by Bill Syken
Woodward has two things to prove in this camp. One is his physical ability. The other is that he has the mental firmness to withstand the pressure of the job. Woodward clearly has the leg—he might even have an edge on me in that regard—but this gaffe, this obvious miscommunication between his brain and his body, will plant doubts. Sweet, sweet doubts.
The air horn sounds. Practice is continuing, but the special teams phase is done. What a perfect note to end on.
CHAPTER 18
AFTER PRACTICE ENDS, I see Eleanor Cordero standing by the door that leads from the fields to the locker room. She is wearing a navy jacket and a skirt that shows a little tanned leg, and she is holding a pink message slip in her hand.
“How’d we do out there today?”
“I’ll take it,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Interview request,” she says, with an apologetic smile.
“Can’t you just refer them to my statement?” Which I still have not read.
“I thought you might want to hear about this one,” Cordero says. “This reporter is asking about a very specific … allegation.”
She weights that last word with particular grimness.
“It’s about Cecil Wilson,” she says. “The reporter claims he has gambling debts. With a bookie from Cleveland.”
Gambling debts? I had never heard Cecil discuss betting at all, except for the occasional stray reference to a point spread for an upcoming game. But that’s about as common as discussing the weather.
“Who is this reporter?”
“His name is Scott Nellie, he writes for CBS Sports,” she says. “He is young, but he’s broken some news, mostly about contract signings and player moves.”
Which means that Scott Nellie has developed relationships with agents. Saavy agents can manipulate reporters with the promise of exclusives the same way a veteran quarterback can move around a safety with his eyes.
“Nick, is there anything the team needs to know about?” Cordero asks.
“I hope not,” I say.
“If there is, please tell me,” she says. “It’s my job to help in these situations. No matter what the story turns out to be, it’s best if we tell it first.”
I take the message slip from her hand. “I don’t have any story to tell just yet,” I say. “But thank you, Eleanor.”
* * *
I shower quickly and drive to the hospital. I find Vicki and her daughters huddled around Cecil, watching Toy Story 2 on an iPad that Violet is holding at a lazy tilt. The looks on their faces suggest they have seen this one many times before. Cecil is sitting up in bed, drumming his fingers lazily on his belly, and his eyes lift eagerly from the screen when he sees me come in.
“You’re looking better,” I say.
“I feel better,” Cecil says. “No signs of infection, they’ve even been dialing down my painkillers.”
“They say we should be leaving tomorrow morning,” Vicki says.
“Congratulations,” I say to Cecil. “You made it through.” I want to place my hand on his, but I see the many bruises from where IVs had been inserted and I refrain.
“Do you mind if I talk to Cecil alone for a moment?” I ask Vicki.
“Sure,” she says. “Violet, pause the movie. We’ll take a little walk. We could all use some exercise.”
Violet pokes at the iPad screen and leads the reluctant parade out the door.
When they are gone, I ask Cecil, “Do you have your phone in here?”
“Vick’s been keeping it from me,” says Cecil with an affectionate smile. “Have you been trying to reach me?”
“I haven’t,” I say. “But someone else may have been. I had an interview request from a reporter. His name is Scott Nellie.”
“Nellie?” Cecil says, confused. “That kid?”
“You know him?”
“I’ve never met him, but I’ve talked to him,” Cecil says. “He’s polite but persistent. After I signed Samuel he called twice a week, every week, asking how negotiations were going. What does he want with you?”
“I’m told that he’s chasing down a rumor,” I say. “About gambling debts.”
“Gambling debts?” says Cecil. His eyes drain of their vigor. He reverts to looking like he has just been shot.
“Yes, gambling debts,” I say. “Yours.”
Cecil tucks his chin into his chest and closes his eyes. It is true. Good lord.
“Were you betting on football?” I ask with false equanimity.
He opens his eyes and looks up, directly at me. “Yes.”
