Collision Low Crossers

by Nicholas Dawidoff

  As the men in Tannenbaum’s office began to watch more Titus Young tape, the mail arrived, and with it an advance copy of the upcoming Ryan and Tannenbaum episode of CSI: NY. They had filmed a joint scene in which they stood on the sidewalk and fended off draft advice from a passing detective who’d recognized them. Immediately, Titus was thrown to the wild beasts and everyone watched the Domination, as Ryan called his TV debut. Then Tannenbaum dialed up the CSI producer, put him on speaker, and everyone listened as Ryan made himself available for future thespian employ—“Hello, love scene!” For his on-screen partner in romance, he suggested Heather Locklear, who had been his celebrity crush for more than thirty years. “I’m loyal,” Ryan explained to the producer.

  The next day at—what else—another meeting, Tannenbaum addressed the West Coast scout Joe Bommarito on the matter of Titus Young. Young was an excellent receiver, but the public record showed that in his time, he’d smoked more than DBs: “Joe, you’re signing off on him? When Sanchez wants him here in the building, he’ll be here with a smile on his face? Joe, nine forty-one in the morning, you’re signing off? This is big, Joe. We may take him. We may have a chance at him because of issues. You’re okay with that?” Bommarito didn’t flinch. Of course, the scout couldn’t guarantee what Young would do in the future; by some accounts, half the NFL runs on grass. But Bommarito had immersed himself in Young’s community and believed the receiver could thrive.

  “Guys,” said Tannenbaum, looking around. “We have a marathon ahead of us.”

  “Guys,” said Ryan. “How many times can we watch CSI?”

  “Great job, everyone,” said Tannenbaum. “Another day and a half until we’re picking.” Matt Bazirgan, a scout who once played quarterback for Bates College, smiled ruefully at me and said, “In three years, we’ll look like fools or we’ll look great.”

  “Happy draft day,” Jim O’Neil greeted everyone on the long-awaited April 28. “The Scout Super Bowl,” as Joe Bommarito proclaimed it, had come at last, and as the 8:00 p.m. start time approached, the facility was transformed. People walked the corridors in their Sunday clothes: an eggplant-hued corduroy blazer for Joey Clinkscales; Tannenbaum in a pin-striped suit. Only Ryan was resolute in sideline couture. Along a quiet hallway, there were tables laden with chicken Parmesan, cheeseburger sliders, Mexican food, and flatbread pizza, as well as a sundae bar. Around the building, office workers filled out sheets as they tried to predict the draft order, just as office workers were doing all over America. Were these sheets better informed? They were not. Nobody, not Tannenbaum and not Ryan, could really say what thirty-one other organizations were thinking. On the locked draft-room door, a sign was posted: Do Not Clean. Tannenbaum looked as relaxed as I’d ever seen him—he’d done what he could, knew all the roads, and was ready to travel.

  The draft room had been dressed up as well. There were televisions tuned to ESPN and the NFL Network and several newly activated telephone landlines, and there were fewer people than usual inside. Fearing distraction, Tannenbaum asked most of the draft team to watch from their offices. The draft itself was at Radio City Music Hall, in New York, where fans, mindful of the lockout, were chanting, “We want football.” The Jets representatives there—Vito Contento, from the equipment room, and the video director, Tim Tubito—sat by a telephone, where they would take down the names of the Jets’ ultimate picks, write them on a card, and submit it to the league, a horse-and-buggy remnant in an of-the-moment game.

  The Jets had to be patient. Each team was entitled to ten minutes on the clock to contemplate its first choice, and most teams would use all that time to invite trade offers. Ryan arrived. “What a spread!” he exclaimed. Looking around, he said, “There’s nobody in here!” Turning to Tannenbaum, he asked, “Why am I the nervous one? You’re the nervous one.” To me, he said, “C’mon, Nicky! Let’s get ice cream!”

