Hangman's Game (24 page)

I prefer the coffin corner to the drop kick. The coffin corner has long been out of fashion around the league because of the risk involved—if you aim out of bounds and mishit the ball, you can end up with a seven-yard punt. But I trust my own consistency; I have never shanked a punt in competition. And the coffin kick gives me complete control. I am taking the other team's return man out of the play, and also eliminating my dependency on my team's coverage guys, who can be dishearteningly inept; they have accidentally knocked my drop kicks into the end zone more than once.

“How you doing, Nick?” This is Huff. He has sidled up to me on the practice field. He is wearing wraparound shades and a brimmed outback hat with a cord dangling underneath his chin.

“Feeling good,” I say. “All things considered.”

“I heard you went down to Alabama for Samuel's funeral,” he says.

“That I did.”

Huff nudges me with a conspiratorial smile. “How was the food?”

“Awesome, now that you mention it,” I say. “The fried chicken was amazing.”

“I'll bet,” Huff says. “I grew up in Clarksdale, Mississippi, so I've been to a few funerals like that myself. Too many, in fact. But thank God for that food. Helps you remember that it's good to be alive.”

“Yup,” I say.

Huff nods. “Tanner told me you stayed down there an extra day, didn't come back on the Gladstone family jet. What was that about?”

I stiffen at the mention of Tanner's name, and I wonder if Huff is being inquisitive on his own behalf, or that of his boss. “When we left, I hadn't had a chance to talk to Samuel's family,” I say. “I wanted to go back.”

Huff seems to be studying me—though it is hard to tell exactly what he is thinking behind those wraparound shades. Then he says, “You're good people,” and punches me in the shoulder. “Stay strong, Nick. I'm looking to see what you got today.”

“You've been watching me for half a decade, Coach,” I say. “You already know what I've got.”

Huff grins. “It's like my daughter says to me, Nick. You're only as funky as your last cut.”

“Don't I know it.” Huff punches me in the shoulder again and limps away.

*   *   *

The punting unit's segment is scheduled for fifteen minutes. Woodward and I should kick maybe five or six times each, with each of those plays being filmed for review by the coaches. Not that the coaches will focus on just Woodward and me. The choice of punter is, from their perspective, one of the simpler questions to resolve. The trickier problem is evaluating the guys who are going to fill out the rest of the special teams units. These players are usually the most marginal guys on the roster and the turnover is heavy. Some players make a career of special teams coverage, but not many. It's like sharing a $99-a-night hotel room in Panama Beach with six of your buddies: it's fine when you are just out of college, but the older you get, the less right it feels.

In that analogy I am the hotel manager, watching these young men come and go, and hoping they don't make too much trouble for me.

“Gallow,” Huff shouts. “Let's go. You're up.”

I trot onto the field. We are beginning with punts from the offense's twenty-five-yard line.

It is a pleasant and comfortable day with little wind. I set myself, feeling calm, receive a perfectly centered snap from John Backlund, my long snapper, and hit the ball well, although a little chunky, just a smidge high on my foot. It turns out to be a forty-six-yarder, a decent enough distance, and with good elevation and hang. The returner can only bring the ball forward a few yards before he is tapped down by the coverage unit.

We run the play again from the same spot on the field, and my swing is more in tune.

“Yeah, Nick!” Woodward shouts, clapping, as my kick sailed upward. “Nailed it!” Like I needed to hear it from him. And what, my first attempt isn't worth cheering? The ball flies fifty-seven yards. My only regret is that I didn't cut entirely loose and send the ball even further.

On my third kick, Backlund snaps the ball high—I have to jump for it to keep it from going over my head. I come down and quickly collect myself, getting the kick off before the rush reaches me, but because I am hurried I do not get a strong lift from my plant foot. The kick goes forty-five yards, but it travels low and fast and reaches the returner before the coverage can get downfield. The punt is brought back seventeen yards before the returner is tapped.

As soon as the whistle blows, Backlund turns and finds me. Backlund, a bearded and burly Minnesotan who also plays defensive tackle, is an eleven-year veteran and has played in Philadelphia for three years. He has a wife and six children at home. He is truly a man doing a job, which is why I am surprised by any lapse in professional execution.

