The Franchise

by Patrick Jones

  Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Cover and interior photographs © Rubberball/Getty Images (boy);

  © iStockphoto.com/Ermin Gutenberger (lights); © iStockphoto.com/Jordan

  McCullough (title texture).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for The Franchise is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–1375–7 (LB)

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–1675–8 (EB)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-1675-8 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3338-0 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3336-6 (mobi)

  In order to succeed, your desire for success should be greater than your fear of failure.

  —Bill Cosby

  Dear Mr. Latrell Baker:

  Congratulations, you’ve made an impression. And earned an opportunity. You will be an intern working for the general manager of my newly acquired Los Angeles Stars NFL team.

  I was impressed with your award-winning science project—an algorithm to predict the best possible defensive positioning based on the most likely offensive play. My other businesses succeed because they make decisions based on measurable factors. But too often in the realm of sports, judgments seem to be made on instinct and biased experience. I expect you to bring to this opportunity your enthusiasm and passion for evidence-based decision making.

  As with all my interns, your story reminds me of my own years growing up in DC. I was raised by a single mother who made me study because she knew education was the only path out of poverty. I loved football, but I was physically unable to compete. Like you, I knew that no amount of hard work or passion would pay off unless I excelled when given an opportunity to prove myself. This, Latrell, is that opportunity!

  Sincerely,

  Harmon Holt

  ONE

  August 5 (Sunday)

  “How do you like your room, Latrell?” A thin white guy with short black hair stood outside my door.

  I nodded. “Latrell Baker, from DC. How’d you know my name?”

  He laughed—giggled, really—and pointed at my mirror, where I had taped a sign with my name on it. It was the sign the limo driver was holding when he met me at the airport.

  “Kevin Whitney.” The guy stuck his hand out. His nails were bitten down to the quick.

  I shook his hand, which is always awkward with a white guy. “I think we’re the only two in the dorm,” I said. “Are you a Holt intern too?”

  He walked past me. “No, what’s that?” he asked as he gazed at a poster I’d hung on the wall of the Baltimore Ravens’ last Super Bowl team.

  It was a dumb question on my part. The scholarship only went to kids from Carver High, and there were no white guys at Carver High anymore. I told him about the internship.

  “Sounds cool,” he said. “I’m interning with a defense contractor, researching materials to protect soldiers in combat.”

  I felt stupid. He was doing good work, while I was calling pass rushes.

  I was about to ask Kevin more about the dorm when my phone rang. I looked at it. It said Bob Milliken. The L.A. Stars’ general manager was calling me. My hand shook; I hoped Kevin didn’t notice.

  “It’s my boss.” Kevin nodded, shot me a thumbs-up, and walked away.

  I took a deep breath and answered the call.

  “Hello, Mr. Milliken.”

  “Hello, Latrell. I’m downstairs. Mind if I come up?” Milliken and I had sent a number of e-mails back and forth. This was the first time we’d talked on the phone. But I knew his voice from the TV interviews he’d given while he was GM of the Ravens. They won two Super Bowls while he was running the team. Sometimes his face was on TV more than any of his star players.

  “No, it’d be great to meet you.” What a stupid answer. Would everything I said be a fumble?

  “Great. Fire up your computer. I want to see this famous system of yours.”

  “Sure thing.” Of course, my computer was already on. It was always on. I was always working on the system. Plus, I needed to enter data for new players.

  Mr. Milliken knocked on my door. I opened it and started to speak, but stopped when I saw he was talking on his cell phone. I sat back down at my computer and waited.

  And waited. And waited.

  “Sorry, kid. Busy time of year, but you’ll learn that soon enough.” He stuck out his hand. It was big and heavy, weighed down by two Super Bowl rings. When he shook my hand, I felt as though he’d swallowed it. “So, tell me more about this system.”

  “It’s only ever been tried in high school game conditions, but—” I stopped talking when he took another call. After a few minutes, he turned his attention back to me. “So, like I was saying—”

  He cut me off and pointed to the poster on my wall. “That was a great team. We had everything. Great defense, great special teams, and we played as a family. All for one.”

  “And the Terrible Two!” I pointed at the two large men in the back of the team photo: the outside linebackers, “Smackdown” Joe Schultz and Frank “The Franchise” Foley. Schultz was now the Stars’ defensive coordinator. Foley was the linebacker coach. I looked forward to meeting them. I’d grown up a Ravens fan, and they were my heroes.

  “With the Stars,” Milliken said, “I’ve assembled the best players in the league.”

  I stared at the floor. I had last year’s stats in a data set. He couldn’t be more wrong, but I kept quiet. Though I’d never had a job, I knew you didn’t correct your boss on day one.

  “Now, show me your system.”

  He stood over my shoulder as I talked. I probably gave too much detail, because that’s how I get when I get talking about math stuff, totally obsessed. I talked while he listened. At least I thought he was listening. When I glanced over my shoulder at him, his eyes were riveted on his phone, not me or my computer. I felt like an incomplete pass.

