by Wil Mara
He passed the other offices, each bearing the occupant’s name. There were no titles, however—NFL clubs were relatively small organizations, so every knew who every else was. In keeping with the Ravens’ casual style, most doors were left open. The offensive line coach, an enormous black man who had played for the Browns in the late ’70s, was reviewing a game tape with his feet on his desk. Two other assistant coaches were having a hallway conversation about conditioning drills. They nodded and smiled to Jon Sabino as he passed.
The office at the far end of the hallway was Peter Connally’s. Jon Sabino knocked before entering and found the owner behind his desk, Cary Blanchard in the chair on the other side.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, no,” Connally said, “come on in.”
“Good morning, Cary.”
“’Morning, Jon.”
“I have some news that may interest both of you.”
Connally held his hands up. “Let’s hear it.”
The smile came back automatically.
“I just got off the phone with Skip Henderson. The number one pick is all ours.”
Connally clapped once. “Fantastic!” He rose and shook Jon Sabino’s hand. “Good work, Jon. Really excellent. A done deal!”
“Well … I don’t want to celebrate just yet. The draft isn’t for a few more days. Someone else could still try to get it.”
“Oh, but who could? We gave up half the team, right?”
“It feels that way. I was just about out of ammunition.”
In total, he’d given up twenty-one members of the team—three of which were on Blanchard’s “Prefer to Keep” list—in order to secure ten quality defensive players for Skip Henderson. He’d also parted with every draft pick for the present year and the year following, and those for the first four rounds in 2008. Susan Schiff told him he’d made a total of seventy-four phone calls to fifty-one different people, covering more than fifty solid hours. Since Michael Bell’s accident, he had come to the office no later than seven, and stayed for a minimum of thirteen hours each day. Susan also claimed he drank five cases of Coca-Cola and ate nineteen tacos.
Jon let out a long, weary sigh. “Thank God that’s over.”
“I agree. Let’s celebrate!” Connally went to his desk and pulled a bottle of malt whiskey out of the drawer. “Cary?”
“Sure.”
He poured three glasses and handed them out.
“Here’s to Jon Sabino, our resident miracle worker.”
They clinked the glasses together and drank.
“So, Cary, how do you feel about coaching the next Hall of Fame quarterback?”
“Pretty good.”
“I think we should tell the media.”
Jon paled. “No, Peter, not yet. Just wait until Saturday. If anything changes…”
“What’s going to change? Who’s going to offer more than you did?”
“Well, probably no one. But anything can happen.”
Connally studied his water cooler for a moment, then turned back. “All right, we won’t say anything yet. But I want to get a momentum going over this as soon as McKinley is ours.”
“We will, Peter,” Jon assured him. “I’ll see to it myself.”
“Good. Nice work,” he said one more time. “Really.”
“Thanks.”
He couldn’t help feeling a little cocky as he walked back to his office. He’d done it—he’d taken his team from the bottom of the draft’s first round to the top. An unbelievable feat; some would’ve said impossible. But he’d done it. Another astonishing achievement on a list of dozens. His status in the fans’ eyes would go from exalted to godlike. More writers would use the word genius now. That also meant more jealousy and resentment among his peers, but that was to be expected. And if the team claimed a third straight championship … the first general manager to reach the Hall of Fame?
He could hear the fans cheering when the commissioner stepped up to that podium at noon on Saturday and made the announcement. He could feel the rumble under his feet as the football world was rocked to its core. What a moment that would be.
And Peter was right—who could match his offer? Nobody. Nobody had the picks and the players to spare like the Ravens did. He shouldn’t have been so paranoid about telling the media. Skip Henderson was blown off his feet, and he should have been. This one was in the bag. Take it easy, Jon told himself.
Like Peter said, it’s a done deal.
* * *
Macintosh jiggled the tiny, foam-covered bud into his ear until it snug, then tapped in the number on his cell phone. Traffic was relatively light in I-795 at the moment. A trailer rattled past him in the left lane.
Cavanaugh answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Rob.”
“What’s up?”
Macintosh gave him the details of the final offer. Much to his surprise, Cavanaugh laughed.
“Christ, he’s cleaning house all right.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think there’s too much left to clean.”
Cavanaugh paused. “Really? Do you mean that?”
“Yeah. We’re running out of picks and players. Even Connally, the asshole of the world, doesn’t want to mortgage everything. He wants this third championship, and he’s willing to mortgage the future to get it. But as for the immediate season, he has to be careful. There’s really nothing left.”
“Well, that’s good to know. Very good.”
“You gonna put in your own offer now?”
“I might,” Cavanaugh replied.
“Oh come on, don’t deny me this. Let me savor the knowledge of what’s coming.”
Cavanaugh laughed again. “You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Okay—yes, I’m going to be submitting something soon.”
Macintosh came up to an elderly woman puttering along well under the speed limit. He checked his mirrors quickly, then roared around her.
“Why not wait until the last moment, make it impossible for him to respond?”
