by Wil Mara
“Hello?”
“Skip?”
“Yes?”
“Brendan Cavanaugh.”
“Hey, Brendan, how’s it going over there in Colorado?”
“Not too bad, Skip. Same old.”
“Yeah, ain’t that the truth. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about your pick.”
“Which one?” Henderson asked, genuinely unsure.
“The first one. The first overall.”
Henderson paused out of surprise. He set Bardwell’s report down. “Oh … what about it?”
“I’d like to submit an offer for it.”
“You’re interested in it again?”
“Yes. You said you’d be taking them right up until tomorrow. Is that still the case?”
“Well, yes, but … I’ve got to tell you the current offer for it is pretty big. To be honest, I’d be amazed if anyone topped it.”
“I understand. I’d like to submit one anyway, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” he replied. “What have you got in mind?”
Thousands of miles away, Cavanaugh leaned back, put his feet up on his desk, and smiled. I’ve got the end of Jon Sabino’s career in mind, that’s what.
“Are you ready?”
“I am.”
“Okay, here goes…”
* * *
Physically, the Ravens’ draft-day war room was a lot less intriguing than its dramatic name implied. Like the team’s other conference room, its centerpiece was a large rectangular table surrounded by comfortable leather chairs. There was another markerboard, a few cabinets, and a framed Ravens’ logo hanging by itself on one of the long walls. This could be a meeting room in the office building of any American corporation.
A man in a khaki uniform was down on one knee in a corner, wearing a toolbelt and a pair of headphones. Stitched onto his shirt was an emblem that read “Hoffer Security.” The headphones were connected to a small handheld device that then connected to one of the phone jacks. As he listened carefully for any signs of weakness in the line, Jon stood by and watched with his hands on his hips. The Ravens had been using Hoffer for all such security matters for years. They were professional and highly discreet, and run by an ex-FBI agent.
Today the man from Hoffer would check the integrity of the phone lines, for there would be nothing more embarrassing, not to mention devastating, than missing an opportunity on draft day simply because your phone didn’t work. Jon wasn’t so much concerned with making calls as he was in receiving them. A problem with an outgoing call on one of these phones could be solved just by using another phone. But to most people in the outside world, the Ravens had only two or three phone numbers. League officials didn’t want long lists of every damn phone in the building. They didn’t want every cell number. They wanted one main number and one for emergencies, so these phones had to work.
“Everything seem okay so far?”
The man nodded. “So far,” he said without looking up.
Jon was fascinated, not because he possessed some deep desire to work in the securities industry but because it was something he knew nothing about. He was a curious and inquisitive type by nature and would love nothing more than to bombard this guy with questions until he felt he had at least a fundamental understanding of what he was doing.
Again he considered asking the guy to sweep for bugs, then decided not to. He’d had this argument with himself several times over the last week. Some teams did run such tests as part of their normal preparation for draft day, and Jon had done it in the past. In the fans’ minds, he thought, it must sound ridiculously paranoid. He always imagined someone shaking their head and saying, “Gimme a break, it’s only a game.” But the truth was professional football was a high-stakes business like any other, involving millions and dollars and the futures of hundreds of people. Planting tiny electronic ears in the offices of your rivals really wasn’t such a bad idea. Besides, it had happened before; more than once, in fact.
Ultimately, however, Jon decided it wouldn’t be necessary. At least not this year. As far as anyone knew, the Ravens still hadn’t made any deal with the Chargers. There was a lot of speculation in the media, plenty of rumors floating around, but no facts and no confirmations. Both Jon and Skip Henderson had done a marvelous job of holding their tongues. As usual, the press didn’t find out anything a team didn’t really want them to know. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, what would happen on draft day was still a mystery.
The Hoffer man unplugged his line from the first jack and rose. “That one’s okay,” he said and moved to the next.
Jon nodded and glanced at the huge white sheet that covered the markerboard. Underneath were hundreds of little placecards, each bearing the name of an eligible player plus the name of his college, his position, height, weight, and his speed in the 40-yard dash. This draft board had been set up weeks ago, long before Bell’s accident, and Jon really hadn’t given it much thought since then. It was more or less irrelevant now, but he was still glad it was there. It had been covered solely for the benefit of the security guy. If it was exposed and he got a look at who the team had originally been considering in the first round, he might mention it to someone. Then again maybe he wouldn’t, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Jon frankly didn’t care if the guy’s feelings were hurt by this mild display of mistrust. Besides, the guy worked in security, so surely he understood. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in it anyway.
There was some other sensitive material around the room—unkempt piles of paper, files with rubber bands around them. In one corner ESPN had set up a camera the day before, although there were no wires or cables connected to it yet. To an outsider this, too, might seem like a security gamble, but in reality it wasn’t. ESPN had a solid reputation in the sports world, which was logical since sports reporting was their bread and butter. Regardless, many NFL teams refused them access to their war rooms. Jon thought this was ridiculous. He understood they had a job to do, and that many fans would be intrigued by what was happening on the inside. The only condition he imposed was that no sound be transmitted until the second day, and that the cameras be turned off upon request. Otherwise, ESPN was free to do as they wished.