  I’d gotten lucky at Carver. The high school defensive coordinator was the stats teacher. It hadn’t taken me more than five minutes to make him understand my algorithm. And once we got results, the rest of the coaching staff followed our lead. One state championship later, there were a whole lot of football jerseys in stats class.

  I had a sense Milliken wouldn’t be so easy.

  TWO

  August 9 (Thursday)

  Today was my first trip to Stars Stadium, one of the newest and biggest stadiums in the league, and my chance to meet the Stars’ players and coaching staff as they practiced for their preseason opener.

  A limo pulled up to the dorm to take me to the stadium. “I don’t drive many kids around,” said the driver. He reminded me of my Uncle Randall. “You must be pretty special.”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” I said. I learned long ago you shouldn’t brag on yourself.

  When we got to the stadium, we drove up to the players’ entrance. Guards stood by the gates while shiny new Mercedes, Hummers, and Caddies sat in the players’ parking lot.

  The limo driver turned to me. “Even when I
drive kids, I don’t drive any here. You are special.” I fingered the L.A. Stars staff badge that hung around my neck like a gold chain.

  I smiled. “I guess you’re right.”

  From the limo, I walked past a guard shack into the main building. There was a long hallway lined with action shots—the biggest hits and biggest plays in the team’s short two-year history.

  At the other end of the hallway, a huge man walked toward me with his head down. He seemed to be looking for something on the ground.

  I pressed against the hallway wall to avoid him.

  It didn’t work. When he got close, he spoke. “Have you seen a pair of sunglasses anywhere?”

  “Sunglasses?” I asked. I could see the back of one of those sunglasses straps on the front of his huge neck.

  “Yeah, white Ray-Bans.” He gestured with hands that were bigger than my face.

  “On a purple strap?” I asked.

  “Yes!” he shouted like a kid on Christmas morning. “Have you seen ‘em?”

  I reached behind him and pulled his glasses over his shoulder.

  “Well, I’ll be. Thank you, kid,” said the man. He walked toward a door marked Weight Room while I continued down the hallway toward the light and the stadium field.

  I took a few steps onto the turf. The stadium was even bigger than I’d imagined, making me feel even smaller. Guys were lined up on the field, doing drills. There was lots of yelling, but none by the head coach, Chad Allen. He spoke to a TV reporter while assistant coaches ran the drills. Near me, players pushed huge training sleds as if they were pillows. I stood in awe as the sounds of hits and slams echoed in the empty stadium, reminding me that football wasn’t a contact sport, but a collision one.

  “Stand there too long and you’ll get hit.” I turned so fast, I felt dizzy. It was Milliken. He put a hand on my shoulder while the other clutched his phone. “Why aren’t you suited up?”

  “Suited up? Me?” I swallowed hard at the same time I heard a big crack-on-crack of helmets crashing together like cars on the interstate.

  Milliken looked at a group of men on the sidelines, each one holding a clipboard. “Hey, Schultz!” he called out. One of the men looked over. “You said Latrell was gonna play today? I know Earle got him a jersey. He’s ready when you are.”

  “But I—” my heart beat fast in my chest.

  Milliken turned to me. “No, I insist. It’s the best way to learn the game, get your hands dirty.”

  Smackdown Schultz walked over. Like the guy in the stadium hallway looking for his Ray-Bans, he towered over me. A five-time Pro Bowl linebacker, he’d gone into coaching after a knee injury cut his career short. He inspected me like Mom did chicken at the grocery store. “Ready to play, kid? Where’s your uniform?”

  I tried to speak, but nothing came out. This was not what I expected. Not at all.

  Then Milliken slammed his meaty paw on my shoulder so hard, I wished I was wearing pads. “He’s just busting you, Latrell. Welcome to the Stars. This is defensive coordinator Joe Schultz—”

  As he said that, a man emerged from the tunnel and shouted, “Roxanne!” We all turned.

  “And that,” said Milliken, “is none other than Franchise Foley himself.”

  “You’re kidding me. That’s Frank Foley?” I asked.

  “The one and only,” said Schultz.

  When he heard his name, Frank walked toward us. He reached up, tipped the glasses now perched on his huge head, and looked at me as he did so. “Hey, it’s my sunglasses-finder.”

  THREE

  August 10 (Friday) First Preseason Game

  “Fine ’em a thousand dollars!” Milliken shouted into his phone. He only shouted when something went wrong on the field. The way things had been going, his throat must be hurting. In the fourth quarter, the Stars were behind by forty. “Plays like that won’t put butts in these seats or dollars in the bank.”

  While he yelled, I helped myself to another soda. The GM’s box at Stars Stadium was full of food, drinks, and plenty of Milliken’s rich friends. I listened in on their conversations. Milliken’s friends didn’t seem to know a thing about football.

  “Why’s your nose buried in that computer, kid?” asked a guy with silver hair, fake orange skin, and gold cufflinks. “The game’s out there on the field.”