  The evening passed fitfully. From time to time, the telephones on the draft table rang with other teams proposing trades. As players were selected, a Jets scout would move the appropriate cards from the wall of available players to the drafted wall. Ryan, Tannenbaum, Clinkscales, Bradway, and the others watched their competitors make their picks on TV and offered commentary. They grew most animated when other teams’ choices wildly diverged from the Jets’ assessment of the player, such as Tennessee’s drafting of quarterback Jake Locker. After Houston took J. J. Watt at number 11, Ryan was relieved the big Wisconsin defensive lineman would not be a Patriot. New England then selected Nate Solder, and everybody approved; if you possessed as excellent a quarterback as Brady, you had to give him time to throw. Ryan and Tannenbaum periodically picked up the phone and checked in with other teams that had recently made their first-round selections and might want to acquire another one by trading with the Jets: “Great pick! If you guys are interested in coming back up, let us know.” Everybody in these conversations was on a first-name basis with everyone else. The only exception was how Ryan addressed Oakland owner Al Davis, the rare owner to make draft decisions for his team. Davis had long been a pariah among the league’s other owners, but Davis was a pro-football legend, and Ryan called him Mr. Davis. Jets owner Woody Johnson and his brother Chris sat in for a while, watching closely.

  Twenty picks in, other teams had chosen three players to whom the Jets had assigned second- or third-round cards, and one they’d rated a fourth- or fifth-rounder. “Wilkerson, hang in there, baby!” Ryan cried. The team’s medical staff was called into the room. Da’Quan Bowers, with his microfractured knee and first-pick talent, had not yet been chosen. Should he be a Jet? Dr. Kenneth Montgomery, the team physician, urged against it. The Redskins had passed on Bowers, Montgomery said, and their doctors performed his knee surgery.

  The telephone rang: Seattle offering to trade their pick at twenty-five for the Jets’ number thirty and the Jets’ third-round choice. Tannenbaum took out a trade-value chart that looked like something a life-insurance firm would have on the wall. The columns of numbers told Tannenbaum he should counter Seattle’s third-round proposal with a fifth. Thank you, no, said Seattle. The Eagles were up. Along with the Ravens, the Jets feared, Philadelphia was most likely to draft Jimmy Smith. But, no, the Eagles went for a lineman. High-fives were hoisted. Seattle called back. A fourth? “No,” said Tannenbaum. “On our chart, a fifth is fair. Your guy will still be there at thirty!” Of course, he didn’t know who Seattle’s guy was. Seattle went ahead and used their pick to take James Carpenter, rated a second-rounder on the Jets board. Tannenbaum was speechless. He was sure the Seahawks had, in effect, passed up a bonus pick.

  The Ravens drafted Jimmy Smith. Groans! Curses! A plague on both of Seattle’s houses! “He’ll never make it!” Tannenbaum said, and like that, binder pages turned, time sped, and just after eleven, the Jets were on the clock at last. Tannenbaum’s instructions to Contento and Tubito at Radio City were to write down Muhammad Wilkerson on the card but do nothing while the Jets fielded offers. Lowballs were lobbed over the facility wall. Clinkscales called Wilkerson to make sure he was intact. Then he put the player on hold. Four minutes left. A tasty offer arrived from Dallas—but not as tasty as 314 pounds of fast-twitching Wilkerson. Tannenbaum took the phone and greeted his new lineman, and then Ryan took over: “Everything you got, Muhammad! None of this bullshit every-other-play!” The scouts poured into the room. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged. “He’ll be a ten-year player for us,” said Tannenbaum. Wilkerson appeared on the TV screen. “Look at those arms!” marveled Ryan.

  The next day, a festival of Wilkerson family members stopped by the facility, looking proud. Wilkerson himself mostly spent his visit quiet and smiling, wearing an expression into which the Jets read profound gridiron truths. “That’s a man,” said Pettine. “I like him even better now!” gushed Ryan. Tight-ends coach Devlin agreed—“He is a beast!”—and Ryan seemed grateful. Praise for defensive players always meant most when it came from the offense. Once a drafted player was yours, Tannenbaum explained, “you l
ove him more.”

