. It was up to Brennan—not them—to decide what to te
ll people about why he had been benched.

  “Andy, we just can’t talk about that,” Stevie said awkwardly. “You guys really need to ask Eddie that question when the game’s over.”

  Kaplan nodded. “I understand. But your answer leads me to believe that the story may have something to do with it.”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to Eddie to speculate that way,” Susan Carol said.

  “Don’t worry,” Kaplan said. “We won’t say anything specific. But at halftime, our guys will be talking about the story, and we’re certainly going to have to wonder if there’s some connection, since the Dreams are being so closemouthed about it.”

  That was fair. Right now about 100 million people were wondering why Eddie Brennan wasn’t playing. CBS had to at least throw out the HGH story as one possible reason. Kaplan departed.

  The second quarter began. A thought flashed through Stevie’s mind: he would be glad when this was over and he could get back to school. Never in his life would he have believed that such a thought would cross his mind smack in the middle of the Super Bowl. Now it made perfect sense.

  22: COMEBACK

  THE GAME WOULD HAVE BEEN OVER by halftime except for the fact that the Ravens’ offense wasn’t much better than the Dreams’ in the second quarter. After the interception, the Ravens moved the ball to the 31 and stalled. Matt Stover came in and kicked another field goal. George turned the ball over twice more—on another interception and a fumble—but the Dreams’ defense was totally locked in and the Ravens were only able to convert that into another three points. As a result, the halftime score was 16–0. It could have been so much worse.

  Bobby and Tamara came upstairs during the break. “Might as well have something to eat,” Kelleher said. So they worked their way through a food line at the back of the auxiliary box that included hamburgers and hot dogs. “There’s never been a Super Bowl halftime that lasted less than forty-five minutes.”

  Stevie had almost forgotten about the endless halftimes at the Super Bowl. The big entertainment act this year was U2. Stevie remembered reading an NFL press release earlier in the week trumpeting the fact that U2 was the first act ever asked to return to perform at halftime of the Super Bowl. Such drama!

  Stevie had just taken a bite of his hamburger when his cell phone buzzed inside his pocket. Thinking it would be his parents, he pulled the phone out and opened it without looking at the number.

  “Stevie,” a voice hissed, “I’ve got another scoop for you.”

  “Eddie?” he said, nearly choking and drawing a surprised look from Kelleher. He lowered his voice. “Is that you? Where are you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m just outside the locker room. There’s a lot of time to kill. Listen, I’m starting the second half.”

  “What?! You are? What happened?”

  Brennan’s voice was barely a whisper, and it was hard for Stevie to hear with all the noise around him. “What happened was the first half,” he said. “You saw it. The o-line guys went to Kaplow and said, ‘Look, we’re probably going down when this is over. We want to at least win this game before we do.’ Kaplow went for it.”

  “Did he check with Meeker?”

  “I have no idea. But given that Meeker will do anything to win—lie, cheat, steal—I don’t think he’s going to object at this point.”

  He was right about that. “Good luck” was all Stevie could think to say.

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ve gotta go.” He hung up.

  Susan Carol, Kelleher, and Mearns were all looking at him. “Let me guess—Eddie’s starting the second half,” Susan Carol said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why do you think he called you?” Bobby asked.

  Stevie shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “He probably just had to tell someone,” Susan Carol said. “He couldn’t let his buddy Darin Kerns in on it because that would give the Ravens a little more time to prepare for him. So he called you.”

  “You’re the only one who truly understands right now,” Kelleher said.

  Bono and U2 were reaching the end of their halftime performance, so Bobby and Tamara headed back down to the main press box.

  “Game should be more interesting now,” said Kelleher in parting.

  “Yeah, but do we really want the Dreams to rally?” said Tamara.

  No one knew what to say to that….

  Stevie thought he heard Bono singing “God Bless America.” “Isn’t he Irish?” he asked Susan Carol.

  “Forget that. Do you know what you should do now?” Susan Carol said.

  Stevie shook his head.

  “Let CBS know about Eddie. They’ve been good to you. Give them a heads-up so they look good.”

  Stevie liked that idea. So when Susan Carol headed off to the ladies’ room, he dialed Andy Kaplan’s cell phone number and told him that Brennan would start the second half.

  “You sure?” Kaplan said. “How do you know?”

  “Can’t tell you how, but believe me, it’s happening.”

  “Thanks,” Kaplan said.

