The Cut

by Wil Mara

  “They’re not going to do that. They want you there, believe me. Those three, I’d be willing to bet anything, were brought in just for show. For leverage.”

  “Well, that’s what they got—and plenty of it.”

  Sturtz knew this was true. If he was right and those players were meant to tip the scales in the Giants’ favor, unethical or not, it was working.

  “We’ve still got the possibility of arbitration,” he said, amazed at how calm he sounded.

  “From what I hear, that’s a long shot.”

  “I’m not going to try to second-guess the process. I’m just going to wait and see what happens.”

  “And what if it doesn’t work out? What if they won’t hear the case?”

  Sturtz sighed. “Then we’ll try something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “What about talking with other teams? Weren’t you going to t—”

  “Let me worry about that. Don’t ask about that. You don’t need to know anything there.”

  “Well, you’ve got to come up with something.”

  “I will.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, T. J., okay? I’ll figure that out when the time comes!”

  It came out in a roar, spit flying from his lips. Sturtz would later swear he could actually feel the rise of his blood pressure. He had no idea where all the anger came from. Just seconds earlier, he seemed to be fully in control of himself.

  The silence that fell between them lasted perhaps ten seconds, but it seemed more like ten minutes.

  “Dammit,” Sturtz finally said, all the fatigue and stress laid bare in the hoarseness of that one word, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

  After another pause, Brookman said, “Shit … I’m sorry, too. I know it’s not your fault.”

  “No, it’s all right. I understand. Believe me—I understand.”

  “I know you’re doing everything you can.”

  “I just … I don’t know.”

  “Maybe we should’ve given in.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe we should’ve just played along for another season, until the contract ran out, then shot for a better deal, either with them or with someone else.”

  Sturtz had considered this several times over the last few days, played out all the scenarios. None of them seemed particularly appealing. Best case was that T. J. chalked up another phenomenal season, coasting them into a sweet bargaining position. Then he’d have to hammer out a new deal consisting of a fair amount of guaranteed money, much of it up front. That was the best case—but it wasn’t the most likely. There were too many variables. T. J. could become injured, he could stay healthy but have an off year, he could find himself written out of schemes and spend a fair amount of time either on the bench or, perhaps even worse, on the field but not featured in enough plays. Sturtz didn’t put it past a serpent like Alan Gray to purposely squelch a player’s performance solely to keep him from gaining the upper hand in a postseason negotiation—especially an offensive player, knowing Gray’s preference for the other side of the ball. No, there was no point in second-guessing now. He and T. J. had made the right decision last month. They were in a sweet position, and that was the time when you talked about renegotiating.

  “I think what we did was right,” Sturtz said, focusing on the three deer again. One of them swatted a fly away with its little tail. Another—the male, he assumed, judging by the branchlike antlers—looked up quickly, as if he knew the owner of the property was watching.

  “Yeah, I guess it did at the time. So now what? We just wait?”

  “Uh-huh. Look, if they agree to arbitrate, I like our chances. If they don’t, and then the team signs one of these other three and makes you sit, then I can file a new grievance, and that one, I believe, will most definitely go to arbitration. And I think we’d win it, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, ’cause I don’t want to spend the season watching from my couch.”

  “That won’t happen,” Sturtz said. “You’re not going to be warming any furniture.” He thought about legendary running back Marcus Allen, whose career suffered tremendously after the Oakland Raiders’ owner and then–head coach Al Davis, in what appeared to be a purely spiteful gesture, purportedly reduced his playing time to keep him from reaching several records he’d been chasing. In the end, he retired just short of some of them.

  “I hope not.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Brookman took a deep breath. “All right, I’m going.”

  “Hang in there. We’ll get it done.”

  “I hope so.”

  The call ended, and Sturtz could not remember a time when his client sounded so defeated.

  This is bullshit, he thought angrily. Pure and total bullshit.

  He took the phone off his belt and dialed another number. Just before the call went through, however, he killed it. One more look out the north-facing window; the deer were gone now. He closed his eyes and pinched and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a useless attempt to drive away the monster migraine he had developed. Then he dialed the number again.

  This time he let the call go through.

  * * *

  Only two thoughts were running through the young man’s mind as he came off the elevator and started down the sunlit dorm hallway: 1) You can’t be seen … you can’t be seen … and 2) This is the most underhanded thing you’ve ever done. You’re a goddamn WEASEL.

  Underhanded or not, however, he had come to the conclusion that he no longer had a choice in the matter. Too much was at risk now, far too much. It had been different in years past, when his skills and talents had carried him through. This time he needed an edge. A little insurance, that’s all, he had rationalized it. Even then he knew it was total bullshit. Once you have to convince yourself, then you know you’re doing something wrong. But these kinds of thoughts had to be pushed far to the back of his mind, where they could be dealt with later. This was no time for morality. Again—there was just too much on the line. This was war.

  Weasel hurried down the corridor and came to room 1833. He set his hand on the knob, praying it was unlocked. It should be—he’d made a dry run two days ago and was astonished to find it that way. Corey Reese, as well as his roommate, should’ve known better in such a hypercompetitive environment. But they didn’t; they made the choice to be trusting instead. Once again, the nice guys finish last.

