The Draft

by Wil Mara

  Raymond’s college coach, Hal Arden—one of the few people outside Raymond’s family who knew Quincy was his father and had done an admirable job of keeping this precious information to himself—arrived next. A former college star himself, he missed out on his own NFL opportunity when he went down the wrong way during a sack in his senior year and permanently damaged his left knee. It took three reconstructive surgeries and sixteen months of agonizing rehabilitation to get him walking again, and even now one could detect a slight limp. He brought more equipment from the school and ran Raymond through a series of position drills; anything that he thought the Ravens might throw at him during the next day’s tryout. Several times he wanted to say something about Raymond’s follow-through, a slight problem he’d had in his school years. After throwing the ball, Raymond would often continue moving forward rather than discipline himself to resist the momentum and instead learn to fade either left or right. The forward movement would eventually, Arden knew, lead him into some monster linebacker in the pros coming forward, and the resulting impact would cause some kind of nasty injury. But each time Raymond threw today, Arden noticed, he would then drift laterally and automatically relax his body to accept whatever shock was coming—he had corrected the problem on his own. When he noted this to Quincy, his father shrugged and said he hadn’t worked on it with him. That’s when Arden realized Raymond had been practicing and improving himself, basically in secret, for the bulk of the last year. He thought Raymond was a tremendous player when he graduated; he was utterly blown away by what he was seeing now.

  Pearly arrived by midmorning, moving slowly down the track with his cane and taking a seat in the bleachers. Then, to Raymond and Quincy’s surprise, La Salle’s entire starting squad, both offense and defense, appeared, all smiles. Included in the group was Mark Dalton, the receiver Raymond had befriended and who used to go with him to the field at Washington High to run pattern drills. Most of the kids had played with Raymond the year before and were thrilled to see him again. They knew about his tryout the following day and were happy to give up an afternoon to help him prepare. Raymond was genuinely moved by their friendship. When two of the boys recognized Quincy from some bar in the city, word quickly spread that he was Raymond’s father. Quincy and Raymond laughed about it but decided to do nothing more. It was a turning point for them, the first time they made no attempt to maintain the secret any longer. People would find out anyway, so their friends may as well find out first. Quincy ended up signing autographs while the heir to his throne continued his workout.

  After lunch they scrimmaged, and Raymond told the defense not to “redshirt” him. He would have none of this. Against the advice of his father and coach, he insisted on being put under what he called “real game pressure.” Arden called obscure and complicated plays from last year’s book, testing Raymond’s memory and pushing what he perceived to be the limits of the boy’s physical and mental abilities. He threw different defensive schemes at him, forcing him to pass on the run, into traffic, multiple coverage, and so on. Honoring Raymond’s wishes, he made things difficult. The players were pumped, excited by the prospect that one of their own might make a pro team. Two fights even broke out, both of which sent Quincy into laughing fits.

  By the end of the afternoon, Raymond was exhausted, but he refused to show it. his performance had been nothing short of brilliant in Hal Arden’s eyes. Every one of his bad habits was gone. He’d effectively eradicated them to the point where no evidence remained. Arden had thrown everything at him that his boys could muster. At one point it even occurred to him that Raymond might just be toying with them; he might just be that good now. Arden laughed and shook his head.

  As they walked off the field, he reminded Raymond again that the pros were a different story entirely. A different universe. Everyone was bigger, and they moved faster. They were vicious and ruthless. He would become scared, and he should be, because they could hurt him badly. A lot of players were unable to take that step, to successfully carry their skills to the next level. But Raymond was certain he would not fall into this trap. He was suddenly aware of a confidence that he had never known before. And when Arden sensed this—saw that twinkle of near-magical assuredness in his eyes—he smiled and put an arm around his former pupil’s shoulder.

  “You’re ready, kiddo,” he said simply.

  * * *

  While Raymond was preparing for the tryout of his life, Brendan Cavanaugh was trying to hold onto his sanity. His day had gone from good to bad in one phone call.

  He’d been having a grand time contacting the players he’d traded, particularly enjoying that moment of stunned silence after the bomb was dropped. Grown men engaged in a cold war, more subtle than a battle between children but ten times as vicious. He was about to zero in on his next victim when the phone rang. He was grinning when he reached for it, figuring it was one of the others calling back, mad as a hornet and ready for a screaming match.

  When he heard Skip Henderson’s voice instead, his stomach dropped. He knew the message before it was delivered. He didn’t ask if it was Sabino; he didn’t have to. Henderson would tell him, and he knew it anyway. He ended the conversation quickly, promised to call back when—not if, but when—he got a new deal together.

  He lifted the phone again. It was going on four thirty, and the clock seemed to be moving faster than usual. First he tried Macintosh’s cell phone, but all he got was an answering service. He had to try the team offices. It was a huge risk, but what choice did he have now?

