by Scott Pratt
It had been five years since Billy left a thriving Atlanta law firm to blaze his own trail as a sports agent. The lure of guiding elite athletes through their fantasy worlds was too tempting for the ambitious attorney from the Smoky Mountains to resist.
At thirty-six years old, he was becoming a force for the players he represented, slowly but surely.
“Just stand there and look big, Leroy,” Billy said as the cameramen moved in. “Don’t think too much. It isn’t good for you.”
“Excuse me, guys,” Leroy said, “but would you mind if I pancaked my agent on the pavement before we get started?”
The producer laughed. “Hold on,” he said. “I want to get that on camera. Maybe we can work it into the commercial.”
Mitchell was among two dozen of Billy’s clients in the NFL. The fourth-round pick out of Auburn had more than exceeded expectations in his three seasons with the Falcons, earning a starting job and positioning himself for a major raise when his rookie contract expired. He was also increasingly in demand by regional advertisers looking for a good-natured giant.
Billy had driven down for the commercial shoot just to make sure everything went smoothly, and, more importantly, to make sure that everyone was happy.
That appeared to be the case as the small production crew got ready to pack up. The business owner was smiling and holding an autographed football, talking about the Tampa Bay game that weekend and promising more promotional work. The lineman took home five grand for his trouble. The meager percentage Billy would receive would barely pay his expenses for making the drive, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that everyone had a good experience.
“That wasn’t too bad,” Mitchell said. “Thanks for lining it up, Billy. Let me take you to dinner later on.”
“I’d like to, but I have to get back to Knoxville. It’s Alabama week.”
Mitchell let out a hearty laugh.
“I know that week, big time,” he said. “Everybody in the state of Alabama went crazy when I was at Auburn and we played them. Some dude from Dadeville even came over and poisoned two oak trees on Toomer’s Corner after we beat them one year. At least we beat the Tide occasionally. Your Tennessee boys can’t say the same.”
Billy was used to catching flak from the Southeastern Conference players; most of his NFL clients came out of the league. The once-proud Vols were barely an afterthought by November these days, and he heard about it often.
“This year is going to be different,” he said, sliding behind the wheel of his Corvette – a 1963 classic, marina blue with side pipes and a split rear window.
“Now that’s a real car,” Mitchell said. “Good old-fashioned American muscle. I can relate to that.”
“You wouldn’t fit in this one either, Leroy.”
Mitchell waved and climbed into his big truck.
“Good luck to Jarvis and all the poor Vols this weekend. We’ll take care of business here. See you down the road, brother.”
The road never seemed to end for Billy. He’d been logging some serious miles, trying to stay ahead, and he did some of his best work on the move. Wherever he found himself, he was fielding calls from players, their families, team officials, sponsors, physicians. Any one of those calls could turn into an adventure that only Billy could manage, and that’s the way he liked it. Negotiating skills went only so far in his business. The personal touch, treating your clients like family, that’s what set you apart in the long run.
Billy was still a few steps behind the big management firms and the famous agents who had catered to the superstars for years and were fabulously wealthy. But he was working hard and gaining ground, especially in the NFL.
Pro football had become the center of the sports universe, the national obsession. Agents had more to do, more to worry about, and more to gain. The best ones turned their clients into household names – and in the process often became celebrities themselves.
Billy didn’t mind basking in the spotlight from time to time, but he was driven by the competition. It was in his blood.
“I’m just a little guy from Sevierville, Tennessee,” he once told his father, “but I want the owners and GMs to know I’m in the game. Eventually I’m going to be one of those super agents, walking with the biggest stars, sitting down with the billionaires. They’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
With Jarvis Thompson on his team, he was that much closer to his dream.
chapter three
The Corvette came to life with a throaty roar, and Billy settled in for the three-hour drive back to Knoxville.
As he merged into the northbound lanes of Interstate 75, he could already feel the knot forming in his stomach. It happened every time he drove past the site of the crash. He took a deep breath and thought of his mother.
Anna Beckett was the primary reason he was in this line of work. She was the one who had instilled the competitive spirit, the love of sports, the take-charge attitude in both her sons when they were young. They quickly developed into outstanding athletes.
Their father, Franklin, was a cop in Sevierville who worked a lot of weekend shifts, so in the summer it was up to Anna to ferry them from baseball tournament to tournament all around the Southeast. The teenagers would share some of the driving duties. It was a team effort, and they all relished their time together.
They were heading to Marietta, on the edge of Atlanta, on that fateful day. The area was a hotbed for baseball talent, a place for young players to make a name for themselves. Anna had stopped for gas. John and Billy argued over which one would spell their mother for a bit, give her a few minutes to close her eyes and stretch out. Billy, the oldest, won the argument and took the wheel of the silver Toyota Camry.