Connally had enthusiastically agreed to indulge the ESPN people, too, although Jon suspected it was for different reasons. Peter was eager to get in front of the cameras the moment the announcement came down that the Ravens had secured McKinley. He would want to stand in the spotlight and gloat—in as dignified a manner as possible—about this team’s amazing acquisition. He’d give the normal speech about being happy that such a talented young player would be coming to Baltimore and that he was glad for the fans, etc., but what he’d really be waiting for was the opportunity to bring up the subject of a third Super Bowl victory. Any opportunity to talk about that was seized. It seemed to be his singular obsession these days.
Jon was not as comfortable in the limelight, but he had to admit he kind of looked forward to it this time. As he stood there watching the security guy tinker with his equipment, he got a strong sense that this was the beginning of the end of something, so he figured hell, why not live it up a little? Maybe he’d get in front of that camera, too. Perhaps he’d even comb his hair and put on a jacket for a change. The McKinley acquisition was his baby, after all; another success in a fairly long line of them. Once the announcement was made, surely they’d want to talk to him and get the juicy details. In years to come he’d probably look back and think it was an asinine, self-indulgent thing to do. But hell, it might never be this good again, so why not, just this once, have a little fun with it?
He was smiling to himself, imagining the things he might say, when the door opened and Susan Schiff stuck her head in. She looked pale, almost sick, and Jon’s whimsical fantasy evaporated.
“Susan?”
“There’s a call for you.”
She made a motion toward the Hoffer guy that said, I don’t want to say more in f
ront of him. Jon got the translation with no problem and came forward.
“I’ll be right back,” he told the guy, who nodded.
As they hurried down the hallway, Jon’s first thought was of his daughter—Kelley was calling to say Lauren had tumbled down the stairs and broken her neck. Funny, he thought, how clear and detailed mental images were when you imagined horrible things happening to the people you loved.
“Who is it?” he asked, more to distract himself than anything else.
“Skip Henderson.”
He stopped, and then she stopped.
“Really?” That can’t be good.
He got behind his desk and plucked the phone from its cradle. Outside, Susan tried her best not to eavesdrop.
Jon went to press the blinking hold button, then paused to make sure this wasn’t just a bad dream. No such luck. He cleared his throat and brought the phone to his ear.
“Skip? Hey, it’s Jon,” he said casually, hoping his cheerful tone would somehow sway the odds in his favor. “What’s up?”
“Jon, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I have some bad news for you.”
16
Ten minutes later, Jon set the phone down gently, put his hands together, and stared into space. He was numb and cold. A million thoughts swirled together.
The first thing he had to do, he knew, was tell Connally. He closed his eyes and shook his head at the prospect. The old bastard had been stomping around like a monster in a Japanese horror film all morning. One of the people in marketing and promotions had been given the responsibility of ordering a thousand T-shirts; cheapos that the team could give away at various PR functions to keep the fans happy. But she sent the printer the wrong logo—the old one from the Ravens’ first two seasons that they eventually had to discard after a lawsuit filed by one of their former security people who claimed, apparently rightfully so, that he in fact created the design and was never compensated for it—and all the shirts had to be destroyed. Over two thousand dollars down the drain. And since the girl who made the mistake was new, it really wouldn’t be fair to fire her. It was just one of those instances when you had to bite the bullet. But Connally was absolutely livid. It wasn’t the dollar amount that bothered him but the idea that it had been wasted. If there was one thing Peter Connally abhorred, it was waste.
And what of the new offer Skip had received? It must’ve been unbelievable. Jon thought he was out of his mind when he tendered his last proposal. Somewhere out there was a team about to lose a lot of talent. Whoever had made the final decision, Jon was happy he wasn’t in his shoes. The fans would kill the guy. Who even had that much to spare? When this was all over, he would be very curious to find out who was behind the deal and what they gave up. It never occurred to him that it might be Brendan Cavanaugh. He figured it was one of the other three teams that had been most aggressively after McKinley—the Chiefs, the Seahawks, or the Texans.
Regardless, the objective now, impossible though it may be, was to forge a superior counteroffer. And this needed to be done—he checked his watch—within twenty-four hours. What were the choices? The first one was to throw more chips into the pot—add more players. But who did they have left?
He scanned the roster again and again, and could no longer avoid the name of Darryl Bailey. If he didn’t make a difference, then Jon might as well wave the white flag right now, because they had nothing else that Skip wanted, and there weren’t any other decent defensive leftovers around to trade for. Bailey was a playmaker. Skip said repeatedly he didn’t want offensive guys, but he had expressed an admiration for Bailey many times. Maybe that was all it would take. Jon had never mentioned the possibility of including Bailey to anyone. It had always been more theoretical than anything else. He desperately wanted to find some other name on their roster that Skip would jump at. But there wasn’t one.