“Because Skip Henderson’s a goddamn Boy Scout. He’ll never go for that. Besides, it’ll be fun knowing Sabino and Connally are squirming for a while. Shit, you’ll get to see it in person.”
“Mmm, true. Okay, I’m outta here. If anything else happens, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
Macintosh terminated the call and set the phone on the passenger seat. Then he inserted an Eric Clapton CD and started singing along.
* * *
Althea Coolidge pulled in front of the small suburban home she shared with her son Raymond, parked, and got out. She retrieved a maroon leather case from the back seat—a gift from her boss last Christmas—and headed to the front door. On the way she exchanged small talk with Ms. Parker, a neighbor, who was out front assessing her flower beds.
Althea had been a corporate assistant at Smith Barney since the early ’90s, when the last of the money from Quincy’s playing days dried up and she was forced to find a job. In truth there was some other cash left, but it had been tucked away in various places. That was back in the days when she, the daughter of an alcoholic father and a chronically depressed and unreliable mother, allowed herself to believe she might actually have a shot at the American dream. Her husband was the toast of the town, money was pouring in from all directions, and the possibilities seemed limitless.
The short trip up the three concrete steps was becoming more difficult every day. She wasn’t exactly “fat,” but she was a bit over the ideal weight for a woman of forty-eight who stood five foot five. She didn’t complain, however, for that wasn’t her way. Life could be harsh, and you either dealt with it or it dealt with you.
Through the enclosed porch and into the living room, she set the briefcase on top of a small bookcase and slipped out of her jacket, which she then hung in the front closet with her characteristic orderliness. Still out of breath, she went back to the po
rch and leaned down to collect the day’s mail. Two bills, the new TV Guide, and the rest junk. An example of the latter, an invitation to have her chimney swept, was addressed to “A. Pressner.” She shook her head and tossed it into the garbage can in the hallway. She had reverted back to her maiden name the day the divorce was finalized. That same week she had Raymond’s surname changed as well. It wasn’t that she hated Quincy and would feel somehow soiled if she kept his name, but she had come to understand that the life of a relative of a professional athlete had more downs than ups. She didn’t want any part of that, and she certainly didn’t want it for her son. Better to stay as close to anonymous as possible.
She removed her shoes, propped up the pillows on her bed, and read quietly for a while. The book was a collection of poems and short stories by Dorothy Parker, which she’d borrowed from the local library. It was worn almost to the point of dysfunctionality; even the clear plastic protector was cracked and cloudy.
When the thirty minutes were up, she went into the kitchen, filled a large steel pot with water, and set it on the stove. They’d have pasta tonight. Raymond never complained about her cooking even though it wasn’t exactly cordon bleu. Her son had a healthy appetite and few quirks. Put something in front of him and he’d eat it.
She poured a can of sauce into another pot and was stirring it when Raymond came in. His white sweatshirt and gray sweatpants were decorated with grass stains and dirt smears.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Hi. Spaghetti okay?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. That’s fine.”
He watched her for a long moment—the quiet, sturdy woman whom he loved with every ounce of his heart. He was by no means a wizened and worldly adult, fluent in the language of life and nimble in his understanding of things cosmic and ethereal, yet he knew on some primal level that his mother had sacrificed for him, starved whatever dreams and ambitions she may have had to make sure he was raised properly, given as good a chance as anyone else, and without asking for anything in return. Each day brought him a greater sense of awe.
“Ma, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.”
He shuffled his feet. “Um, I was at the field today, throwing the ball around … and Dad showed up.”
He watched her carefully. Her reaction was minor, almost imperceptible—she stopped stirring for just a moment.
“Really? And how’s he doing?”
Raymond wanted to be careful here. Unlike some divorced mothers he knew, his mom had never discouraged him from talking about his father. She knew how important Quincy was to him, and she didn’t want him sharing in any bitterness or resentment she might harbor over the failed relationship. Raymond also understood there was a part of her that had always loved him and still did, and it was this part that concerned him. He was afraid the mere mention of his father would irritate old wounds.
“He seemed okay. Ma … he told me what happened.”
“‘What happened?’ What do you mean?”
“With him … in the NFL.”
She stopped stirring and turned.
“He told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
She drifted into some far-off place for a few seconds, then returned to her duties.
“How do you feel about it?”
Raymond laughed a little. “I was surprised at first. I mean, I thought.…”
“I know what you thought. That’s what your father wanted everyone to think.”
“What those guys did to him was wrong, but he did some things, too.”
His mother nodded slowly. “Yes, he did.”
“I don’t know what to think about it, Ma. That was a long time ago. It didn’t have anything to do with me. I’m sorry he hurt you, though. I’m really sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Like you said, that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, well … did you hear what Uncle Pearly did? He sent some of my game tapes to this guy, this agent.” Again he watched her carefully.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was mad at first, but … now I don’t know.”
“Did this agent respond?”
“Yeah. He thought I was pretty good.”
