by Peter Gent
“Your car is locked up safely in the garage.” Gus sat down in his favorite leather chair. “I have one of my men on the way over.”
The boys started fighting and yelling from the den. Ginny went in to referee the struggle with the alien invaders.
“I called the River Oaks security,” Gus continued. “Whoever is following you won’t be able to park around here all night; the security boys will keep them moving and off balance. When my man gets here, he’ll take the transmitter into the bayous. He’s got some kinfolks in Vidor that just flat don’t like outsiders. And believe me, Vidor takes it all pretty serious.”
Taylor watched the three people in the den arguing about whose turn it was to kill the alien invader.
“How have they been taking Bobby’s death?”
“Okay, I guess.” Gus stared at the door to the den. “I probably took it worse. They never saw Bobby; I wouldn’t let Ginny open the casket. Maybe that was a mistake, maybe you’re supposed to see the dead so you know that they’re dead. But Jesus, he looked a whole lot more than dead; he was smashed to fucking pulp. Just sort of exploded when he hit those ruins. Some American there said pieces of Bobby flew all over. He hit near the top, directly on a sacrificial stone. The guy said Bobby never made a sound, not a scream. Nothing. He just fell and hit like a ripe watermelon.” Gus looked at Taylor. “I couldn’t let them open the casket, there was nothing in there but a bag of mush. Ginny was mad at me for a long time for not letting her see Bobby. But it’s better that she remember him alive. Don’t ever live long enough to bury your children.” Gus turned his dark Greek face to Taylor. His eyes were blazing black coals of hatred. “A.D. Koster and Charlie Stillman and Robbie Burden were all there on Cobianco’s boat when it happened. Stillman was in the plane and that goddam sleazy low-life son of a bitch Kimball Adams was the one who took Bobby to the airport....”
“I don’t think Kimball knew what they had planned,” Taylor said. “I found him two or three days later, a blubbering, heartbroken drunk. They just used him.”
“Yeah,” Gus said angrily, “and they still use him. Being weak and stupid isn’t a defense, Taylor. Don’t ever forget that. If I live long enough, I’m going to settle the scores. Harrison H. Harrison was only the first, and that was just for fucking me and Bobby on an oil deal.” Gus held up a clenched fist. Taylor was surprised by the size. It was a formidable weapon.
Gus continued to hold up the clenched fist. “I know it was Tiny Walton, but for who?” Gus hit the arm of his chair. “I’d like ten minutes alone with that little weasel and we’ll find out real quick why he threw Bobby out. Did Tommy tell you anything?”
“Tommy didn’t last long,” Taylor said. “I don’t know who his source was.”
The doorbell rang. Gus jumped quickly from his chair and walked out of the room, holding the small transmitter. He returned empty-handed. “My man’s got a Lincoln just like yours, maybe a year or two newer. Whoever was following you is going to find themselves at the end of a very long dirt road in the middle of the Thicket, surrounded by a lot of guys in white sheets, toting shotguns and pistols.”
“You look okay financially.” Taylor looked around at the opulent interior of the River Oaks mansion. “Still rich?”
“Naw, not since the VCO bust out. Now I am highly levered.” Gus smiled and raised his bushy black eyebrows. “I’m into the banks for so much, they got to keep me afloat if they ever hope to get any money back.”
The electronic war continued in the den until late that night.
The next morning, on his way to the Union meeting, Taylor’s car radio told the news of two men arrested stark naked on the Eastex Freeway. He guessed they were agents of Investico sent by J. Edgar Jones.
Taylor Rusk was now certain that Robbie Burden had him listed as “off the reservation.”
The first meeting had already begun when Taylor arrived at the hotel. He sat in the back of the big ballroom. Terry Dudley recited the history of the early labor wars in the League, invoking Bobby Hendrix as a classic labor martyr. In closing, one of the players who had been blacklisted himself for Union work pointed out that Bobby Hendrix had died under very mysterious circumstances.
