The Draft

by Wil Mara

  “On defense, we’ve got third-year safety Milton Love; veteran linebacker Brett Savage; veteran end Corey Holbrook; and rookie end Alan Hill.”

  Now that the package was complete, Jon was sure Henderson would be so blown away by it he’d have to call 911 for emergency cardiac treatment. It was, by far, the most generous deal he’d ever made. According to Kevin Tanner, it was one of the most generous in league history. There was no way Skip could say no. No way.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Jon, that sounds like a pretty good deal. But I’m afraid it won’t turn the trick.”

  Jon stopped pacing. “What’s that?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not comparable to what I already have on the table from another bidder.”

  Jon scanned the roster quickly and picked out a name almost at random.

  “What if I included Buster McDaniels, our other running back? That’d give you a nice backfield combo.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “And our sixth-round pick, too?”

  “No, that won’t—”

  “Wait a second, Skip, let me ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Have you already dealt this pick? Am I doing all this just for laughs?”

  “Holy Jesus, no!” Henderson replied with a chuckle. “Not at all, son. I wouldn’t play games like that. No, the pick is still very much available.”

  “Then I don’t understand. It seems like this package we’ve put together is—”

  “Headed in the wrong direction,” Henderson said.

  Jon paused again. “In the wrong direction? We’re offering—”

  “I need defense, Jon. Plain and simple. That’s where I’m going to start. You’ve outlined a nice package, but it’s not what we’re looking for.”

  “Defense? Only defense?”

  “For now, yes. We went over and over this point on my end, and we decided that’s the best place to start our reconstruction. If we can focus on keeping our opponents from scoring, maybe we can win a few games, even with this lousy offense, with just one or two touchdowns. We’ve got a solid kicker, and our quarterback isn’t too bad. We need some linemen to protect him, but what we really need is a defense. That’s what wins championships, right?”

  Jon was back at his desk, scanning the roster and flipping through pages of data. Sonofabitch, he thought bitterly. They’ve been an offense-oriented team all these years, and now he’s taking them in an entirely new direction. And every other team Skip had ever worked for had been offensive-minded, too, so Jon thought he had a good read on the matter. Dammit …

  “Right, right. Okay, forget all the offensive guys I just mentioned. Take the five draft picks, plus Love, Savage, Holbrook, and Hill, and I’ll add Buckley and Northbrook, too.”

  “Jon,” Henderson began, speaking like a patient father, “Northbrook’s a dud. And you can’t afford the cap hit his accelerated bonus would give you.”

  Jon Sabino was stunned that Skip knew this so quickly. He’d only been there a few weeks.

  “And Buckley’s not a performer. Nine years in the league and he’s had one Pro Bowl season. He’s slow and a bit too small for a cornerback. I’m sorry, Jon, those two additions don’t help.”

  “What about the first four I mentioned? Savage, Holbrook, Hill, and Love?”

  “Savage and Holbrook are old-timers. I’d get a year out of them if I was lucky. And Hill’s a rookie. I don’t need rookies. Milton Love, though, he’s got promise. I’ll take him off your hands.”

  “So I guess you wouldn’t want Harper, either.”

  “That’s right. Send him to the retirement home.”

  “Okay … what about Bartlett?” Jon pleaded, sliding down to from the “can trade” section to the “prefer to keep” area. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to do this at any point. Now, only ten minutes into the first call, it was unavoidable. “He’s in great shape and probably our best backup. A tremendous cornerback with a real future.”

  “Mmm … I agree. Now that’s a good offering. I’ll take him in a heartbeat.”

  Jon smiled. “Good, so we’ve got a deal?”

  His heart sank when Henderson chuckled. “No, not quite yet.”

  “Huh?”

