The Draft (10 page)

After fifteen minutes he stopped writing and reviewed his notes thus far. It was at this moment that a helpless, slipping-away feeling came rushing in. He began to fully realize what would be required in order to put together just the right package for Skip Henderson, and it revealed an ugly and wholly unavoidable dimension to his forthcoming negotiations—most of the teams he'd be dealing with were tired of the Baltimore Ravens and their current reign of terror. The NFL was supposed to be in its glorious Age of Parity, where all clubs were created equal and everyone had a fair shot at the big prize. In an industry where it was everyone's singular goal to prove they were better than everyone else, consistent winners became targets; objects of jealousy and hatred. Behind every pat on the back was the seething desire to crush and bury. Behind every line of friendly praise was a hunger to destroy with as much humiliation as possible. A lot of people were gunning for the Baltimore Ravens, and not just for the players, either—for Connally, for Blanchard, and, in particular, for Jon Sabino. Other teams were tired of hearing about the “genius architect” and the “Oracle of Owings Mills.” It was bad enough after the first Super Bowl, and downright depressing after the second. But when the chatter began about how the team was the overwhelming favorite for a third, Jon knew this was coming. His organization would face numerous battles not just on the field but off it, because you were allowed to win once, but not twice, and certainly not thrice. Three straight times was an affront. It was swaggering without the need to actually swagger. And with all the fanfare and praise and adulation he had personally received—including his own posters, trading cards (the first time in pro sports history a front office person received such recognition), and half-hour weekly radio show—Jon knew he'd be targeted.

His original plan was to take it all in stride, survive behind his thick skin, and then, if and after they did indeed win a third trophy, be sentimental and good humored about all of it when the whole thing fell apart next season. That much was inevitable, and he and everyone else in the league knew it. Next year didn't matter, because the party would be over and the league would reacquire its default form.

All that mattered was now, and suddenly it looked as though the ride wouldn't be as smooth as planned. He had no choice but to descend among the ranks of people who hated his guts. Individuals in other organizations who, now that the word about Bell and the desire to acquire McKinley was undoubtedly seeping out, were giggling maniacally as they loaded their proverbial rifles and prayed that Jon Sabino, resident miracle worker of the historic Baltimore Ravens, called them up personally to beg for help. Maybe not everyone was of this mind-set, but Jon knew some of them were. And he was sure he would find out over the next few days who those people were. In fact, he was quite certain he'd discover
many
interesting and enlightening things over the next few days. For all the years of struggle and the sacrifices he'd made to reach this point, he was quite sure this was going to be the most difficult and unpleasant experience of all.

He took a deep breath, massaged his temples, and went back to his scribbling.

*   *   *

The next two hours flew by, and the rain had picked up and was now spattering against the windows. Jon didn't seem to notice. He just kept staring at the roster, already sure there was no way to build an attractive defensive offer for Skip from what was already there. At one point, however, he ventured into the “don't trade” area, mostly as an exercise in theoreticals. It was his job, after all, to consider all possibilities, and using guys in this category
was
an option. He did have the power to do it. Blanchard would hit the ceiling, but Jon still had final say.

His eyes kept getting stuck on one name in particular. The guy was a wide receiver; nothing to do with defense and therefore, at least to the uneducated observer, of no use to Skip Henderson and the San Diego Chargers. But Jon knew more. He knew the guy was a favorite of Henderson's, knew the old bastard admired him. He had, in fact, tried twice to acquire him—once when he was the Cardinals' offensive coordinator, and once when he was GM of the Jaguars. Yes, Jon thought, he might be useful at the right moment. His offensive pedigree notwithstanding, he just might be a factor in the deal.

But Blanchard would go through the roof.

