by Wil Mara
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Oh, good. I was afraid I might’ve had an old number. Freddie, this is Derek Knudsen, general manager of the Kansas City Chiefs.”
“Hey, how are you?”
What’s he calling for?
“I’m fine, very well. How are things on your end? I’ll bet it’s beautiful in upstate New York.”
Friedman, who was already standing (he rarely sat when he was on the phone; moving around helped him think), turned and admired the view of the Adirondack Mountains through two panoramic windows.
“It certainly is. What can I do for you today? Is there a problem?”
“No, not at all. I’m calling about one of your clients.”
“One of my clients?” Odd—they were all under contract.
“Yes. Now, you understand, Freddie, this call is strictly off the record.…”
Friedman had a digital recording device on his desk that could be activated simply by pushing a button. What stopped him from doing just this was Knudsen’s reputation. He was a brilliant man with a razor-sharp understanding of how the National Football League worked. He had degrees in law, business, and sports psychology. He was too smart to say anything over the phone that he shouldn’t, so there would be little point in capturing the conversation.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Good. We’re just having a discussion here about one of your boys.”
“May I ask which one?”
Knudsen laughed. “I suppose I should mention him at some point, right? It’s Corey Reese.”
Another surprise.
“Corey? What about him? He’s in camp with the Giants right now.”
“We know. And we’ve been watching him. Pretty impressive.”
“Yeah, he’s done well so far.” Never disagree with a compliment from a prospective customer.
“A lot of us thought that knee injury two seasons ago signaled the end of his career, but he seems to have bounced back.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
This was no lie—Freddie Friedman was amazed at how Corey Reese had brought himself back from the brink of ruin. He’d seen other athletes suffer the same injury, and most of them never saw action again. They all vowed they’d return, but it rarely happened. It was like battling lung cancer—a fraction won the battle, but the majority did not. Reese, through discipline, education, and raw determination, had defied the odds.
“It is indeed. That’s why we decided this call was necessary.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Knudsen’s voice dropped. “Freddie, I realize the comment I’m about to make isn’t in keeping with league policy and is a violation of unwritten ethics, but we wanted you to know that, should Corey fail to make the final cut in New York, we’d be very interested in having him here in Kansas City.”
There it was, as plain as day. Yes, making an offer for a player who was already under contract was a great whopping breach of rules and regulations. But Knudsen, Friedman noted, was careful not to make a specific offer. All he did was make it clear that they were willing to make an offer. Dancing along the edges, that’s what Knudsen was doing.
“How interested?”
“I can’t get into the details, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But I assure you it would be worth investigating further.”
Friedman was doing quick numbers in his head, getting a general idea of where he would want to go with the negotiations. One factor, unfortunately, was Corey’s dire financial situation. He had urged and pleaded with Corey to keep it as quiet as possible. Amazingly, the media had never caught wind of it, but that didn’t mean people within the league weren’t whispering about it. Did Knudsen know? He had a reputation for thoroughness, and he rarely went into a negotiation without digging up as much information as possible.
Most important, however, was that this new twist meant Freddie now had some leverage. There was a time when it appeared as though Corey Reese would be doing TV commercials and magazine ads for the rest of his life. Now he was on the radar screen of two different teams. After a few more showcase performances, maybe there’d be four or five.
“Freddie? Are you still there?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. I’m sorry.”
“Well, what do you say? If things don’t work out, can I count on a phone call from you?”
“I believe I can promise you that, yes.”
“And to us first?”
Friedman almost laughed. He’s trying to find out if anyone else has called, too.
“Sure.”
“Great, great. Okay, I’ll let you go now. I appreciate your time very much.”
“My pleasure. Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
Still staring at the beautiful view that he didn’t take the time to admire as much as he should, Friedman shook his head and smiled.
He really did it—he really came back from the dead.
“Incredible,” he said to the mountains and the blue summer sky. “Just incredible.”
24
Hunched over his laptop and sitting in the bathroom with the toilet lid down and the lights off, Giants defensive lineman Howie Abraham reviewed what he’d just written.
Gray is the biggest jerk I’ve ever played for. He won’t let me get in there, doesn’t pay attention to me when I’m doing drills. I’ve played just fourteen downs in two preseason games. He only wants his guys on the team, guys he’s known for years. Antonio Burgess has been with him since he was an assistant coach with Minnesota. But Burgess is an old man who has the grace of an elephant. I was playing better than him in my freshman year at Cal. I honestly don’t even know why I was invited to this camp. I got a bad vibe from Gray on day one. He clearly doesn’t like me and isn’t interested in what I can do. What a waste of time.
He looked like a mad scientist, the way his face was lit by the diffused glow of the monitor in the otherwise darkened room. He made a few grammatical adjustments to the text, then clicked the SEND button at the bottom of the IM box; thank God for the free Wi-Fi in the building. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he was exhausted. These occasional late-night writing sessions always took a toll, and he’d pay for them tomorrow, but he had to get this stuff off his chest, had to do something to strike back at Alan Gray. He certainly couldn’t vent to any of his teammates. They were good guys, but trust only went so far when there was so much on the line. The competition was tight now.
