by Wil Mara
Without the formality of a hello, Kevin Tanner said, “Jon, have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“I think you’d better turn on ESPN right now.”
18
Brendan Cavanaugh was sitting behind his desk when the news hit.
The information Macintosh had given him an hour earlier was useful, but only to a degree. It was good to know the Ravens had reached their limit, but he still had to top it. If there was more room to trim, he sure as hell couldn’t find it. He went up and down the roster looking for a name.
He thought about the deal Sabino tried to make with the Cardinals—Macintosh had told him all about it. Not a bad idea, really. Maybe he would give it a shot, too. He didn’t like Tom Wright much either, but he had never been stupid enough to say so publicly. Maybe Wright would cut him a break. Maybe he’d be more amenable to a deal once he knew he’d be helping to wrestle McKinley away from Jon Sabino.
Cavanaugh was mildly annoyed when the phone rang—he’d asked Jodi to hold all calls for the time being.
“Me again,” Macintosh said.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“About Darryl Ba—oh wait, turn on ESPN, quick. Trust me, you’re gonna wanna to see this.”
Cavanaugh spun around and snatched up the remote that he kept on his desk. A large, recessed screen came to life. One of the station’s fresh-faced young broadcasters was behind the desk, holding some papers and looking rather serious. In the upper right-hand corner was an inset picture of Darryl Bailey.
“What the hell is this?”
“Just watch.”
“… has reported in their latest issue that Baltimore Ravens wide receiver Darryl Bailey has been taking unauthorized cortisone shots to hide an injury suffered during the last Super Bowl. The article goes on to say that Bailey would neither deny nor confirm the report, and calls to both Bailey and his agent, Derrick Bayliss, have gone unanswered.”
Cavanaugh, smiling and unable to take his eyes off the screen, said softly, “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it. The deal’s off with the Chargers. Sabino just got through talking with Skip Henderson.” Macintosh laughed.
“What a loser.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I thought you should know. I have a feeling you’ll be getting a call from the West Coast any time.”
“Thanks, thanks a lot.”
“My pleasure.”
Cavanaugh felt the stress drain from his system. Leaning back in his chair to enjoy the rest of the report, he began humming “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
* * *
Jon Sabino had never been to Darryl Bailey’s house before. He wished his first visit could’ve been under better circumstances. Bernadette showed him into the living room and gave him a Coke. They chatted for a few minutes, and Jon realized Bernadette knew about the stinger, and that she, too, hadn’t been told about it right away, because she was clearly pretty pissed off. He also sensed she wasn’t going to discuss it to any degree; she was leaving that for the two of them.
Then the door to the master bedroom opened and DB appeared. He was dressed in a black tracksuit and sneakers. The top was unzipped most of the way, revealing a plain white T-shirt.
He did not, Jon noted, make immediate eye contact. His head was hung low; a posture of defeat. Amazing, how no trace of that winner’s swagger could be found. Miserable, Jon thought. That’s how he looked. The very embodiment of the word miserable.
He slumped into the love seat and Bernadette withdrew, giving DB a fairly frosty look at the way out.
Jon sighed. “So it’s true? You’re taking cortisone and hiding an injury? I came to get it straight from you.”
DB closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, it’s all true.”
“What’s the injury?”
“A stinger.” He motioned towards the affected area. “Right up here, where they always are.”
“You got it at the Super Bowl?”
“Yeah.”
“That last catch, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jon shook his head. “I knew you shouldn’t have been playing. Why didn’t Cary—”
“Coach had nothing to do with it,” Bailey said quickly. “I wanted to play. I wanted to be in there. I kept bugging him.”
“Why? The game was already won. You didn’t need—”
“The normal stupid reasons—more stats, more exposure. You know how it goes. Can’t get enough. There’s a feeling at the big one, Jon, like no other. I wanted to be out there, living it. You never know if you’re gonna get back. I didn’t want to let it go. One more minute, one more play.…” He buried his head in his hands. “You have to be out there to understand.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Bailey managed a laugh. “Because I would’ve been gone. I know how it is with stingers. Everybody thinks you’re damaged goods. I would’ve been gone.”
