The Draft (32 page)

Raymond managed a tiny smile. “Okay, Dad.”

“That's my boy. So I'll see you tomorrow then, bright and early.”

“Absolutely.”

“And remember—choices.”

“I'll remember.”

“Good.”

As Quincy was walking out, Althea said, “Quince?”

The tall man froze—he could not recall the last time he'd heard her address him in this way.

He leaned back, his head appearing around the open door. “Yes?”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

No one moved, no one breathed, for what seemed like a long time but was probably no more than five seconds.

“I'd like that,” Quincy replied with a surprised smile, turning back and, almost without realizing it, tucking his shirt in and buttoning the cuffs.

*   *   *

When Connally heard about the settlement Jon had to make with Wahlberg, he took it particularly hard. He wanted to “sue that little bastard into oblivion.” He even went so far as to suggest hiring someone to find a few skeletons in Wahlberg's closet. He must have a few, Connally reasoned. People of that ilk always did. Find them and use them. It was a very effective technique, he said with an air of experience that Jon found particularly unsettling.

In the end, however, Jon convinced him to just let it go. Drafting McKinley was the priority now, and in order to do that they simply had to get Wahlberg out of their hair. If it cost them a little, so be it. They couldn't win every battle. You could lose a few battles and still win the war, he pointed out. But Connally would never completely let go of his bitterness toward Wahlberg. Jon knew simply by his body language that it was something he'd think about. The downside was that Wahlberg probably didn't plan on agenting another athlete in his life, and he wouldn't have to, either. He'd have enough money to live in comfort until he was a hundred and fifty.

Back in his office, Jon called him on his cell phone.

“Okay, this is the offer—
if
we draft and decide to sign McKinley, we'll give you nine-point-six million over three years.” The only aspect of the deal that didn't make his stomach churn was the fact that at least most of the money would be going to Bell. After he healed he would still have some good years left on the field.

“That will be fine,” Wahlberg replied. He was all peaches and cream now, Jon's good buddy and just another upstanding member of the football community.

“The smallest payment will come in the first year, and the other two progressively larger. But we can't afford to take a big hit in the first year because McKinley will no doubt ask for a big signing bonus.”

“Right, I understand,” Wahlberg said, open-minded fellow that he was. “No problem.”

“In return, your client will be released from the team and all ties severed.” Just the idea of it was heartbreaking.
So long, Mike. Don't forget all the good times we had
.…

“Correct. And the paperwork?”

“I'll fax the proposal to you as soon as we're finished writing it up. Remember, it's just a proposal at this stage, not a deal. It's all academic until after the draft.”

“Got it.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, that's about it.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks for everything, Jon. I really appreciate it.”

Jon hung up without responding. No sooner had he hung up the phone than it rang again.

Without the formality of a hello, Kevin Tanner said, “Jon, have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I think you'd better turn on ESPN right now.”

18

Brendan Cavanaugh was sitting
behind his desk when the news hit.

The information Macintosh had given him an hour earlier was useful, but only to a degree. It was good to know the Ravens had reached their limit, but he still had to top it. If there was more room to trim, he sure as hell couldn't find it. He went up and down the roster looking for a name.

He thought about the deal Sabino tried to make with the Cardinals—Macintosh had told him all about it. Not a bad idea, really. Maybe he would give it a shot, too. He didn't like Tom Wright much either, but he had never been stupid enough to say so publicly. Maybe Wright would cut him a break. Maybe he'd be more amenable to a deal once he knew he'd be helping to wrestle McKinley away from Jon Sabino.

Cavanaugh was mildly annoyed when the phone rang—he'd asked Jodi to hold all calls for the time being.

“Me again,” Macintosh said.

“Yeah, what's up?”

“Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About Darryl Ba—oh wait, turn on ESPN, quick. Trust me, you're gonna wanna to see this.”

Cavanaugh spun around and snatched up the remote that he kept on his desk. A large, recessed screen came to life. One of the station's fresh-faced young broadcasters was behind the desk, holding some papers and looking rather serious. In the upper right-hand corner was an inset picture of Darryl Bailey.

“What the hell is this?”

“Just watch.”

“… has reported in their latest issue that Baltimore Ravens wide receiver Darryl Bailey has been taking unauthorized cortisone shots to hide an injury suffered during the last Super Bowl. The article goes on to say that Bailey would neither deny nor confirm the report, and calls to both Bailey and his agent, Derrick Bayliss, have gone unanswered.”

Cavanaugh, smiling and unable to take his eyes off the screen, said softly, “I can't believe it.”

“Believe it. The deal's off with the Chargers. Sabino just got through talking with Skip Henderson.” Macintosh laughed.

“What a loser.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I thought you should know. I have a feeling you'll be getting a call from the West Coast any time.”

“Thanks, thanks a lot.”

“My pleasure.”

Cavanaugh felt the stress drain from his system. Leaning back in his chair to enjoy the rest of the report, he began humming “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

*   *   *

Jon Sabino had never been to Darryl Bailey's house before. He wished his first visit could've been under better circumstances. Bernadette showed him into the living room and gave him a Coke. They chatted for a few minutes, and Jon realized Bernadette knew about the stinger, and that she, too, hadn't been told about it right away, because she was clearly pretty pissed off. He also sensed she wasn't going to discuss it to any degree; she was leaving that for the two of them.

Then the door to the master bedroom opened and DB appeared. He was dressed in a black tracksuit and sneakers. The top was unzipped most of the way, revealing a plain white T-shirt.

He did not, Jon noted, make immediate eye contact. His head was hung low; a posture of defeat. Amazing, how no trace of that winner's swagger could be found.
Miserable
, Jon thought. That's how he looked. The very embodiment of the word
miserable.