After a few minutes, a reply arrived.
I know it’s tough, but it’ll be worth it in the end. If the Giants don’t take you, someone else will, I’m sure. I’m glad that you’re confiding in me this way. What else is happening?
Abraham smiled; he had a feeling the man at the other end would ask this—he always did. He set his fingers on the keyboard and started pouring out more thoughts.
The loud BOOM! that shattered the night silence and caused Abraham’s heart to lodge in his throat was caused by someone smashing the door open in the main room. Seconds later, the bathroom door was yanked back and a hand reached in and flicked on the light. Abraham, momentarily blinded, never had the chance to shut the laptop and kill the connection.
“Hey, what the fuck?” he heard his roommate say.
“Shut up and stay still,” came an authoritative, deep-voiced response from someone Abraham couldn’t see. The reason he couldn’t see the guy was that there were two other people in the bathroom doorway—Don “the Turk” Blumenthal and, just behind him and smiling broadly, the subject of Abraham’s last message. In spite of the fact that it was at least two o’clock in the morning, both Gray and Blumenthal were fully dressed and as clear-eyed as if it were high noon.
“What’s going o—”
The Turk snatched the laptop from Abraham’s knees with a speed that few would’ve believed he possessed.
“Hey! No!”
The Turk passed it back to Gray, then put a hand on Abraham’s massiv
e chest when the latter stood up. In spite of the ridiculous difference in their sizes, the Turk wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
“A little late-night correspondence, Mr. Abraham?” Gray said with a chuckle. He set the computer down on the student desk—an exact copy of the one in Daimon Foster’s room, although in slightly better condition—and pulled out the chair.
“That’s a private message,” Abraham said.
“Oh, nothing’s too private around here, son. You should know that.”
Abraham pushed himself far enough forward to observe the rest of the room. He noted with faint horror that the third man—the one with the deep voice—was now leading his roommate, safety Brandon Wade, into the hallway and closing the door. “Come on out here with me,” he told Wade. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Abraham was petrified but refused to show it. He remained motionless until Gray was finished going through the dialogue he and his correspondent had exchanged for the last half hour.
“Hmm … I’m quite a guy in here, Howie. You’ve got me one notch below Hitler.”
No response.
Gray read a little more, then stood and faced the defendant. “Tell me, how much are they giving you?”
Abraham’s face made a slow transformation from defiantly blank to genuinely puzzled. “What?”
“Over at ESPN. How much? Are you getting cash, or is it something else? Promise of better coverage for yourself?”
Abraham looked briefly to Blumenthal—who, he realized for the first time, was studying him very carefully—then back to Gray. He felt like he was being interrogated by the CIA. Was this even legal?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Those messages—”
“Who else sends e-mails—”
“It’s an Instant Messenger.”
“Whatever. Who sends messages in the middle of the night?”
“I do—to my father.”
For the briefest moment, Blumenthal and Gray appeared uncertain. Abraham realized then that this was, both literally and figuratively, a shot in the dark for them. They were trying to smoke someone out, but they had no idea who it was. Someone leaking information to ESPN? That’s what it sounded like. A mole in the organization. But why me? he wondered. Why did they pick me? How did they even know I was doing this?
Did Wade squeal? Abraham always kind of figured he knew. He never tried to hide it—he only went into the bathroom so he wouldn’t keep Wade awake with the typing. No, he wouldn’t tell anyone. They had become good friends, and there was no benefit to selling him out. He wasn’t a spy. Abraham knew about spies, knew every team had them—guys who weren’t as talented as they should be, so they needed some kind of an edge. This sometimes came in the form of spying, being a coach’s eyes and ears during the private moments when the players talked freely, in the weight room, the dorms, the huddle, and so on. The information was priceless, and they were always rewarded for their services.
But not Brandon, Abraham thought again. No way. He was sure of this, absolutely certain.
Gray scrolled down the column of messages again, trying to confirm or deny Abraham’s claim.
“I’m going to check a little further into this person you’ve been contacting,” he said finally. “I’m going to make certain it is who you say it is.”
“You do that,” Abraham replied. The disgust was plain in his voice and on his face. The damage was done, so he might as well be honest.
Gray stood. “In the meantime, I’m going to keep watching—you and a few others. I’m going to keep my eyes and ears open, and so is our friend the Turk here, understand?”
“Yeah.”
He turned and went out of the room with the Turk on his heels. No sign of remorse, no apologies. Just a cut-rate dictator and his disappointed minion fleeing into the night.
After they were gone, a terrified Wade crept back into the room. “What the hell was that all about, man?”
Abraham, his eyes glazed with rage, said, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
* * *
Six floors up, while Howie Abraham was receiving the third degree, another member of Big Blue was sequestered secretly in his bathroom. Again, the toilet lid was down, the lights had been turned off, and there was an electronic device involved.
Jermaine Hamilton sat hunched forward with his arms folded across his knees, as if suffering from a tremendous stomachache. His cell phone was wrapped inside his enormous hand, a wispy-thin cord running out of the fist and connecting to a plug in the outlet next to the mirror. He’d had no choice but to charge it about an hour ago; that’s what happened when you made so many calls.