Jon didn’t respond, but he knew DB was right. If he’d come clean about it, Blanchard may very well have placed him in the can trade category on the roster last week.
Finally, Bailey said, “I’m so sorry, man.”
Jon sighed. “Yeah, me too. Have you spoken to your attorney yet?”
“On the phone once. He’ll be here in a little while.”
“Good.”
“Has anyone else come to see you or called?”
“My mom.”
Sabino surprised himself with a little smile. “That was nice,” he said.
“Yeah.”
An awkward moment crept in. Maybe it was time to go, Jon thought.
Then DB said, “So I guess that’s it for me, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the game. I guess I’m finished.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “How many chances do you get? The Chargers won’t want me now.”
“You aren’t part of the Chargers’ organization. You’re part of ours.”
For the first time in a while, some light shone in DB’s eyes. “You’re going to keep me around? After this?”
“Well, let’s see what happens with the injury. Let’s get you some real medical attention and see how things turn out.”
“What about your deal for McKinley?”
“Oh hell, that’s history.”
“Because of this?”
“Yeah, because of this.”
Bailey closed his eyes and dropped his head again. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’ll figure out something else,” Sabino said, although he had no idea what that something might be.
“I’m gonna be suspended.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see what happens. Let’s see if we can find a way to make it all work out, for us, for you … everyone.”
Bailey looked up and smiled.
“Thanks, man.” He put his hand out and Jon took it.
“You’re welcome.”
On the way back to the offices, Jon pondered the situation further. We’ll figure out something else, he’d said. But with so little time and so few options left, all he felt he could do was pray for a miracle.
So he prayed.
19
Raymond arrived at the Ravens’ training facility in his aging Ford Explorer just before one thirty. Quincy was in the passenger seat, Pearly in the back. Pearly had barely said a word during the two-hour journey down I-95. Mostly it was Quincy trying to get his son into the optimal frame of mind for the situation. He offered his best guesses as to what Blanchard would be looking at most closely, what his highest priorities might be.
Raymond pulled into a parking space near the front and got out. He took one look at the facade of the main building—with its handsome archways and stately stonework—and felt the first pangs of nervousness. He managed to get a full night’s sleep and wake up with no jitters. And even his father’s constant chatter on the ride down hadn’t le
t loose the butterflies. But now, standing in this sunny visitors’ lot, a very small figure shadowed by of one of the most beautiful buildings he’d ever seen—like something from an Ivy League college campus—he suddenly realized the magnitude of the situation.
This is really happening.
Quincy helped extract Pearly from the back seat. He was stiff from the long ride and stepped to the pavement with a groan. Raymond watched this and could not help but be moved. There he was, making the trip to see his nephew, as faithfully supportive as always. This wouldn’t even be happening if it wasn’t for him, Raymond thought. I wouldn’t even be here.
Another vehicle pulled in—a stone grey BMW with New York plates. It turned into the spot two over from Raymond’s, and Freddie Friedman got out, twirling his keys around his finger and smiling. From the other side, Eric Ross also appeared, wearing mirror sunglasses and a grin of his own.
“So, whaddaya think?” he asked, motioning towards the magnificent architecture. “Pretty impressive, huh?”
“It’s amazing,” Raymond said. “La Salle had nothing like this.”
Friedman and Ross both laughed. “No other team in the NFL has anything like this,” Freddie told him. “This is as state of the art as it gets. It cost more than thirty million bucks. It has swimming pools, lounges, a full-service kitchen, and several practice fields, including one that’s indoors.”
“My God,” Quincy said.
The front door to the complex opened, and Jon Sabino emerged.
“Welcome to our headquarters,” he said. “Did you have a good trip?”
“It was fine,” Raymond said, staring past him, still in awe.
Jon laughed. “It’s quite a place, isn’t it? Come on in and I’ll give you the tour.”
