The Draft

by Wil Mara

  He inhaled deeply as he passed the thirty-yard mark. He was tempted to look up, to gauge the reaction of the others by getting a glimpse of their faces. But he held back, knowing unnecessary movement would add time to the run. In the last ten yards he exhaled normally and felt his body give an extra push as soon as the finish line came into view. Raymond often had this kind of “bonus” burst of energy; especially, it seemed, when he needed it most. He had no idea where it came from but was thankful for it. He also suspected it would be one of the first traits to go when age finally settled in.

  As he crossed the line, he glanced over at Hallworth. The coach was staring at his digital stopwatch, and Raymond detected a look of surprise on his face. It was there for just a flicker of an instant.

  “How was that?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” Hallworth said, “but it could be better. Let’s go again. We always do it twice, then take the best of the two.”

  “Yeah, there’s room for improvement,” Quincy said, creating motivation.

  Raymond nodded and began walking back to the starting line. He wanted to ask what the exact time had been, but he had a feeling Hallworth wouldn’t tell him. And he was right. What he didn’t know was that Hallworth was so impressed that he didn’t want Raymond slacking off on the second run by knowing that the time of the first was 4.4 seconds. That was good for a wide receiver, almost unheard of for a quarterback. On the second try, Raymond again hit 4.4, and Hallworth shook his head in disbelief.

  He was no less impressed by the results of Raymond’s next three tests. The first was the twenty-yard short shuttle, which determines quickness and agility. Raymond began by straddling the five-yard line in a three-point stance. He was required to run left and touch the ten with his hand, then run right and touch the goal line, then go back to the five. A normal time for a quarterback hopeful was about 4.8. With Quincy barking at him (“Hustle! Hustle! Let’s go!”), he nailed a 4.4 on the first try, and a stunning 4.2 on the second.

  On his vertical-jump test, which measured lower-body strength, he reached thirty-four inches the first time, thirty-five on the second. Average for a quarterback was in the twenty-four- to twenty-eight-inch range. And when Hallworth took him back to the weight room for his 225-pound bench press, Raymond blew him away with twenty-four reps, the first fifteen seemingly without effort. For a quarterback to manage twenty was unusual.

  After a short break, Raymond was brought back to the field, where he was introduced to Ravens wide receiver Anthony Jennings, who had been in one of the player lounges earlier. From the waist down he was dressed in a full game uniform. On top, only a white microthermic shirt. The tight fabric shaped itself around his torso so perfectly that every abdominal ripple was clearly outlined.

  “You’re Raymond?” Jennings asked.

  “Yes,” Raymond replied. He wasn’t sure if he should say “sir” or “Anthony” or “Mr. Jennings,” so he decided to play it safe.

  Jennings put out a hand and smiled. “I hear you’re pretty good.”

  Raymond shook his hand and smiled back. “Thanks. I guess we’ll find out.”

  Jennings leaned in close. “Don’t let these ladies intimidate you—the defense or the coaches. They’re just trying to rattle your head.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  Jennings was caught off guard by the young man’s confidence. Then his smile grew. “Good answer, my friend. Very good answer. Most guys are peeing in their pants at this point.”

  “The day’s not over yet,” Raymond replied, causing Jennings to laugh out loud.

  Hallworth wanted Jennings’s help in the position drills. He gave Raymond a set of basic play designs, allowed him only ten minutes to study and memorize them, then stood behind him and barked out both the patterns and the number of steps he wanted Raymond to take in each drop before firing to Jennings. This went on for nearly thirty minutes, and in that time Raymond missed only twice. In truth, he found the whole thing ridiculously easy. Hallworth got a sense of this and upped the stakes by getting some coverage men involved; first single, then dual. Raymond handled it beautifully, mailing the ball to the receiver with a perfect spiral and just enough finesse to make it easy to handle. Even when Jennings tried to throw him a curve by breaking a pattern at the last moment or overshooting his targeted catch site, Raymond adjusted. Although the veteran receiver didn’t say so, he thought at the end of the drills that this kid was the kind of quarterback every receiver dreamed of—someone who seemed to know, just know, what the receiver was thinking. It was as if Raymond could actually see into his mind. Aside from enjoying that relationship with Michael Bell, Jennings had never experienced it with any other QB.

  As he walked back past Raymond, he tossed the ball to him and said quietly, “So when you can start?” Then winked and slapped him on the shoulder. Raymond sensed he’d made his first friend on the team.

  Blanchard got involved again when it was time for a full scrimmage—the starting offense versus the starting defense. Raymond hadn’t expected this, and neither had anyone else. Freddie Friedman wanted to say something, then thought better of it. And as Blanchard passed Hallworth walking off the field, Hallworth smiled and winked at his head coach. Hallworth’s bad-cop facade could be set aside now, and the evaluation delivered—this kid’s got it. But Blanchard still showed no reaction; not yet.

