The Draft (9 page)

But that was in the fall, not now. Right now the field would be empty. No players, no fans, no coaches. Not even a lone security guard. Nothing but pools of rain and bits of trash. Jon had always been fascinated by the abruptness with which each season ended. One minute you had the circuslike atmosphere of the Super Bowl, the next … nothing. Like the falling of an ax blade. The players went home and the locker room became an unlit stage set.

He returned to his desk, picked up the phone, and tapped in the number Susan Schiff had written on a blue Post-It. It rang twice, then a pleasant female voice said, “Good morning, Skip Henderson's office.”

“Hi, this is Jon Sabino of the Baltimore Ravens. Is Skip available?”

“I'll check, please hold.”

The sound of a roaring crowd provided the backdrop to an enthusiastic male voice giving instructions on ordering tickets, merchandise, and fan club memberships. Jon wondered how the media would react if he joined San Diego's fan club.

Then a new voice, with a raspy Southern accent, cut in—“Hey, Jon Sabino, how are you doing?”

“Good afternoon, Skip. Or I guess I should say good morning to you.”

“That's right. It's not even ten o'clock out here yet. How are things back East?”

“Well, not so good,” Jon said. “Not so good.”

“No, I guess not. To be honest, I was wondering when you'd call.”

Jon smiled again. Skip was letting him know that
he
knew the tight position he was in, just so there wasn't any confusion on that point.

“Well, I had to take care of some preliminary business beforehand. But here I am. I wish this could be a social call, but circumstances dictate otherwise.”

“Yeah. It's a real shame what happened to Bell. A real shame.”

“Tell me about it.”

“How's he doing?”

“We're not sure yet. We'll know more in a few days.”

“It looked pretty scary when they brought him in.”

Jon rose and began pacing. He wasn't able to sit still for long periods. “It sure did.”

“I remember when I first heard about Dale Earnhardt. He was unconscious when they brought him in, too. I remember saying to Debbie, ‘That's not a good sign.'”

“No, usually it isn't.”
He's digging for information
, Jon thought. Trying to obtain clues as to Bell's long-term condition so he could better position himself for the negotiation. If Bell's career was over, the pick would be even more valuable. Asking for such information outright would be a breach of etiquette, so he simply disguised it as concern. Jon had little doubt that Skip truly cared about Bell's health. But he also cared about the San Diego Chargers, and Jon understood this. It was his job.

“So look, I'm not going to dance around the point here. I think you know why I'm calling.”

“I'm guessing it has something to do with that big fat pick we've got.”

“Correct.”

“I figured as much.”

“Yeah, you and every sportswriter in the country. There's no sense in playing games, Skip, so I'll just ask outright—one, are you willing to part with the pick, and two, if so, what are you hoping to get for it?”

This was merely a courtesy question. He was already well aware that Henderson had been shopping it around.

“Well, I'll tell you—I
am
willing to give up the pick. For the right deal, I certainly am.”

“And, if I'm not mistaken, a few other teams are interesting in it as well. Am I right?”

“You are.”

“The Chiefs, the Seahawks, the Broncos, and the Texans, I believe.”

“You are well informed.”

“It helps to read the papers.”

Skip laughed—a big, hearty Texas guffaw. “That's a fact. Look, what I plan to do is this—I will inform the team that offers the best deal that they're in the top spot. Then I will tell the other interested teams, but I won't reveal any specifics. When this whole thing is all over, I'll make all the information available so everyone knows I've been playing it straight. Sound okay to you?”

By leaving out the names of the players and teams involved, it was impossible for an interested bidder to contact another one and sway their decision or conspire against the seller.

“Fine.”

“Good. For the moment, then, the Chiefs are in the top spot. If the draft started right now, the pick would be theirs.”

“Okay.”

“Now, as for what I'm looking to get, well … why don't you tell me what you have in mind, and we'll take it from there?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Okay, sure. I sat down with a few other guys around here—Blanchard, Kevin Tanner, you know, the usual suspects—and we tried to get a fix on what your greatest needs were. We've gone through your roster pretty exhaustively, and we believe we've put together an excellent package offer.”

