by Wil Mara
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Also by Wil Mara
Copyright
FOR MARK DAVID CHALLIS
AUGUST 4, 1964—JANUARY 21, 2000
“A long December…”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The idea for this book and those that will follow came about in late 1997, and in the near-decade since then, many individuals have invested their time, energy, and faith to help me turn that idea into a reality.
My family, of course, has been there from Day One. My wife, Tracey, and my three girls—Lindsey, Jessica, and Jenna—continue to drive me ever higher. They are my shining stars, my glowing beacons of hope and happiness. (And having a wife who is also a diehard football fan is just as sweet as it sounds.) Similarly, my mom has never wavered in her belief that these books would one day puncture the tough membrane of big-league publishing. I needed that reassurance on many occasions.
My editor, Pete Wolverton, and my agent, Tony Seidl, are both terrific guys, and I am grateful for their support and counsel. The fact that they were willing to take a chance on these books is, in itself, astonishing. I could not have found two better men in this business for such an effort. They are gridiron fans in their own right, and I believe readers will find many good things from the three of us in the years ahead. I’d also like to thank Joe Rinaldi, publicist extraordinaire, for the time and effort he has devoted to this project.
My father-in-law, Walter “Butch” Bartlett, helped in countless ways. A former coach in his own right, he got things moving by introducing me to an old friend named Bill Parcells. And on a sunny day in 1998, Bill was kind enough not only to invite us both to Jets’ camp, but also introduce me to several key members of the organization. In the years that followed, I was able to turn to these people to gather up the kind of information that made all the difference. Nothing beats firsthand, insider knowledge; nothing.
One of the other people I met that day was Chris Redmond. He was there for me in the early development of the story, taking me behind the scenes and answering countless questions. Similarly, Milton Love, who is still with the Jets and climbing through the ranks (and rightly so), has been a reliable ally and an all-around good guy.
Another good guy I met through this seemingly endless process has been Matt Israel. We connected through a mutual friend—James Farrior, formerly of the Jets and now of the Pittsburgh Steelers (who, as I write this, are still celebrating their victory in Super Bowl XL)—and have remained pals ever since. Time for another steak dinner and a few cigars, I think …
In the league proper, I cannot thank anyone more than Leslie Hammond. Her patience, openness, and cheerfulness have been priceless. Whatever I requested, she gave, and without a fuss. I am so grateful to her that I cannot possibly quantify it in mere words. She is, truly, as good as it gets. Also from the NFL, Mark Zimmerman has been there from the beginning and has contributed in countless ways.
So many players, coaches, and executives shared their time and knowledge, too—Curtis Martin, Anthony Becht, John Hall, Vinny Testaverde, Wayne Chrebet, Jon Harris, Fred Baxter, Mo Lewis, Frank Winters, Bert Sugar, Gil Brandt, Bill Polian, Ernie Accorsi, Marv Levy, Terry Bradway, and the aforementioned Maurice Carthon and Bill Parcells … the list is endless. And in the world of sports journalism, ESPN’s John Clayton and WFAN’s Chris “Mad Dog” Russo patiently answered my bothersome little questions. Their generosity overwhelms me.
And for anyone who’s not on this list but should be, it’s only because you arrived too late in the game for us to make the editorial change—please know that you still have my gratitude. As always, any errors in the text are mine and mine alone. My deepest thanks and eternal good wishes go to all who helped get this book on track. To paraphrase, I get by with a lot of help from my friends.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The story you are about to read is one of fiction. It never happened anywhere, at any time. The principle characters are therefore also fictional. They were gathered from the dust of creativity and are not intended to reflect real people, living or dead.
You may notice, however, that there are some passing references to actual people and places. Former quarterback John Elway got a few lines, as did Jets running back Curtis Martin. The aforementioned Bill Parcells, future Hall of Fame coach, and Maurice Carthon, currently of the Cleveland Browns, are mentioned as well. But as I said, only in passing. They are not crucial to the story, as you will see. And then there’s the factuality—details about the draft, the Collective Bargaining Agreement, the headquarters of the Baltimore Ravens in Owings Mills, and other things. I have done my best to make wise decisions concerning where to cross the line from fiction to nonfiction (and vice versa). This had to be done on a case-by-case basis. But here’s the thing—this is not a work of nonfiction, nor is it meant to be. For example, I state in the prologue that a man named Quincy Pressner nearly led the Rams to the Super Bowl at the end of the 1988–1989 season. But anyone who bothers to check the Internet or a good sports almanac will quickly discover that the ’89 championship game was a 20–16 barnburner between the 49ers and the Bengals. The Rams did manage to eke out a wild-card berth with the second-best record in the NFC West, but they lost to the Vikings in the first round, 28–17. And there was no one on the team that year by the name of Quincy Pressner. For that matter, as far as I know, there has never been anyone in the league by that name.