  As the two-time Super Bowl champion team came moseying over, Raymond looked to his father. He needed reassurance, and he got it—Quincy did not seem the least bit concerned about this unexpected turn of events. If anything, he looked more confident than ever. Instinctively, Raymond realized why—if they didn’t think I was good, they wouldn’t bother with a scrimmage. They would’ve already made up their minds.

  Blanchard gave Raymond a helmet instead of a red shirt and, in front of the boy, instructed the defense to show no mercy. They stuck to plays that Raymond knew from La Salle. They ran everything from play action to shotgun, reverses and flea flickers, slants and fades; anything that might expose a weakness. There were isolated moments of uncertainty, but they were clearly the exception rather than the rule. It didn’t take more than an hour for every observer to reach the same stark realization—Raymond Coolidge was the Real Thing. He could scramble with the agility of a spider, wasn’t afraid to take a hit, and, perhaps most impressively, had a savantlike instinct for defensive schemes. Time and time again he left linebackers and safeties humiliated as his receivers fled downfield towards the end zone. And if he ever felt any fear, he didn’t show it. After trying unsuccessfully to sack Raymond three times, Earle Webster, the Ravens’ second-year linebacker, thought he was one of the most evasive quarterbacks he’d ever seen, almost on par with speed demon Michael Vick. Tight end Ryan Hart, a stoic “student-of-the-game” type who had maintained a 3.8 average while earning a degree in mathematics at Kentucky, was impressed by his natural leadership presence—he felt Raymond had that certain “it” that made other men fall in line, unquestioningly, behind him. And after being smoked on four different pass plays thanks largely to Raymond’s remarkably convincing pump fakes, cornerback Harold Rowling jogged over to his counterpart on the other side of the field, Tom Rhodes, and quipped, “Shit, I’m glad he won’t be playing for anyone else. Son of a bitch.”

  As the tryout was winding down, Jon went over to Cary Blanchard and said, “So, impressed?”

  Blanchard was unable to take his eyes off this newest discovery. When he finally turned, the look of excitement and delight was unmistakable.

  “Huh?”

  “He looks good, doesn’t he?”

  Blanchard laughed. “Good? Are you watching the same kid I am?”

  Jon laughed. “Yeah, I think I am. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I didn’t think so. In my opinion, Cary, he’s genuine starter material. He’s got the tools and the talent, and he’s certainly got the drive. But when does the moment come that he’s ready to go?�
�� Jon had been wondering about this for some time. Getting a feel for a player’s developmental timeline would be figured into numerous contractual issues.

  Blanchard paused again, his eyes shifting away as he considered his next words carefully.

  “I’ll tell you something, Jon. With a some work—and I can definitely work with this young man—he could start now.”

  It was Jon’s turn to pause. “You’re kidding.”

  “Am I? Have you ever known me to kid about stuff like this?”

  “No.”

  “He’s got the goods, no question. I know we’ve only seen him this one time and watched some of his college tapes, but I’ve been doing this long enough. He could start in this league immediately, as in this coming season.”

  “What about our system? Could he fit into it?”

  “His system at La Salle was largely derivative. It wouldn’t take much adjustment. He already knows the basics. I’m telling you, Jon, barring some unfortunate disaster, he could easily be our starter this season.”

  Jon smiled and shook his head. “Wow, incredi—”

  And in that instant—that exact moment—the plan fell together in Jon’s mind. Every detail, every nuance. It all came together, like pieces of a broken bottle zooming back into shape in a reverse-action video. It was the most magnificent vision Jon ever had, striking in its simplicity, devastating in its genius. And for the first time in many days—maybe since he got word of Bell’s accident—he felt overwhelmed with confidence.

  His team was going to win a third consecutive Super Bowl—and now he saw precisely how they were going to do it.

  * * *

  Jon was sitting in his office an hour after Raymond left when Cary Blanchard came in.

  “Howdy,” he said simply.

  Jon looked up. “Oh, hi. Great stuff, huh?”

  Blanchard came forward, hands in his pockets, and sat down. “Sure was. That kid’s really something.”

  “I thought you’d like him. I’m pleased.”

  Blanchard was nodding. “Yeah, yeah. But that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.”

  Jon quickly forgot about the report he’d been reading. “Oh?”

  “There’s someone else I’m interested in. Very interested in.”

  Jon felt his heart drop. And just like that, Raymond’s future with this team is shot?

  “Another QB?”

  Blanchard laughed. “No, no. Raymond’s my new boy, no doubt about that. No, I’m talking about a different position entirely. I’m talking about coaching.”

  Nothing could have prepared Jon for this admission. “Coaching? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Quincy.”

  This second shock jolted him into momentary silence.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s a natural, Jon. Did you hear him out there? Did you see him?”

  “No … not really. I was paying attention to Raymond.”