“I'm all ears.”

“All right. First, concerning the upcoming draft, you can have our first four picks. That's the last pick of the first round, two picks in the second round—forty-fourth and sixty-fourth overall—and our third-round pick, which is ninety-sixth overall.”

Jon paused for just a moment to gauge Henderson's reply. None came.

“As for established talent,” he went on, “we've surmised that you've got some rebuilding to do. In fact, if you don't mind my saying so, it looks to be quite a bit.”

“Yep,” Skip replied, “that's no secret. We're in bad shape.”

“Okay, so, with that said, our offer will cover both sides of the ball. On offense, we'd like to give you running back Aaron Holloway, who is only in his second year and is quite good; rookie center Barrett Blake; tackle Keith Kubat; and guard Jared Cope. Kubat is a solid third-year man, and Cope is a first-rate veteran. He'll bring a lot of seniority to your team.”

Another pause as Jon waited for some reaction. All he received this time was a murmured,
Mm-hmm.…

“On defense, we've got third-year safety Milton Love; veteran linebacker Brett Savage; veteran end Corey Holbrook; and rookie end Alan Hill.”

Now that the package was complete, Jon was sure Henderson would be so blown away by it he'd have to call 911 for emergency cardiac treatment. It was, by far, the most generous deal he'd ever made. According to Kevin Tanner, it was one of the most generous in league history. There was no way Skip could say no.
No way.

“Well, I'll tell you, Jon, that sounds like a pretty good deal. But I'm afraid it won't turn the trick.”

Jon stopped pacing. “What's that?”

“I'm afraid it's not comparable to what I already have on the table from another bidder.”

Jon scanned the roster quickly and picked out a name almost at random.

“What if I included Buster McDaniels, our other running back? That'd give you a nice backfield combo.”

“No, I don't—”

“And our sixth-round pick, too?”

“No, that won't—”

“Wait a second, Skip, let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“Have you already dealt this pick? Am I doing all this just for laughs?”

“Holy Jesus, no!” Henderson replied with a chuckle. “Not at all, son. I wouldn't play games like that. No, the pick is still very much available.”

“Then I don't understand. It seems like this package we've put together is—”

“Headed in the wrong direction,” Henderson said.

Jon paused again. “In the wrong direction? We're offering—”

“I need defense, Jon. Plain and simple. That's where I'm going to start. You've outlined a nice package, but it's not what we're looking for.”

“Defense? Only defense?”

“For now, yes. We went over and over this point on my end, and we decided that's the best place to start our reconstruction. If we can focus on keeping our opponents from scoring, maybe we can win a few games, even with this lousy offense, with just one or two touchdowns. We've got a solid kicker, and our quarterback isn't too bad. We need some linemen to protect him, but what we really need is a defense. That's what wins championships, right?”

Jon was back at his desk, scanning the roster and flipping through pages of data.
Sonofabitch
, he thought bitterly.
They've been an offense-oriented team all these years, and now he's taking them in an entirely new direction.
And every other team Skip had ever worked for had been offensive-minded, too, so Jon thought he had a good read on the matter.
Dammit …

“Right, right. Okay, forget all the offensive guys I just mentioned. Take the five draft picks, plus Love, Savage, Holbrook, and Hill, and I'll add Buckley and Northbrook, too.”

“Jon,” Henderson began, speaking like a patient father, “Northbrook's a dud. And you can't afford the cap hit his accelerated bonus would give you.”

Jon Sabino was stunned that Skip knew this so quickly. He'd only been there a few weeks.

“And Buckley's not a performer. Nine years in the league and he's had one Pro Bowl season. He's slow and a bit too small for a cornerback. I'm sorry, Jon, those two additions don't help.”

“What about the first four I mentioned? Savage, Holbrook, Hill, and Love?”