  Macintosh picked up on the second ring. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “What did Sabino give up?”

  “Darryl Bailey.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Henderson’s been in love with him forever.”

  “What about no offensive players? That’s what Henderson told me. He told everyone that.”

  “What do you want me to say? Jon knew that, too. I have no idea what happened.”

  Cavanaugh shook his head. Sabino and his goddamned creative thinking. His hatred for the man grew a little more, fueled by the ugly realization that, as capable as he was, Sabino had access to a level of thinking that would probably always be out of his own reach.

  He sighed. “So he gave up one of his best receivers to get that pick?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I’m going to dig around and see what else I can find. Meanwhile, try to dig up some more information I can use.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything that might help. Anything. I didn’t give you fifty grand for nothing.”

  “Okay, okay…”

  “Get back to me as soon as you can. And put your cell phone on. I don’t want to call this number again.”

  * * *

  Macintosh had little choice but to wait until Jon was gone. That didn’t happen until nearly seven o’clock. And since this was the night before the draft, he’d be back, so he figured the window of opportunity was a tiny one. He probably went out to get something to eat. Cavanaugh, undoubtedly waiting by the phone for the last few hours, had to be climbing the walls by now.

  He started with the papers on the desk. They were arranged in reasonably orderly piles. He didn’t find anything useful, but he did pause when he discovered a set of due diligence reports on players’ backgrounds. He loved these and could read them all day long. But there wasn’t time for that right now.

  He went to the drawers next. Jon didn’t keep them locked as a matter of policy. He felt doing so conveyed a message of mistrust to his coworkers. He wanted his office to be free and open to all. If he had any truly top secret issues, he simply kept them on his computer or in his head. Macintosh considered this open-door policy absurd. The hell with the message it sent to the underlings. They would know only what they needed to know. They had no business going through someone else’s stuff. It was a security risk, plain and simple. He couldn’t help thinking of what he was doing right now as a perfect example. If Jon had
been more careful, he wouldn’t be able to play the part of the mole in the first place. As a result, Jon’s cutesy idealism would be his downfall. What a chump.

  Macintosh found it nearly impossible to concentrate on all the notes and papers and watch the door at the same time. He had to keep his ears open, too. He was about to give up when he came across a new spiral-bound notebook. On the first page he found a set of notes from a meeting earlier in the day. At first it didn’t look as though Jon had written anything useful, but then he came across the line, “We agree that offering Bailey will be it—if we are outbid again, we will withdraw and take our chances with Birch.”

  Macintosh smiled. This was the kind of information Cavanaugh wanted. Whether or not he would increase his own offer one more time was his problem. At least he would know where Jon had drawn the line. That was very useful indeed.

  He put the notebook back exactly as he found it and hurried out of the office. He hit the stairs running and went down to the parking lot, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. One more call, he thought, and he was done with this little project. He’d already made plans to take Jennifer to Hawaii for a week, impressing her with fine wine, expensive dinners, and—best of all—tales of his bright future in the NFL. He’d tell her the fifty grand was the bonus he received along with his promotion. He’d tell her he was just a few years away from becoming the assistant general manager of the Denver Broncos. He’d tell her they were on their way to an almost certain Super Bowl victory now that they had Christian McKinley. He’d tell her a lot of things.

  It was all within reach now.

  * * *

  An aching Raymond closed the refrigerator door sat back down. The only sounds in the small, brightly lit kitchen came from the bubbling pot his mother hovered over. Pearly sat across from his nephew and fiddled with a fork.

  The door leading to the side porch opened unexpectedly, and Quincy appeared wearing jeans and a white dress shirt that had passed its prime a few years back. The cuffs were unbuttoned, and a pack of cigarettes could be seen hazily through the breast pocket.

  “Sorry for dropping in like this. Raymond, I forgot to bring these today. They might help.”

  He handed his son a brown paper bag, which Raymond emptied onto the table. Four Rams playbooks, yellowing and scented with age, slid out.

  “I thought you’d like to look through them, to get some idea of what a pro playbook looks like.”

  Raymond handled them with the reverence of a theological scholar examining the Dead Sea Scrolls. They were each as thick as a small phone book, with two plays per page, crudely drawn by hand and photocopied decades ago. X’s and O’s, with little notes at the bottom.

  “You still had these?”

  “Yeah, they were in a closet where I kept some old stuff. They’re no good to me anymore.”

  It occurred to Raymond, for just an instant, that these would be considered priceless relics by some—the personal playbooks of Quincy Pressner. Probably worth a fortune. And now they’re mine. The changing of the guard, a largely symbolic moment that was not lost on the young man.

  “Wow. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Sure. If you don’t need them, you can just throw them out.”

  Raymond laughed. “No, I think I’ll keep them.”

  “Good.”