  “You should’ve heard him, talking about stance and poise, giving Raymond advice on mechanics and downfield vision. And the other boys were listening to him, too. The way they were standing there, eyes glued to him, you’d think they were watching a stripper or something. The guy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen it all—good coaches, mediocre coaches, bad coaches. I may not know everything about the game, but I know natural talent when I see it. The guy’s got it in his blood. And he doesn’t even realize it—that’s how I know. He doesn’t think about it, he just does it. If he hadn’t been such a great quarterback, I would say this was his true calling. He’d already as good as guys I know who’ve been doing it for twenty years.”

  Jon issued a small, astonished chuckle. “Amazing.”

  “You’re damn right it is.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  Blanchard smiled. “I’m saying I have an idea.…”

  * * *

  Jon arrived home late that evening, exhausted in every way possible. What an amazing day it had been; what an amazing turn of events. He had these flirtations with luck on many occasions, and he usually came out on the winning side. His life had always been that way—things just fell into place when he needed them to.

  He flicked the switch on the wall of his den. A green banker’s lamp went on, illuminating little else than his desk and everything on it. Invisible in the rest of the room were the dozens of framed photos, glass-encased balls, and shelves of books. Behind the desk and through a pair of French doors, the backyard was dark and quiet. The motion sensors would activate the floodlights when a squirrel or raccoon ambled through the grass, which happened fairly frequently.

  He slumped into the chair and blew out a long, tired breath, running his fingers through his hair. There was a pile of mail waiting for him. It was stacked in that special way his wife always stacked it—everything running either north–south or east–west depending on when it arrived. If Monday’s was east–west, Tuesday’s would be on top of it, north–south. The current day’s haul was always on the very top. This made it easy for Jon to gauge how long it’d been since he last went through it. Easy, but in this case depressing—he had five days’ worth. He hadn’t been home long enough to go through his mail in five days. He sighed again. And here was the greatest irony—he didn’t feel like going through it now, either. He started, then gave up. Too tired, too disinterested.

  He sat alone in the half-dark for a while, listening only to the wind and the steady wooden tick of a pendulum clock he couldn’t see. Then the phone rang. He had no choice but to answer it. It was the night before the draft, and no one would call unless it was important.

  “Hello?”

  “Jon? Gary Stone. I’m sorry to call you at home.”

  “That’s okay. Is there a problem?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I think you’d better come back.

  “Can you give me any details over the phone?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  He glanced at his watch—nine thirty.

  “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

  Reluctantly, he slipped into his jacket and went out.

  * * *

  When he entered his office he found not one but two people waiting—Stone, and, to his astonishment, Susan Schiff. She was standing in front of his desk between the two guest chairs, with her arms crossed and her pocketbook over her shoulder. She turned when he came in, and although she wasn’t crying, she was clearly miserable. Gary, sitting on the couch, immediately rose.

  Jon hoped to lighten the situation with a smile. “What’s up, guys?”

  Stone began with, “Okay, Susie, tell him.”

  “I saw someone in here today,” she said.

  “Someone in here? You mean in this office?” She nodded. “Well, lots of people come in here.”

  “But he was going through your things, your desk.”

  “Who?”

  She paused, then said, “Robert Macintosh.”

  “Rob Macintosh? Really?”

  He pulled open some of the drawers and made a cursory inspection.

  “Nothing seems to be missing or otherwise disrupted. Maybe he was trying to find something he needed, like a pen or some—”

  Susan shook her head. “No, I watched him, although he didn’t know I was there. I’d forgotten my keys and came back. When I went to my desk, I heard him. I thought that was strange because you’d already gone home. I peeked in and found him reading one of your notebooks. The red one.”

  He opened the top left drawer and held out a cheap spiral-bound. It had a fire engine red cover. Three for a buck at any Staples. Jon had bought red, blue, and green, each for a different purpose.

  “This one?” he asked. She nodded. “This contains my draft notes. Why would he care about those?” It was more of a question to himself, but when he looked back at Susan she was bi
ting her bottom lip.

  She knows why.

  “What did he do next?”

  “He put the notebook back and went straight to his car.”

  Jon felt the first rumblings of anger.

  “Don’t tell me—he made a call on his cell phone?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Any idea who he called?” he asked, but he already had a pretty good idea.

  She nodded again. “I found out.”

  “For sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll like this, Jon,” Stone interjected quickly. “Smart girl.”

  “I called his service provider,” Susan said, “and told them I was his wife, wanting to know why the bill was so high. They told me a lot of calls had been placed outside the normal calling area.…”

  Jon’s face darkened.

  “Don’t tell me … to Denver?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “To a number that just happens to belong to Brendan Cavanaugh?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  He slammed his fist down. “Sonofabitch!” He got back up and began pacing. Susan sank into one of the chairs and watched him. “That’s why I—goddammit!”

  “Are you sure of all this? Absolutely certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Positive?”

  “Positive.”