Unbelievable. What an idiot. Cecil will lose his agent’s license if the league ever finds out. In sports, it’s the deadliest sin. This is because all major leagues realized around, oh, say, 1919 that their businesses wouldn’t survive if the average fan believed that gamblers were influencing results.
I began reviewing past conversations with Cecil and wondering if he had been subtly pumping me for information. I particularly thought of the calls we would have the mornings before my games—the ones I used to have with my dad until he died, and then Cecil stepped in. We would invariably discuss how practices had been that week, which players were injured, what the game plan was. I had found his weekly check-ins reassuring and parental, but now I wonder if the real point of those calls was to make himself a more informed bettor.
And if I am wondering this, so will league officials. So will everyone, if this news gets out.
I had admired Cecil, not just because of the work he did for me, but because of the way he committed himself to a dream of becoming an agent and made it come true. That admiration is dying in this hospital room.
“I only bet college,” Cecil says, reacting to the disgust on my face. “Never the Sentinels, never the pros at all. It is just…”
“It is just what?” I snap. If he only bet college games, it wouldn’t do him much good, because any kind of indebtedness to bookies is a problem. But that could offer me a thin layer of distance. If that is really true; if I can believe anything Cecil says.
“I watch so many games,” Cecil says. “I figured I could pick teams the same way I can pick players. And I needed the money. The way my deals worked with you guys, it isn’t easy on me.”
When Cecil was getting started, he attracted clients like myself and DaFrank by doing our first contracts for free. He said he would wait until our second deals to take the standard three percent, and in the meantime he would only take a percentage from whatever side work he could get for us making appearances at skills camps and sporting goods stores and the like. But the arrangement was his idea, not ours. And he had been taking his three percent from my Sentinels paychecks since my second season.
“You realize everything you’ve risked, right?” I say.
“I know. But think about it, Nick,” says Cecil, his voice firmer, and meeting my eyes for the first time since I raised the subject. “Taking risks got me where I am. If I didn’t take chances, I would still be that hardware store manager wishing he could do more with his life. I wouldn’t be here—and you probably wouldn’t be here either.”
I remember how Cecil hustled on my behalf when I was a no-profile free agent. “You make it sound as though I owe my life to you chasing after a bad bet, trying to make it good.”
Cecil nods. “Don’t you?” I momentarily want to rip open his wounds.
“How deep in are you?” I ask.
“That’s the other thing—I’m not in deep at all,” Cecil says. “I’m completely out. I paid what I owed the day before the shooting, right after I got the check for Samuel’s signing bonus.”
“Really?” I say.
“Yes, really,” Cecil says. He places his IV-scarred hand on his heart. The gesture irks me with its hamminess.
“Is this why you had Samuel sign so quickly?”
“No, no,” Cecil says. “I could have held Samuel out until mid-August, it wouldn’t have mattered. Once I had Samuel locked in as a client, these guys knew they’d be ge
tting paid eventually. They’re businessmen, they didn’t mind letting the vig pile up. The money was coming sooner or later.”
“But what if Samuel never signed his contract?” I say. “DaFrank read an e-mail at the funeral.…”
“I know, I heard all about his speech. God bless DaFrank, but that is baloney. Samuel was just having a moment of cold feet because of Kaylee. Remember, Samuel came out after his junior season. He chose to go pro. He wanted this.”
“He made that choice back in January, though,” I say. “Back then he wouldn’t have known Kaylee was pregnant.”
“That’s true,” Cecil says. “But they were going to work something out. Everything works out when you have sixty-four million headed your way. And he was going to have his whole family up here with him.”
“His whole family?” I ask. “Was his sister coming?”
Cecil looks confused as to why I would care. “I don’t know,” he says. “I heard she was looking into transferring to Temple, but I don’t know if that was actually happening.”
So she might have been in the city.
“Christ.” Cecil grimaces. “This is going to ruin me.”
“No shit,” I say.
