The Dread Line

by Bruce DeSilva

  “Not any important ones,” I said. “But if we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to do a couple of things for us.”

  “Like what?” Eliason asked.

  “With what we’ve got in mind, Bowditch could fall all the way to you at the end of the first round,” I said, “but the kid doesn’t deserve that. It would cost him too much money. Any chance you could still trade up?”

  “How high?”

  “Somewhere in the top ten?”

  “We might be able to do that,” Eliason said. “One or two teams are still looking to trade down.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “You said a couple of things,” Cruze said. “What’s the other one?”

  “You need a cornerback,” I said, “and there’s this kick-ass player at Oregon State.”

  “You mean Chuck Crawford, kid who came out as gay last year?”

  “Yeah. They say he’s got first-round talent.”

  “He does,” Eliason said.

  “Most likely, he’ll still be on the board when you pick in the third round,” I said. “If he is, you have to promise that you’ll take him.”

  “Really?” Eliason said. “You’re gonna climb back on that soapbox again?”

  “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “I don’t know,” Eliason said. “I’ll have to run this up the ladder.”

  “Don’t take too long,” I said. “Ticktock. The dread line is two days away.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, McCracken and I were sipping whiskey in his office when Eliason called. “Belichick took this to the owner,” he said. “Who knew? Turns out, when Kraft said he would welcome a gay player, he actually meant it.”

  “What about trading up?” I asked.

  “We’re working on a deal for the eighth spot, but the Buccaneers want to hold off until draft day to see if they get a better offer.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “In the next forty-eight hours, you’re going to hear some really bad stuff about Bowditch. Don’t believe a word of it.”

  53

  “Channel Ten News, Logan Bedford speaking.”

  “Hello, Logan. I’m Richard Harding Davis.”

  “The reporter for The Ocean State Rag?”

  “Yes, indeedy.”

  “I love your work.”

  “I’m a huge fan of yours too,” I lied.

  “So what’s up?”

  “I’ve got a big story for you.”

  “You do?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Why give it to me?”

  “My editor has declined to print it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s close with Conner Bowditch’s father.”

  “You’ve got something on Conner?”

  “I do.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Bedford said. “Everybody already knows he’s gay. The story’s gone national.”

  “That’s the least of it. The kid’s dirty, Logan.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My boss will fire me if he finds out I leaked this, but if you promise to keep my name out of it, I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”

  “Done.”

  “If you’re taping this call, turn the recorder off.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You sure, Logan? Because under Rhode Island law, it’s illegal to tape a call unless both parties agree to it. If you cross me on this, I’ll make trouble for you.”

  “I’m sure.”

  So I spun my tale for him.

  “Jesus!” he said. “Can you prove all of this?”

  “As soon as we hang up, I’m going to e-mail you a video of Bowditch walking into Zerilli’s Market.”

  “That’s where he’s been placing his bets?”

  “He’s been gambling there for years. If you call Detective Wargart at the Providence PD, he’ll confirm that it was a mobbed-up bookie joint before it went legal. DeLucca loved the puff piece you did on him, so he’s willing to talk to you about Bowditch. He’s waiting for your call at the store right now.”

  “Great!”

  “But he’s camera shy on this one, Logan. Doesn’t want to be tape-recorded either, so you’ll have to make do with notes.”

  “I can do that. What’s the phone number at the market?”

  “Look it up,” I said. “I’m not going to do all of your work for you.”

  * * *

  Next morning, McCracken had beer and deli sandwiches delivered to the office. He’d ordered enough to bloat the Patriots offensive line because we were expecting Joseph. Shortly before noon, the big lug strolled in, grabbed a pastrami in one hand and a ham and cheese in the other, and dropped into a chair across from the flat-screen. McCracken got up from behind his desk, tossed Joseph a beer, and snapped on the TV.

  “Conner Bowditch, the Classical High School football hero and Boston College All American who’d been expected to be taken early in tomorrow’s NFL draft, was recently outed as a gay man,” the anchorwoman said. “But as it turns out, that’s the least of his troubles. Stay tuned for our exclusive I-Team report. You’ll be shocked!”

  “Did you follow the script we gave you?” McCracken asked as a commercial for the Foxwoods Resort Casino flashed on the screen.

  “Yeah,” Joseph said.

  “You didn’t let him bring a camera into the store?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t have a tape recorder on him?”

  “I showed him my magnum and made him empty his pockets. Then I frisked the asshole to make sure.”

  We turned back to the TV now as the foxlike face of Logan Bedford leered from the screen, the camera angle gradually widening to show that he was standing in front of Zerilli’s Market.

  “According to the Providence police,” he said, “the establishment behind me is more than a neighborhood market. For decades, an illegal bookmaking racket operated out of an office in back. Recently, it went legal, transforming itself into an online gambling business that conforms to state and federal law. However, Providence detective sergeant Jay Wargart says that it remains under the control of Dominic ‘Whoosh’ Zerilli, a reputed lieutenant in the Patriarca crime family.

  “Thousands of Providence residents have gambled on sports here over the years. The Channel Ten I-Team has learned exclusively that one of the regulars was Conner Bowditch, the former Classical High School and Boston College football star.

