The Draft (24 page)

The last cigarette lay dead between his fingers. He never took a single puff. “I played a great game that day. One of my best ever. We went on to win the next game, but lost in the conference championship.”

“And then you quit,” Raymond said.

Quincy nodded. “And then I quit. I didn't sign for the following season. I didn't do anything. I just went underground, as the saying goes. I didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to be seen by anyone, so I vanished. And it made those guys very happy.”

“Sons of bitches.”

“Yeah, they were.”

“And Uncle Pearly wants me to play for them?”

“No, Ray, not them. Those guys didn't represent every person in the league. They were a dying breed, on their way out. Maybe they really thought they were protecting the league; I don't know. But other people were more open minded, more forgiving. I should've realized that then, but I was too young. I didn't know enough about things. They knew how to scare me, and let's face it—I
was
way out of line. If the wrong people found out about the drugs, I could've gone to jail for a long time. Twenty years at least. My life would've been over. I was big and strong, but I never could've survived prison. I had a big mouth and I didn't know when to shut it. I would've ended up face down in a pool of my own blood somewhere, and no one would've cared.”

He paused and took a deep breath. Then he reached over and took the football in hand.

“Not a day goes by that I don't think about playing. I can't watch it on television because it makes me think about what might have been. Those bastards stole my career, but I helped them. I wanted to blame it on racism, but there were other black guys in the league who went on to greatness. O. J. Simpson, Walter Payton. Being a black quarterback wouldn't have been such a big deal. Look at how well Doug Williams and Warren Moon did. Moon had an amazing career. And plenty of new ones, too, like that McKinley kid. It's no big deal.”

He threw the ball in the air a few times, then gripped it tight. His long fingers still had some power.

“My chance has come and gone.” He looked over at his son. “But yours hasn't. It's just starting. And you could make it, Ray. You've got what it takes. I know. I can spot it a mile away. I've watched you play.”

“You have?”

“Yep. No one knows that, not even Pearly. It's easy to walk around unnoticed when you don't look the same anymore, especially with the help of a pair of sunglasses and a cap. I came to a few of the games. Your best was against St. John's. They had a good defense, but you figured it out real quick. You got that from me. I could always dissect a defensive scheme. There are a few smart defensive coordinators in the pros, but most of them are hacks. No originality at all.” He shook his head and laughed. “What I wouldn't give to be back out there, running them around in circles.”

Raymond chose his next words carefully. “I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry about what happened to you. I wish there was something I could do.”

Quincy smiled. “There is.” He tossed the ball back. “You can go out there and do all the things that I didn't. You can play your best and try to become a pro and carry on the family name. And you can stay out of trouble so you don't blow it like I did. Be everything I was, and be everything I wasn't.”

“Are you serious?”

“You bet. Pearly's right—you're not going to get another chance like this. Take it for all it's worth. Don't end up a loser like me. Be a winner. Climb as high as you can, then climb a little higher. Make me proud.”

Raymond was smiling; smiling and nodding. He gripped the ball the same way Quincy had only moments before.

“Will you help me?”

“You're damn right I will.”

A great ball of warmth exploded inside the handsome young man, starting in his belly and slowly expanding to the rest of him. He never thought he would know such happiness.

“Okay, Dad, I'll give it a shot.”

“Good.”

“But … first I have to talk to somebody.”

“Who's that?”

With one eyebrow raised, Raymond said, “I think you can guess.”

“Ah, right. Of course.”

13

Unable to repress
his smile, Jon Sabino set the phone back into its cradle and got up.

“How's it going today?” he asked an intern as he breezed past her. She gave some small reply, but he didn't hear it. He cruised down the hallway, which also served as a gallery of large, framed photos featuring great moments in the Ravens' brief but mostly happy history. There were shots of the last two Super Bowl victories, and one of the first regular-season game they ever won—a 19–14 home-field victory over the Raiders on September 1, 1996. There was a formal portrait of Art Modell, the team's first owner, and of the stadium during construction. Each frame had a little brass plaque along the bottom with a caption, as if anyone in the building dared be so ignorant.

He passed a little alcove that served as the office's copying and mailing station. There was a massive Xerox machine that had been bought outright rather than leased (and was decorated with various Ravens' stickers), plus a long white table with a variety of FedEx and UPS boxes. In spite of the obscene amounts of money the team harvested, they had no full-time mail or copy clerks; there was always someone around to take care of those chores. Half the time the higher-ups were in such a hurry to get something copied or mailed that they did it themselves. Taped to the walls were a variety of clipped cartoons, including a few old
Far Side
s, and one inspirational note—“If you fail to plan, plan to fail.” These little motivational, corporate-type messages were common to NFL clubs, targeting not just the players but anyone who drew a team paycheck. They were posted everywhere, even the bathrooms. The one painted above the locker room doorway (visible on the way
out
) read, “What you do today determines what you do tomorrow.” Jon, notably, did not keep any in his office. He preferred to follow a collection of accumulated personal ideologies, and those only in his mind.

He passed the other offices, each bearing the occupant's name. There were no titles, however—NFL clubs were relatively small organizations, so every knew who every else was. In keeping with the Ravens' casual style, most doors were left open. The offensive line coach, an enormous black man who had played for the Browns in the late '70s, was reviewing a game tape with his feet on his desk. Two other assistant coaches were having a hallway conversation about conditioning drills. They nodded and smiled to Jon Sabino as he passed.

The office at the far end of the hallway was Peter Connally's. Jon Sabino knocked before entering and found the owner behind his desk, Cary Blanchard in the chair on the other side.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, no,” Connally said, “come on in.”

“Good morning, Cary.”

“'Morning, Jon.”