But I wonder if the ruination of Cecil is the very reason this rumor was fed to a reporter.
* * *
“Hello, this is Scott Nellie.”
“Nick Gallow,” I say. I am calling from my car in the hospital parking lot, which is beginning to feel like my unofficial office. Nellie sounds young, but his tone is confident and polished.
“Ah, thanks for getting back to me,” he says. “And I just want to express my sympathies.…”
“Thank you,” I say. “I understand you’re calling about my agent, Cecil Wilson. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is, unfortunately,” he says. “I’ve heard some things, and I haven’t been able to reach him for comment, but I at least wanted to…”
“What have you heard?”
“Um, well … it’s gambling,” he says cautiously. “I’ve heard he owed some serious money to some shady folks.”
“Listen, Mr. Nellie,” I say. “I’m not going to talk to you on the record, I’m not going to talk to you on background, or whatever terms you guys are using these days for when you print all the information but don’t put anyone’s name on it. I’m just talking to you one-hundred-percent off the record. Or I can hang up.”
“I guess,” Nellie says without enthusiasm. “But if you’re not on the record…”
“The point is this, Mr. Nellie,” I say. “You’re getting the story wrong. At the time of the shooting, Cecil had no gambling debts whatsoever. None. I don’t know exactly what he might have done in the past, but it has nothing to do with what happened to Samuel. And I’d hate to see you get the story wrong because you’re being manipulated by agents who just want to trash the reputation of one of their competitors.”
“I’m not being manipulated by anyone,” Nellie says hotly. “And I don’t want to get anything wrong, either. But if you feel so strongly about this, you should go on the record.”
“The tip is bad. I know it.”
“My sources are good,” Nellie says. “Their information has always been solid.”
“What kinds of scoops have these sources given you—that their clients want more money?”
Nellie pauses before saying, with intentional cool, “This shooting is white hot. No one wants to read about anything else. If I can get in on it, I’m going to. I still have some reporting to do, but when I’m ready, I’m going with what I have.”
“Please check with me before you print anything,” I say. “Whatever anyone says on the record, I want a chance to rebut. And if no one says anything on the record, you shouldn’t run your story.”
“I appreciate the professional advice,” he says with a tincture of sarcasm. “And as a professional, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask you a couple questions about yourself. Because I’ve noticed you haven’t denied that your agent bet on games. So I need to know: Did you ever supply Cecil Wilson with inside information about the Sentinels? Or anything that he might have used when he was placing bets?”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “That you can print. Good-bye.”
* * *
From the hospital I drive to Boyd’s in Center City. I need to replenish my wardrobe before I return to Stark’s tonight. I find myself looking forward to dinner with Jai and the guys, to stupid chatter and the clinking of glasses.
I enter the venerable Boyd’s department store with the modest ambition of buying shoes, a pair of pants, and a shirt. But once inside, everything looks like something I want. In a half hour I walk out with seven new shirts, five pairs of pants, six pairs of socks, and new black dress shoes. This will fill the closet a little.
* * *
I am back at Stark’s, and looking better than ever, in dark blue Irish linen pants and a pale gray collared shirt. The restaurant is buzzing, with tables full and young patrons, mostly men, clustered three-deep around the bar. The Samuel Sault saga has apparently been good for business.
In the entryway, I scan the Stark’s wall of fame, and I notice an eight-by-ten of Wee Willie Reckherd, father of Luke Reckherd, from when he played for Baltimore. The photo shows off his fabled ambidexterity: both hands are holding footballs and are cocked back to throw. This strikes me as sad, because Willie Reckherd never played quarterback in the pros; at the time he signed this picture, he wasn’t throwing with either hand. The old quarterback’s signature skill had been reduced to a publicity photo gimmick.
