by BILL BARTON
The light was blinking on the phone when he stepped into the room and threw his bag on the bed. He went through the list of messages, jotting down the names and numbers of those coaches who expressed a desire to set up a private meeting. He knew the next several days would tax his mental and emotional strength more than the physical demands on his body. His daily workouts at the SportsPlex would prove their worth in this setting.
After the official opening remarks in a special dining area, the hotel served a buffet dinner. He tried to eat alone, but staff members from the front offices of different teams kept sitting down beside him and asking him inane questions about his personal life: What kind of car did he drive? How long had he been married? Did he have any hobbies? What jobs-if any-did he have as a kid growing up in Springdale? Did he prefer one type of weather to another? Was he a "dog person" or a "cat person"? When he replied, "Dog person;" the next question was, "What kind of dog would he be?" Dewayne reacted with a severe look of scorn, and the questioner excused himself. Dewayne did not bother with dessert and went back to his room. After calling Rosella, he told the front desk not to put calls through, messages only, and he went to bed.
"Let the slave trade begin," whispered a quarterback from one of the Big Ten teams who stood beside Dewayne. They were in the large room at the RCA Dome designed for the weight and measurement induction on the first day. It was the only portion of the combines opened to the media, and sportswriters and network television crews filled every square inch not taken up by the players and coaches.
Like cattle, players formed groups according to their positions, and designated handlers herded each group onto the stage. They weighed each young man to the half pound and measured him to the quarter inch. Within seconds, the results of each player's height and weight flashed onto a giant screen for the teams to record and the media to broadcast.
When the receivers took the stage, Dewayne was a good two inches taller than any in his group. The numbers of 6'6"/265 pounds flashed on the screen, and the coaches and staff kept their poker faces as they recorded Dewayne's numbers. No one was showing any interest in anyone.
After a series of psychological tests, a marathon of physicals began with an evaluation of the players' general skills. They did a vertical jump and a standing broad jump. Each player was required to bench-press two hundred twenty-five pounds as many times as he could. Then in their position groups, they had to do a twenty-yard shuttle drill. All of this happened before going through a workout specific to their position.
Team doctors and trainers twisted, pulled, and bent all the joints in Dewayne's body. Next he went through head-to-toe X-rays and a dental exam. They questioned him repeatedly about any personal injuries on or off the field, and he reported that there were none. By the time the day ended, Dewayne felt as though he understood the experience of the auction block, the intrinsic worth of his physical and mental merits appraised by all those come to evaluate their future purchase. He described his humiliation that night to Rosella, but she did not have a great deal of pity since she was lying on the sofa in their apartment with a plastic bucket next to her.
Early the next day the running backs and receivers sprinted onto the Astroturf of the RCA Dome and were put through their paces with a series of running, jumping, and agility drills before the quarterbacks appeared to test them on their running routes and catching ability. There was no small talk among the players, each one mentally committed to his best performance and not wanting the slightest distraction.
An unusual quiet came over the field when Dewayne's name echoed through the sound system to prepare to run the fortyyard dash. It was the day's shortest event, but the most critical. No other statistic carried more influence for any NFL prospect; no single number had more impact on a player's draft fortunes. Dewayne's speed was legendary, but there was always a higher margin of error with on-campus workouts plus the penchant for hyperbole within the world of sports, and these coaches wanted to see for themselves under the scrutiny of electronic timing machines whether he was capable of living up to the advertising. The businesslike atmosphere of players shuffling from one station to the next ended as Dewayne approached the starting line. Scouts, players, spectators, the media, coaches, staff, and the league-sanctioned film crew snapped to attention as Dewayne crouched down in his start position.
It is impossible to understand the mystery of a time of 4.28 seconds. How many times can someone blink his eyes in 4.28 seconds? How many words can you say? How many times can you tap your foot, snap your fingers, or clap your hands in 4.28 seconds? Coaches who had clocked Dewayne with their personal stopwatches kept looking back and forth from their clocks to the timer display. Even with the millisecond of human error that factored into a handheld stopwatch, the margin still made little difference in the outcome. It was the fastest time of all the players at the Combine, and the fastest time that had ever been seen by a man his size.
In slightly over four seconds, Dewayne had become the combine media story. All Sports Network broke into its morning news programming with a live shot of the RCA Dome and replayed several times the tape of Dewayne running the forty-yard dash and the 4.28 seconds flashing on the electronic board with commentary explaining the observable fact ranging from clock malfunction to performance-enhancing drugs. How could the experts explain this phenomenon any other way? The buzz of reaction took awhile to subside, and Dewayne kept his attention on the three-cone drill that was coming up. He would not allow the commotion of his forty-yard dash to distract him.
That night in his room, he scrambled through the calls from agents, team reps, and media, deleting most of the inquiries. The last call was from Sly: "My man, who was chasing you today, or were you trying to outrun one of my passes? Love you, my brother"
Rosella was in bed, bucket at her side, when he called. "Baby, you've been all over the television today;" she said, her throat raspy from dehydration. "They must have played your fortyyard dash a hundred times"
"I figured the faster I ran, the quicker this combine thing would be over and I could get back to you."