“Snap got away from me, Nick,” he says.

“I noticed, John.” I rap my knuckles against his helmet. Every one of these kicks matters, and I need him on his game. “At least I showed them the old man still has his reflexes.”

And I am an old man, at twenty-eight. That's how I feel, anyway, competing against a twenty-two-year-old.

Huff blows his whistle and waves me off the field. It is Woodward's turn. As I cross paths with him while running, I reach out and we slap hands in encouragement.

Woodward kicks high and hard, showing as much power and accuracy as he had on the practice field. His first kick goes fifty-two yards, and his second goes forty-eight and really hangs up there. For each, only a minimal return is possible. And Woodward really creams the last kick. He hits a sixty-three-yarder that has the returner backpedaling and turning to make an over-the-shoulder catch.

“Hoo-wee!” comes the exclamation from one of the players. “'Scuse me while I kiss the sky!”

The shouter is Jai, of course. Who else? He is on the sidelines with his helmet off, one of the group of established veterans who can slip into full spectator mode during special teams work.

Huff blows his whistle and moves the line of scrimmage up to the opponent's forty-eight-yard line. We are moving on to short kicks, where we will try to drop the ball close to the goal line.

“Gallow,” Huff calls. “Back to you.”

I am eager to get to this segment of the drills, because this is the part of the game where I excel. Kicking for distance matters, but the ability to pin an opponent deep is the punter's most important skill. It's the closest we come to a big play.

With the first kick, I go for the coffin corner, and I hit a pretty good one, placing the ball out at the nine-yard line.

“Okay, number eleven, we're all very impressed,” Huff shouts. “Let the coverage guys get in some work.” At least for our practices, this is the problem with the coffin corner; it leaves the coverage guys with nothing to do, and thus nothing for the coaches to evaluate.

For my second kick, I employ the pooch—I just have the feeling from warm-ups that my pooch will work better than my drop today, and so I go with it. I hit my kick a shade early, which means the ball's arc of flight is more vertical than I wanted it to be. The ball is fair-caught at the sixteen-yard line. Which is an acceptable result, but I can do better.

And so can Woodward.

Huff blows his whistle and gives me the wave. I had been hoping for one more punt, but I am done.

No hand slap from Woodward this time as he and I pass each other. This is his chance, and he knows it. The Super Bowl is pressure, but this may be worse. At least in the Super Bowl, you know you've made it that far down the road, but moments like this are the difference between making the team and watching your career die.

I watch from the sidelines, arms folded. If Woodward is feeling the stress of the situation, he doesn't show it. He looks relaxed and even happy as he awaits the snap.

Woodward beckons and Backlund delivers the ball directly to his waiting hands. Woodward catches the ball and turns it point-down and kicks, and it goes up and up and up. And as the ball begins its descent, I can see that he nailed it. His kick might as well have been to my stomach.

The returner lets the ball drop. It hits at the three-yard line and bounces almost straight up. It actually moves a shade backward on the hop. A gunner fields the ball easily at the four, and players who have run downfield bump shoulders in celebration. Meanwhile Woodward, who had drifted halfway downfield, claps with satisfaction.

Shit.

Everyone runs back and Woodward lines up for his second kick. He can just play it safe now; if he drops the ball anywhere inside the fifteen, he will win the day. And in our two-man race, the chances are few.

Woodward fields another clean snap from Backlund—dammit, why wasn't that bearded fuck as accurate with me, is there a conspiracy between these two Midwestern boys?—and Woodward gives the ball another one of his long, clean strokes.

From the moment the ball comes off his foot, I see that Woodward has overhit it. Severely. His punt flies so far beyond the field of play that a front-office guy in a straw hat and a golf shirt, idly spectating several yards behind the end zone, attempts to catch the ball with one hand while holding onto his coffee. He drops both the ball and his coffee cup, his bungling underlining the extent to which Woodward's kick is a complete botch.

I stand stoically on the sideline, just as I had for Woodward's previous kick. But I would be lying if I did not admit to a Schadenfreude-fueled rush of adrenaline. As good as Woodward's first kick has been, the second is a disaster, a complete mental lapse. Woodward looks crushed, as if he has pulled out of the driveway without looking and accidentally run over the family dog.

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

A
FTER 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.