  “The picks don’t do me any good, either, Jon. We already have other draft picks this year, remember? I can’t use picks—I need players. I need guys who can perform right now. First of all, your draft picks are so low that each kid we took would be a gamble. That’s wasted money as far as I’m concerned. Second, the Hewlett family wants results immediately. And frankly, so do the fans. If this team doesn’t turn around quick there’s going to be a rebellion in this town. That’s why I was brought here—to get things moving. If I go back to Carlton Hewlett, Sr., and say, ‘Well, we’re thinking of building up slowly, through the draft,’ he’s going to send my ass out the door so fast my clothes’ll have to catch up with me.”

  Jon felt the situation was drifting beyond acceptable boundaries. A package that looked so good fifteen minutes ago seemed like a pile of crap now.

  “Well, you can use those draft picks to deal higher up and get better talent. You could make trades with other teams for—”

  “No, that’s your job,” Skip said flatly. “I’m not going to get into that whole mess when I’ve got other teams already offering me real talent. Jon, you’re a terrific GM. One of the best in the business. So I don’t need to point out that you have to offer a comparable deal if you want to compete in this situation. Offensive players and low draft picks are not the answer.”

  Jon studied his list of defensive players. “We just don’t have that much to offer in the defensive area. You’re telling me the Chiefs do?” Like all good general managers, he was familiar not only with his own roster but those of other teams in the league. “They haven’t had a good defense in ages. What are they offering, their whole starting squad?”

  “No. In fact, they’re not offering much off their own list at all.”

  Jon was dumbstruck; a reaction he didn’t experience often. He sat in his black leather chair and stared into space as a gaudy pendulum clock with a swinging Ravens logo marked off the seconds on the wall behind him.

  “You mean they’re doing deals with other teams?”

  “You got it.”

  “Good God…”

  Henderson snorted a little laugh. “I know, it’s pretty amazing. They must really want this pick. And, just so you know, the Texans and the Seahawks have been doing the same thing. I don’t know about the Broncos. I haven’t heard from them in a while.”

  Jon was barely listening. His mind was swirling with the manifold implications of what Skip just said—multiple teams making multiple deals with multiple other teams in an attempt to put together the best defensive package in order to secure one draft pick. It was enormous; potentially historic in its proportions. And he knew he had no choice but to get involved in it.

  “Uh, okay, Skip. Okay…” He swallowed into a dry throat and grabbed a nearby sheet of paper. He didn’t know what was on it; it could’ve been the original copy of the goddamned Gettysburg Address for all he cared. He flipped it over, took a pencil from his cup, and began scribbling.

  “I’m jotting down everything we just talked about. I’m making notes here, making notes. I’ll try to get something together for you, and soon, of course.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Sorry about the first misstep. I had no idea.”

  “That’s all right. Good luck.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell me who the Chiefs—”

  “No, I can’t do that.”

  “I didn’t think so. Okay, thanks. I’ll be calling back shortly.”

  “Talk to you then.”

  He hung up the phone and kept scribbling. Suggestions, ideas, calculations—stream-of-consciousness stuff, free thinking and totally devoid of structure. He had to open his mind, search outside the box; way outside. This was going to be a challenge and a half.
Totally unexpected, totally infuriating, and totally unavoidable.

  After fifteen minutes he stopped writing and reviewed his notes thus far. It was at this moment that a helpless, slipping-away feeling came rushing in. He began to fully realize what would be required in order to put together just the right package for Skip Henderson, and it revealed an ugly and wholly unavoidable dimension to his forthcoming negotiations—most of the teams he’d be dealing with were tired of the Baltimore Ravens and their current reign of terror. The NFL was supposed to be in its glorious Age of Parity, where all clubs were created equal and everyone had a fair shot at the big prize. In an industry where it was everyone’s singular goal to prove they were better than everyone else, consistent winners became targets; objects of jealousy and hatred. Behind every pat on the back was the seething desire to crush and bury. Behind every line of friendly praise was a hunger to destroy with as much humiliation as possible. A lot of people were gunning for the Baltimore Ravens, and not just for the players, either—for Connally, for Blanchard, and, in particular, for Jon Sabino. Other teams were tired of hearing about the “genius architect” and the “Oracle of Owings Mills.” It was bad enough after the first Super Bowl, and downright depressing after the second. But when the chatter began about how the team was the overwhelming favorite for a third, Jon knew this was coming. His organization would face numerous battles not just on the field but off it, because you were allowed to win once, but not twice, and certainly not thrice. Three straight times was an affront. It was swaggering without the need to actually swagger. And with all the fanfare and praise and adulation he had personally received—including his own posters, trading cards (the first time in pro sports history a front office person received such recognition), and half-hour weekly radio show—Jon knew he’d be targeted.

