The Draft (30 page)

“What about it?” Wright asked.

“I'd like to know if you'd be interested in dealing it to us.”

Wright did not answer immediately. When he did, it was a frosty, “For what?”

“I can offer you several quality players, and a scattering of draft picks.” He ran down the list, picking out players at random. He had no idea what the Cardinals needed, nor did he frankly give a damn.

Wright's response was quick this time—“Nope.”

It wasn't so much the rejection of the offer that started Jon's blood boiling, but the obvious enjoyment in it. Wright was having fun with the knowledge that he had something Jon wanted.

“Just like that? ‘Nope?'”

“Uh-huh.”

Jon offered another player, and then another.

“Sorry,” was Wright's quick response.

“Well, what would you want, then?”

“Everything,” Wright said simply.

“Everything?”

“Everything you've got left to spare.”

Jon paused, temporarily paralyzed by disbelief.

“Are you kidding?”

“No. And throw in Matt Israel, too.”

Israel was one of the Ravens' guards, a perennial Pro Bowler and generally considered the best at his position in the league. Of all Wright's flaws, perhaps his most severe was his inability to acquire effective offensive lineman. The five he had drafted during his tenure were no longer with the team; three of them were out of football altogether. Wright had made the mistake in 1998 of publicly criticizing Israel, calling him an “overrated overachiever.” The press crucified him for the remark after Israel began to shine with the Ravens, and it soon became another bone of contention between him and Jon.

“You're out of your fuh—you're crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe, but those are my terms.”

“Well, here's what you can do with them!”

He slammed the phone down with such force that a silver cup on the edge of the desk tipped over, spilling pens and pencils everywhere.

Susan Schiff appeared, holding a folder against her chest. She wore the scowling expression of a disapproving wife.

“That didn't help.”

Jon looked out the window at nothing in particular. “I know.”

*   *   *

By three thirty he was back behind his desk, staring at the phone, reluctant to pick it up but fully aware that he had no choice. The draft was less than twenty-four hours away; time was running out. The task before him loomed like a death sentence.

He had explored other options, lifted other stones to see what was underneath. But, eventually, he was forced to call a meeting and break the bad news. Connally had calmed down from the T-shirt blunder but blew his top again when he heard this. Clearly he regarded the McKinley issue as yesterday's crisis and already settled. If there was one thing he hated, it was a recurring problem. In the end, however, he gave his blessing to parting with Darryl Bailey. So did Cary Blanchard, although he was clearly pissed. They reasoned that keeping him and not having a quarterback was worse than dealing him and having Christian McKinley. The loss would be tremendous, but not debilitating—they did have two other receivers. One was a five-year veteran easily as talented and capable as DB. The other was a kid entering his second year, having been drafted in the third round the previous April, and was starting to show signs of maturity and reliability. He'd just have to develop a little faster. Maybe they'd rely a little more on the running game and on short passes, too, Blanchard said. Either way, they'd make it work. They had no choice.

Regardless, Jon couldn't be happy about letting DB go, whom he considered something of an adopted son. That was the nature of the business, he reminded himself as he picked up the phone and tapped in Henderson's number. Thinking this usually made him feel better, but not today.

Skip picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Skip? Jon Sabino.”

“Well, I didn't expect to hear from you again so soon. Calling about the first overall pick again?”

“Yes I am.”

“With a new offer?”

“Yes.”

Skip laughed. Jon could picture him shaking his head. “This is getting ridiculous. No one's going to believe it.”

“I'm not sure I believe it myself.”

“Okay, what have you got?”

“Not much different from last time, except … you can have Darryl Bailey.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, if that'll do it. I know you said you didn't want offensive guys, but we simply have nothing left on defense to give, here or elsewhere. And I'm gambling that you still like the guy. If not, I think we're going to have to let it go. This really is our final offer. Will it do the trick?”

Skip didn't hesitate—“You bet it will. The pick is yours.”

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Thank God.” The wave of satisfaction that followed was considerably smaller than it had been in the past. This was about as bitter a victory as he'd ever experienced.
McKinley, you better turn out to be the best damn quarterback in history.…

“I'll have Susie fax over the terms to make it official.”

“Sounds good.”

“If anything changes, will you let me know?”

“Of course, but I wouldn't worry too much.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“True, but this is a pretty big deal.”

“Okay, I'll talk to you later.”

“You got it. And hey—don't worry, we'll take good care of him.”

Jon allowed himself a tiny smile. “I know you will.”

He hung up the phone and summoned his secretary.

“Susie, we've cut another deal with Skip for that pick. It's ours again.”

She glanced at the clock—a habit she seemed to have acquired in the last few hours—and said, “That's great.”

“I guess. Please fax the details.”

“Let me get my pad.” She turned to leave.

“You won't need it,” Jon said, stopping her. “All you have to do is add one name to the last offer.”

“Okay.”

Jon sighed and looked at her helplessly. “Darryl Bailey.”

Her small mouth fell open.

“Yeah, I know.” He wanted to explain his reasoning, like a man who knew he'd committed a crime but felt it would be looked upon differently if everyone
understood
why he did it. But the truth was he wasn't sure
he
understood. He thought about the galling number of picks and players they were giving up to get one guy—
one damn guy
—and realized it would be impossible to explain it in such a way that it made sense to her or anyone else.

He shook his head and waved her away. “Just do it before I change my mind.”

He waited a little while before picking up the phone again. Breaking the news to DB was going to be, he suddenly realized, a lot more difficult than making the offer to Skip. He hated—
hated
—the idea of doing it over the phone. It was about as impersonal as dumping a girlfriend over e-mail. In the past Jon gave players the bad news in person; it was his policy. When a player was cut after training camp during the league's mandatory paring down of the roster, the coaches took care of it. When it was a business decision, Jon did it.