  The knob turned smoothly, and he went inside. In spite of the open windows, the room still reeked of perspiration and filthy clothing. Both beds were unmade, playbooks lying on nightstands alongside candy wrappers, half-filled bottles of Gatorade, cell phones, and who knew what else. Reese had framed pictures of his wife and two children, whereas his roommate was apparently unattached and had only a photo of his parents. Each player also had a small shaded light, and under Reese’s Weasel found what he was looking for—a digital alarm clock.

  He studied the controls quickly, always keeping one ear trained on the hallway and one eye on the window. The rest of the organization was still in the dining hall, having lunch after the morning session. If everyone kept to the schedule, they wouldn’t be heading back here for their naps for another thirty minutes. Of course, the only certainty in life was that there were no certainties—one guy might not feel well and decide to skip lunch; another might finish early just to get an extra twenty minutes of rest. You never knew.

  Weasel had always been a smart individual, and he figured out how to accomplish what he’d come here for in a matter of maybe twenty seconds. He pressed the ALARM SET button, and 1:30 P.M. appeared in glowing red on the LCD screen. Then he pressed a button that bore just one character—a plus sign—and watched contentedly as the 1:30 zoomed forward until it reached the 3:00 region. The last two characters were just a blur. He had no specific time in mind. As long as it was well beyond what Reese needed, t
hat was fine.

  He set the clock down again, careful to position it precisely as it was before. Then, just to be safe, he went into the bathroom, pulled about two feet of toilet paper from the roll, and wiped away any fingerprints. It was a ridiculously anal gesture (as if the FBI might come in here and investigate the crime), but you never knew. Better safe than sorry.

  He peeked down the hallway before stepping out, then closed the door and gave the knob a quick wipe, too. He headed toward the elevators, but stopped when it occurred to him that he might come face-to-face with someone he didn’t want to see when he emerged on the ground floor.

  He turned swiftly, his sneakers squeaking with each step, and went the other way. At the end of the hall, he opened the fire door that led to the stairwell. It would bring him, he knew, to a side exit facing away from the dining hall; the odds of being seen there were slim. The door drifted to a close as he disappeared, and all was quiet again.

  The elevator doors at the other end parted exactly twenty-three minutes later, and Corey Reese, along with four of his teammates, walked out. With full stomachs and aching bodies, they separated to their respective rooms. Reese kicked his cleats off, dumped his helmet and pads in the corner, and collapsed onto the cot—sliding back up on one elbow just long enough to activate the alarm. Then he crashed onto the pillow, pulling the thin woolen blanket over his head.

  He was snoring within minutes.

  * * *

  When he awoke, his first thought was that he felt more refreshed than usual. Deepest sleep I ever had. Then it occurred to him that he had awakened naturally—not because of the alarm. Unable to believe that he had been asleep for less than an hour, he turned his head to look at the clock.

  3:34.

  “Shit!”

  He jumped up and scrambled for his cleats. Then he rolled back into a sitting position, pulled them on, and tied them at light speed.

  “What’s wrong with this fucking thing?!” he snarled, smacking the clock with his open hand. Then he picked it up and inspected it quickly. The current time was correct, the volume was turned up to maximum (a necessity), and the alarm button had been pushed to the ON position.

  What the hell?

  He’d brought the unit from home. He had several alarm clocks, in fact, and purposely chose this one because it was historically the most reliable. He found it impossible to believe it had simply failed.

  There wasn’t time to figure it out now—he was already in enough trouble. He gathered up the helmet and cleats and turned to go out. Just as he reached the door, however, the alarm exploded—a series of urgent beeps that sounded more like an intruder alert in a military base.

  Reese stopped and stared at the clock for a moment. Then he walked back slowly, set his gear down on the cot, and lifted the clock for the second time. It was so loud that he could actually feel the beeps through his skin. He shut it off and pressed the ALARM SET button.

  3:36.

  “What the f—”

  That wasn’t right. How did it change? A power outage?

  You can’t worry about it now. Get moving.

  He set the clock down again and rushed out.

  * * *

  By the time he emerged from the building, the others were on their way back. Standing there waiting for them, he’d never felt like a bigger idiot.

  As the crowd engulfed him, the comments began.

  “Have a good sleep?”

  “All rested up now?”

  “We didn’t disturb you, did we?”

  “Must be nice.”

  No one seemed to find any humor in it—especially Coach Gray, who gave him a look of disgust that he would remember for the rest of his life. The fact that he added a muttered “Nice of you to join us, Reese” didn’t help. Greenwood and O’Leary didn’t say a word, but neither looked pleased. There was also a touch of disappointment in their faces, which, for some reason, cut deeper than anything else.

  Reese wanted to shout, Hey, it wasn’t my fault! My alarm got screwed up! But, of course, he didn’t. That would be an excuse, and you didn’t get far with excuses in the National Football League. But it wasn’t my fault, I swear.…

  This was the moment when he realized someone might have intentionally changed the alarm just for the sake of getting him into trouble.

  Could that be what happened? Would someone actually do that? If so, who?