  “The video now appearing on your screen,” he went on, “shows Bowditch entering the establishment yesterday afternoon. I asked Joseph DeLucca, who runs the gambling business for Zerilli, what Bowditch was doing there. ‘The same thing everyone does,’ DeLucca told me. ‘He came in to place a bet.’

  “Mr. DeLucca declined to appear on camera, but he told all in an exclusive interview. He said Bowditch first began coming into the store when he was in high school to place small bets on professional basketball, baseball, and football games. But last fall, in anticipation of a big payday after tomorrow’s NFL draft, he started gambling big-time. ‘Unfortunately for him, he’s a lot better at football than he is at gambling,’ DeLucca told me, adding, and I quote, ‘The kid’s into me for more than thirty grand.’

  “I asked DeLucca what Bowditch had lost all that money on. ‘Mostly college football,’ he said. I asked if the player had ever gambled on the Boston College games that he played in. DeLucca said that he had. Then I asked if he’d ever bet against his own team.” Logan stared into the camera and paused for dramatic effect.

  “DeLucca was hesitant to answer that question,” he said. “But finally, he said, and I quote, ‘Yea. Five bleeping times.’

  “This morning, I contacted the NFL commissioner’s office and was told that the league had no official comment on this matter. However, it seems certain that today’s shocking disclosure will cause Bowditch’s stock to continue to fall in tomorrow’s draft. In fact, one NFL official told me
privately, the finest football player ever to come out of Rhode Island probably won’t get drafted at all. That big payday Conner Bowditch has been counting on to pay off his gambling debt? It won’t be coming.

  “This is Logan Bedford reporting for the Channel Ten I-team. Back to you, Beverly.”

  With that, McCracken flipped the channel to ESPN, and we settled down to enjoy our lunch.

  “Any regrets about sandbagging Bedford?” McCracken asked.

  “Hell, no,” I said. “The prick had it coming. He’s been plagiarizing my work for years.”

  Less than an hour later, Sports Center went live with the news: “According to the Associated Press, a Providence, Rhode Island, television station has just reported that…” ESPN ended the story with word that the Jets, who were rumored to be considering drafting Bowditch with the seventh pick despite the reports about his sexual preference, were now seeking to trade out of the first round.

  “Think the Patriots can work a deal with them?” McCracken asked.

  “No fuckin’ way,” Joseph said.

  “He’s right,” I said. “The rivalry is too bitter for that. The Jets will never deal with the Patriots.”

  54

  Early Thursday evening, I was playing tug–of–war with Brady and Rondo when Joseph’s pickup truck rolled down the driveway and braked beside the house. As usual, he hadn’t come empty-handed. I helped him lug eight large pizzas and four cartons of beer into the kitchen.

  We were well along with our drinking when McCracken came in the door carrying a bottle of Irish whiskey and two grocery bags stuffed with Italian grinders and crab salad sandwiches from the island’s East Ferry Deli.

  An hour before the NFL draft was set to begin, I fetched my Leland strobe light, switched it on, and placed it at the end of my dock. Twenty minutes later, a seventeen-foot bowrider tied up beside my Sundowner. Malcolm Bowditch jumped out and switched off my signal light. Then he and his son strolled in my back door with two grocery bags of Philly steak sandwiches and a carton of Moët & Chandon Imperial champagne.

  “Jesus! I said. “We’ve got enough food and drink to give the whole NFL the runs.”

  “You shittin’ me?” Joseph said. “I was thinkin’ we probably ain’t got enough.”

  “Did the press try to follow you?” I asked Malcolm.

  “Yeah. A dozen reporters were camped outside the house when we pulled out of the driveway. They jumped in their vehicles and chased us all the way to Wickford Harbor.”

  “Was Logan Bedford one of them?”

  “He was. He kept shouting questions as we boarded the boat. When we shoved off, he looked pretty pissed.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He sighed. “You know, this isn’t how I pictured this day. I figured we’d be celebrating in the green room at the draft.”

  “You were uninvited?” McCracken asked.

  “Yeah. The commissioner’s office called about an hour after Logan Bedford’s story broke and told us we weren’t welcome.”

  “This is better, Dad,” Conner said, and we straggled into the living room to watch ESPN. “I wouldn’t have known anybody there anyway. This way, we get to celebrate with friends.”

  “Where’s Meghan?” I asked.

  He just shrugged.

  “Conner sat down with her yesterday and tried to explain what was going on,” Marlon said, “but she’s not buying it.”

  “She called me a liar,” Conner said. “Hell, she still thinks I might be gay.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Conner,” I said. “She’ll know the truth soon enough.”

  “I don’t really care anymore. We’re done.”

  From the look on his face, I wasn’t so sure. But if it was over, I figured he was better off.

  “Any word on the Patriots trading up?” Marlon asked.

  “Nothing yet,” I said. “I tried reaching out to Eliason this afternoon, but he was too busy in the Patriots’ war room to take my call.”

  “Pipe down,” McCracken said. “It’s about to start.”

