by Wil Mara
The final item was a cardboard box that shined from all the clear tape that’d been wrapped around it. The handwriting was nearly illegible; the sender was lucky it got here, Friedman thought. He glanced at the name on the return address—Joe Pressner.
Pressner? Why is that name familiar?
He took a folding knife from his pocket and began slicing.
Pressner … Pressner …
His heart sank when he saw the videotapes. He got unsolicited “showcase” material all the time. His first impulse in these instances was to have Janey send them back with a polite rejection note. But he rarely followed that impulse—and he didn’t follow it now, either. Not because of the familiarity of the name Pressner, but because you just never knew. There was a lot of talent out there, and Freddie had been around long enough to know the age-old adage about the cream always rising to the top was a load of bullshit. The ugly truth was sometimes it got stuck on the way up, and other times it never got off the bottom to begin with.
He unfolded Pearly’s letter and sat down. At the same moment he heard a young female voice say, “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Freddie. Is Tory around?”
“Hold on, I’ll get him.”
He read through the letter as he waited, thinking how familiar the sentiments were—I feel my boy has the potential to play in the NFL … he’s good but no one has noticed him yet … There didn’t seem to be anything new here. There were a lot of tapes in the box. Maybe—just maybe—if he had time at the end of the day he’d check one out.
Then his eyes landed on the name of Quincy Pressner and stuck there.
No …
“Yeah, hello?” said a deep, gruff voice, but Freddie barely heard it. “Hey, Freddie, are you there, man?”
“Huh? Oh … sorry, Tory. What’s up?”
“What’s up?! You called me.”
“I what? Oh, right. I’m sorry. Hey, can I call you back?” Whatever he’d wanted Tory Trask, Kansas City’s perennial Pro Bowl tackle, for, it could wait.
“What? Look, Freddie, I’m kind of busy right n—”
“Thanks, Tory,” he said. His voice was distant, dreamy. “I’ll talk to you in a few.”
He terminated the connection before Trask had a chance to object and pulled the headset down around his neck. Then he read the letter again … and again and again. He considered the possibility that it was a practical joke; a little something from one of his clients or that one peckerhead VP from the league offices in NYC who considered himself something of a comedian.
No … this is no joke.
Within five minutes the Adirondacks were hidden behind an electronic sliding curtain and the lights were dimmed. By the time he finished watching the first tape, he was reaching for the phone.
* * *
Eric Ross was a congenial man of sixty-two. He first met Freddie Friedman back in 1988. At that time Freddie wasn’t much more than a greasy-haired kid who spoke too fast and knew too little. But the more reserved Ross had a gut feeling the youngster might just make something of himself in the agenting business.
The fact that Ross turned out to be right came as a surprise to no one—he’d been the top scout of his day, as close to a legend as one could get in that discipline. He’d predicted the ascent of many greats—Dan Marino, Jerry Rice, Joe Montana. Every time he got “that feeling” about someone, that someone turned into a superstar.
He spent the bulk of his career with the Buffalo Bills, toward the end of the era when there was still a modicum of job security in the league. He began as a ball boy and worked his way up, and by his tenth year he was their head scout.
He stayed in touch with his friends after retiring in 1997, and that included Freddie Friedman. He did freelance consultation for him from time to time, helping Freddie avoid various disasters. One time he talked him out of signing a running back who would eventually be drafted with the first overall pick. Freddie was furious, but Ross told him in his normally relaxed way to sit tight and see what happened. Sure enough the kid broke his leg in only his second game. The fracture didn’t heal properly, and he never played another down. Freddie could never figure out how Eric foresaw that one, but he never doubted him again.
Now he sat on the other side of Freddie’s desk, Scotch in hand, dressed in the standard uniform of the comfortably retired—loafers, cotton slacks, and a polo shirt. The latter bore a Bills logo. He was still a company man at heart.
“Do you still talk with any of the boys?” Friedman asked.
“Sometimes.” He sipped his Scotch. “But it’s tough, you know, with my busy schedule.” He grinned broadly.
“Oh yeah, I can imagine. Golf every morning, dinner out every night. Sounds like torture.”
“It is, believe me.”
“Who have you seen on the field lately that you like?”
Ross gave the question some thought. “Are you looking for more clients?”
“Always, but that’s not why I’m asking. I’m just kinda curious.”
“Mmm. Well … Christian McKinley is the real thing, no doubt about it.”
Freddie nodded. “He’s all you hear about. You’d think no one else was being drafted this year.”
“Gary Goldman’s already got him,” Ross teased.
“Yeah, yeah … Goldman gets all of them. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“McKinley’s got amazing potential. If he stays healthy and has good coaches to guide and develop him, he’ll be a Hall of Famer. I guarantee it.”
“I don’t doubt it. Who else?”
“Well, there’s Franklin from Florida, and Darby from Virginia Tech. And you know who looks like a sweet lower-round pick is that receiver from Boston College, Aldrich Dawson. He was out most of his senior year with an injury, so a lot of the scouts didn’t see him. But he was phenomenal before that.”
Freddie nodded and scribbled a quick note to check into Dawson when he got a moment.