Jon thought briefly about Raymond Coolidge. He did own the kid’s rights for the moment. Would he be able to use him as trading fodder? Could he be a factor? It was an interesting idea. Skip would need a quarterback, after all. Of course he wouldn’t take McKinley and give up the chance to obtain so many other players. But what if he got all those others and a promising young quarterback?
He realized he was drifting out of reality now. First of all, there was very little chance brokering such a deal would be legal. The commissioner would never sanction it. The paper he’d faxed to Freddie yesterday was very clear; Friedman had taken a number of prelaw classes at night and, although he never earned a law degree, knew legalese as well as anyone. Distilled into a language anyone could understand, the agreement stated that the Ravens retained Raymond’s rights until the Monday after draft weekend because they wanted the first chance to try him out in the event they didn’t acquire another quarterback. All Jon had requested was the chance to bring him in and have the coaches look him over before anyone else, nothing more.
Then a horrible thought occurred to him—he might simply be out of ammunition. This was sickening. Like everyone else in the NFL, both on the field and off, Jon hated losing. There were always ways to win. In the past he had wondered if this was one of the trademarks of true genius—believing there was always a way, and that the only real challenge was finding it.
All the traditional routes were exhausted—trimming the roster, offering more draft picks, making trades. Darryl Bailey was a panic-button choice, and even that wasn’t a guarantee. Raymond Coolidge was a no-way.
What else was there?
* * *
He paced furiously, cordless phone pressed against his ear, waiting for Gayle to pick up. He almost wished he had one of those hands-free headsets Friedman had. Holding the damn thing against his face was painful after a while. And if you supported it with your shoulder long enough you got a kink in your back. Still, the headsets made you look like you worked the drive-through at McDonald’s.
“Come on … come on…”
He glanced at the clock for the tenth time in so many minutes. His heart was racing, his hands trembling slightly. He was on a high like no other. This was what he loved most about the NFL—that razor’s-edge competition that delineated the winners from the losers. It was what made the job worthwhile.
He froze when he heard a click on the other end. “Hello?”
“Gayle? It’s Jon. I’ve got—”
“I’m sorry, Jon, this is Melissa.”
He recognized Gayle’s secretary right away. “Oh, hi, Melissa. Is Gayle around? It’s sort of an emergency.”
He dropped down on the leather couch and set his feet on the glass coffee table, wrinkling the cover of the latest issue of NFL Insider. His co-workers would’ve been amazed—he had a standing rule against putting feet up on this table.
“Sorry, Jon, he’s in a meeting with the coaches.” Jon’s stomach sank. “If you’d like, I can give him a mes—oh, wait, here he is.”
Jon jumped back up. “Thank God.”
The line went dead again, and Jon straightened some papers on his desk while he waited. When he was done with that, he grabbed a large paper clip, set it with one finger, and “kicked” it across the room with the another. It landed in a small wastepaper basket.
“Score!” he said quietly.
“Jon?”
“Gayle?”
“Hey, what’s up?”
Jon sighed. “You’re not going to believe this.…”
“What? Don’t tell me someone outbid you.”
“Yeah.”
“My God.”
“I know, un-goddamn-believable.”
“Who had that much to give up?”
Jon threw up his hands. “Who knows? Skip wouldn’t tell me. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the Chiefs. They have some depth, plenty of cap room, and some picks to spare. Gostranich is a pretty wily guy. I’m sure he’s been doing all the same things I’ve been doing for the last week. Then again it could’ve been anyone. There are plenty of teams that could use McKinley.”
“Jeez, I’m s
orry,” Gayle said. “So I assume you’re looking to sweeten your own offer now?”
“You got it.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?
“Actually, yes, there is.”
“Okay, shoot.”
Jon took a deep breath. “Any chance I can get Aaron Timmerman back?”
At first there was only silence. Jon expected as much, so he waited.
“Who?” Gayle said finally.
“Aaron Timmerman. Remember, three years ago?”
“Yeah, I remember. Are you crazy? He’s the best linebacker we’ve got. Are you on drugs? Have you been getting help? Does Kelley know?”
“I’m not on drugs, asshole, I’m serious. I’ll give you.…” He scanned the spreadsheets on screen, although he’d seen so many times he really didn’t need to look at all. “Oh hell, I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“If I let Timmerman go, they’ll feed me to the alligators. You know they have alligators down here, right? They say the Mafia loves them because they eat the—”
“I thought you were having contract problems with him. The rumor is he wants to renegotiate a year early. If you dealt him back to us, you’d save yourself a lot of heartache.”
“No, we need him. We’ve got plenty of salary cap problems coming up, yes, but that’s because the last moron who had this job was under the impression money grew on trees.” He groaned. “That’s next year’s headache. Timmerman won’t make it any easier by asking to renegotiate, but at least he’s worth it. It would be stupid to give up a good player when we’re stuck with so many average ones.”
He knew it was a longshot, but he had to try. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Sorry, buddy.”
Jon glanced at the clock again.
“All right. I gotta go. I’m running out of time.”
“Who’s next?”
Jon chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Not Cavanaugh.”
“Obviously.”
“Then who?”