A half-hour later, the car was lying on its top, wheels up, in the middle of the median. Billy had been distracted by something John said and had looked at him in the rear-view mirror for just a second, but that second was all it took. He’d barely clipped the rear of a tractor-trailer. The impact sent the Camry veering sharply off the shoulder of the highway and into the grass.
Anna, who had been sitting beside Billy, didn’t have her seat belt fastened. She was thrown from the rolling vehicle and lay unconscious at the edge of the pavement. Billy and John were still buckled in, bleeding and disoriented but relatively unscathed as the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles wailed.
They were only five minutes away from the nearest hospital, but it was too late for Anna. She was pronounced dead on arrival.
All these years later, her scream, the sounds of twisting metal, the realization that his mother had been thrown from the car, were still clear in Billy’s mind. He drove past the Windy Hill Road exit and glanced over for only a second, then mashed the Corvette’s accelerator.
There was plenty left on the day’s agenda. The messages on Billy’s phone always accumulated quickly, and he wasn’t one to let them sit for long.
Rule number one: There had to be constant contact.
“Hi, Rachel,” he said. “I’m finished here; everything went great with Leroy and I had a good meeting earlier. How are things at the office?”
“I put together those player packets you wanted,” Rachel said. “You can give them a look when you get back to town.”
“I’d like the one for Fred Taylor’s family sent off as soon as possible. Those Alabama running backs are hard to get a handle on, and this is the perfect week to grab his attention. I’m heading your way now.”
The packets were Billy’s calling card. They contained his mission statement, outlined potential marketing opportunities, and explained how he would prepare a particular player for the co
mbine and the draft. The agent had to calculate how much time and money to invest in each player. Two weeks of training, with room and board, could run ten thousand dollars or more. If a client dropped in the draft, or if something drastic happened and he fell out of the draft entirely, the agent found himself eating the cost.
There weren’t many Jarvis Thompsons waiting out there. Sure first-rounders were like gold and usually got snapped up by the established management firms. The players at the very top of the draft were in a class of their own.
Even with one in hand, Billy couldn’t afford to make bad decisions. Those five years in Atlanta had been lucrative, but he was still heavily leveraged. Big house, boat, cars, travel expenses. Material things didn’t particularly motivate Billy, but there was a certain image that needed to be maintained. He was betting that his strong connections and instincts would keep his career moving forward, along with his charm. Billy was as driven as his clients, yet he had a way of putting anyone around him at ease.
He liked to think his mother would have been proud.
“Hello, Mark,” Billy said as the Corvette eased back into the right lane with that distinctive purr. “Got a few minutes?”
“Anything for you, man,” came the reply. “What’s up?”
Mark Fletcher was a private investigator and had worked for several NFL teams, including the Falcons. Billy had hired him to look into character issues and legal entanglements with players a few times. He liked Fletcher’s style. The man was well connected around the league and had a discreet way of getting to the truth.
He had become a trusted friend, which was a valuable commodity for any sports agent.
“Tell me about Sonny Bradley and his people in New Orleans,” Billy said. “I keep hearing they’re crossing the line on some of these new players. Do you know anything?”
“Nothing specific,” Fletcher said, “but there have been some rumblings lately about illegal contacts and payoffs. There’s a guy down there that has his hand in a lot of bad stuff, and he may be involved with Bradley. From what I understand, he wants to get deeper into the sports business, is dangling some carrots, and several of the coaches along the Gulf are starting to bite. That kind of influence trickles down in a hurry.”
“What’s his name?”
“Frank Romano.”
“What does the players union think?”
“They’re waiting to see, like always. Bradley could lose his certification if he’s not careful, but you know how that goes.”
Billy definitely knew. There were hundreds of certified agents out there, and some of them were flagrant rule breakers. Most bent the rules from time to time. If you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’, the old maxim went. But unless you flaunted the rules and were caught red-handed, most people tended to look the other way.
“What’s the background on Bradley?” Billy said. “Seems like he just showed up out of nowhere.”
“Not many people I’ve talked to know much about him. He’s a New Orleans guy and started building his business in that area. As you’re aware, there are enough great athletes down there to fuel a few pro teams. I heard Bradley has around twenty clients at this point, so he’s been coming on pretty fast.”
Billy had crossed paths with more than a few unscrupulous wannabes along the way and was always on guard. It was easy to make enemies, especially with more and more money on the line, and he wasn’t going to be undermined if he could help it.
“Bradley has really put the press on with Jarvis Thompson,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I don’t understand where it’s coming from.”
“I thought that kid was in the clear with you. You’ve earned his trust. Why would anything change?”
“I don’t know that it would. I just keep hearing things.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Fletcher said. “I assume Jarvis is coming out this year, so he’ll be tied up soon. You know what you’re doing.”