  He tried to locate Daimon Foster and Jermaine Hamilton in the group. Foster was nowhere in sight, but he spotted Hamilton walking among a cluster of four others, still in his pads and carrying his helmet.

  He’s smiling at me, Reese realized. The sonofabitch is looking in my direction and grinning.

  It wasn’t exactly the right kind of look—it wasn’t smug or satisfied. Then again, Hamilton was an old pro, knew all the tricks. That’s what they’ve been saying about him, right? He’s a tricky guy—compensates for his age by doing things others wouldn’t even think of doing. Just the type who would pull something like this.

  Reese and Hamilton remained in their staring match for a few moments, during which time Hamilton’s smile bent to a frown and he appeared more confused. But Reese wasn’t buying it.

  If it was him, he’s gonna pay, Reese vowed. He’s gonna pay like he’s never paid for anything.

  19

  Text of letter sent by Michael V. Soltis, Esq., via registered mail on August 18:

  Alan Gray, Head Coach and Director of Football Operations

  Chet Palmer, Vice President and General Manager

  c/o The New York Football Giants

  Giants Stadium

  East Rutherford, New Jersey 07073

  Barry M. Sturtz, President and CEO

  c/o Performers LLC

  1152 Skyline Drive

  Burlington, North Carolina 27216

  T. J. Brookman

  215 Hope Street

  Franklin Lakes, New Jersey 07417

  Gentlemen:

  Concerning the ongoing dispute between Mr. Sturtz, his client, Mr. Brookman, and the New York Football Giants organization, I am notifying all parties involved that I have decided to let the matter continue on to a formal arbitration hearing, where, it is hoped, it can be settled in a way that is acceptable, even if not preferable, to all sides, and the matter can be put to rest. That said, I am appointing William T. Serra, Esq., to act as independent arbitrator. Mr. Serra, as some of you may know, has handled similar cases in the past and has firmly established himself as a fair, objective, and impartial overseer. I am confident that his final decision will be satisfactory.

  Having stated the above, I now request that all sides kindly deliver whatever records, documents, and other evidence they feel will be necessary to Mr. Serra no later than ten days after receipt of this letter, per Section 5 (Discovery), Article IX (Non-Injury Grievance) of the current Collective Bargaining Agreement.

  Thank you.

  Sincerely,

  Michael V. Soltis, Esq.

  Notice Arbitrator

  CC: NFLPA, NFL Management Council

  20

  The last two days had been dreamlike for Greg Bolton. At last—a break. Much needed; very much needed. The ESPN gods decided to cut him loose for seventy-two hours, lest he suffer a mental meltdown of unprecedented proportions.

  Just one week earlier, he had been at the Cardinals’ camp, held at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. The heat was such that two players collapsed from exhaustion. Then it was on to Nashville to watch Jeff Fisher and the Titans. The next day Bolton had to make two stops—the Falcons in Flowery Branch, Georgia, and the Saints at Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi. He and his crew filmed more than four hours’ worth of material, of which perhaps twenty minutes would ultimately appear on national television. After the Saints visit, a Wednesday, he begged for a breather. His producer told him to go home and see his family until the following Sunday, when he would be due at Minnesota State in Mankato to cover the Vikings.

  Bolton came through t
he door that evening with a bag full of presents. Chase, to his amazement, ignored them and leaped into his arms. Bolton played with his son for the next two hours. When the boy finally lost steam and fell asleep on the living room couch, he grabbed the opportunity to sneak upstairs with his wife, Alexandra, for some practice in the art of conjugal privilege (which, incidentally, would result in the birth of their second son, Kenneth, nine months later).

  Over the next three days, all work-related matters were ignored while he and his family patronized a string of amusement parks, shopping malls, and restaurants. He took Chase to and from school on Thursday and Friday, taking time to speak with his teachers. On Friday evening they visited Alexandra’s parents, whom he actually liked, and didn’t return until well past midnight.

  Saturday was spent just hanging around and generally enjoying the art of doing nothing. But he knew he’d have to get back into the swing of things, at least in a preparatory capacity, that evening. His flight to Minnesota left at eight twenty-two the following morning, so he had to get ready—pack, review notes, get onto the Internet and find out what had been going on for the last few days. He also wanted to field some e-mails, lest his in-box become overloaded and unable to receive any more.

  By nine thirty, Chase had been read his favorite Pooh story, Alexandra was upstairs reading the latest book by her own favorite author (Amy Tan), and Bolton was sitting in his den, going through the formidable pile of letters and packages that had accumulated over the last four weeks. So much of it was just garbage, but she didn’t like to throw anything out. Who knew what might be important? He appreciated her discretion, but certainly some of this crap could’ve gone. A flyer from ShopRite? An offer for a credit card? A coupon from the local deli?

  He had already tackled the e-mails, deleting about two-thirds of them out of hand and responding to the rest, in most cases, with just one or two sentences. At precisely nine forty-seven, as he was navigating through NFL.com at his desktop computer (his ESPN-issued laptop was “resting” in its case on the other side of the room), his Instant Messenger popped up in front of everything else. His first thought was Oh, shit, not now. Then he saw the name of the sender.