Althea nodded. “You are good. I thought you should’ve tried to get into the draft last June, after you graduated.”
Raymond smiled. “Well, this guy said he thought I had a shot at making an NFL team anyway. A real shot.”
“I see.”
There was another pause, and then Raymond said with excruciating delicacy, “I want to go for it.”
At first his mother didn’t speak, move, or show any other reaction. In fact it almost seemed as though she hadn’t heard him at all. Then she said, “What about graduate school?”
“If I don’t get signed, I’ll go,” he said quickly. He had already anticipated this question. “Or, I’ll use my bachelor’s degree to get a job.”
“Is that what you want? To get a job?”
“Well … not really.”
“What do you really want?”
He paused, then spilled it out—“I want to play.”
It felt good to say after so many years—I want to play. Deep down, that had always been the truth. He loved football, loved everything about it. He loved the feel of the ball in his hands, loved connecting with a receiver, loved the pressure and the intensity, loved being out there in the midst of chaos. And most of all, without a doubt, he loved winning. Finally being able to admit all of this was perhaps the most cathartic moment of his life. But would his mother approve? If she didn’t, he knew, this great love would remain confined to a public field in suburban Philly for the rest of its life. So he held his breath and waited for the verdict.
When it came, it was in a form he never expected—the saintly woman who had raised him almost singlehandedly and was the strongest, most resilient soul he had ever known, turned to him with a rare smile and a gleam in her eye.
“Then get to it,” she said simply.
Raymond realized this was a catharsis for her, too. And never in his life had he felt so motivated.
* * *
The Baltimore Sheraton didn’t have any smoking rooms available, but that didn’t stop Jerry Wahlberg from lighting up. He sat at the little round table by the heavy curtains (which were closed) and read through Bell’s contract one line at a time. He didn’t recall it being so dense, but then he wasn’t looking at it the same way this time. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for exactly, but he was sure he’d know when he found it. He was well aware that player contracts varied tremendously in certain areas, such as pay—signing bonuses, performance incentives, licensing fees, etc.—and status within an organization—whether a player would be restricted or unrestricted as a free agent when the term of his contract was up. But in other areas they were standardized, fashioned after the template contract in the Collective Bargaining Agreement. There were boilerplate sections on injuries, pay deductions, conduct, grievance procedures, and so on, i.e., points that were almost never negotiable. The average contract was rarely more than ten pages long, with six copies being distributed among the player, his agent, the league office, the team, the National Football League Players’ Association (NFLPA), and the management council.
When the print began to blur and the content became meaningless, Wahlberg rose and stretched. He hadn’t found the weak spot he was searching for. He pressed every inch of the ice, but no cracks appeared. He shuffled across the carpet and grabbed the complimentary newspaper the hotel had left on the dresser. It was lying next to a room-service tray full of empty plates and glasses (he never, ever left food uneaten). Then he went into the bathroom and switched on the ceiling fan.
He had just sat down when the answer came to him. He froze, then a tiny smile appeared. He threw the paper on the tile floor, yanked up his pants, and dashed outside.
The flaw he was looking for did
n’t exist in the words that were in the contract—it was in the words that weren’t in the contract. The idea was a stretch, of course, but it was possible. His gut told him it was the right approach. He laughed out loud—a horrible cackle that sounded like a small animal caught in a trap.
He reconnected the phone and dialed his office.
* * *
The next morning, sitting behind his desk, Jon reviewed a request from one of the trainers for a new piece of equipment. It had been designed in California a few months ago and was supposed to improve agility. The trainer was bright and ambitious, just the kind of person who would know all about the latest technologies. Sabino liked him, admired his drive and youthful enthusiasm. But the kid had a tendency to be long-winded in his writing. The description of the device was so detailed that Jon felt like he could build one from scratch.
The phone rang. Susan wouldn’t be in for another hour. Reluctantly he reached over and grabbed it. An already bad day was about to get ten times worse.
“Hello?”
“Jon Sabino?”
The voice was vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place the name through his sleep-deprived haze, but his stomach tightened automatically. Whoever it was, his instincts told him it wasn’t someone he liked.
“Yes?”
“Jerry Wahlberg.”
Oh shit, not him … not now …
“Little early for you, isn’t it?”
“Actually I’ve been up for a while. Already been to the hospital to see my boy.”
He sounded chipper, and that always meant trouble.
“I thought visiting hours didn’t start until eight.”
“They don’t, unless you know how to get around it.”
Jon didn’t really want to hear Jerry Wahlberg’s handy tips for superseding the rules of the average hospital.
“How’s he doing?”
“Great, just great,” Wahlberg replied. Then, gravely, he added, “But he’s very concerned.”
“About what?”
“About his future with the Ravens.”
“What exactly are his concerns?” Jon had learned long ago that the best way to handle Jerry Wahlberg was to answer his questions with questions of your own. Direct answers—especially those that had any legal implications, no matter how seemingly abstract—would be stored away for future use. Wahlberg had very few real talents, but a lockbox memory was one of them.