  His original plan was to take it all in stride, survive behind his thick skin, and then, if and after they did indeed win a third trophy, be sentimental and good humored about all of it when the whole thing fell apart next season. That much was inevitable, and he and everyone else in the league knew it. Next year didn’t matter, because the party would be over and the league would reacquire its default form.

  All that mattered was now, and suddenly it looked as though the ride wouldn’t be as smooth as planned. He had no choice but to descend among the ranks of people who hated his guts. Individuals in other organizations who, now that the word about Bell and the desire to acquire McKinley was undoubtedly seeping out, were giggling maniacally as they loaded their proverbial rifles and prayed that Jon Sabino, resident miracle worker of the historic Baltimore Ravens, called them up personally to beg for help. Maybe not everyone was of this mind-set, but Jon knew some of them were. And he was sure he would find out over the next few days who those people were. In fact, he was quite certain he’d discover many interesting and enlightening things over the next few days. For all the years of struggle and the sacrifices he’d made to reach this point, he was quite sure this was going to be the most difficult and unpleasant experience of all.

  He took a deep breath, massaged his temples, and went back to his scribbling.

  * * *

  The next two hours flew by, and the rain had picked up and was now spattering against the windows. Jon didn’t seem to notice. He just kept staring at the roster, already sure there was no way to build an attractive defensive offer for Skip from what was already there. At one point, however, he ventured into the “don’t trade” area, mostly as an exercise in theoreticals. It was his job, after all, to consider all possibilities, and using guys in this category was an option. He did have the power to do it. Blanchard would hit the ceiling, but Jon still had final say.

  His eyes kept getting stuck on one name in particular. The guy was a wide receiver; nothing to do with defense and therefore, at least to the uneducated observer, of no use to Skip Henderson and the San Diego Chargers. But Jon knew more. He knew the guy was a favorite of Henderson’s, knew the old bastard admired him. He had, in fact, tried twice to acquire him—once when he was the Cardinals’ offensive coordinator, and once when he was GM of the Jaguars. Yes, Jon thought, he might be useful at the right moment. His offensive pedigree notwithstanding, he just might be a factor in the deal.

  But Blanchard would go through the roof.

  And so would the fans. Remember that he’s a fan favorite, too.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a deal that left the fans screaming for his head. When he first took over as general manager, he found himself unable to avoid cutting Dwight “Roast Beef” Reynolds. Reynolds was a lineman with a barrel chest and a heart of gold. He earned his nickname when he once bragged to the press that he could eat an entire roast beef in one sitting, and then proceeded to do just that during a live taping of a local sports talk show. He was a devoted family man with a charitable organization for kids (“The Roast Beef Club”), and once even spoke out viciously against Maryland’s governor for cutting funding to a program that gave athletic equipment to elementary schools in underprivileged areas. The fans regarded him as a god.

  The problem on the field, however, was that he had long passed his prime. He still had tremendous strength, but his speed and reaction time had diminished. The sound of thousands of fans chanting his nickname after he recorded yet another sack was heard less and less. Coordinators didn’t double-team him any more. He became injury prone and once missed half a season. Clearly it was time to let him go, but the previous hierarchy didn’t have the heart to do it.

  When Sabino finally mustered the courage to bring him into his office and deliver the bad news, “Roast Beef” just smiled and said, “I was wondering when you’d finally get around to doing this.” The fans, however, weren’t so forgiving, even after Sabino and the coaches decided to keep Reynolds around as an assistant coordinator.