  When the second round began at 6:30, the Jets, without a choice, were participants who couldn’t participate. On the television the just-drafted were leaping off couches, hugging fathers, kissing mothers, kissing girlfriends. At the facility, there were fruit smoothies available to all, and a smooth operator from another team calling to offer the Jets its second-round choice for three lower picks. The Jets accepted, whereupon the other team asked for more. A bait-and-switch was not an unusual occurrence, and Tannenbaum seethed only a little. With Wilkerson in hand for Ryan and Pettine, he was hoping to trade up and deliver Titus Young to Schottenheimer and Sanchez. Maybe the other team would call back and un-renege. “Come on, Titus, come home,” said Tannenbaum. But Detroit drafted Young at pick forty-four. “Plan B!” Tannenbaum announced. “He’s dead to us! Come on, Jaiquawn Jarrett!”

  Ten picks later, the Eagles took Jarrett. “Really?” said Tannenbaum. “Really?” At 9:00, CSI: NY appeared live on one of the televisions. “Everybody’s an expert!” Ryan was telling the football-fan police detective on the screen. In real life, with the draft seventy-four picks in, Tannenbaum still had five players left he liked just fine at ninety-four: Kenrick Ellis, Bilal Powell, Johnny Patrick, receiver Jerrel Jernigan, and Florida safety Ahmad Black. “We’ll get one of them,” promised Bradway. At eighty-three, the Giants selected Jernigan. At eighty-eight, with the room’s collective abdomen clenched, New Orleans went for Patrick. And then the Jets were finally back on the clock, and the sequence repeated itself—other teams making offers; Michael Davis calling Ellis; all the scouts pouring into the room to slap the broad shoulders of “Mr. Mike!” At ninety-four, the Jets had landed their forty-fifth-rated player.

  Pettine visited the draft room for a polite interval and then retreated to his office to watch tape of Ellis playing games at Hampton. This school’s football didn’t look like the sophisticated pro-style game they played at Alabama or USC. Here, players launched themselves at each other like bombardiers, hit with delirious aggression. In the middle of the frenzied rough-and-tumble, wading through the cheap shots to make tackle after tackle, was Ellis. In every frame, he was the largest player on the field, a man so big you could imagine his belly full of gravel, rusty cans, maybe an old shoe, a bicycle wheel, and two dozen fishhooks. Pettine found it all hugely entertaining. “Look at this big rascal run!” He chortled. Ryan entered. “The big bull!” he said happily and took a seat. “You know what I always say, got to win in the alley before you win on the field!”

  Because of the $120 million salary cap in 2011, NFL teams couldn’t afford to keep all their expensive veterans. One reason the Jets’ scout face-card-bonus policy existed was that if a scout could find you an impact player in the seventh round, it would help the budget enormously. More than half the players who would be on active 2011 NFL rosters were drafted in the fifth round or later. You had to win at the margins.

  For the final four draft rounds on Saturday, each team had only five minutes before making selections. The day went quickly. In the fourth round, the Jets drafted Bilal Powell. On television, an analyst praised this as the pick of the day. Bradway—teasing—said that was only because Tannenbaum had taken the analyst’s calls. Tannenbaum said Bradway was probably right. The Jets still sought a receiver as well as linebackers and defensive backs to play special teams. Everyone in the room knew that somewhere downstairs was a displeased Mike Westhoff. They could feel him. After Denarius Moore went off to Oakland—“Fuuuuck!”—the Jets traded up with Philadelphia to be sure they wouldn’t also lose out on Jeremy Kerley. The Eagles were also given the Jets’ sixth-round pick; the Jets received the Eagles’ choice for the seventh. In Kerley, Westhoff now at least had his return man. Philadelphia’s GM told Tannenbaum how well he’d been drafting. Tannenbaum had been practicing this same form of back-scratching for three days, but despite himself, he was pleased. “They wanted Ellis,” he reported.

  Clinkscales, worrying there was still a plan afoot to draft Sanchez’s friend Scotty McKnight, shared with Ryan his concern that the Jets hadn’t been hard enough on their young quarterback. Ryan disagreed: “You can’t win four road playoff games and not be a man.” Clinkscales pondered this. “I agree with you, but I don’t agree with you,” he finally said. When Minnesota took the self-effacing center Brandon Fusco, Ryan sadly said, “They’re all going.”