“I have some news that may interest both of you.”

Connally held his hands up. “Let's hear it.”

The smile came back automatically.

“I just got off the phone with Skip Henderson. The number one pick is all ours.”

Connally clapped once. “Fantastic!” He rose and shook Jon Sabino's hand. “Good work, Jon. Really excellent. A done deal!”

“Well … I don't want to celebrate just yet. The draft isn't for a few more days. Someone else could still try to get it.”

“Oh, but who could? We gave up half the team, right?”

“It feels that way. I was just about out of ammunition.”

In total, he'd given up twenty-one members of the team—three of which were on Blanchard's “Prefer to Keep” list—in order to secure ten quality defensive players for Skip Henderson. He'd also parted with every draft pick for the present year and the year following, and those for the first four rounds in 2008. Susan Schiff told him he'd made a total of seventy-four phone calls to fifty-one different people, covering more than fifty solid hours. Since Michael Bell's accident, he had come to the office no later than seven, and stayed for a minimum of thirteen hours each day. Susan also claimed he drank five cases of Coca-Cola and ate nineteen tacos.

Jon let out a long, weary sigh. “Thank God that's over.”

“I agree. Let's celebrate!” Connally went to his desk and pulled a bottle of malt whiskey out of the drawer. “Cary?”

“Sure.”

He poured three glasses and handed them out.

“Here's to Jon Sabino, our resident miracle worker.”

They clinked the glasses together and drank.

“So, Cary, how do you feel about coaching the next Hall of Fame quarterback?”

“Pretty good.”

“I think we should tell the media.”

Jon paled. “No, Peter, not yet. Just wait until Saturday. If anything changes…”

“What's going to change? Who's going to offer more than you did?”

“Well, probably no one. But anything can happen.”

Connally studied his water cooler for a moment, then turned back. “All right, we won't say anything yet. But I want to get a momentum going over this as soon as McKinley is ours.”

“We will, Peter,” Jon assured him. “I'll see to it myself.”

“Good. Nice work,” he said one more time. “Really.”

“Thanks.”

He couldn't help feeling a little cocky as he walked back to his office. He'd done it—he'd taken his team from the bottom of the draft's first round to the top. An unbelievable feat; some would've said impossible. But he'd done it. Another astonishing achievement on a list of dozens. His status in the fans' eyes would go from exalted to godlike. More writers would use the word
genius
now. That also meant more jealousy and resentment among his peers, but that was to be expected. And if the team claimed a third straight championship …
the first general manager to reach the Hall of Fame?

He could hear the fans cheering when the commissioner stepped up to that podium at noon on Saturday and made the announcement. He could feel the rumble under his feet as the football world was rocked to its core. What a moment that would be.

And Peter was right—who could match his offer? Nobody. Nobody had the picks
and
the players to spare like the Ravens did. He shouldn't have been so paranoid about telling the media. Skip Henderson was blown off his feet, and he should have been. This one was in the bag. Take it easy, Jon told himself.

Like Peter said, it's a done deal.

*   *   *

Macintosh jiggled the tiny, foam-covered bud into his ear until it snug, then tapped in the number on his cell phone. Traffic was relatively light in I-795 at the moment. A trailer rattled past him in the left lane.

Cavanaugh answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“It's Rob.”

“What's up?”

Macintosh gave him the details of the final offer. Much to his surprise, Cavanaugh laughed.

“Christ, he's cleaning house all right.”

“Yeah, and I don't think there's too much left to clean.”

Cavanaugh paused. “Really? Do you mean that?”

“Yeah. We're running out of picks and players. Even Connally, the asshole of the world, doesn't want to mortgage
everything.
He wants this third championship, and he's willing to mortgage the future to get it. But as for the immediate season, he has to be careful. There's really nothing left.”

“Well, that's good to know. Very good.”

“You gonna put in your own offer now?”

“I might,” Cavanaugh replied.

“Oh come on, don't deny me this. Let me savor the knowledge of what's coming.”

Cavanaugh laughed again. “You're having fun with this, aren't you?”

“You're damn right I am.”

“Okay—yes, I'm going to be submitting something soon.”

Macintosh came up to an elderly woman puttering along well under the speed limit. He checked his mirrors quickly, then roared around her.

“Why not wait until the last moment, make it impossible for him to respond?”

“Because Skip Henderson's a goddamn Boy Scout. He'll never go for that. Besides, it'll be fun knowing Sabino and Connally are squirming for a while. Shit, you'll get to see it in person.”

“Mmm, true. Okay, I'm outta here. If anything else happens, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

Macintosh terminated the call and set the phone on the passenger seat. Then he inserted an Eric Clapton CD and started singing along.

*   *   *

Althea Coolidge pulled in front of the small suburban home she shared with her son Raymond, parked, and got out. She retrieved a maroon leather case from the back seat—a gift from her boss last Christmas—and headed to the front door. On the way she exchanged small talk with Ms. Parker, a neighbor, who was out front assessing her flower beds.

Althea had been a corporate assistant at Smith Barney since the early '90s, when the last of the money from Quincy's playing days dried up and she was forced to find a job. In truth there
was
some other cash left, but it had been tucked away in various places. That was back in the days when she, the daughter of an alcoholic father and a chronically depressed and unreliable mother, allowed herself to believe she might actually have a shot at the American dream. Her husband was the toast of the town, money was pouring in from all directions, and the possibilities seemed limitless.

The short trip up the three concrete steps was becoming more difficult every day. She wasn't exactly “fat,” but she was a bit over the ideal weight for a woman of forty-eight who stood five foot five. She didn't complain, however, for that wasn't her way. Life could be harsh, and you either dealt with it or it dealt with you.