In hopes of cheering her up, he said his impressive time would change their lives in a positive way when it came time for different teams to make their offers.
In response to his suggestion that they celebrate soon with a big steak dinner, Rosella dropped the phone on the floor and put her head in the bucket.
Dewayne proved he had speed, but he had to prove he had the hands to go with it.
The next morning, the players ran a series of routes: the tenyard-out route, a fifteen-yard curl, a corner route, and a deep route. His footwork and route running were on the money, and he caught everything thrown to him. The quarterbacks were also under the microscope, evaluated in this drill for their accuracy, so most of the passes were direct hits and even the ones that were either high or low were still well within Dewayne's wingspan.
The afternoon drills were even more taxing. All the receivers lined up between two quarterbacks. The first quarterback would be fifteen yards in front of the receiver. The second, fifteen yards behind, with five more quarterbacks stretched out across the field on each side. The receivers had to catch the ball, get rid of it, and turn around and catch the next one as they ran the width of the field for a total of twelve catches-all on the run. This drill was fast and unforgiving. If anyone dropped a pass, it was almost impossible to catch up. Dewayne's strategy was to keep his thumbs and index fingers touching, with his fingers flared in a wide circle always ready.
This worked for the first six passes. The seventh pass was low, and Dewayne had to go down to his knees to catch it. He caught the ball, but when he spun around, out of the corner of his eye he saw the next ball about to sail past him. He reached up with one hand and snatched the ball out of the air, like a baseball pitcher reacting to a line drive hit right at him. He spun back in the other direction and was from that point on ahead of the quarterbacks.
After the drills were complete, the final days were devote
d to formal meetings, with coaches and general managers talking to players considered good additions to their organizations. These gatherings gave a player and the staff an early look into the chemistry factor. Everyone wanted Dewayne to explain the unexplainable: the exceptional combination of his size and speed. The query was always the same, and it began to feel like a series of ominous interrogations right out of The Twilight Zone-same question, different faces. He had lost count of the number of urine samples he had supplied the doctors, but the most powerful performance-enhancing drug they could find flowing through his bloodstream was Gatorade. Through it all, he never lost his cool or felt as though he was unjustly accused or harassed. His reputation was all he had, and he never forgot its importance.
On the last night of the combines, Robert Hickman snatched Dewayne on the way to dinner and requested a live interview. Dewayne had avoided giving any in-depth interviews throughout the combine process, but he thought it would be easier to do an interview with one person and quell the rumors flying through the world of sports.
Hickman led Dewayne down the tunnel and onto the onlocation set constructed in the middle of the football field.
"This is Robert Hickman live from the RCA Dome with special guest Dewayne Jobe who just this week at the annual combines here in Indianapolis has fired the shot heard round the sports world.
"The combines separate the men from the supermen. It is a rite of spring and the rite of passage for top players from college football teams to go through a succession of grueling physicals and psychological tests, and if that weren't enough, to then be put through a punishing progression of specialty drills that leave a player in total exhaustion at the end of each day. When you add these activities to all the meetings with the coaches and their staff, the week goes by faster than Halley's Comet. I suspect my special guest broke the record this week for having the most meetings. Wouldn't you say, Dewayne?"
"I had my share, but so did many other players;' Dewayne said.
"Modesty is not acceptable in one so young and talented" Hickman grinned before he looked back into the camera. "It's the combine's shortest event. It's the combine's most critical event. No other statistic carries more punch. No single number has more impact on the future of a prospective draftee. It's the forty-yard dash. To be the fastest at the combine each year, well, somebody has to do it, but to be the fastest and come within a millisecond of breaking a record, that's when you get people's attention. But to be the fastest at the combine, nearly breaking a human land speed record, and be six foot six and weigh two hundred and sixty-five pounds, now that's a feat that could only be performed on Mount Olympus."
The network ran the footage of Dewayne's forty-yard sprint repeatedly as Hickman continued his commentary.
"No, TV land, that was not played at fast speed. That was actual speed, and the time of four point twenty-eight seconds is documented and in the books. Raw speed ... that's what fascinates every coach and athlete. Raw speed fascinates us all. Not every athlete can say he is fast. Speed is that one thing that's out of reach for many athletes. Speed is the one elusive quality a coach can't give to an athlete. It's all in the DNA. It's all in the genetic codes. Or is it? So, my friend, look me in the eye and answer the question that has been flying around the RCA Dome like debris in a tornado. Are you taking any performance-enhancing drugs of any kind?"
"No, sir," Dewayne said.
"Simple enough answer, but would it hold up in a court of law? Some people are saying you need a lawyer."
"What I need is for people to believe me. I don't need to lawyer up. I've got nothing to hide. What you see here is God's gift to me, and all I'm trying to do is glorify him with that little bit of talent"
"Again with the modesty. Well, your little bit of talent displayed so brilliantly this week has boosted your chances to be the first overall draft pick, something your good friend, Sylvester Adams, could not keep quiet about. I caught up with him in Miami."
