The Draft (12 page)

He loved this photo in part because he was about twenty feet out of the frame when it was taken. He was only a small child at the time, but he remembered several details. His dad had taken him to a local field so the card company could do the shoot. There were three guys—the photographer, his assistant, and some other guy in a suit and tie; a liaison or something. Raymond remembers him being particularly friendly to his dad, shaking his hand a lot and asking him to sign several things. Quincy obliged without complaint, and Raymond could sense, even then, that his dad was somebody important. Quincy also remembered telling the men that Raymond was his nephew. When Raymond asked why he did this, his father said, “To protect you.” Raymond found this puzzling, but his father told him he'd understand someday. And he was right.

After the three men left, father and son played tag football. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the air was warm and sweet, and it was just the two of them. It was a day that would live vividly in Raymond's memory. He remembered giggling uncontrollably, and his dad rolling with him in the grass. He remembered the indescribable joy of knowing that his father, whatever else his concerns, was focused solely on
him
that afternoon. Just the two of them in their own universe. They played for what seemed like hours, and Raymond wished it would never end. In years to come, he would think back to that singular occasion and say to himself,
That's the one I wanted all the others to be like. If I had my choice, that would've been the blueprint for every other day.

But it wasn't; not even close. As time rolled ruthlessly forward, a new reality emerged. Slowly and painfully, it adopted a form that bore absolutely no resemblance to the one from that golden afternoon. He was still a child when the change began, and like a line on a stockbroker's chart, it kept heading downward, year after year. And Raymond knew when the those changes had started. He knew when, he knew who, and he knew why.

Because of this, he had no interest in playing in the National Football League.

*   *   *

Raymond wasn't the only one in a contemplative mood that evening.

Pearly Pressner was not one of nature's writers. Unlike his father and grandfather, he did earn a high school diploma. He even did reasonably well in math and history. But he nearly flunked out of English and hated it with a passion. He couldn't remember the last time he wrote more than three sentences. Nevertheless, he spent nearly an hour under the singular light of his tiny kitchen poring over every word of a letter that he hoped would change the course of his nephew's life.

The intended recipient was a Mr. Freddie Friedman, agent and ally to nearly four dozen professional athletes. Most of them were in the NFL, but a handful were in the NBA, and two played professional baseball. Pearly had never met Friedman, but he knew him by reputation, mostly through several extensive and well-researched feature articles he found at the library. Friedman was a small, fast-talking individual who came from a poor Jewish home in Brooklyn. He'd put himself through business school while working various menial jobs and running numbers on the weekends.

What Pearly liked most about him was the fact that he apparently never screwed any of his clients. No embezzlement, no fraudulent investments, no shady contracts. In a business where watching your back had to become second nature if you had any hope of survival, he was apparently a straight shooter. A rare breed, to be sure.

In spite of the letter's relatively brief content, Pearly had been thinking about writing it for years. He knew Raymond would go berserk if he found out. That was one of the main reasons it took him this long to get it together. He'd hoped Raymond might write it himself one day, but the boy's hatred of the NFL had gotten worse instead of better. Pearly knew there were times when a young mind needed an older, wiser one to guide it. This, he decided, was one of those times. He knew Raymond considered him a father figure, and that was okay with him. He never had any children of his own, and Raymond really never had a full-time dad, so there was a certain inevitability to the symbiosis. Most of the time he stayed in the background and let Raymond do his own thing, but every now and then he'd step forward and tap the boy in one direction or another to keep him on course.

Writing this letter and sending the package that lay open on his kitchen table was the most aggressive thing he'd ever done in this capacity, and a certain guilt came with it. But he believed in his heart that it ultimately was the right thing to do. He just hoped the boy would understand someday.

Dear Mr. Friedman,

These are videotapes of my nephew, Raymond Coolidge, who played QB for La Salle College and graduated last year. Please look at them and see if you'd be interested in being his agent. I think he is good enough to have a shot at the NFL, but he doesn't want to because of what he believes the league did to his father, Quincy Pressner. He doesn't know what really happened, though, and I don't want him to waste a chance to make it in the league without at least trying. If you think you'd like to help him, please call me. I can have him come and meet with you.

Joe Pressner

He read the letter over a few times, judged it professional sounding enough, then tri-folded it. It went into the box with the videotapes, which had been given to him by Raymond's coach, Hal Arden. Arden and Pearly were on the same wavelength concerning Raymond's future. They had discussed it a few times without Raymond's knowledge. And Arden was one of the very few people who knew Quincy Pressner was Raymond's dad. Pearly and Raymond's mom had gone to great pains to hide this fact. Raising the boy with his mom's maiden name had been surprisingly effective, and Raymond had a much stronger resemblance to her than to his father. Through the years the legend of Quincy Pressner grew following his mysterious “disappearance,” and the rumor that he had a son became a point of certain intrigue among the fans and the media. But Raymond's true identity was never exposed. Hal Arden had done his part to keep the family secret. Nevertheless, he didn't want to see Raymond waste his considerable talents any more than Pearly did.

The game tapes were labeled in neat black print by opponent and date. Pearly put the letter on top, then set down another layer of bubble wrap. He taped the box shut and carefully scrawled Friedman's address. He would mail the package in the morning, after he stopped at the local convenience store for his daily cup of coffee.

He got up and pulled the chain on the overhead light, transforming the room into a nondescript world of shapes and shadows, and shuffled wearily to bed.

