The Draft (20 page)

“He's going to fire my ass,” Jon said into the phone. “I should send you my résumé right now. If Connally doesn't fire me, Blanchard will shoot me dead in my office. You know he hunts, right? And he's pretty good, I hear. Two quick ones—
pop! pop!
—and it'll be over. And no one will care, either.”

Gayle Markham was laughing uncontrollably at the other end.

“Take it easy, Jon.”

“Were you listening to what I just said? Did you hear what I'm giving up to get this guy?”

“Deadwood, Jon. Think of it as cleaning house. And when most guys clean house, they don't get a Christian McKinley in return.”

Jon wasn't listening. He was staring into his computer monitor and shaking his head. His loafers had been removed and were lying under the desk.

“We'll have no draft this year, no draft next year.”

“You've managed to hold on to your first-round picks, right?”

“Only for this year and for '08. Not '07.”

“That went to the … Bucs?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, that's not such a bad thing. A first-round guy will cost you plenty, and you'll have cap problems anyway. By '08 you should be coming out of it.”

Jon groaned. He knew Markham was right, but it didn't make him feel any better.

Gayle Markham was as close to a best friend as Jon Sabino had in the league. They met during the 1989 owners' meeting, when they were grinding it out as low men on the totem pole for other teams. Both had been brought along to get a little experience under their belts. They hit it off immediately, amazed by the similarities in both their personal and professional philosophies, not to mention the parallel course their lives seemed to have taken. Both were from broken homes and found an solace and fulfillment in the high-energy environment of the NFL. They'd played football in high school and college, but neither had the skills or the talent to make it to the pros. They went on to earn business degrees and, immediately upon graduation, sought positions with any team that would take them. They were even the same age, Jon being older by just over three months.

A symbiosis naturally developed that worked out nicely through the years. They compared notes, shared hot tips, and recommended each other when a choice position opened up. It was Gayle who helped Jon get back to his hometown of Baltimore when the Browns moved down from Cleveland, and it was on Jon's powerful urging that Tom Johnson, the Saints' owner, promoted Gayle to the position of president of player personnel. This gave Gayle complete control over player acquisition. Their general manager at the time, who did not have a personnel pedigree, focused more on the business side of things.

“What a mess,” Jon murmured, navigating through the spreadsheets. “What a damn mess. What I'm doing to this team…”

“But you're taking a shot at history,” Markham reminded him.

“And in turn, everyone's having a grand old time taking shots at me,” Jon told him. “Do you know what that little bastard Cochran said to me?”

Markham was already laughing. Neither of them cared much for the general manager of the 49ers. He was a cantankerous old grump who resented everyone under the age of fifty.

“No, what?”

“He told me teams like mine were a disease, and he was going to be the cure.”

Markham's hyena-like cackle elevated a full octave, forcing Jon into a smile he didn't want.

“And Northfield told me he wouldn't give me a player if I offered him the cure for cancer.”

There was nothing but silence on the other end as Markham tried to catch his breath.

“Well,” he said finally, “you've certainly made some friends, haven't you?”

“I had no idea the animosity was
this
bad.”

“Maybe if you'd been a little less smug after that second championship.”

“Smug?” Jon said. “Me?”

“Oh, right,” Markham replied. “Innocent as a choirboy. Anyway, look, you didn't call just to blow off steam, did you? I've got my own messes to deal with. We're still working on the new stadium, courtesy of that bitch Katrina. That alone is gobbling up huge chunks of my time. So let's get to it—I'm guessing you've got something else in mind.”

Jon switched to another screen, one that had full details of the Saints' roster.

“Yeah, I'm calling because I'm interested in one of your guys.”

“I had a feeling. It's Bramledge, right?”

“How'd you know?”

“The Seahawks and the Chiefs have also called about him. It didn't take me too long to figure out what Henderson wants.”

“Is he still available?”

“Yeah, he is. But I have to tell you, pal, your competitors have made some nice offers for him. And I'm not just saying that to put the squeeze on you.”

Jon nodded. He knew he could trust Gayle beyond any doubt. Credibility was not an issue here.

“Well, I have enough left to make an offer, too. But tell me about him. Tell me what I don't know.”

“What do you know now?”

“I know he's a monster of a linebacker. Six-three, two hundred and sixty pounds. Third year in the league. He's only played sixteen games and he's already compiled nearly twenty sacks. That's incredible.”

“It sure is.”

“And yet, he's on the bench. I know Fellows and Ramos are your starters, but I'm surprised you don't use this guy somewhere else. Anywhere. What am I not seeing on the screen here?”

“He's a troublemaker,” Markham said simply. “He gets into fights, he's moody and sullen, and we're not sure, but we think he made have some drugs in his past.”

As Gayle was talking, Jon did a quick Google search, keywords “Austin,” “Bramledge,” and “drugs.” Nothing.

“You guys didn't look into it before you drafted him? A TAP report, at least?” TAP stood for “Troutwine Athletic Profile,” a seventy-five-question multiple-choice test designed primarily to evaluate an athlete's mental capacity for competition. It came into vogue in the league in the early '80s and was designed by respected sports psychologist Dr. Robert Troutwine.

“We did, and we didn't find anything. But a lot of rumors were floating around. We're pretty thorough about that stuff. Like everyone else, we sometimes consult the feds about certain guys. The FBI didn't come up with anything, but they said they same thing—they thought they'd heard rumors.”

“What about random drug tests?”