And so would the fans. Remember that he's a fan favorite, too.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd made a deal that left the fans screaming for his head. When he first took over as general manager, he found himself unable to avoid cutting Dwight “Roast Beef” Reynolds. Reynolds was a lineman with a barrel chest and a heart of gold. He earned his nickname when he once bragged to the press that he could eat an entire roast beef in one sitting, and then proceeded to do just that during a live taping of a local sports talk show. He was a devoted family man with a charitable organization for kids (“The Roast Beef Club”), and once even spoke out viciously against Maryland's governor for cutting funding to a program that gave athletic equipment to elementary schools in underprivileged areas. The fans regarded him as a god.

The problem on the field, however, was that he had long passed his prime. He still had tremendous strength, but his speed and reaction time had diminished. The sound of thousands of fans chanting his nickname after he recorded yet another sack was heard less and less. Coordinators didn't double-team him any more. He became injury prone and once missed half a season. Clearly it was time to let him go, but the previous hierarchy didn't have the heart to do it.

When Sabino finally mustered the courage to bring him into his office and deliver the bad news, “Roast Beef” just smiled and said, “I was wondering when you'd finally get around to doing this.” The fans, however, weren't so forgiving, even after Sabino and the coaches decided to keep Reynolds around as an assistant coordinator.

Jon remembered this story, in detail, as he stared at the tantalizing name on the roster sheet.

“No,” he murmured softly. “No … Susan?”

Schiff appeared in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Could you please get me printouts of the rosters for the other thirty-one teams?”

She hesitated. “All of them?”

“Yes, I believe there are still thirty-two total. Unless you know something I don't.”

“Uh, sure.”

“Thanks.”

A dull throb flared in his head; the first stage of what he knew would grow into a whopper of a migraine. He glanced down at the name one more time, then shoved it to the back of his mind.

Unless there was no other choice, there was no way he would even consider trading Darryl “DB” Bailey.

5

Sports Cards Plus
hadn't had a day of business like this in years—maybe ever. The line ran down the sidewalk to the far end of the strip mall. The show was only supposed to go from one o'clock to three, yet three had passed nearly a half hour ago.

The store's owner, Pat Lanigan, had sore cheeks from the all-day smile. Bailey's appearance fee had been twenty-five thousand, and Lanigan had already made that back and then some. He stood next to the star with his hands clasped together, greeting each new face as cash register sounds echoed joyfully through in his mind—
cha-ching
! Bailey wasn't just a football player, he was a bona fide celebrity. Lanigan decided it wasn't due merely to his remarkable skills as a wide receiver. He was, as it turned out, as nice of a guy in person as he seemed to be in the media. It didn't always work that way, Lanigan knew. The PR machinery in the NFL was huge and powerful. But that didn't seem to be the case with Bailey. He could see why the fans loved him.

The man on Bailey's other side was his public relations agent, Mark Coleman. He to adopted the hands-together-feet-slightly-apart posture, making him and Lanigan look like a pair of unusually cheerful Secret Service agents. Coleman checked his watch, then leaned down and whispered in Bailey's ear.

“It's just about three thirty, big guy.”

Bailey was seated behind an enormous table covered with memorabilia that was waiting for his signature to magically make it more valuable. He looked up and evaluated the crowd.

“What about all these people, Mark? You wanna tell them to go home?” A few of the fans who were nearby overheard this exchange. Bailey looked at Coleman and smiled. “You got a hot date or something?”

Everyone laughed and the tension evaporated. “No, it's just that I'm supposed to let you know when, uh…”

“It'll be time to go when everyone gets what they came for. Right, folks?”

The fans cheered. Coleman smiled and shook his head. He was used to abrupt schedule extensions when it came to Darryl Bailey.

During this warm-and-fuzzy moment, one fan reached over and patted Bailey on the shoulder, sending threads of pain in every direction. He grimaced, which everyone noticed, then covered it by coughing. “Oh man, when is this cold going to die?” he mumbled, and was relieved when it appeared as though everyone bought into the illusion.

It would be another hour and a half before they got out of there. Bailey would sign hundreds of items—from conventional stuff like footballs and jerseys to weird things like people's everyday clothing or parts of their body. One girl, for example, asked him to sign her right arm, which he happily did. And a six-year-old boy who was also a baseball fan apparently grabbed the wrong item off his shelf at home, so Darryl ended up writing his name over an eight-by-ten of Cal Ripken, Jr.