  I started to explain my system, but like Milliken before, a few minutes into my talk, his eyes glazed over. Was I that boring, or were the drinks the bartender poured that strong?

  Milliken walked over. “Latrell’s my intern,” he said. I didn’t like how strongly he said the word my.

  “An intern. I gotta get me one of them,” Cufflink said, then snorted a laugh.

  “I’m letting him off easy this week, but next week, he’s going to learn the hardest part of the job.” Milliken put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Hardest part?” I asked.

  “On the weekend, football is a game. But during the week, it’s something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  Milliken smiled, but it seemed as fake as Cufflink’s tanned face. “A business.”

  “Latrell, what’s up? The Stars lost, and I had serious money on ’em,” Uncle Randall said. I pictured him sitting on the couch in the tiny row house I shared with him, my mom, and my grandma back in DC. I’d always give him tips on what teams to bet on; he usually won.

  “You shouldn’t bet in the preseason anyway,” I said.

  “But I thought with you there, they’d be—”

  “I’m not sure if this whole internship thing is going to work out.” I spoke softly, even though the words weighed on me as I rode alone in the limo back to my dorm room.

  “Just a second,” Randall said. “Your mom wants the phone.”

  “Hello, son.” Mom’s voice was soft and firm. I could picture her big smile.

  “Mom, how do I get them to listen to me?” I asked.

  There was a long pause on the other end.

  “I guess do the same thing you did at school: study. Study the men around you. Find out what matters to them.”

  For having just a GED, Mom could be pretty smart about stuff. Only problem was, the things people like Milliken cared about were exactly the things I didn’t have: money, power, status, or experience.

  “What matters to them is winning,” I said.

  “Then show them that if they would’ve listened to you, they would’ve won,” Mom said.

  The three of us continued to talk long into the night. I wanted to hear the regular stuff—the home news. The connection meant everything.

  I finally turned off the light and hung up the phone around 2 a.m. But I’d no more shut my eyes than my phone rang.

  When I picked up the phone, it was a man’s voice. “Hey, how’s it going?” His words were slurred and heavy. “Have you seen my ­sunglasses?”

  FOUR

  August 16 (Thursday a.m.)

  It was Franchise Foley himself, but I was too groggy from lack of sleep to be excited, even if the call was from a future Hall of Famer.

  “I’m just kidding about the glasses,” he said, laughing. “Hey, Milliken told me to look at that computer thing of yours to help with defense. You doing anything right now?”

  I looked at my phone. The time read 2:14. “Mr. Foley, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Is it really?” He seemed shocked by the news. “Sorry. I don’t sleep like I used to.”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Sure. Roxanne and me—Frank, no more of this Mr. Foley stuff—will come by at eleven. I’ll fix lunch. You like Maryland Chicken?”

  Any chance to have lunch with a star like Frank was an opportunity of a lifetime. And if he was willing to listen—really listen—to how my system worked, all the better. “Eleven sounds good,” I said. “As for Maryland Chicken, you know my family’s originally from Baltimore, right? That’s why I’m a Ravens fan.”

  Frank laughed. “I thought that’d get your attentio
n.”

  “By the way, who’s Roxanne?” I asked. I remembered it was the name he’d yelled at the stadium the other day.

  “She’s my daughter,” Frank said with pride in voice, “and the most beautiful girl in L.A.”

  Frank’s daughter was a dream. She drove while Frank sat in the passenger seat, and I sat in back. It was a clunker of a car, not like the limo that took me everywhere. I tried to feel comfortable, but Roxanne being so pretty cranked up my shy dial just far enough that all I could do was sit in silence. When I learned she was a senior in high school, I wanted to cheer.

  “First, we’ll eat. Then, you show me the thing on the computer,” Frank said as the car turned through streets in an older neighborhood. “Later, Roxanne can show you more of the town.”

  Roxanne glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “I’d like that.”

  When we pulled up to the house, I was shocked that it looked like the homes in my old neighborhood, not some big mansion fit for a guy who’d won two Super Bowls.

  Roxanne went inside while I followed Frank to the backyard. “I learned to make Maryland Chicken from a guy who was a seven-year Pro Bowler. Seeing as I made it to the Pro Bowl only six times, it wasn’t my place to doubt him,” said Frank. He lifted the lid on the grill to show two chickens, each cut in half, browning over coals.

  “I wouldn’t doubt him, either,” I laughed.

  Frank put the lid down. “Now, show me your system.”

  I set my laptop up on a table on the back porch while Roxanne brought out drinks. I pretended to look into my computer while it booted up, but I watched her instead. Although she was about my height, her long neck made her seem taller. She didn’t say much and seemed relieved that Frank and I were so busy reviewing my system.

  When it was time to eat, her expression changed. Frank went to take the chicken off the grill, but forgot where he put the tongs. Roxanne hunted them down and brought them to him. Then Frank burned his hand on the grill lid, not too badly, but enough for Roxanne to put ice in a towel for him. He had questions for me, but I had one I wanted to ask Roxanne, but couldn’t.