The point is this—you will only tie yourself in mental knots trying to figure out where fact meets fiction in this book. It is first and foremost a story, not a source of reference. Many of the details offered here are the product of hours of research; interviews, phone calls, and ’Net surfing until my eyes were swollen. I attended three NFL drafts—in 2001, 2002, and 2006—and have three full notebooks and hundreds of pictures as a result. Former New York Jets general manager Terry Bradway, a true gentleman, gave me an entire morning of his time so I could assail him with questions. But it’s still fiction. Enjoy it at face value. Don’t write letters saying you couldn’t find any information on Quincy Pressner or an agent named Freddie Friedman. Think of the events that transpire as having taken place in some kind of alternate reality, similar to ours but not a mirror image.
All sports fan have their fantasies.
—Wil Mara
February 20, 2005
PROLOGUE
December 1988
Within the eerie quiet of Washington, D.C.’s, RFK Stadium, with more than fifty thousand Redskins fans watching in disgust on an otherwise clear afternoon, Rams quarterback Quincy Pressner crouched down behind his center, hands open and ready, and began the count.
The play he’d chosen was an obscure one, from last year’s boo
k. But the guys would remember it. They used it only once before, and it worked so well that they’d joked about it in the locker room afterward. It wasn’t a “trick” play; Coach Jessel didn’t care much for those. But it was unorthodox. It required the quarterback to pitch the ball to the tight end, who then pitched it back after the quarterback ran behind him, to the right flank, to create the illusion that he was going to sacrifice himself as a blocker. It gave the receivers on the opposite side more time to get downfield. It was a tough diagonal throw, across the center of activity and usually off balance. But a good arm could manage it. Pressner’s execution of it last season was flawless, and he was even better now.
He stretched the count as long as possible, hoping to draw one of the defense lineman offside; another five yards certainly wouldn’t hurt. He knew these guys were dying to get at him. His own line had played immaculately all day, protecting him with Secret Service fanaticism. They wanted this victory, wanted it like they’d never wanted anything before. Some of them had been here for ages, waiting. Mitch Walken, the left guard, had been a part of the Rams’ organization for nearly twelve years; his entire career. He’d been thinking about retiring, had mentioned it to a few writers and some of the guys on the team. No one wanted him to go, but he was growing weary from the lack of postseason appearances. Now the dream was within reach. Pressner knew how hard he’d play. He had a sense of that with all his teammates. He had always been able to accurately gauge the mood of the men at his command.
The ball came up, its cool leather sliding between the calloused skin of his large palms, and he took off like a rabbit. He faked left, then swiveled right and tossed the ball to Aaron Howard, the quiet tight end who would be making his third straight Pro Bowl appearance in a few weeks. Pressner ran behind him, turned, and started downfield. The Redskin defense fell for the con and followed the ball. When it came back to Pressner, the defense slammed on its collective brakes and tried to adjust, but two of them slid to the ground. In those critical seconds they became nonfactors in the play. When Pressner saw Sammy Greene’s hand waving wildly on the far side, he tossed the ball over the mayhem and watched as Greene brought it into his lap and, alone and unthreatened, slow-jogged the remaining fifteen yards into the end zone. It had been pathetically easy—and this was against the defending Super Bowl champions during the first round of the playoffs.
A few isolated cheers emanated from the crowd, but otherwise the frustrated silence maintained. There were boos, of course, as the defense got to its feet, many of them with their hands on their hips and their heads low. They weren’t used to this type of humiliation, but Pressner had been shredding them all day. A wunderkind, some of the papers called him. The next Namath, the new Unitas. One reporter wrote, “He has the athletic grace of a champion thoroughbred, and his ability to read and disassemble defensive schemes is somewhere in the freakishly genius category. Just his third year in the league, and he’s leading his team on a march to the Lombardi Trophy like none before.”
Pressner glanced up at the scoreboard—Redskins 7, Rams 34. Period: 4. Time Remaining: 01:47. It was over.
He lingered on the sidelines with his helmet on, distantly aware of the praise being heaped upon him by his coaches and teammates. Brilliant performance, Quince. Just amazing. Super Bowl for sure. Next stop for you, Canton, Ohio. He couldn’t bring himself to share in their jubilation, for reasons he kept to himself. He knew they’d noticed his “off” temperament all day. Some had asked about it. He made excuses but didn’t give answers. No one needed to know.
He scanned the enormous crowd, taking in the moment. Then he closed his eyes and breathed deep, catching the sounds and scents and committing them to memory. He was nearing the top of the mountain, he knew. The other games would almost be a formality. Washington was their toughest opponent, and he’d eaten them alive. Two more, and then the big one. The chance to make history—the first black quarterback to lead his team to a Super Bowl and then win it.
Except …
The clock ran down and the game ended. Feeling somehow detached from it all, Pressner followed his teammates back onto the field to shake hands with the enemy. Some of them passed along comments that he certainly wouldn’t be sharing with his young son. But most were valiant enough in their defeat, wishing him well in the battles ahead.
