The Draft

by Wil Mara

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  Sabino paused when he thought he’d found a site with some information. Turned out to be nothing.

  “Uh … what can you tell me about a kid named Raymond Coolidge?”

  Now Patti paused; nothing but dead air from the little speaker.

  “Patti? Did I lose y—?”

  “Did you say Raymond Coolidge?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “Boy, you can pick ’em. I know a little bit about him, but not much. He’s quite an enigma.”

  “You lived in the same area for a while, right? Weren’t you writing for the Philly Daily News when he was in school?”

  “Yes, and I covered a lot of his games. But I never had much luck covering him.”

  Sabino looked towards the phone, as if Patti could see this. “No? Why not?”

  “Because he didn’t seem to like the media. He never came out and said so, but that’s the impression I got. Truth is, he never said much to anyone. He was definitely in his own little world.”

  “Huh…” Sabino turned back to the screen and navigated to the one site that had some stuff on him—La Salle University’s alumnus page. “I’m looking at his college stats here, and I have to say they don’t look too bad, especially considering he went up against some fairly tough opponents in his later years. In fact, it seems to me that their entire football program accelerated in the time that he played. It’s as if he singlehandedly made the difference.”

  “He was very good,” Patti said. “You should have seen him—smart, quick, and able to make great defensive reads. He knew what they were going to do before they did. And he had a nice touch, too. Tightest spiral I ever saw outside the pros.”

  “So what happened? No one drafted him?”

  “He never declared,” she said. “After college, he disappeared. No one ever heard from him again. If I’m not mistaken, he was invited to the combines. That was last year. Three teams were scouting him, or at least sniffing him out—the Chiefs, the Bears, and the Bengals.”

  “But he told them no?”

  “He never even returned their calls.”

  Jon turned back to the computer and stared hard at Raymond’s photo, trying to get a read on him. He appeared to be ordinary enough, which only made the mystery more tantalizing.

  “I wonder why,” Sabino said quietly, mostly to himself.

  “I could never find out,” Patti answered. “I remember once, when he was in his senior year and doing really well, my editor wanted me to get an exclusive on him. We figured he was headed for a second- or third-round pick, and we wanted to be the ones who broke the story on him. But I was stonewalled in every direction. Nothing nasty, just … it’s hard to explain. It’s like he was being protected or something. His coaches wouldn’t talk, his uncle wouldn’t talk, his mom wouldn’t talk…”

  “What about his dad?”

  “Couldn’t find him. Couldn’t even get any information on him.”

  Jon shook his head. “Okay, thanks, Patti. Thanks very much.”

  “Sure. Hey, why do you want to know about him?” Jon was expecting this question. Sheridan was, after all, a reporter. “Are you trying to get him out of hiding, maybe to replace Bell?”

  He laughed. “Patti, I really can’t tell you anything right now because, honestly, nothing has happened yet. But how about this—if something does, I’ll give you the first word.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, you got a deal.”

  Jon closed the line and went back to his computer. Then he dug into a few other trusted sources, none of which revealed anything he didn’t already know.

  This dinner was suddenly looking a lot more interesting.

  * * *

  Jon liked Hops for the same reason many of the Ravens’ players did not—it was low key. It was nestled on an obscure side street in a quiet suburban grid, almost as if the original owners had wanted it to go unnoticed. But it wasn’t—it was more of a meticulously guarded local secret, a haven for those who cherished peace and quiet. Jon liked it because the sportswriters never went there. Neither did the fans, it appeared, for no one had ever recognized him.

  He stepped into the foyer and was immediately greeted by an Asian woman named Kim. She and her husband had been the owners for as long as he could remember. She was small and demure and had retained much of her natural beauty in that enviable way Asian women often do in their later years.

  “Good evening, Jon.”

  “Hello, Kim,” he said with a smile, removing his coat. She put it on a wooden hanger in the coat room. “How’s David?”

  “He’s fine, thank you. He’s in the back. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you be alone this evening?”

  “No, I’m meeting some—”

  “Jon!”

  Friedman emerged from the dining room. He looked quite respectable in his navy suit, starched white shirt, and maroon tie. He had a drink in hand—a clear fluid with ice and a slice of lime. Probably a vodka tonic. A red stirring straw was sticking out of it.

  He put out his free hand and Jon shook it.

  “Hi, Freddie.”

  “How are you? Thanks so much for coming.”

  “No problem.”

  “I really appreciate your taking the time.” Freddie lowered his voice as they entered the dining room. A few people turned to see who the new guests were. Jon recognized some faces and knew a few names. There were a lot of couples, lost in their private worlds. Every table had a linen tablecloth and a china setting. Candles flickered in crystal globes. The pervading sounds were the steady din of hushed conversation and the clinking of glasses and silverware. Piano music leaked quietly from invisible speakers.

  Freddie steered them toward the second and larger dining area. “Take a deep breath,” he said, “you might need it.” Jon laughed. What a huckster.