The limousine Lanigan had provided dropped Coleman off first. Once he was gone, Bailey stretched his long, lanky frame across both seats. He felt like talking with someone, and he considered called Jon Sabino. It wasn't common for players to chummy with their GMs, but it did happen from time to time. DB liked Jon. He had a good reputation, and other players liked him, too. In that indefinable way, he had become acceptable within the brotherhood of the players' network. Darryl liked his sense of humor, and he knew Jon was smart as shit, so he turned to him for advice on matters both personal and professional. They'd gone out to dinner a few times, and Jon and Kelley had gotten on well with his girlfriend, Bernadette. Jon seemed to approve of her, and DB was surprised at how he seemed happy about this.

He tried Jon's office phone but got no answer.
If he's not there, he's not anywhere,
DB thought. So, instead, he chatted with the driver, whom he recognized from past journeys, and listened to an NBA game on the radio. There was cold beer and hard liquor in the little fridge, too, but he ignored it. The novelty of being in a vehicle that had a refrigerator and three telephones had worn off years ago. This was everyday living now.

His house was like something from a glossy magazine on the rich and famous. The paired iron gates at the front swung back slowly, allowing access to a gently sloping cobblestone driveway. The limo pulled around to the front step, and before Bailey got out he tipped the driver with a fifty and signed two more items for the guy's kids. The driver, in turn, silently wished all the people he carted around were more like Bailey.

The house was large and stately, with colorful landscaping and tall Roman columns. Bailey worked the key into the lock and went in. After disarming the alarm system and checking the answering machine, he went to the kitchen and downed two glasses of orange juice. Bernadette would be over in a little bit. They were supposed to go out for dinner. That meant another limo, another driver, and probably more autographs, too. It didn't bother him. He'd been in the league long enough to know he should enjoy it while he could. Ten years after he retired no one would want his autograph anymore.

He poured another glass of juice and walked into the living room. He went to the sliding door that led to the sundeck and overlooked the bay. The city of Baltimore was miniaturized in the distance. He loved this view, had always loved the water. He had a condo in Key West that he visited a few weeks each year. The rest of the time he rented it. It more than paid for itself.

When he first realized there was someone sitting on the couch behind him—the stranger's image was reflected in the sliding door's glass—his heart jumped and he spun around. The visitor had a dark green suit that bore a muted shine, a small fortune in gold jewelry, wraparound sunglasses, and a broad smile.

“How've you been, DB?”

“Damn, Cory, you scared the shit out of me!”

Cory Fletcher rose and came toward him with a grin. “Is that anyway to talk to an old friend?” Fletcher threw his arms around him, slapping him vigorously. He wasn't quite as tall as Bailey, but he was wider across the shoulders and in the same excellent physical condition.

When they separated, Bailey said, “How the hell'd you get in here? This place has more alarms than the White House.”

Fletcher strutted back to the couch and picked up his drink from the glass coffee table. He apparently had helped himself. Bernadette couldn't possibly be home, Bailey thought. If she saw Cory Fletcher, the only drink she'd give him was a few ounces of battery acid in the face. Bailey's eyes went to the front door, which was partially visible through the hallway. Fletcher didn't know much about Bernadette Redmond, but Bernadette knew about Fletcher. One of the vows Bailey made when they met was to be completely open and honest about his past. No lies, no coverups. When Bernadette came along, he told her everything. Told her about the drugs and the drinking during his colorful youth in LA, and about the crowd he ran with back then. Her told her all of it one night as they lay in bed together, after they made love. She listened patiently and silently, then told him if anyone from that crowd ever stepped foot in their house she'd remove their balls with a hatchet. DB had smiled when he heard this. He pulled her close, kissed her on the top of the head, and told her not to worry—they were on the other side of the country and probably forgot all about him.