“Savage and Holbrook are old-timers. I'd get a year out of them if I was lucky. And Hill's a rookie. I don't need rookies. Milton Love, though, he's got promise. I'll take him off your hands.”

“So I guess you wouldn't want Harper, either.”

“That's right. Send him to the retirement home.”

“Okay … what about Bartlett?” Jon pleaded, sliding down to from the “can trade” section to the “prefer to keep” area. He was hoping he wouldn't have to do this at any point. Now, only ten minutes into the first call, it was unavoidable. “He's in great shape and probably our best backup. A tremendous cornerback with a real future.”

“Mmm … I agree. Now
that's
a good offering. I'll take him in a heartbeat.”

Jon smiled. “Good, so we've got a deal?”

His heart sank when Henderson chuckled. “No, not quite yet.”

“Huh?”

“The picks don't do me any good, either, Jon. We already have other draft picks this year, remember? I can't use picks—I need
players.
I need guys who can perform
right now.
First of all, your draft picks are so low that each kid we took would be a gamble. That's wasted money as far as I'm concerned. Second, the Hewlett family wants results immediately. And frankly, so do the fans. If this team doesn't turn around quick there's going to be a rebellion in this town. That's why I was brought here—to get things moving. If I go back to Carlton Hewlett, Sr., and say, ‘Well, we're thinking of building up slowly, through the draft,' he's going to send my ass out the door so fast my clothes'll have to catch up with me.”

Jon felt the situation was drifting beyond acceptable boundaries. A package that looked so good fifteen minutes ago seemed like a pile of crap now.

“Well, you can use those draft picks to deal higher up and get better talent. You could make trades with other teams for—”

“No, that's your job,” Skip said flatly. “I'm not going to get into that whole mess when I've got other teams already offering me real talent. Jon, you're a terrific GM. One of the best in the business. So I don't need to point out that you have to offer a comparable deal if you want to compete in this situation. Offensive players and low draft picks are not the answer.”

Jon studied his list of defensive players. “We just don't have that much to offer in the defensive area. You're telling me the Chiefs do?” Like all good general managers, he was familiar not only with his own roster but those of other teams in the league. “They haven't had a good defense in ages. What are they offering, their whole starting squad?”

“No. In fact, they're not offering much off their own list at all.”

Jon was dumbstruck; a reaction he didn't experience often. He sat in his black leather chair and stared into space as a gaudy pendulum clock with a swinging Ravens logo marked off the seconds on the wall behind him.

“You mean they're doing deals with other teams?”

“You got it.”

“Good God…”

Henderson snorted a little laugh. “I know, it's pretty amazing. They must really want this pick. And, just so you know, the Texans and the Seahawks have been doing the same thing. I don't know about the Broncos. I haven't heard from them in a while.”

Jon was barely listening. His mind was swirling with the manifold implications of what Skip just said—multiple teams making multiple deals with multiple other teams in an attempt to put together the best defensive package in order to secure one draft pick. It was enormous; potentially historic in its proportions. And he knew he had no choice but to get involved in it.

“Uh, okay, Skip. Okay…” He swallowed into a dry throat and grabbed a nearby sheet of paper. He didn't know what was on it; it could've been the original copy of the goddamned Gettysburg Address for all he cared. He flipped it over, took a pencil from his cup, and began scribbling.

“I'm jotting down everything we just talked about. I'm making notes here, making notes. I'll try to get something together for you, and soon, of course.”

“Sounds good.”

“Sorry about the first misstep. I had no idea.”

“That's all right. Good luck.”

“I don't suppose you're willing to tell me who the Chiefs—”

“No, I can't do that.”

“I didn't think so. Okay, thanks. I'll be calling back shortly.”

“Talk to you then.”

He hung up the phone and kept scribbling. Suggestions, ideas, calculations—stream-of-consciousness stuff, free thinking and totally devoid of structure. He had to open his mind, search outside the box;
way
outside. This was going to be a challenge and a half. Totally unexpected, totally infuriating, and totally unavoidable.