“He's had four, clean on all of them.”

“Huh. Well, I don't know what more you can do. I'd consider him clean.”

“Yeah,” Gayle said, “except for the other stuff. He's trouble around the locker room and on the practice field. That's why the coach doesn't like him. He'd be happy to get rid of him.”

Jon nodded. He was at a moral crossroad. Bramledge's skills were certainly on par, and he fit the profile Henderson was looking for. But problem players never did well in San Diego. The ownership were all straight shooters, and Henderson was no different. Bramledge looked good on paper, so Jon was pretty sure he could get him under Henderson's radar. But what about afterward? What about the first time the kid gave somebody a broken nose for looking at him the wrong way? It wouldn't take long for his past to catch up with him, and then Henderson would know Jon had sold him a lemon.

“Does he have any redeeming qualities at all?”

“Well, he does charity work. Not just money, but time. Works in the kitchens, works with kids. Keeps real quiet about it, too.”

“That's good. That's a good sign.”

“Yeah, he's complicated.” Markham sighed. “I don't know, Jon. I'm not sure I want to stick you with him.”

“You told the Chiefs and the 'Hawks all this, too, right?”

“Yes.”

Jon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and checked his gut. Whenever the call was fifty-fifty, he always went there.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall provided a certain measure of motivation as well.

“All right, let me tell you what I can give you for him.…”

*   *   *

Pearly Pressner's fingers weren't what they used to be. He couldn't even hold onto the tiny screws, much less get them into the holes. Nevertheless, under the bright light of the kitchen table—the same table upon which he'd written the letter to Freddie Friedman—he kept trying. Damn cheap eyeglasses were always falling apart. But a new pair was out of the question. The state wouldn't pay for them, and he certainly didn't have the money. Such was the burden of an elderly man on a fixed income.

He was just about to give up when someone knocked on the screen door.

“Who is it?”

Raymond's voice drifted in from the porch. “It's me, Uncle Pearly.”

“Come on in, it's open.”

The rusty hinges sang out a note that rose until it vanished, and Raymond appeared in the doorway. He wore a hooded sweatsuit and a windbreaker, his hands thrust deep in the pockets.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Pearly replied, not bothering to conceal his frustration. “Have a seat.”

Raymond pulled out a chair and sat down. He watched his uncle struggle with the glasses for a few moments.

“Here, let me give it a try.”

Pearly, looking thoroughly exasperated, didn't resist. Raymond's hands, although larger than his uncle's, were swift and nimble, expertly manipulating the tiny screwdriver.

“That should do it,” he said, handing everything back.

“Thanks.” Pearly fit them carefully over his broad face. “I appreciate it. Ah, that's better.”

“Sure. Uh … that's not why you asked me here, is it?”

“What? Oh no, no.”

“So what's up?” Raymond asked.

“Umm…” The old man stroked the back of his head a few times.

“Uncle Pearly, is something wrong?”

“Well…” Pearly began, “that depends.”

“On what?”

“On you.”

“On me? I don't understand.”

“I know, I know.” He ran his fingers around his mouth as if to wipe it clean.

“Ray, I received a phone call this afternoon. It was from a man named Freddie Friedman. Have you ever heard of him?”

Raymond shook his head. “No. Should I have?”

“No, no. I just thought…”

“Who is he?”

Pearly sighed. Only direction to go is forward.

“He's a sports agent from upstate New York.”

Raymond stiffened visibly but said nothing.

“He called me because … well, because I sent him a bunch of your game tapes.” Pearly pointed to Raymond to emphasize the word
your,
hoping in some distant way it would instill a sense of pride.

It didn't. Raymond's mouth fell open. “You
what
?” Only his natural respect for his uncle kept him from exploding.

“I sent him some game tapes from your last two years at school and—”

“I can't believe you'd do that. You know how I feel about the pros.”

“He thinks you may have a real shot, son.”

Raymond stood up, hands on his hips, and walked around the room like an animal in a cage. “Uncle Pearly, how could you go behind my back like that?”

“You're not thinking with your head! Do you know how many people even get an opportunity like this? Do you?” Raymond didn't reply. “Maybe one in a million, if that. And do you know what happens to the rest of them? They either end up in some shit job for the rest of their life, or they get killed in the streets before they're twenty-five.”

Pearly got up and came toward him, his dime store shoes scraping on the filthy linoleum. “Don't you see, Raymond? This could be your chance to get out of this place, to beat the odds and make a good life for yourself. To have all the things most of us never will. You've got a gift, a gift that can get you things most people only dream about. You should use it. I don't know how far it'll take you, but you've got to
try.
Friedman thinks you might be able to sign somewhere as a free agent. Do you know what the NFL's minimum player salary is these days?”

Raymond turned to face him but said nothing.

“It's more than two hundred grand for the rookies, and more then three hundred grand for the veterans.
More than three hundred thousand dollars,
Raymond. I never made a tenth of that in any one year of my life!”

Raymond shook his head in a slow, measured motion, like he was following the movement of a pingpong ball.

“I can't do it, Uncle Pearly. Not after what happened to Daddy. I just can't.”

Pearly studied him for a moment, the typical angry young man. He burned with loyalty and pride. What an amazing kid. What strength of will. Pearly could not help but admire him.

“Raymond, look, I don't know if there's a right way to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it.” He prayed he wasn't making a mistake. “Son, a lot of what your daddy told you about what happened to him isn't … well, it isn't completely true.”