Some days this job really sucks.…

17

Darryl Bailey had
just come
out of the shower, wearing only a towel and a pair of Adidas flip-flops, when the call came.

He was in a great mood. He and Ryan Hart, the Ravens' tight end, had a dinner reservation at the Havana Club, one of Baltimore's hottest new hangouts. Ryan was bringing his latest girlfriend, whom he said he loved with all his heart. He asked Darryl if she should bring along a friend for him; Darryl declined. Afterwards they were going to a party being held by another teammate. He laid out a new $1,200 suit that he was looking forward to seeing himself in. Bernadette was in DC visiting an old college friend and wouldn't be back for a few days. He missed her, but he enjoyed his time alone, too. This was going to be a fun night.

He sat down on the bed and plucked the phone from its cradle.

“Hello?”

“Darryl? It's Jon Sabino.”

DB smiled. “Hey, what's happening, big daddy?” He took his gold bracelet from the nightstand and hung it over his wrist, half paying attention to the call while trying to get the damn thing hooked together with his oversized fingers.

“Not a whole lot. How about you?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just getting ready to go out with Ryan.” He didn't need to add the surname—Jon knew who was friends with who on his team.

“Oh, very good.”

Jon's voice was flat, weary, Darryl noticed. Then he realized how unusual this call was—the draft was less than twenty-four hours away. Why would he be contacting one of his players now?

“What's up? Is something wrong?”

“Um…” Jon paused, sighed. “Well, I don't know. That depends, I guess.”

Darryl's smile faded. Something hard and cold formed in his stomach.

“On what?”

“God, I wish there was time to handle this properly. Look, Darryl, I think I have to trade you tomorrow. You're going to go to the Chargers so we can get the first overall pick and take Christian McKinley.”

Darryl, hunched over with his elbows on his thighs, froze.

“What…?” It was barely a whisper.

“If there was some other way to get the deal done, I'd do it, I swear. I held out as long as I could.” He paused, then added, “I just ran out of options. I'm sorry.”

“I don't understand…”

“I'm sorry, Darryl,” Jon repeated. “If there's anything I can do to make it easier for you, just let me know. I know how much you love it here.”

“No … no, that's all right. I understand. It's a business.”

“It
is
a business,” Jon replied, “and sometimes I have to make unpleasant decisions. Believe me, if there was any other way I could've made this deal, I would've done so. I waited until there were no other options. Do you believe that?”

“Yeah, sure I do.”

“Good, because it's true.”

There was a longish pause, during which Jon was waiting for Darryl to say something; anything.

“Hey, are you there?”

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“Again, I'm sorry. If you need anything, just let me know. And please, don't say anything to the media, okay? They'll know tomorrow.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Thanks.”

Bailey pressed the off button and tossed the phone on the bed. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his movements slow and dreamlike.

And just like that, his long and glorious ride through the football heavens was over. He wouldn't see another Super Bowl, that was for sure. The Ravens would acquire McKinley and get there instead, and he would miss his chance to be a part of one of the biggest moments in football history.

He folded his hands together and rested them against his mouth in a posture of deep contemplation. He wished Bernadette was here. He feared going back to the West Coast, where his old friends would no doubt be waiting. The temptation would be too great. There wouldn't be a throng of adoring fans to compensate like there was here. Everyone loved you when you were a winner. Simply being a winner was enough of a high, so artificial highs were unnecessary. But being on a struggling team was a different story. You sought solace wherever you could find it. Going back to California was more than a professional death sentence. It would be personally devastating, too.

He picked up the phone and entered the number Bernadette had left. They talked for over an hour, and she was wonderfully supportive. He still didn't tell her about the injury, but he came close several times and knew he would eventually; and probably sooner rather than later.

He also thought about calling his agent, but what would be the point? The Ravens had the right to do what they did. Trying to fight it would only make him look childish. Besides, why fight to stay on a team that decided it doesn't want you?

He left the phone off the hook and buried it under a pillow. The hardness in his stomach was now roughly the size of a bowling ball. He felt close to vomiting. How could he go out with Ryan now? He didn't want to see anyone, but he didn't want to sit around here, either. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do.

Then, like waking from a dream, reality rushed back in and he remembered—You've got a stinger. You're damaged goods. No one knows that. Not Jon, not Skip Henderson.

What's going to happen when they find out?

*   *   *

They assembled on the field at La Salle University just as the sun was rising behind the bleachers.

At first it was just Raymond and Quincy, beginning one the most important days in Raymond's football career with what seemed to the young quarterback like an endless litany of stretches and calisthenics. Then a two-mile jog around the track, followed by a series of wind sprints. Quincy was merciless when it came to warm-up exercises, but Raymond gritted his teeth and forged ahead. He was dressed in light shorts and a hooded nylon jacket. Quincy, for the first time in nearly twenty years, put on a sweatsuit and sneakers. He had no intention of running alongside his beloved son, for he knew he would've collapsed, gasping for breath, after the first hundred yards. But the process of getting into the outfit was a near-religious experience for him, carrying his spirit to euphoric heights. The suit, along with new socks, sneakers, and cap, had been purchased by Raymond with some of the money from Jon Sabino's temporary rights deal. Quincy felt an old excitement—one that he thought was long gone from his emotional menu—when he stepped onto that field, opened the canvas bag full of equipment they'd brought along, and caught the scent of the freshly mown grass beneath him. It was as if time had stood still, the years had vanished, and he was a young man again. And he decided in that moment that he would bury the last of the bitterness, slough the bad memories, and, at last, move ahead. He would share in his son's journey, guide him around traps and pitfalls, and lead him to whatever greatness awaited. This wasn't just a chance for the boy, he realized—it was a chance for
him
as well.