  Raymond stopped paging through the first book and looked up. “Dad, I was thinking about something after my workout today. Just being in the league isn’t easy, is it? No matter how good you are on the field, there’s a lot more to it than just playing, isn’t there?”

  Quincy paused to consider his answer. Pearly watched him intently.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s tough, and maybe tougher than ever now.”

  “It’s like it just chews people up. If I make the Ravens’ roster, I don’t want anything like that happen to me. Some guys get injured and can’t play anymore. Others go down like you did. And it wasn’t even your fault, dad. You got caught up. It’s like a wave—it just grabs you, and you can’t do anything but go along. It’s like you have no control over it.”

  Quincy studied the boy for a moment, then walked over and crouched down in front of him. “That’s where you’re wrong, son,” he said. For what is was worth, the word Althea was thinking when she heard him was fatherly. “You have more control over it than you think. That stuff about getting caught up and having it take you away is nonsense. It’s just an excuse. I should know. I used to say the same thing—‘You can’t control it, it controls you.’ That’s the biggest load of crap going. People who make mistakes don’t want to think anything is their fault. But the truth is, it’s largely about choices. I chose to do what I did. There’s always a moment, Raymond—maybe it’s a small one, but it’s yours—the one instant when you, all by yourself, make the decision to do it or not to do it. If you say no, you might get some heat, might lose some friends, maybe even lose some opportunities. But at least you get the keep your dignity and your self-respect.”

  He pinched and then held up the shoulders of his Salvation Army shirt. “Look at this, you see this? You see what I’ve become? It was because I had choices and I made the wrong ones. I could’ve said no to so many things, but I didn’t.”

  “But—”

  “No, no ‘buts.’” Quincy got back up. “You might get the chance to do something very few people can—play quarterback in the NFL. You can climb as far or fall as hard as you like, but it’s more up to you than you realize. I made mistakes, Raymond. So have a lot of other guys. But you won’t. You’re tough and you’re determined. You’ve got that streak of righteousness in you that I never had. You know right from wrong, and that will be what keeps your head above water.”

  Raymond managed a tiny smile. “Okay, Dad.”

  “That’s my boy. So I’ll see you tomorrow then, bright and early.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And remember—choices.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Good.”

  As Quincy was walking out, Althea said, “Quince?”

  The tall man froze—he could not recall the last time he’d heard her address him in this way.

  He leaned back, his head appearing around the open door. “Yes?”

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  No one moved, no one breathed, for what seemed like a long time but was probably no more than five seconds.

  “I’d like that,” Quincy replied with a surprised smile, turning back and, almost without realizing it, tucking his shirt in and buttoning the cuffs.

  * * *

  When Connally heard about the settlement Jon had to make with Wahlberg, he took it particularly hard. He wanted to “sue that little bastard into oblivion.” He even went so far as to suggest hiring someone to find a few skeletons in Wahlberg’s closet. He must have a few, Connally reasoned. People of that ilk always did. Find them and use them. It was a very effective technique, he said with an air of experience that Jon found particularly unsettling.

  In the end, however, Jon convinced him to just let it go. Drafting McKinley was the priority now, and in order to do that they simply had to get Wahlberg out of their hair. If it cost them a little, so be it. They couldn’t win every battle. You could lose a few battles and still win the war, he pointed out. But Connally would never completely let go of his bitterness toward Wahlberg. Jon knew simply by his body language that it was something he’d think about. The downside was that Wahlberg probably didn’t plan on agenting another athlete in his life, and he wouldn’t have to, either. He’d have enough money to live in comfort until he was a hundred and fifty.

  Back in his office, Jon called him on his cell phone.

  “Okay, this is the offer—if we draft and decide to sign McKinley, we’ll give you nine-point-six million over three years.” The only aspect of the deal that didn’t make his stomach churn was the fact that at least most of the money would be going to Bell. After he healed he would still have some good years left on the fie
ld.

  “That will be fine,” Wahlberg replied. He was all peaches and cream now, Jon’s good buddy and just another upstanding member of the football community.

  “The smallest payment will come in the first year, and the other two progressively larger. But we can’t afford to take a big hit in the first year because McKinley will no doubt ask for a big signing bonus.”

  “Right, I understand,” Wahlberg said, open-minded fellow that he was. “No problem.”

  “In return, your client will be released from the team and all ties severed.” Just the idea of it was heartbreaking. So long, Mike. Don’t forget all the good times we had.…

  “Correct. And the paperwork?”

  “I’ll fax the proposal to you as soon as we’re finished writing it up. Remember, it’s just a proposal at this stage, not a deal. It’s all academic until after the draft.”

  “Got it.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s about it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Thanks for everything, Jon. I really appreciate it.”

  Jon hung up without responding. No sooner had he hung up the phone than it rang again.