They moved across the road in a herd and filed inside. Over the next thirty minutes they were taken past a game room (where linebacker Earle Webster was playing a Ravens pinball machine while defensive end Dexter Simmons shot pool with wide receiver Anthony Jennings), two racquetball courts, a suite of executive offices, several corporate meeting rooms, a media area, a dining hall, a fully equipped digital film center, and a locker room that was immaculately clean. Raymond noted in particular the large number of plasma TV screens; they seemed to be everywhere. He must’ve seen thirty of them already.
Finally, Jon took them into the weight room, which seemed to stretch on forever. More widescreen plasma TVs everywhere, so the players would have something to watch while they sweat.
“I come down here and work out most mornings,” Jon said. “Gives me the energy and stamina I need to get through the day. If you make the team,” he said to Raymond, “you’ll be allowed to use this any time you like.”
Raymond took a long look around and nodded. He had no idea what to say. It was a football player’s paradise; a fantasy world. This far surpassed any dreams he had conjured. He felt numb, apart from himself.
“Okay,” Jon said, rubbing his hands together, “so let’s get started. This is James Carr, one of our trainers.”
Carr, in his midfifties and smallish with silver hair that he kept perfectly combed, seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt with the omnipresent Ravens’ logo on the left breast, he smiled quietly and put out his hand. As Raymond took it, he noticed Carr had a clipboard in the other, and a pencil behind his ear.
“Nice to meet you, son.”
“You, too, Mr. Carr.”
“If you follow me, I need to take some measurements.”
He led Raymond into a small cement-walled room where there was a scale, an examination table, and, to Raymond’s puzzlement, a camera on a tripod. There was also a cabinet with glass-fronted doors, through which he could see a variety of medical equipment.
Carr asked Raymond to strip down to his underwear, then had him stand on the scale so he could weigh him—212 pounds—and get his height to the nearest eighth—six feet, five and one-half inches. Next he measured the span of Raymond’s throwing hand from the tip of his thumb to that of his pinkie, and then his arm length—the distance from the shoulder blade to the tip of the middle finger. Carr jotted down all these measurements on his clipboard without any indication as to whether they were good, bad, or otherwise. In fact, he was so impassive and clinical during the whole procedure that Raymond felt like a cow being readied for a meat auction.
When Carr was done, he took Raymond back out to his entourage. Jon was telling the others how proud he was that most of the new facility had been built using local companies and local labor. After a quick good luck, Carr withdrew, and Raymond did not see him again.
They next went to the indoor field. It was like nothing Raymond had ever seen—as spacious as an airplane hangar, with immaculately maintained turf and a towering white canvas ceiling. Industrial fans kept the air circulating, and in each corner was a revolving door. All sounds, he realized very quickly, echoed like crazy in here. He wondered just how noisy it was during a formal practice, with pads striking pads, coaches barking orders, and whistles blowing.
One of the revolving doors began turning, and two men emerged. Raymond recognized the first one instantly—Cary Blanchard. He was dressed in a Ravens’ windbreaker and matching hat, plus khaki shorts and new white sneakers. It seemed almost strange to see a man of his age in athletic garb, but Raymond suspected he dressed this way all the time.
Like Carr, Blanchard carried a clipboard. When he got close enough, he put on a big smile.
“You’re Raymond Coolidge?” the future Hall of Famer asked, putting his hand out.
“Yes, sir,” Raymond replied.
“Very nice to meet you.” Blanchard turned towards the rest of the group and zeroed in on Quincy.
“And you’re Quincy Pressner, his father?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Blanchard laughed as they shook hands. “I’m going to bet you don’t remember, but we met once before.”
“We did?”
“In 1984, in Chicago. I was a defensive assistant with the Bears. We stopped and chatted at midfield just before the game.”
“Hmm … I’m sorry, coach, I don’t remember that.”
“That’s okay, that’s okay. I was sizing you up, trying to get a feel for you,” Blanchard said.
“Did it work?”