  As the first of the Jets’ two seventh-round slots approached, Bradway reminded Tannenbaum that the Jets had only one quarterback signed for the roster—Sanchez. Bradway loved—adored!—Greg McElroy, who’d led Alabama to a national title with an average arm and advanced-placement acumen. Getting Westhoff linebackers was on everyone else’s mind. They all knew that in the end, no matter what, Westy would say, “Fuck it, we’ll make it work,” but part of Westhoff’s skill was his ability to make others wary of offending him. Even the way he dressed—he wore salmon-pink vests over short-sleeved white polo shirts with black slacks—set him apart, made him something singular to deal with. In this way, he could assemble surprising players for his low-priority-but-crucial unit. Now on the board was a linebacker he coveted whom nobody else liked. Tension in the draft room built. What to do? Minnesota took the linebacker! Ryan called Westhoff to console him and remind him that Nick Bellore and Jeff Tarpinian were still out there.

  The Jets drafted McElroy and then watched ESPN interview him. McElroy’s answers were so articulate and self-assured Ryan said, “I’ll just turn it over to Greg!” At Radio City, players from Yale were being drafted while Bellore and Posey and Tarpinian remained there for the taking. Suddenly—what was this? Tannenbaum and Ryan left the room. Bradway followed. Clinkscales looked alarmed. Time passed. Bradway reappeared, his face flushed. Then Ryan returned with Tannenbaum, who seemed—well, it was difficult to be sure of Tannenbaum’s disposition, but “pleased” wouldn’t describe it. Ryan wanted to use “his” pick to draft Scotty McKnight. The scouts were crestfallen. Clinkscales was furious. Under Tannenbaum, the Jets had never before drafted someone rated below a seventh-round grade. McKnight didn’t merit a draft card, hadn’t even received a Jets physical. He could have been signed as a free agent. That another team might take him was inconceivable.

  Ryan was so deeply lovable that people would forgive him almost anything. During the foot-fetish-video fallout, he’d been moved by the instant support he’d received throughout the organization. But the events of the current moment threatened all that goodwill. It was only a low seventh-round choice, and yet in the draft room, the happiness about the draft had given way to gloom. The coach explained that because of the lockout, the league prohibited coaches from talking to players. For months before the lockout, Ryan and Sanchez had been joking back and forth about Ryan drafting Sanchez’s bestie. Ryan had begun to worry that Sanchez thought Ryan was serious, and, said Ryan, “I would never want a player to think I lied to him.” He apologized to the scouting department, said he was sorry about the face cards, said he was aware there were concerns about “babying” Sanchez. And yet, who knew what McKnight might become. Wes Welker of the Patriots was perhaps the best receiver in the league. Nobody’d thought to draft him because he was “too small.” And chemistry mattered between those who threw and those who caught. “If he’s bullshit, it’s on me,” the coach concluded.

  The room’s occupants remained quiet and unconvinced. Why would Ryan compromise all their work just to appease one player? It occurred to me that the coach’s approach to football inevitably placed unusually strong emphasis on human relationships. I thought again of Weeks. Ryan believed that he was a better coach with his reassuring old friend on hand. Maybe Ryan had looked at Sanchez, inexperienced at being an authority figure, like Ryan himself, and decided the quarterback could also use a trusted sharer of secrets. That Ryan saw football as a game of familial love and passion was what set him apart from so many of the corporate bottom-liners who wore NFL headsets and followed all established protocols.

  But would granting one already priv
ileged player such a favor improve the morale of the rest? Everybody knew Ryan wanted only to win. They had to take it on faith that his interests would advance theirs. Bellore, Posey, and Tarpinian had not been drafted. When the commissioner decreed that undrafted free agents could be signed, there was opportunity again for making them Jets. Now, though, everybody just left for home—everybody except Ryan, who had written a memoir and was heading off to promote it.

  Outside, the trees were suddenly in bloom. The car radio said there’d been a royal wedding. What a rough business football was. Even this successful draft now felt like a defeat. But the draft and the games weren’t really the work. They were the interruptions the coaches and personnel men lived for, yet they were still interruptions. The work was process, the deliberate day-to-day attempt to improve the team. Terry Bradway told me that football executives do all they can during a draft, and then afterward they cross their fingers. The players were so young, and some of them, like Kyle Wilson, hadn’t even fully filled out yet. Most people spend their lives hoping for things that never happen. I had begun to see that football was a sport that existed for exultation but was mostly about longing.