  He came through the archway, and the four other men at Freddie’s table rose. Jon recognized Eric Ross immediately, as they had known each other for years. Of the other three, it was easy to guess which one was Freddie’s hot new client. He was the only one young enough. Jon appraised Pearly Pressner long enough to be sure he didn’t know him. Then his eyes fell upon Quincy and stuck there. It took him a moment to dig up the name, not because he didn’t know it but because he was distracted by disbelief. Memories began rushing forward. Quincy Pressner on television, Quincy Pressner on the field, Quincy Pressner on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Jon looked closer to make sure he wasn’t delusional. Quincy smiled, as if he was used to this by now. No, Jon decided, he wasn’t delusional. The Howard Hughes of pro football was really standing right there.

  Eric laughed and put his hand out. “Hi, Jon. Nice to see you again.”

  “You too, Eric. How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good, pretty good.”

  “Jon, let me introduce you around,” Freddie said. “This is Joe Pressner, from Philadelphia.”

  A brother? Jon wondered. He didn’t know a thing about Quincy’s family; who did? They shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Joe.”

  “You too.”

  “And this is his brother, Quincy. He played for the Rams for a time in the eighties.”

  “Sure, I remember.” Jon studied the eyes again, then tried to absorb everything else. The guy appeared human, almost ordinary. But there was also an indefinable quality—that certain something that made him stand out. The last time Jon sensed it in someone was three weeks ago, when he met Joe Namath at a banquet dinner.

  “I was a big fan of yours when I was a kid,” Jon told him. “I remember seeing you play once, in fact, at a game my dad took me to. He kept saying how amazing you were.”

  “Thank you,” Quincy said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “And this,” Freddie continued, setting a hand on his client’s shoulder, “is Raymond Coolidge, the next great quarterback in the NFL. He’s Joe’s n
ephew, and Quincy’s son.”

  There was no way Jon could have been prepared for this little nuclear bomb of information. He felt as if every function in his body had been zapped to a halt. He was proud of the way he handled moments that would shock other people, but this was too much even for him.

  “His son?” he heard himself say. It came out awkward, almost rude, but no one seemed surprised.

  “That’s correct,” Freddie said.

  Jon extended his hand, “Nice to meet you, Raymond,” he managed to say after a pause that was mercifully brief but still impossible to miss. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Freddie chuckle.

  “Same here,” Raymond replied.

  They settled into their seats and ordered another round of drinks.

  “You went to La Salle, right?” Jon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I had heard you were making waves over there, but you never declared for the draft. Do you mind if I ask why?”

  Uncomfortable glances went around the table. Jon sensed a faux pas.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. If it’s something personal, forget it. I was just wond—”

  “It was because of me,” Quincy said. “Me and my anger toward something that happened a long time ago.” He looked at his boy with a mixture of admiration and regret.

  Jon nodded. “I see.” He would’ve loved to hear the details on the “something that happened a long time ago.” Like anyone else who followed the game back then, he was stunned by the news of Quincy Pressner deciding to suddenly leave the game behind rather than sign a new contract with the Rams or any other team. But he had a feeling those coveted details weren’t forthcoming.

  “We’re presenting him as a free agent,” Freddie said. “And we think he might even be able to make a second squad.”

  “Really?” Jon didn’t want to seem presumptuous, but it was hard not to express a certain degree of disbelief. The odds of someone coming out of the blue and backing up a starter in the most difficult position in all of sports were so tiny they were almost nonexistent.

  “He’s pretty darn good, Jon,” Eric said. “You should see the game tapes.”

  “He’s doing stuff I couldn’t do at his age,” Quincy added. “He’s faster at reading defenses, and he’s a better scrambler.”

  “But the NFL is a whole other world,” Jon said, shifting back into the role of a general manager. In spite of the shock of walking into his favorite local restaurant and finding the mythical Quincy Pressner waiting for him, he knew his primary function tonight, in the most basic terms, was to decide whether or not he wanted to give Freddie Friedman’s newest client a shot. That had to be handled objectively. “A lot of college phenoms couldn’t make the transition. It would take hours just to list all their names.”

  “He can do it, Jon,” Eric said. Jon knew him well enough to know he was being serious. “Give him a tryout. You’ll see.”

  The others watched and waited. Freddie chose to contact Jon Sabino before anyone else because he knew he would be the fairest and most open-minded.

  Jon remained silent for a long time, staring into space. He’d never seen Raymond play, knew nothing about his habits, style, strengths, or weaknesses. Okay, so he was the long-lost son of Quincy Pressner. That was a novelty. It would garner a great deal of media attention and sell some tickets. But did that mean he’d be able to get the job done on the field? Of course not. A good general manager examined a situation from all angles, and from the angle of Raymond’s playing abilities, he was a nobody from nowhere. Yes, Eric gave him an endorsement, and that certainly carried some weight. But could Raymond work in the Ravens’ system? Could he really be a reliable backup for Christian McKinley, if McKinley went down? They needed someone who could help them get to a third straight Super Bowl. And what if McKinley suffered a season-ending injury? Could this kid with no pro experience carry the whole load? It was a pretty tall order to say the least. That meant getting it done now, not three or four years down the line. It was an absurd stretch of the imagination—they needed someone very special. Was Raymond that person, clear out of the blue? Stranger things had happened in the league over the years, but the odds were still against it. Tremendously against it.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, reaching around to retrieve his glass. “I’ll make you a short-term deal. Raymond is essentially an untried and unproven talent. I have no doubt that he’s got ability,” he told Eric Ross, “and I’ve no doubt that he has the potential to play in the pros. But the Ravens are looking to win the big one again. That’s why we all play the game.”