“Remember,” Ross went on, “Curtis Martin didn’t really play in his senior year, either, so Parcells and Mo Carthon got him for a song and a dance. Now he’s on his way to Canton, too.” Ross downed the rest of the Scotch. “There are so many good players the scouts miss these days. So many.”
It was a commonly accepted fact of life around the league that many gifted athletes got overlooked. That was the greatest irony. People like Kurt Warner and Tom Brady were considered “amazing discoveries,” great talents who somehow got lost in the shuffle and were given opportunities only because a coach’s first choice for their position went down with an injury. But insiders knew there were a fair number of kids who were fully able to function at the highest levels of the game and simply never got noticed. More than six thousand players are eligible for the draft each year, but only three hundred received invitations to the NFL combines. Many were never considered simply because they didn’t go to a Division 1-A school. In some cases that didn’t automatically mean league scouts felt they had no ability, but rather that they weren’t truly being tested because they were playing against second-rate teams. Players in low-profile schools who compiled good stats were often suspect for just this reason. For those who were never chosen in the draft to begin with, they would soon learn that the “undrafted free agent” tag was often given the same regard as a leper’s bell. In the big-money world of the NFL, where it was all about perception, many coaches and GMs didn’t want to risk their own credibility by recommending someone no one else had ever heard of. The only advantage to being missed the first time around was that the salary cap provided opportunities for organizations to acquire talent for very little money. Teams that had virtually nothing left to spend could find decent stopgap guys for little or no signing bonuses, league-minimum salaries, and no commitment for the future on their end. Jets receiver Wayne Chrebet, for example, received a signing bonus of just $1,500 after being invited to a tryout simply because he attended the same college where the team held their training camps. From a business perspective, these
kinds of contracts were magnificent. In the unusual event that an undrafted free agent turned out to be considerably more talented than previously realized, they could simply offer a better deal later on. Rod Smith, of the Broncos, was never drafted and signed to the team for a pittance. Then, after five consecutive seasons with one thousand receiving yards, he inked a deal with more than seven million in guaranteed bonus money.
When Ross turned back to Freddie and saw him smiling he said, “What’s so funny?”
“Kind of convenient that you should mention overlooked players.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
Freddie leaned back and put hands behind his head. “I got something in the mail the other day. Something that might interest you. It sure as hell interested me. That’s why I asked you over today.”
“Insisted is more like it. Asked me to cancel my golf and everything. I was beginning to wonder. I didn’t think you wanted to just chat.”
“No, I wanted you to see something. And I’ll give you your normal fee.”
“Sure, okay.”
Freddie pressed the intercom and said, “Okay, Janey, hold down the fort for a while. No calls.”
“Wow,” Eric said. “This must be something big.”
“I’m not sure yet,” Freddie replied, “but we’ll see. I got this package in the mail the other day. It’s from this guy in Philly, and it’s loaded with videotapes of his nephew, who played quarterback for La Salle University.”
“Raymond Coolidge,” Eric says.
“Right, Raym—shit, you know about him, too?”
“I’ve heard a few things. He was supposed to be pretty good, but he was stuck in a school where no one ever saw him.” Eric shrugged. “Like I said, the scouts miss a lot of real talent these days. I just figured Coolidge would be another casualty.”
Freddie’s smiled returned. “Maybe not.”
“Oh no? Why not?”
“Like I said, I got a package from his uncle, and my first instinct was to send it back. I try to look at stuff like that once in a while, but I’ve been busy as hell lately and don’t have a lot of time. But then I noticed an interesting name on the return address—Joe Pressner.”
Ross let out a small laugh. “Oh yeah … just like Quincy Pressner. That’s funny. I can see where that would get your attention.”
“It sure did, because you’re right—it’s a lot like Quincy Pressner. Exactly like it, in fact.”
“Huh? I don’t understand.”
Freddie smiled. “Raymond Coolidge is Quincy Pressner’s son.”
Ross froze with the glass halfway to his mouth.
“Raymond Coolidge is the son of Quincy Pressner? The Quincy Pressner?”
“That’s right.”
“The same Quincy Pressner who was drafted with the first overall pick in 1982 by the Los Angeles Rams?”
“That’s him.”
“The Quincy Pressner who could toss a football from end zone to end zone without so much as a grunt?”
“You got it.”
“And then disappeared, without a trace, as if he’d never been more than a ghost to begin with?”
“Yep.”
Ross sat back. “You’re full of shit.”
Freddie’s eyebrows rose. “I am?”
“Yeah. Quincy Pressner didn’t have a son. That was just a rumor.”
“Was it ever proven that he did?”
“No.”
“Was it ever proven that he didn’t?”
“Well, no … but a couple of writers I know looked into it. Sam Mitchell was one of them. Sam could find a virgin in a strip club.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. Raymond doesn’t have the same last name, and he doesn’t look anything like his father on the tapes. It would be hard as hell to make a connection.”
“Then how do you know he’s really Pressner’s kid? How does anyone even know where Quincy Pressner is? Has anyone seen the guy in twenty years? No interviews, no appearances. How do you know this whole thing isn’t a hoax? The guy who sent the tapes could’ve made it up to get your attention.”