As Pressner headed into the tunnel, he spotted the three men standing off to the side, their backs to the wall. They were smiling pleasantly enough in their tailored suits, three sanctimonious agents of righteousness who moved in a little pack as if sharing one mind. They watched him as he entered the darkened corridor. At first he pretended not to notice. Then he made eye contact and, unable to resist, flashed the “V” sign. Their smiles fell as if on cue, and the smallest of the them looked like he was capable of homicide. No one else noticed the exchange, but for Pressner it would be his last great victory.
Nearly four hours later, when the full moon was glowing like a pearl in the clear northern sky, Pressner walked alone to his car. He opened the door and tossed his bag in the passenger seat, then paused. He looked back at the stadium, its lights glowing majestically around the rim, and he was suddenly fully aware of the magnitude of what was happening to him. This time the tears broke free, streaming down either side of his young face. He took a long, hard look at the world that he wanted so desperately to conquer—one that he would no longer be part of in a few brief weeks—then got into his Cadillac and sped away.
At that moment, the legend that eventually evolved into myth began.
1
April 2006
Seventy-nine-year-old Phyllis Smith knew it was dangerous for her to be driving. The medications had robbed her of the privilege. She was frequently tired, and her reaction time was slow. Nevertheless, she had to get to the supermarket. If that new caregiver—the one with the two kids and the sleazy-looking boyfriend—had come early this morning like she’d been asked, this wouldn’t be necessary. Nearly a year had passed since she was last behind the wheel. She still had the hulking black Mercedes Don bought her. She knew she should’ve surrendered her license at some point, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
The images in the street were fuzzy at best. She could see colors and make out most shapes, but details were impossible. It was fairly busy already, the sun coming up, people moving about. All that really mattered, she had convinced herself, was the car ahead of her. She could more or less make out where it was since her depth perception wasn’t too bad. She simply kept back a good distance and drove slowly.
The dizziness began as she approached the intersection where Light Street met Pratt. At first it felt similar to the pleasant numbness associated with being slightly drunk. Then it heightened to a gentle swirling sensation. After that, she would say later in a deposition that precluded a sizable payout from her insurance company, she couldn’t remember a thing. It all happened so quickly.
There was only one vehicle sitting at the intersection that fateful morning—a blue Jaguar XJ6. A beautiful machine but unremarkable in this affluent Baltimore suburb. The driver wasn’t looking in his rearview mirror. If he had been, perhaps he could’ve reacted in time. Instead he was fingering through his CD collection, trying to decide whether to go with Randy Travis or Clint Black. Maybe even some of that Bruce Springsteen stuff everyone around here liked so much.
Meanwhile, Jack Harris, a carpenter from nearby Glen Burnie, was on his way back from Home Depot, where he’d picked up a load of railroad ties. He had the window down, elbow out, and was whistling to Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line.” He’d come down Pratt hundreds of times. He knew the intersection was dangerous, knew there’d been dozens of accidents there. But that didn’t make him slow down as he approached it today. Seeing that the light was green, he didn’t give it another thought.
Phyllis Smith’s tiny body slumped over the wheel when she lost consciousness. The Mercedes swerved crazily for a moment, but not sharply enough to avoid the Jag. Upon impact it lurched
into the intersection, giving Harris no time to react. On pure reflex he tightened his grip on the wheel and jammed the brake. The tires screamed, burning on the pavement. His truck swung to the left, and the back end began to drift forward. But the distance required to avoid the collision just wasn’t there. In fact, Harris would realize with great irony much later on, the accident probably wouldn’t have been half as bad if he’d just stayed on course. He would have smacked the Jaguar in the rear, spinning it sharply but probably leaving the driver relatively unharmed. As it turned out, the bulk of the impact delivered by a payload of railroad ties was absorbed by the Jag’s door and, unfortunately, by the person on the other side of it.
When it was over, a horn was blaring and someone was screaming. Harris looked up but couldn’t see anything because of the white smoke blowing from his radiator. He checked himself quickly and found no signs of injury. His arms were already aching—the punishment for the understandable reaction of tightening his muscles—but there didn’t appear to be anything broken or otherwise out of place.
There was no way the other driver could have been as lucky.
Trembling, he got the door open and stepped outside. He was faintly aware of a crowd beginning to form along the fringes. He could feel their eyes on him and suspected that some of them were already forming their judgments. Big guy, plaid shirt, swollen belly. Probably a drunk. Typical.
He started toward the crumpled Jag, then stopped. The tinted window was gone and the driver was nowhere to be seen. But the blood was there—a dark red stain down the side like cranberry juice.
“Oh Christ…”
Now the real terror came. Harris hadn’t been in an auto accident since he was a teenager, driving his father’s sky blue Chevelle in the rain. The tires lost touch with the road, and the car fishtailed into a pair of garbage cans. He wasn’t hurt and no one was with him. But he was petrified at the thought of what his father would do. As it turned out, the old man was pretty teed off but mostly thankful.