“We are talking about serious sums of money here,” the player said. “People have been killed for less. It may be time to pick up the gun.”
The room fell silent, and the only sound was the squeak of the player’s shoes as he returned to his seat on the dais. No one spoke. Nobody moved.
Time to pick up the gun?
The room full of men who had spent their entire working lives honing their exquisite skills of violence were struck dumb by the thought that they might have to use violence to gain their union goals. It confused some and frightened many, but the ex-player knew what he was saying and why.
So did Taylor Rusk. So had Bobby Hendrix.
“Think of yourself as a coal miner, Taylor,” Hendrix had said. “And professional football is the Harlan County of your mind.”
THE UNION
“SOLIDARITY IS THE WORD. We start to lose this battle when we are not unified,” Union Director Terry Dudley said. “This will be a fight and we must be ready to strike, organized to strike, not afraid to strike. Solidarity.” He hit the podium with a clenched fist. “Organize or Die. Strike or Die.”
“They don’t own, they promote, football games. The only people with the requisite skill to play the game are you people right here in this room.” The tall man pointed out at the meeting room full of players. “You are the best, the finest, football players in the world, and without your skills there would be no football. But we are fast approaching the time when your exceptional skills will not be quite so necessary. Let me quote you some figures and see if you understand.” The tall man in his blue blazer, gray pants and black loafers gripped the sides of the podium with his slender fingers. Strands of hair curled along his forehead. “Ninety percent of all seats to all professional football games were sold last year. Most teams sell out every game whether they have a winning or losing season. Some of the worst teams in the League have no tickets available for the general public. None. They have been sold out for years, although they haven’t had a winning season since Ike was in the White House.
“The incentive to win, to compete, exists for players and coaches but does not exist for the promoter. You notice I call him the promoter. And he is often a great promoter. The League hypes the draft and idolizes the number-one pick and explains that by letting the last team pick first the level of competition stays even. That of course is pure bullshit perpetuated by Robbie Burden, our beloved commissioner, in order to keep the draft in place and players’ salaries depressed.”
The director wiped his hand across his creased forehead, pushing the hair back. Regaining his hold on the podium, he leaned forward.
“The truth is that the draft serves no other purpose, and if you aren’t drafted in the first couple rounds, it’s a much better deal not to be drafted at all. Because in reality you’re not drafted, you’re taken prisoner. The number-one pick has some leverage because the promoter will look stupid if he doesn’t get his number one. But much lower than number one or two and your bargaining power disappears—and you learn the first reality of the game. The promoter has perpetual rights to you and perpetual is a long time. There is no other labor market. It is what economists call a monopsony.”
Terry Dudley was beginning to work himself up. His was the final talk of the morning session.
“Canadian football? You can try it, but they only have eight teams and each team is only allowed fifteen Americans; and besides, the Canadian Football Conference is in bed with our league. The commonality of interests between rich-men promoters runs much closer than any fellowship they feel for you. They consider you property. You are their tax shelters.”
The director of the Union stopped and looked around the room, letting what he had said sink in. His blue eyes scanned the upturned faces, more black than white.
“Co
mpetition?” Terry began again. “Oh, there’s competition all right, but it’s not between the promoters, it’s between you guys for the fifteen hundred spots, the only fifteen hundred jobs in the world that are available to you. And you have to break your ass to get one of those jobs. The promoters don’t have to compete. Winning and losing has little bearing on profitability.
“Network television pays each team eleven million dollars a year on their new contract. The highest team expenses calculated on the sketchy figures they give us is only five million dollars. They are six million dollars in the black and they haven’t sold a ticket at the gate yet. Add ticket sales of, let’s say, five million dollars, on the low side. Now the team has thirteen million dollars gross before-tax profit.”
Terry quickly scanned the faces of the crowd. He feared the numbers parts of his speeches—they always seemed to lose the audience a little—so he pushed through them quickly.