  Jon remembered this story, in detail, as he stared at the tantalizing name on the roster sheet.

  “No,” he murmured softly. “No … Susan?”

  Schiff appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you please get me printouts of the rosters for the other thirty-one teams?”

  She hesitated. “All of them?”

  “Yes, I believe there are still thirty-two total. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  A dull throb flared in his head; the first stage of what he knew would grow into a whopper of a migraine. He glanced down at the name one more time, then shoved it to the back of his mind.

  Unless there was no other choice, there was no way he would even consider trading Darryl “DB” Bailey.

  5

  Sports Cards Plus hadn’t had a day of business like this in years—maybe ever. The line ran down the sidewalk to the far end of the strip mall. The show was only supposed to go from one o’clock to three, yet three had passed nearly a half hour ago.

  The store’s owner, Pat Lanigan, had sore cheeks from the all-day smile. Bailey’s appearance fee had been twenty-five thousand, and Lanigan had already made that back and then some. He stood next to the star with his hands clasped together, greeting each new face as cash register sounds echoed joyfully through in his mind—cha-ching! Bailey wasn’t just a football player, he was a bona fide celebrity. Lanigan decided it wasn’t due merely to his remarkable skills as a wide receiver. He was, as it turned out, as nice of a guy in person as he seemed to be in the media. It didn’t always work that way, Lanigan knew. The PR machinery in the NFL was huge and powerful. But that didn’t seem to be the case with Bailey. He could see why the fans loved him.

  The man on Bailey’s other side was his public relations agent, Mark Coleman. He to adopted the hands-together-feet-slightly-apart posture, making him and Lanigan look like a pair of unusually cheerful Secret Service agents. Coleman checked his watch, then leaned down and whispered in Bailey’s ear.

  “It’s just about three thirty, big guy.”

  Bailey was seated behind an
enormous table covered with memorabilia that was waiting for his signature to magically make it more valuable. He looked up and evaluated the crowd.

  “What about all these people, Mark? You wanna tell them to go home?” A few of the fans who were nearby overheard this exchange. Bailey looked at Coleman and smiled. “You got a hot date or something?”

  Everyone laughed and the tension evaporated. “No, it’s just that I’m supposed to let you know when, uh…”

  “It’ll be time to go when everyone gets what they came for. Right, folks?”

  The fans cheered. Coleman smiled and shook his head. He was used to abrupt schedule extensions when it came to Darryl Bailey.

  During this warm-and-fuzzy moment, one fan reached over and patted Bailey on the shoulder, sending threads of pain in every direction. He grimaced, which everyone noticed, then covered it by coughing. “Oh man, when is this cold going to die?” he mumbled, and was relieved when it appeared as though everyone bought into the illusion.

  It would be another hour and a half before they got out of there. Bailey would sign hundreds of items—from conventional stuff like footballs and jerseys to weird things like people’s everyday clothing or parts of their body. One girl, for example, asked him to sign her right arm, which he happily did. And a six-year-old boy who was also a baseball fan apparently grabbed the wrong item off his shelf at home, so Darryl ended up writing his name over an eight-by-ten of Cal Ripken, Jr.

  The limousine Lanigan had provided dropped Coleman off first. Once he was gone, Bailey stretched his long, lanky frame across both seats. He felt like talking with someone, and he considered called Jon Sabino. It wasn’t common for players to chummy with their GMs, but it did happen from time to time. DB liked Jon. He had a good reputation, and other players liked him, too. In that indefinable way, he had become acceptable within the brotherhood of the players’ network. Darryl liked his sense of humor, and he knew Jon was smart as shit, so he turned to him for advice on matters both personal and professional. They’d gone out to dinner a few times, and Jon and Kelley had gotten on well with his girlfriend, Bernadette. Jon seemed to approve of her, and DB was surprised at how he seemed happy about this.