Footage of Sly wearing sweats and holding a football outside a training center appeared on the screen.
"I've known the D-man all my life, and that Dewayne Jobe doesn't know what a steroid looks like. He doesn't even take an aspirin. He'll tell you he's gotten this far because of God, and who am Ito argue, but he backs up his talent with a great work ethic. Anyone who has played with him knows that. The talent my man has cannot be stopped by lies and rumors. He's the best'
"You heard it, folks, from this year's Heisman Trophy winner. You don't get better street credibility than that;" Hickman said as the image of Sly disappeared from the screen and the camera returned to Hickman. "So, Mr. Jobe, does this drug story have legs, or could this be the end of it?"
"No team has anything to fear when it comes to drafting me. I have submitted and I will continue to submit to a drug test anytime and anywhere. I say bring it on cause none of it will keep me from playing my best game every game."
"Thus endeth the statement from Dewayne Jobe as he attempts to put the kibosh on the rumors of drug use to increase his speed. And when we return, we'll see highlights from this year's combine and performances from other star college players trying to make their case for a career in the world of professional football. . . We're back after these messages."
He had planned his attack for days, going over varied strategies in his mind, adjusting and readjusting based on the different responses of his foe. He even drew out an assortment of scenarios on his school notebook paper, and when he felt he was ready, he took his baseball bat and rehearsed his best plan, taking swings at his phantom enemy. He thought of nothing else night and day. He had to rid his family of this evil. He had to be the hero.
Bruce squatted down behind the shrubbery inside the apartment complex not ten feet from the entrance of his apartment, slapping the bat in his hand in a steady, rhythmic beat. He knew his adversary. He knew his plan. He closed his eyes, reenacting his victory in his imagination and the glorious restoration of his family to health and prosperity. It was worth the risk. It was worth whatever pain and suffering he inflicted ... whatever pain and suffering he himself might have to endure. His plan was the only way to end the nightmare ... the only way. But there was one flaw, a flaw he never considered in all the outlines he had drawn ... his sister.
Why was she with him tonight? She had told him she would be spending the night out with girlfriends. He had waited to execute his perfect plan when she would be absent. He had hidden his mother's secret stash of drugs-leaving her with an ample amount to keep her incapacitated long enough to carry out his mission-so she would have to call her dealer and get him to come to the apartment to replenish her supply. He had calculated the time to be late at night when darkness and surprise would be his allies. Now his sister was in the mix.
He knew Tyler would not come alone. He was never alone outside the protection of Bruce's apartment; he required the company of like-minded minions at his beck and call, ready to obey the master's every whim. In his well-rehearsed preparation, Bruce would use a single, deft swing of his bat to fell each member of Tyler's crew, destroying his support system so the two of them would face each other alone.
And that was precisely how it worked up to the point that Sabrina grabbed him from behind. He never anticipated his sister trying to stop him, working against him, aiding and abetting the enemy. There had been only two members of Tyler's crew, and an energetic blow to the stomach of one and the knee of the other rendered them useless.
Bruce took advantage of the element of surprise, pausing after each blow to be sure the strike felled its intended target and for a split-second to enjoy the cries and even the curses from the wounded enemy. Sabrina grabbing his shirt brought him back to reality-that and condescending threats to send Bruce to meet his Maker.
Bruce yelled at Sabrina to let go of his shirt, and he strained against her resistance, like a workhorse trying to pull a load too heavy for its strength.
Sabrina struggled to hold on, to stop her brother's craziness ... until Tyler jerke
d the bat from Bruce's hand and smacked him across the side of his head with it. She released the shirt and staggered back when she saw the squirt of blood projected into the air like a geyser. Horror now held her captive.
With each curse followed a blow to Bruce's body until Tyler grew tired or bored from the lack of response, except for the muted groans.
A few lights came on in the apartments. One annoyed inquiry about the racket echoed within the enclosure, to which Tyler responded with a vicious threat. The inquirer closed the door, and the lights went out.
Tyler threw the bat on the ground and stormed off, his wounded comrades hobbling behind him. Sabrina knew Bruce was still alive because the blood gurgled in his mouth when he took a breath. She dashed inside their apartment and tried to rouse her mother, whose system was overwhelmed by heroin. She refused to budge off the sofa.
Sabrina ran back outside and dragged her brother to the street, hoping Tyler would be there, take pity on this bloody wreckage, and drive them to a hospital, but there was no sign of him.
She screamed for help in all points of the compass, but there was no response. Her neighborhood was too accustomed to screams, too accustomed to noisy, vicious chaos, to come to her aid. Her loyalty to Tyler was supposed to make her and her family immune from danger, but instead, it had brought it to her, laid it at her feet, and expected her to take the blame.
No longer able to prop up her brother's limp body, she crumpled onto the sidewalk, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around Bruce, searching the darkness for any help that might emerge.