He’d tried her at home at least a dozen times, then her cell phone another dozen, maybe more. He hadn’t heard from her in over a week, and their last conversation, which he’d initiated, lasted less than a minute. The jealousy, the agony, the rage—all of it had congealed into a slippery, squirming thing in the pit of his stomach. It kept him up at night, sapped his concentration during meetings and practices. It would affect his play in the third preseason game tomorrow, and that would be costly. He had to get some answers one way or another. As the saying goes, it’s the not knowing that kills you.
He called his brother, Lonnie, just after midnight. Four years younger, Lonnie lived about two hours from Jermaine’s home and had his own key. Jermaine asked him to make the trip to see if he could learn anything. Lonnie said it was no problem. He knew about the troubles they were having. When Melanie first came into Jermaine’s life, Lonnie did his best to get along with her. There were even isolated moments when he thought he might actually like her. But when she turned nasty—around the time that Jermaine’s career seemed over, he noticed—he felt like an ancient suspicion had finally been confirmed. He didn’t get on Jermaine’s back about it; he figured his brother didn’t need any more hassles. But he wasn’t surprised.
When the cell phone vibrated, Jermaine unfolded it quickly. “Yeah.”
“I got here and got in,” Lonnie said.
“And?”
At first there was only a fine, hissing static, and Hamilton thought maybe the call had been lost.
“Lon?”
“She’s gone, J.”
“How do you know?”
“All her stuff has been taken out,” Lonnie said. He was speaking softly, gently. “The closets are empty, the drawers … everything. I’m sorry, bro. I’m just … I’m sorry.”
His voice barely above a whisper, Hamilton said, “It’s okay.”
“There’s a note here, too. In an envelope.”
“A note? Where?”
“On the kitchen table.”
Hamilton took a deep breath. “Would you read it?”
“What? Now?”
“Yeah.”
“J., I don’t think I should. It’s for you. It even says so on—”
“No, I can’t wait. It’ll be the only thing I think about. Read it, please.”
He knew Lonnie wanted to protest further, but he heard the distinctive sound of an envelope being torn open, then a sheet of paper being unfolded.
The sentiments, though not unexpected, were still chilling, and the words harrowing—divorce … settlement … attorney.…
When Lonnie finished, there was more silence. And then—“J.?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Umm … no, not right now.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You can go back home. Tell Ma what’s happening, and I’ll call you tomorrow after the game.”
“All right.… Look, man, I’m sorry, I really am.”
“Thanks. Thanks for doing this.”
“No problem.”
Hamilton closed the phone and set it on the marble basin. There would be no more calls tonight—for now he knew. No more wondering, no more being distracted. The matter was settled.
He returned to his leaning-forward position and waited for the tears to come—but to his
amazement, there were none. There had been plenty in the past, but not now. He felt only numbness and detachment. In a strange way, it seemed as if the divorce had been settled years ago and he was merely thinking back on it. Then he realized why—it was because the relationship really had been over for years. This declaration by Melanie, followed by the eventual legal proceedings, was just a formality. Once the affection was gone, the rest was insignificant. Her love for him had probably drained away—if it ever really existed—ages ago. It was only his unwillingness to admit it that kept the marriage going as long as it had. He’d been looking for something that simply wasn’t there.
Staring into the blackness, he made a wise decision then—to get on with his life. To starve whatever pain remained until it was as dead as the relationship itself. It had done enough damage, and now it had to be purged. He had some potentially great days ahead, but he’d never get to them if he kept dwelling on this. He would hire lawyers, they would handle the situation, and then it would be over; done and gone. Someday, hopefully, the memories would fade as well. For now, he had to think of the future, because it was all he really had.
And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
25
After almost two years, Corey Reese finally rediscovered something he called the Zone.
He tried explaining it to others, but he couldn’t. You had to experience the Zone for yourself. You had to be the type of person who could experience the Zone. It was like another dimension of reality. You couldn’t see it, couldn’t touch it or smell it. When you were in it, you just knew.
And he knew on the evening of the following Saturday. Third game of the preseason, at Giants Stadium in the New Jersey Meadowlands, against the Cleveland Browns. After countless dismal seasons since their rebirth in 1999, the Browns had finally begun a steady upward climb, finishing the previous year with a 9–7 record and barely missing a wild card berth via the wacky playoff mathematics that about eight people on earth understood. Still, they were getting better in all respects. A team on a mission.
On the second play from scrimmage, Lockenmeyer hit Reese for a short screen pass on third down that the tight end parlayed into a twenty-nine-yard gain. Later in the same quarter, he took a lateral from two yards behind the line of scrimmage, slipped out of three tackles, and waltzed into the end zone for the first of two touchdowns. He would catch all eight passes thrown to him, run one kickoff back to midfield, deliver more than a dozen key blocks, and even act as fullback on two plays. And through all of it, he never felt like he was breaking a sweat. It came easily, effortlessly. It was like there was some otherwordly force working with him, guiding him, unlocking every door just when he needed it. He could do no wrong on this night. It was pure magic—and this was what he called being in the Zone.