I see Jai and friends at the same table as the other night: upper level, right corner. I also look around for Melody, who I have not spoken to since we shared that bottle of champagne five days ago, and I see her. She is waiting on three men in suits who seem to be living by the motto of: older, balder, heavier. One man, whose remaining hair is white, tells a joke and Melody laughs heartily and places her hand on his shoulder. I tuck away whatever thought I had of saying hello to her and walk to our table.
Jai’s dining party includes Cheat Sheet, Too Big to Fail, the rookie Qadra, and a couple of other defensive players. The guys seem to have been here awhile. The table is covered with plates of meat and half-consumed beers. Given that we are in the middle of minicamp, I find this scale of consumption astonishing, especially the drinking. I would never load myself down with a depressant while I was competing for my job. Jai has, over the years, shown no such need for moderation. Which only proves that just as some of us are faster and some of us leap higher, some metabolize alcohol better than others. The problem is, for every man like Jai, who processes booze as if it is Gatorade, there are a dozen players who torpedo their careers trying to keep pace.
Jai is wearing a silver sports jacket and black T-shirt. He notices I am approaching, claps his hands and then counts off with his fingers, one-two-three.
“Gallow!” they all shout in unison. Sometimes you just want to go where everyone knows your name.
“Nick Gallow,” Jai says as I sit down. He and everyone else seem to be feeling their drinks already. “N-I-C-K motherfuckin’ G-A-L-L-O-W. Here at last.”
I greet Jai with a fist bump.
“Wow,” I say. “You not only know my name now, you can spell it.”
“Oh, come on, bitch,” Jai says with a giddy smile, elbowing me playfully as I pull in a seat next to him. “You got to stop crying about that. Don’t act like me not knowing your name isn’t your fault to begin with.”
I raise my eyebrows at this.
“What did you ever do to make me notice you?” Jai says. “You’re good and all, but come on, man. Here’s my advice to you, Nick Gallow. You want people to know your name, you have to play with your cock.”
I am glad I did not yet have a drink of my own, because I might well have spit it out.
“I was telling some of these guys here before, when you’re out there on the field, your energy, it’s got to come from your cock,”
Jai says, instantly slipping from conversation into lecture mode, with head tilted, hand raised, and brow knit, as if he is a physics professor explaining an arcane but critical aspect of string theory. “You see some guys, they play with their heart, they’re all heart. Then there’s other guys, they play with their head. That’s you, Nick Gallow. I can tell. You play with your head. All businesslike, never fucking up too bad. But me, when I’m out on the field, I’m playing with my cock. All day long.”
Qadra, who has been chewing on a rib, laughs convulsively, half-chewed meat visible in his open mouth. Jai turns toward the laughter with a face of serious disappointment.
“Shit, man, you think this is a joke. I’m giving you the key here,” say Jai. “This is major. This is my cause, my message to young men everywhere. Women, too. Hey, Cheat. Do you think we could do a T-shirt that says, ‘PLAY WITH YOUR COCK’?”
“I can’t think of a single reason why we wouldn’t,” says the pastor, holding out a fist, which Jai bumps. Cheat Sheet is wearing yellow-rimmed glasses that match his sports jacket. “I’ll make a note to myself right now.” He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket and jots the inspirational phrase on his palm.
I hope that he remembers why he wrote the note when he wakes up tomorrow.
“The point is,” Jai says, “there’s a game going on, Nick Gallow, and you’re not in it. I’m not talking about the game on the field. I’m talking about the whole bullshit all around us. The fans, the media, everything. It’s all a game, and there’s a lot of ways to win. You don’t even have a nickname, do you? How can you be in the game if you don’t have a nickname? Cheat Sheet, what should we call this motherfucker?”
“Hmm,” Cheat Sheet says. “How about ‘Ass Kicker’?”
I shake my head. “That would make me sound like a kicker who’s an ass.”
“I got one,” says Qadra, his voice slurring. I would peg the rookie as the most inebriated guy at the table. “Legs Diamond. You know, like the musical.” He giggles as his suggestion is met with confused silence.