As he drifted into sleep, he thought more about Freddie Friedman. He wondered if the guy would give a damn about his nephew at all. Surely he got packages like this all the time—desperate pleas from desperate athletes hoping for a shot at the ultimate gridiron dream. Would Raymond be written off as just another face in that crowd? Would Freddie's final summary be that he was just another nobody looking to be a somebody? There was always that chance. But the boy had done remarkably well at La Salle, with tremendous stats. Regardless, he never declared for the draft afterward; Pearly knew this would be one the first questions someone would ask. And he made no attempt to get noticed by pro scouts. La Salle wasn't Division 1-A, but that didn't mean pro teams wouldn't have at least glanced in his direction. When you were trying to hide your abilities, however, it raised questions. Now Pearly wanted nothing more for his nephew than a fair opportunity. He hoped Friedman would at least be curious.

There was no way he could have foreseen the effect his innocent and good-natured effort would have on the usually unshakable world of the NFL.

7

Sitting in his comfortable chair
with Broncos memorabilia hanging from every wall around him, Brendan Cavanaugh felt like bleary eyes might fall out of his head. He couldn't stand to look at the Ravens roster for another minute.

He dropped the damn thing onto the glass top of his desk and fell back into his chair. He'd studied it so many times he could quote every bit of data from memory. He knew Terry Butler went to Virginia, Lawrence Dixon was six feet one inch, and that Scott Montgomery was in his eleventh year. He also knew, with a little help from some friends, about injuries past and present, a wealth of contract details, and who Blanchard's favorites were. What he didn't know was how Jon Sabino was going to work his deal with that bastard Skip Henderson.

He studied the roster in the hopes of thinking like Sabino, getting behind his eyes and seeing what he saw. He'd tried this before, even in situations that had nothing to do with him, and the results were always frustrating. It was like a high-stakes poker game—the key was to think like you're opponent. If you could get inside his head, the battle was won. And he'd done this with every other GM in the league. He watched them, he listened, he took notes. He knew how to get information, knew how to massage and schmooze others. Everything was important—every little detail had meaning. He knew which GMs were conservative and which were gamblers. He knew which were given carte blanche by their organization, and which were kept on a short leash. He could predict damn near everything everyone one of them did.

Except Sabino.

This was going to be regarded as a seminal moment in his career. He thought again that he
had
to come out on top. He had to best Sabino on this thing. He'd shoved virtually all other work aside and focused on this like the crazed fan of a Hollywood starlet, gripped by obsession. He hadn't left the office—hadn't been home, hadn't seen his wife or his kids. They called a few times, but he barely heard to a word they'd said. His wife was a patient and understanding woman, and even she had never seen him so intense.

In his slumped-back position he closed his eyes and went over his ideas again. Sabino could trade this guy for that, or he could offer these draft picks to this team in exchange for this defensive player.… The possibilities were endless; there was just no way to predict with any certainty. And Sabino had proven himself able to think in unconventional ways—to come up with ideas no one else had even considered. Cavanaugh had the same ability, but, he admitted bitterly only to himself, he began exercising that part of his mental discipline only as a result of wanting to keep up with his archrival. Enemies, they say, often bring out the best in each other.

He picked up a copy of his own team's roster and scanned it briefly, then let it fall alongside Baltimore's. The only real advantage he had in the situation was the simple fact that he'd already been vying for the “McKinley pick” when Sabino entered the picture. He'd been working on possible trades and other deals with other teams.
We could send Mason to the Colts for that second-string linebacker they have … maybe our second- and third-round draft picks, which are pretty high, to the Browns, who aren't looking to draft a quarterback this year.…
He'd already had preliminary discussions with several teams. They knew he was in the race, and they had some sense of what he had to offer. So at least he had an edge on Sabino in that respect.

The door to his office flew back and a fresh-faced kid in a navy blue suit flew in, his tie waving back and forth like a metronome.

“What's up, Cav? Are we ready to rock, or what?”

Carlson Whittaker had been with the organization for just over a year now. He was the second son of Adam Whittaker III, multimillionaire and close friend of the Broncos ownership. Carlson had an MBA from Fordham, a boyish face, and more drive and aggression than actual talent. He was one of several white-collar gofers the team employed.

“Getting there,” Cavanaugh said, his eyes still shut.

“How's it looking?”

“Hard to say, Whit, hard to say. I've got a pretty good idea of what Henderson wants and what Sabino has to give.”

Whittaker was moving from place to place around the office, checking out Cavanaugh's considerable collection of memorabilia, most of which would command a hefty price on eBay. He didn't appear to be listening.

“Yeah? So why don't we get Hendrickson on the phone and get the deal done right now?”

“Henderson.”

“Whatever. Let's get to it.” He spun around, clapping his hands. “Come on, chief, I smell blood!”

Cavanaugh looked at him and laughed. “Patience, Junior, patience. I'll call when the time is right.”

“But shouldn't we—”

“And when the time is right, I'll make sure you're the first to know,” Cavanaugh said, cutting him off. He leaned forward again and grabbed a random sheaf of papers from his desk. “In the meantime, print and collate two copies of this, and stick each one in a binder for me, would you?”

Whittaker stared at the papers as if he had no idea what they were, or what it meant to copy and collate something.

He smiled and shook his head. “Sure, whatever,” he said, taking them.

“Good. Now out.”

The kid left without another word and Cavanaugh returned to his thoughts.
Always important to appear in control in front of the hired help
, he thought. But the truth was that he had no idea when he should jump back into the race for McKinley. There was no way to define that kind of thing—it would come down to instinct. And on that score he was supremely confident. The “little voice” that dwelled inside his mind had rarely misled him. It was the one that ignored statistics and tradition and the advice of others, and usually hit the board squarely on the bull's-eye. And right now it was telling him to lay back and wait.
Patience, Junior, patience.
That's what he'd said, and that's what he believed. It was indeed a virtue, and it had paid off handsomely many times in the past.

You just never knew what might happen.