“Nah—you beat the hell out of us.”
Jon introduced the rest of the group, then Blanchard turned back to Raymond.
“Son, this is my quarterbacks coach, Glenn Hallworth.”
Raymond nodded and said hello but received only a slight nod in return. Hallworth, who looked to be in his midtwenties at the most, seemed almost indifferent. This made Ray more nervous.
“All right,” Blanchard said, “so let’s get moving. Raymond, I took a look at your game tapes this morning. Not bad, really, but they don’t tell me what I need to know the most—can you play on this level? La Salle is a fine school, and you had some tough opponents. Your numbers were very good, and you no doubt brought your team to a higher plane. But college isn’t the pros. This is a different universe. Guys are bigger, meaner, and faster. Much faster. They play for keeps here. Linebackers don’t care if they hurt you. They want to hurt you. I’m sure you father has told you a lot of this already.”
“Yes, he has.”
“There is very little room for error. Most guys can’t make the change. If I had a dollar for every college star I saw that failed miserably in professional ball, I could probably buy a Rolls-Royce. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can call me coach.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good. Like I said, we’re here to answer just one question—can you play in this league? That’s what we’re going to try to determine. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay, then.” Blanchard motioned toward Hallworth, who stepped forward. At the same time, a few Ravens players in full pads and uniforms began streaming in.
Jon
shepherded the rest of Raymond’s support staff to the sidelines, conveying the message that the tryout was beginning, and only those directly involved would be allowed on the field.
A chair was brought out for Pearly, who accepted it gratefully. He eased into it, then set his cane between his legs and took a deep breath. And as he watched his nephew, taking direction from the Raven coaches and looking more ready and eager than he ever had, Pearly realized This is really it—the opportunity for the boy that he had worked for, hoped for, prayed for time and time again. For years, all he wanted was for Raymond to have a chance. Just give him a shot. Let him prove himself, that’s all I ask. But now that dream had transformed; evolved for the very first time. Initially it was pure hope, nothing more. He felt Raymond could blow them away if they just took the time to look him over. Now he was certain Raymond would blow them away. Maybe that was why the chance hadn’t arrived until now. Maybe it was one of the laws of life—that you didn’t get an opportunity, no matter how badly you wanted it, until you were ready for it. All the hours of hard work, all the sacrifice, and all the emotional strain was time and effort well spent based solely on the events that were unfolding in front of him now. This was becoming one of the proudest and most satisfying days of his life.
“Raymond,” Hallworth said, “let’s start by getting you warmed up. Do some stretches and that stuff. You’ve got fifteen minutes, then report back to me.”
Raymond ran the perimeter of the field twice, then hit the ground and vigorously stretched, making sure all key muscles were suitably loosened up—groin, hamstring, thigh, calf, and Achilles. Quincy stood nearby, making sure his son didn’t overdo it. Then Hallworth blew the whistled that dangled around his neck, and Raymond jogged over.
Raymond began the tryout of his life with the forty-yard dash. The forty was the gold standard for determining a prospect’s speed and explosiveness, and Raymond had practiced it repeatedly over the years. He set himself into the perfect stance—left hand on the white line with thumb and forefinger well apart, other arm up at his side with the elbow bent at roughly a 45° angle, right foot—often called the “plant foot”—about four inches behind the line, the other—the “drive foot”—set six inches behind the first. He kept his head lowered and waited for the whistle. When it blew, he lunged forward with might and determination, knowing the first ten yards often set the pattern for the remaining thirty. He held his breath for those ten, leaning slightly forward, head down, and hands open and relaxed. The open hands were crucial because, closed, they would tighten the arms and shoulders, thus reducing the range of motion. In the next ten yards he exhaled mightily and imaged that there was a pack of wolves—which terrified him—just inches behind, hoping to drag him down. This kind of illusionary motivation, he discovered a few months ago, really helped. The first time he tried it, he bested his previous forty time by two-tenths of a second. In the pros, that could be the difference between contract and cut.