  We stopped yakking and locked our eyes on the TV as Roger Goodell strode to the podium: “With the first pick in the NFL draft, the Cleveland Browns…”

  With each team using most of the ten minutes allowed to make its selection, the evening dragged. An hour passed before the Jets, apparently unable to deal out of the first round, made their choice. Now, with still no word of a trade with the Patriots, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers were on the clock.

  Conner’s cell phone rang. He clicked it on, and a smile spread across his face. “Thanks so much, Coach,” he said. “I’m gonna make you proud.” Then he signed off, got to his feet, and exchanged high fives with all of us. Including the dogs.

  Up on the podium, Goodell was handed a card with the name of the player who had been drafted eighth. He studied it, scowled, and covered the microphone with his hand. Then he turned to the league official who’d delivered it and muttered something.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Malcolm asked. “Can anybody read his lips?”

  “Yeah,” McCracken said. “I think he asked, ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’”

  Goodell turned back to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to pause the proceedings for a few minutes. Please bear with us.” Then he stalked off the stage.

  ESPN announcer Chris Berman had a puzzled look on his face. “Something’s up,” he said. “Whatever it is, we’ll have to just wait and see.” And then he broke for commercial.

  Two minutes later, he was back. “While we were gone, Commissioner Goodell huddled with Tampa Bay Buccaneers general manager Jason Licht. Now he’s exchanging words with Patriots head coach and GM Bill Belichick.”

  “The commissioner doesn’t look happy,” Mel Kiper Jr. said.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Berman said. “But Belichick looks like he just swallowed the canary.”

  Another five minutes dragged by before Goodell returned to the podium. “There has been a trade. With the eighth pick in the NFL draft, acquired from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, the New England Patriots select Boston College defensive tackle Conner Bowditch.”

  And hell broke loose. In Chicago, thousands of fans at the live event booed and shook their fists. Some hurled paper drinking cups as the TV cameras panned the crowd. And in Jamestown, Rhode Island, five people watching on TV were sprayed with expensive champagne. Brady and Rondo dove behind the couch to escape the mayhem. After a moment, they ventured out and lapped at the puddles.

  Back on the TV, the ESPN analysts were shaking their heads in astonishment.

  “What the heck is Bill Belichick thinking?” Kiper snapped. “After yesterday’s disclosure that Bowditch gambled on Boston College games, it’s hard to imagine him ever playing a single down in the NFL. No question he’ll be banned from the league. He could even end up facing criminal charges.”

  Only Berman offered a word of caution. “Maybe the Patriots know something the rest of us don’t. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  An hour later, with the Giants on the clock, an ESPN floor reporter finally managed to corral Belichick and shove a microphone in his face.

  “Every football fan in America is asking the same question,” the reporter said. “How could you waste a top-ten pick on Conner Bowditch?”

  “We saw an opportunity to select the best player in the draft and jumped at it,” Belichick said.

  “But aren’t you concerned about his gambling?”

  “We saw an opportunity to select the best player in the draft and jumped at it,” the notoriously terse coach repeated. As the reporter pressed for more, Belichick turned his back and stalked off.

  With that, I got up from the couch, sat down at the kitchen table, fired up my laptop, and filed Richard Harding Davis’s final story.

  * * *

  The first round was nearly over, the Arizona Cardinals on the clock, when Berman broke in with some news. “According to the Associated Press, a respected Rhode Island online news
organization is reporting that the gambling accusations recently leveled against Conner Bowditch are all untrue.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Kiper said. “How could they know that?”

  “According to the story, the Providence, Rhode Island, bookie cited as the source for the original report has sworn out an affidavit declaring that Bowditch never placed a single bet with him. In fact, the bookie insists he never spoke to the Providence television station that first broke the gambling story.”

  “What about the video of Bowditch entering the market where the bookie conducts business?” Kiper asked.

  “According to the bookie,” Berman said, “the kid just came in to buy a six-pack.… Oh, and the story says the reports about Bowditch being gay are also false. It’s a long story, too much for me to digest right now, but at first glance, it looks pretty convincing. Lots of details and named sources.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Kiper said. “I’ve got a feeling there’s some funny business going on here.”

  “Maybe,” Berman said. “Or maybe the TV reporter just got it wrong.”

  Fifteen minutes later, as the draft coverage was wrapping up, Kiper returned with something new.

  “According to league sources, the Jets are accusing the Patriots of planting the gambling story in an effort to manipulate the draft. The Patriots deny it and are accusing the Jets of planting the story about Bowditch being gay. One thing we can be sure of. This thing isn’t over. The commissioner’s office will have to conduct a full investigation.”

  “What a mess,” Berman said. “This could be another black eye for the league. And the New England Patriots, a team whose reputation has already been sullied by Spygate and Deflategate, are right in the middle of things again.”

  * * *

  “I know I’m in the minority on this,” I said, “but I’ve always thought that Spygate and Deflategate were blown out of proportion.”

  “Me too,” McCracken said. “In Spygate, the Patriots were caught taping the Jets’ defensive signals, but what was so secret about them? They were being flashed openly in front of nearly seventy thousand people.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Anybody there could have captured them with a cell phone.”