  Stevie turned his attention back to the field for a moment. A huge stage had been set up for U2 to perform on and a couple of thousand fans had been brought down to the field to stand around the stage and create a rock concert atmosphere. Stevie thought it was all pretty hokey. His mother was a big Bono fan and he tried to picture her near the stage, waving her arms to the music. No, he thought, not my mom. At least he hoped not.

  He noticed that he was sweating a little bit. Nerves? Certainly possible. But it was also considerably warmer in the Dome than it had been on the practice days when the building was almost empty. He looked at his watch. It had already been thirty-five minutes since the half had ended, and they still had to take down the stage and clear the fans off the field before the teams could come back from the locker rooms. No wonder Eddie had called him, Stevie thought. He had plenty of time to kill.

  On the TV overhead, Jim Nantz and Phil Simms were back on screen. Stevie grabbed a remote and turned up the sound.

  “What we don’t know,” Nantz was saying, “is why Brennan didn’t start in the first half. The Dreams gave no reason for the last-second switch to Jeff George.”

  “Jim, what we do know is that the switch failed miserably, and now Eddie Brennan is going to be asked to rally his team against one of the best defenses in football.”

  “You would think,” Nantz said, “that just having him back in charge will give the Dreams a boost—and they most certainly need one.” The score went up on the screen and Nantz began taking the network into commercial. Stevie reached for the remote to turn the sound back down.

  “You seem to know everything. What do you think is going on?” a voice said behind him.

  He turned and, to his surprise, saw Tal Vincent standing there.

  Stevie almost gagged on the swig of Coke he had just taken. “Yeah, as if you don’t know why Brennan was benched,” he said.

  Vincent gave him a funny look. “Me? Why would I know anything about that? You’re the one who had the one-on-one with him earlier in the week, did the big feature for CBS on him and his buddy from the Ravens….”

  “Yeah, and because of that you ran to Meeker and told him that he was our source on the HGH story.”

  “Whaa? Me?” Vincent moved a step closer to Stevie, and for a minute Stevie thought they were finally going to have the fight they had been heading toward all week. “Listen, Steve,” he said softly. “I understand why you hate me. I’ll even admit I haven’t behaved very well this week—I’ve behaved really badly, in fact. There’s been a lot going on you don’t know about, which doesn’t excuse it, but…Look, you’re way off base on this. I spoke to Don Meeker once this week—when we did our interview with him. I said hello and thank you and that was it.”

  “Oh sure. So no one from USTV made contact with him to set up that bogus interview, not to mention that attack on Susan Carol you guys let him get away with today….”

  “God, that
was awful,” Vincent said. “So embarrassing. That was something I might have quit over if everything weren’t ending already.”

  “What? You mean because Susan Carol’s going to be fired anyway?”

  “No, because Meeker’s boy at USTV is going.”

  “Who?”

  Vincent shook his head. “I can’t tell you that,” he said.

  “Why the hell not?” Stevie said. “Why bother giving me all this crap about how bad you feel about what happened if you won’t tell me who’s really working for Meeker?”

  “You make a good point,” Vincent said. “And one much truer than you know.” He looked around to see if anyone else was listening. Then he shrugged and said, “What do I care—he won’t be my boss anymore in a week.”

  “Boss?” Stevie said. Then it hit him. “Shupe? Mike Shupe?”

  Vincent smiled. “Technically speaking, I never told you anything.”

  Stevie was about to charge off to find Susan Carol when he remembered what Vincent had just said. “What do you mean he won’t be your boss in a week?”

  “You’re a reporter,” Vincent said. “Figure it out.” Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Stevie was now desperate to find Susan Carol and happily spotted her walking back to her seat. “I just talked to Bobby and Tamara,” she said. “They said they would meet us in the interview room when the game is over to decide who’s going to write what.”

  “You’ll never guess who was just here,” he said.

  “Tal Vincent?”

  “How—?”

  “He met me on my way out before—he came to tell me I’m fired. So you’re stuck with me again as a writing partner.”

  “You seem awfully calm about this.”

  “Oh, it’s a relief, really. And Tal was almost apologetic. He said he was sorry about the way he’d behaved all week and that this wasn’t his decision.”

  “Yeah, well, I know whose decision it was,” Stevie said. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  “Now? The game’s about to start.”

  “Now,” Stevie said firmly.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed Andy Kaplan.