  “And to make history,” Freddie commented.

  “Yes, we’d like very much to be the first team to win three straight Super Bowls. Who wouldn’t? So here’s what I propose—let’s give Raymond a tryout. That said, I’d like to retain his rights for a short time.”

  Freddie looked puzzled. “How short?”

  Jon put up a finger. “One week.”

  The others seemed confused, but Freddie smiled. “Until the draft is over.”

  Jon smiled back. “That’s right.”

  “So you are after Christian McKinley.”

  “I can’t comment on that. Maybe we are, maybe we’re not. Maybe we have an entirely different deal in the works that doesn’t involve McKinley at all. I really can’t say at this time.”

  Freddie’s smile didn’t fade. He nodded and wiped his mouth. “His way of saying skip the questions and get down to business,” he told the others. “Okay, I’ll play along. What kind of a deal are we talking about here, numbers-wise?”

  Jon looked around the group. “I was thinking ten thousand?”

  “Too low,” Freddie said before anyone else had a chance to react. This was standard procedure rather than the product of quick reflection—always reject the first offer.

  “Okay, twelve.”

  “Still too low.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Quincy said, putting up a hand. “Doesn’t Raymond have anything to say about it?”

  “Freddie, I’m not going to ask Raymond to do anything for the next seven days other than come to the facility to the coaches can have a look at him,” Jon pointed out. “I just want to retain his rights until after the draft. Then, if the situation calls for it, we’ll talk about his future with the team. If he’s good enough to make the cut, I promise you I’ll sign him. And if he makes it to the second QB spot on the depth chart, I’ll give him a bonus. A good one.”

  Friedman thought it over.

  “Fifteen,” he said, “is our final offer. If that’s okay with you, Raymond?”

  The boy who had never carried more than fifty bucks in his pocket, was wide-eyed with disbelief and managed a nod. Quincy, watching his son’s reaction, smiled with amusement.

  “Then we’ve got a temporary deal?” Jon asked.

  Freddie nodded. “We’ve got a temporary deal.” He reached over and shook Jon’s hand. Papers would be drawn up and faxed around tomorrow, but Jon knew from experience that Freddie’s handshake was his bond. He was a real pill, but he was good on his word.

  “And I’ll even pay for dinner tonight,” Friedman added.

  “You’re a prince,” Jon told him.

  “I know that.”

  Now please tell me I didn’t just blow fifteen grand, Jon thought.

  15

  Skip Henderson read the report for the third time. Typical due diligence stuff, documenting players’ backgrounds for signs of trouble—arrests, convictions, etc. Time was when a kid’s skills on the field were all that mattered, but nowadays character was a big issue. Troublemakers spawned bad press, and bad press often led to reduced sales in merchandising. On the field, they caused distractions. A coach could squelch most of them, but not all. Just like everywhere else in life, these types were more trouble than they were worth. Conversely, kids of good character were regarded as pure gold. Football skills were easier to teach than integrity. Good kids came with extras, bonuses. They provided the litt
le niceties that often made all the difference. This was one of life’s greatest secrets, and Henderson had discovered it early on. Others were still scratching their heads trying to figure out why certain players looked so good on paper and performed so well in the combines yet never did much for their team.

  Reading through the two-page report on Isaac Bardwell as the morning sun peeked through his office blinds, he thought again about the importance of character. And on that scale, Bardwell, a guard from the Auburn, wasn’t looking good. The bulk of the report discussed his two arrests for marijuana possession. In both cases the police could not prove Bardwell had actually used the stuff, but “the odor was strong on his person, as if he’d just smoked a joint.”

  What bothered Henderson most, though, was the time between the arrests—three years. Not three weeks or three months, which would’ve suggested a phase in which Bardwell was experimenting. Three years. For all Henderson knew, Bardwell could’ve been smoking pot the whole time and just didn’t get caught. Or maybe he had been caught but somehow squirmed his way out of it. Charm or outright bribery, perhaps. It was even possible the officers in question didn’t want to damage the reputation of a local sports hero. That certainly wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

  Whatever the case, the Ventnor report didn’t illustrate a complete picture, so Henderson was left with intuition and gut instinct. At the moment Bardwell was a third-rounder on their draft chart, and a low one at that. The skills were there, but they wouldn’t be worth a dime if the team had to deal with a pothead. All they needed was to sign this kid to a big contract and then lose him to the feds on his third substance-abuse arrest. Three strikes and you were definitely gone in their eyes. On the other hand, maybe Bardwell really had done it only a few times and just had a bad run of luck. It seemed like damn near everyone tried the stuff at least once these days. Would concern over character cause them to lose out on a great opportunity?

  Henderson scanned the report one more time, hoping maybe he’d see something he’d missed before, when the phone rang. He reached over and grabbed it without taking his eyes off the paper.