“Now, the promoters have other expenses. Dallas claims it costs them $150,000 to scout, draft, sign and train each member of its franchise, but remember, that’s money that is really just moving from one part of the franchise to another. Stadium rentals? Most teams play in municipal or city stadiums that are tax supported and usually get a discounted rent. A few teams own their own stadiums, which allows them to charge whatever rent they please, depending on each year’s tax situation.
“The Texas Pistols Dome financing scheme may be the most ingenious scheme I have seen yet. The fans must first finance the domed stadium before they can buy a ticket. And only a select few know what sort of tax break the city of Clyde, Texas, is giving the Pistols franchise to move a few miles south. Taxes that someone else will have to make up.
“I haven’t even tried to list the other sources of income to the promoters, like parking, programs, concessions, licensing agreements through the privately held Football League Properties, Incorporated. They are substantial amounts, but the main income to a franchise is its monopoly rights on television and gate receipts. Its monopsonistic rights on labor allow it to control the Franchise’s major cost: player salaries.”
Terry Dudley, director of the Union, took a moment and stepped away from the podium. He was getting ready for the stretch run of his speech. He wanted to be ready and he wanted it to be right. He took his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face, then took one more look at his audience. They seemed receptive, they seemed to be listening, but then they could still be stunned from the previous speaker telling them they might have to pick up a gun. Terry worried about that but it was too late. It had been said, it was in the air. The tall man stepped back to the podium and again gripped both sides of the stand. He stared at his audience.
“Informed sources tell us that the next network contract offered to professional football will be well over three billion dollars. Three billion dollars! Can any of you even conceive of three billion dollars?
“It will break out to approximately twenty million dollars per team per year. Now, with that kind of income, win or lose, what is the incentive to the promoter to pay high salaries to secure the best playing and coaching talent? There is none.
“The promoter is into profit-maximization, not winning silly games. He’s a businessman, and so what he spends his time doing is not diagraming plays but figuring out how to cut expenses and hide profits to avoid taxes.”
Terry Dudley’s eyes flicked around the room, and for the first time he saw Taylor Rusk. Taylor’s presence startled him. The big-money stars seldom came to Union meetings and were generally the ones who broke any attempts to strike by crossing the picket lines and going into camp.
The director quickly recovered from his surprise and went on with his speech.
“The promoter’s tax avoidance schemes are too complicated to go into here and apparently too complicated for the IRS, because they continue to allow all sorts of weird schemes. For instance, last year a number-one draft choice was signed by New York to a contract that was reported in the press as $1.8 million for five years. Sounds like a lot of money.
“But after signing with his agent, Charlie Stillman, who took his ten percent directly from the New York franchise immediately on the total aggregate amount, the player had second thoughts and brought the contract to the Union. By the time he got to our offices in Washington and had our lawyers look the contract over, he had already bought his mother a house and himself a Rolls-Royce.
“First, of the total $1.8 million, exactly $800,000 was a onetime cash bonus, which serves several purposes. One, it reduces the actual size of his base salary by $800,000, so when he negotiates again—if he does—he will be negotiating from a four-year base salary of not $1.8 million but $200,000 per year. Second, of the $800,000 cash bonus, only $100,000 was paid immediately. The remainder was deferred until the year 2010, to be paid in yearly installments until the year 2025. The New York franchise, on the other hand, expenses the whole $800,000 immediately while they put the remaining $700,000 in the money market to draw interest. In five years minimum they have doubled the money at no cost to them. By the year 2010 they will have had use of the player’s money for over twenty-five years interest-free. The agent, Charlie Stillman, advised the player to sign the contract because Stillman got his ten percent immediately and it was in his best interest to get the biggest numbers—even if it wasn’t in the player’s. Also, the player’s salary was carried on the Franchise books at $200,000 a year, but Charlie Stillman again convinced the player to defer half until the year 2010. It, too, would be paid out in yearly installments until the year 2020. The agent gets his ten percent immediately on the full amount. The New York franchise carries the player’s salary on its books for tax purposes as a $200,000-a-year expense.”