He slumped into the love seat and Bernadette withdrew, giving DB a fairly frosty look at the way out.

Jon sighed. “So it's true? You're taking cortisone and hiding an injury? I came to get it straight from you.”

DB closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, it's all true.”

“What's the injury?”

“A stinger.” He motioned towards the affected area. “Right up here, where they always are.”

“You got it at the Super Bowl?”

“Yeah.”

“That last catch, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Jon shook his head. “I
knew
you shouldn't have been playing. Why didn't Cary—”

“Coach had nothing to do with it,” Bailey said quickly. “I wanted to play. I wanted to be in there. I kept bugging him.”

“Why? The game was already won. You didn't need—”

“The normal stupid reasons—more stats, more exposure. You know how it goes. Can't get enough. There's a feeling at the big one, Jon, like no other. I wanted to be out there, living it. You never know if you're gonna get back. I didn't want to let it go. One more minute, one more play.…” He buried his head in his hands. “You have to be out there to understand.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Bailey managed a laugh. “Because I would've been gone. I know how it is with stingers. Everybody thinks you're damaged goods. I would've been gone.”

Jon didn't respond, but he knew DB was right. If he'd come clean about it, Blanchard may very well have placed him in the can trade category on the roster last week.

Finally, Bailey said, “I'm so sorry, man.”

Jon sighed. “Yeah, me too. Have you spoken to your attorney yet?”

“On the phone once. He'll be here in a little while.”

“Good.”

“Has anyone else come to see you or called?”

“My mom.”

Sabino surprised himself with a little smile. “That was nice,” he said.

“Yeah.”

An awkward moment crept in. Maybe it was time to go, Jon thought.

Then DB said, “So I guess that's it for me, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the game. I guess I'm finished.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “How many chances do you get? The Chargers won't want me now.”

“You aren't part of the Chargers' organization. You're part of ours.”

For the first time in a while, some light shone in DB's eyes. “You're going to keep me around? After this?”

“Well, let's see what happens with the injury. Let's get you some real medical attention and see how things turn out.”

“What about your deal for McKinley?”

“Oh hell, that's history.”

“Because of this?”

“Yeah, because of this.”

Bailey closed his eyes and dropped his head again. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. We'll figure out something else,” Sabino said, although he had no idea what that something might be.

“I'm gonna be suspended.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Let's see what happens. Let's see if we can find a way to make it all work out, for us, for you … everyone.”

Bailey looked up and smiled.

“Thanks, man.” He put his hand out and Jon took it.

“You're welcome.”

On the way back to the offices, Jon pondered the situation further.
We'll figure out something else
, he'd said. But with so little time and so few options left, all he felt he could do was pray for a miracle.

So he prayed.

19

Raymond arrived at the Ravens'
training facility in his aging Ford Explorer just before one thirty. Quincy was in the passenger seat, Pearly in the back. Pearly had barely said a word during the two-hour journey down I-95. Mostly it was Quincy trying to get his son into the optimal frame of mind for the situation. He offered his best guesses as to what Blanchard would be looking at most closely, what his highest priorities might be.

Raymond pulled into a parking space near the front and got out. He took one look at the facade of the main building—with its handsome archways and stately stonework—and felt the first pangs of nervousness. He managed to get a full night's sleep and wake up with no jitters. And even his father's constant chatter on the ride down hadn't let loose the butterflies. But now, standing in this sunny visitors' lot, a very small figure shadowed by of one of the most beautiful buildings he'd ever seen—like something from an Ivy League college campus—he suddenly realized the magnitude of the situation.

This is really happening.

Quincy helped extract Pearly from the back seat. He was stiff from the long ride and stepped to the pavement with a groan. Raymond watched this and could not help but be moved. There he was, making the trip to see his nephew, as faithfully supportive as always.
This wouldn't even be happening if it wasn't for him
, Raymond thought.
I wouldn't even be here.

Another vehicle pulled in—a stone grey BMW with New York plates. It turned into the spot two over from Raymond's, and Freddie Friedman got out, twirling his keys around his finger and smiling. From the other side, Eric Ross also appeared, wearing mirror sunglasses and a grin of his own.

“So, whaddaya think?” he asked, motioning towards the magnificent architecture. “Pretty impressive, huh?”

“It's amazing,” Raymond said. “La Salle had nothing like this.”

Friedman and Ross both laughed. “No other team in the
NFL
has anything like this,” Freddie told him. “This is as state of the art as it gets. It cost more than thirty million bucks. It has swimming pools, lounges, a full-service kitchen, and several practice fields, including one that's indoors.”

“My God,” Quincy said.

The front door to the complex opened, and Jon Sabino emerged.

“Welcome to our headquarters,” he said. “Did you have a good trip?”

“It was fine,” Raymond said, staring past him, still in awe.

Jon laughed. “It's quite a place, isn't it? Come on in and I'll give you the tour.”

They moved across the road in a herd and filed inside. Over the next thirty minutes they were taken past a game room (where linebacker Earle Webster was playing a Ravens pinball machine while defensive end Dexter Simmons shot pool with wide receiver Anthony Jennings), two racquetball courts, a suite of executive offices, several corporate meeting rooms, a media area, a dining hall, a fully equipped digital film center, and a locker room that was immaculately clean. Raymond noted in particular the large number of plasma TV screens; they seemed to be everywhere. He must've seen thirty of them already.

Finally, Jon took them into the weight room, which seemed to stretch on forever. More widescreen plasma TVs everywhere, so the players would have something to watch while they sweat.