Billy was indeed a student of the game – all the games. He understood the psychology of sports, the power of persuasion, what buttons to push. He could connect with people; it was a gift.
The NFL wasn’t the most financially rewarding league for agents – three percent of playing contracts was the maximum commission – but it went much deeper for Billy. He’d been a star quarterback in high school and was already emotionally invested in the football culture, guys laying their bodies on the line day in and day out, playing through pain and sacrificing until they had no more to give. In his mind, it was the noblest of games.
Most of the pros didn’t have long to cash in on their careers. And when it was over, there wasn’t much else to fall back on. They all needed a good agent to guide them through the journey, put them in the best financial position for life beyond football. They needed a savvy, fiercely loyal advocate like Billy.
“The best protection a man can have” was how one client described him, and he considered that the ultimate compliment. The question was, who protected the agent?
Most often, the agent had to protect himself.
“I think it may be time to have a little talk with Mr. Bradley,” Billy said to Fletcher, “just to let him know he’s on my radar. I appreciate your help as always, Mark. Let’s have a beer soon. My treat, of course.”
“Of course,” Fletcher said. “Be careful out there. You know how things can turn nasty pretty quick in this business.”
Billy laughed.
“And they said it would be all fun and games.”
chapter four
The sound of gunfire crackled through the congested neighborhood, one pop and then another. Jarvis scooted to the edge of the window and peered out at the street. Nothing but darkness.
He crouched on the floor again and waited for danger to pass. Fear turned to anger in those minutes, and then, resignation. The Saturday late-night drill had almost become routine in his decrepit little corner of Autumn, Florida.
Across the hall, there were the muffled giggles and groans of a crack whore entertaining another stranger, earning her latest fix, oblivious to her surroundings. The crack whore was his mother. Jarvis was the only other man in the house – hell, the only real man in the family – and he was just a teenager.
He and football would be their salvation. It was all up to him.
“We can’t stay here, Jarvis,” Tianna, his sister, would say. “Things are only going to get worse. We’ll die, one way or another. You know we will. We have to get out.”
The words still echoed in his head. The escape was never complete, not even now with the NFL draft – and the potential for freedom it would offer – in sight.
Jarvis rolled over on the bed in his apartment and glanced at his phone, which had been silenced. Another missed call from his mother. That was three already today. Even in her perpetual stupor, Clarise never let up. She was counting the days.
“Crazy woman,” Jarvis muttered to himself.
Still feeling the effects of a long practice, he closed his eyes again, and the images continued to stream through his mind. He had tried to suppress them in the years since coming to Knoxville, make a fresh start, but it was useless. At times like this, when he was alone and drifting, they could play like an endless loop, still vivid, never far away.
The burning rage of his parents. The fights. The gunshots. The helplessness.
Life in the projects had almost consumed them all, and it wasn’t something a young man could ever forget, even one destined for greatness on the football field.
Jarvis pulled the foam pillow tight around his head, as if that could block it all out. The pillow was one of the few remaining possessions that he had brought from Florida, a small comfort. He couldn’t bring himself to toss it in the trash. It was a connection to her, the one person he’d never forget.
Tianna was his only sister, one year older. For many years they s
hared a small, dimly lit room in Autumn. Jarvis would lie on the floor at the foot of her bed most nights, wrapped up in his dirty blankets with his head resting on that pillow. They would talk for hours, try to make sense of their lives while all hell was breaking loose around them – the brazen drug dealers; the strange noises just outside open windows on warm Florida nights; the debauchery of their mother; the absence of their father and older brother.
“We can’t stay here.” But they did, night after terrible night.
Jarvis could have moved in with his high school coach, the only man resembling a father figure in his life. The coach’s home was a frequent refuge. But there was no way Jarvis would leave Tianna to face the horrors alone.
Their brother, Dante, might have been a buffer once. But he was almost a decade older and long gone by the time the kids were teens. Like their father, he had become a transient, moving from place to place, hoping to sell more drugs than he consumed just to get by.
Jarvis had to stay for Tianna. He often told her he was playing football for them, just the two of them. It was their one glimmer of hope, and if he made it all the way to the NFL, he promised to take her with him. Those dreams carried the teenagers through the worst of times.
Football was the simple part. Jarvis was a man among boys on the field but still had to fight for respect. Early on, he was involved in many a skirmish with his high school teammates, always being tested and measured, until he simply became too much to handle.
Even after being voted a team captain as a sophomore, some could never accept him. The toughest kids from the projects were jealous that he was destined for a future they would never have. He had a way out.
One day early in his sophomore season, Jarvis was walking toward home behind three teammates when they suddenly stopped and formed a wall in front of him.
“So you’re a captain already?” one boy said. He pulled a knife from his backpack. “You think you’re better than us cause you’re going to college, don’t you? I got news for you, bro. You ain’t.”