Terry Dudley looked again at the faces in the crowd; the wrinkled brows and low mumbling told him that for the first time several men finally understood their contracts.
“Needless to say, it was not very much fun to have to explain to the player that not only was he not rich, like the newspapers said, but he was actually broke. He couldn’t possibly make the payments on his mother’s house and his Rolls-Royce and meet his daily living expenses.”
Dudley held up his hand.
“Now comes the real bad news. The player has learned his lesson and he’s going to do better on his next contract—but more than likely there will be no next contract. The average career is four years. Right at this moment, seventy-two percent of all players in professional football have five years experience or less.”
Terry gave the players a moment to wrestle and come to terms with all the numbers and schemes he had just thrown at them. He glanced again at Taylor sitting quietly in the back with a brown paper package in his lap. Terry recalled that Bobby Hendrix had always said that Taylor Rusk would eventually make a good Union man. The director had dismissed Hendrix’s appraisal, giving more credit to Taylor’s ability to be all things to all people. It was an ability that was necessary if not generic to all major-league quarterbacks. They not only had to lead and control a team of stars-giant men in suspended adolescence, spoiled, deceived, pampered—but also, like the head coach, the quarterback was the interface between the players and the promoters. To survive for long as a pro quarterback required quick wits and a selfish ruthlessness.
Terry Dudley took a last glance at Taylor Rusk and stepped back to the microphone.
“You, as players, will negotiate one, maybe two or three, contracts in your whole career,” Dudley continued, “while the man you negotiate with will have negotiated hundreds, maybe thousands. Plus he will have access to the data on the salary schedules of the other League franchises. The promoters who call themselves owners meet three or four times a year to discuss the problems of their business.” Dudley held out his hands. “What are the problems of the football business?” He paused for effect. “You. You are the problems.
“Your salaries are the major expense and the promoter-owners complain publicly about rising salaries destroying the game. Well, he
re is a figure you can toss back at the next newspaper man or TV sportscaster when he asks about ‘high salaries’: In the mid 1960’s, before the merger, the salary was around $18,000 to $20,000 and accounted for almost fifty percent of a franchise’s total revenue. Today, after the merger, the average salary is around $130,000 and accounts for only twenty-eight percent of a franchise’s total revenue.
“It’s simple math and even the sporting press can understand it, drunk or sober. I’m not saying they’ll write it, or care about it, or even consider it, because they know that you’ll be gone one day and the promoters will still be around, handing out free plane tickets and drinks and, most important of all, giving them access.”
Terry turned to the last page of his text. He glanced around the hall. No one seemed to be fidgeting; the speech was going well. Taylor Rusk sat quietly and erect in the last row, holding his package, looking straight ahead.
“It has taken us a full decade,” the director of the Players Union continued, “to get this far. We haven’t set the world on fire, but we are a union, a labor union, and we have built a foundation for the eighties, at great cost both in money and in men’s careers. Great athletes were traded or cut outright for Union activity, and there will be more reprisals and more players will be sacrificed. The promoters will tell you that the Union is the reason that you’re being cut ... that the Union is causing you all the trouble. But we now have a pension, a true grievance procedure, collective bargaining and several important court rulings in our favor. Now comes the real battle, because we are asking for true free agent status and an end to the compensation rule, which totally eliminates movement except when the promoter wants to sell or trade one of you, so he gets the profits on the sale of your bodies as assets. We want salaries and benefits that approximate what players were getting before the merger.
“If we fail to achieve these goals for the eighties, we will be broken as a union. Professional football will degenerate into a studio sport like professional wrestling, a spectacle that requires only average skill while the expert television announcers make large sums of money convincing the audience they are seeing pro football at its best. We must stress solidarity before the League gets its pay-television plan on line. If we don’t, they’ll be too powerful and will have broken this union.” Terry paused, then finished his speech in a soft voice, ignoring the droplets of sweat that ran down his face.