Freddie nodded. “I considered all that, but then I decided it was impossible.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I watched the tapes,” he said.
Friedman’s calm confidence—the kind that could only come from someone who was right—was unnerving.
“Is he that good?”
“Well, but I’m not an expert. I mean, I can see he’s got potential. The question is how much potential. That’s why I asked you to stop by.” Friedman took the remote from desk. “Have a look…”
* * *
When the last tape finally rolled to a close some nine hours later, the mountains were cloaked in darkness and all of Friedman’s employees had gone home.
“Well, what do you think?”
Ross, still staring, eyes wide, at the darkened screen, said, “I think this is your lucky day, Freddie. That’s what I think.”
10
Jerry Wahlberg—who was easily one of the most hated men in professional football—got his start in the sports-agenting game with a chance meeting with a former college classmate named Dale Williams. Williams planned to stay in the sports business for only a year or two and then move into real estate. But he got lucky and signed a kid from Nebraska who ended up being drafted high in the second round by the Dolphins. He made the starting team his rookie year, and after his third season he signed a new contract for $14 million with a $3.2 million signing bonus, the latter being guaranteed money. By that time, Williams had become the kid’s exclusive agent, and his share of the profits in the end was 15 percent—which instantly made him a millionaire.
Wahlberg was hypnotized as he listened to this story, and others. Armed with Williams’s advice and a crash course on the fundamentals, Wahlberg haunted all the local colleges in the hopes of making his big find. Just like Williams, he struggled at first and began to grow discouraged. Then came Michael Bell.
Initially Bell was represented by a firm called Today’s Athletes, Inc. Because Bell was a backup, he was regarded as a second-class citizen. Everyone from the firm’s owner to the high school girl who answered the phones treated him like he was more of a burden than anything else, and that they were doing him a huge favor by representing him. Wahlberg, on the other hand, gambled that Bell was considerably more talented than Jacksonville would ever allow anyone to see, and moved in for the kill. He told him the goal was a much bigger and much better contract, and to get it he needed to reinvent himself. Bell loved the idea and listened to Jerry Wahlberg like he was an Indian guru. The key to the plan, Wahlberg told him, was to become a much better quarterback. Bell agreed, and together they designed a punishing off-season program with the help of one of Bell’s old coaches from high school. No one else knew about it, not even Bell’s closest friends. If word got out, he’d lose the element of surprise when he returned to minicamps the following spring.
When he did, he not only secured the starting job but was offered a generous new contract toward the end of the season, the only stipulation being that the Jags wanted to tag him a franchise player. Wahlberg said no, his client wanted to try his luck elsewhere. He knew the plan had worked—in the quarterback-poor NFL, Michael Bell was a hot commodity. Wahlberg announced that he was a free agent interested in reviewing offers.
They came fast and furious, and the best by far was from Brendan Cavanaugh, of the Denver Broncos. He fantasized about taking the team into a new era of dizzying success and being called the “new Elway.” It was a dream he wouldn’t have thought possible the year before.
Then the Ravens called. At first Wahlberg balked, trying to terminate the conversation with Jon Sabino before it got started. He told Jon they had already made their decision and that the contract they’d been offered was unbelievable, etc. But Jon persisted, and when he presented the terms of his own contract, Wahlberg was stunned. The signing bonus alone was almost $2 million higher. It was also longer and had
fewer incentive clauses. From a playing angle, Baltimore had a slightly better team; certainly a better offensive line. That meant more protection for his client, which meant fewer injuries, which meant less time spent in traction.
And there was part of Michael Bell, of course, that wanted a Super Bowl ring. The media devoted a great deal of time and energy programming the fans into believing modern athletes cared nothing for trophies and ribbons; only money. In reality nearly every athlete, regardless of their tax bracket, still wanted to win a championship. The money would run out sooner or later, but to be part of a championship team was to be part of history. History lasted a lot longer than cash.
It was this element that motivated Bell to change his mind. In the hotel room in Denver, as he and Wahlberg sat at the small round table playing cards, smoking cigars, and drinking Jack Daniels, they made the decision to go with the Ravens on the basis that they had a better chance of winning a Super Bowl. They called Jon Sabino back just after nine thirty, and by the next morning the deal was done.
Wahlberg signed other clients through the years, some of them moderately successful. But Bell was the goose laying the golden eggs. And he wasn’t troublesome, either. He had a moral streak that Wahlberg could barely relate to but was nevertheless thankful for. Bell provided him with more money and status than he ever dreamed of.
When he opened the door to Bell’s hospital room, he found his number one client being tended to by an attractive young nurse. Typical, he thought. They probably made sure he only got the good-looking ones. He had no idea about Ratched, the lunatic woman who had made a hobby out of bullying Bell during his painful physical therapy sessions.
The nurse was attaching a new line to Bell’s drip bag when Wahlberg entered. The squeal of the door caught her attention and she turned.
“Hi,” Wahlberg said with a quick wave. He kept his voice low. “Is he awake?”
“Yes, I’m awake, Jerry,” came a deep, groggy voice. “Do you think I’d stay asleep while this beautiful young thing leaned over me like this? I’m only about eight inches from paradise.”