Cover-up (4 page)

Once Stevie had checked in, Kelleher and Mearns told him to come to room 1748 after he had dropped his bags in his room. “I thought we were going to eat?” Stevie said.

“We are,” Kelleher said. “Or, you are. Tell me what you want and I'll order room service. We have a surprise for you.”

Stevie wasn't sure he could handle any more surprises. But he asked Kelleher to order him a hamburger, french fries, and a Coke and took the elevator to his room on the twelfth floor. He dropped his bags on the bed and noticed it was after eleven o'clock. No wonder he felt exhausted. He knew media day for the two teams began at nine the next morning. Just going to sleep was appealing, but he
was
hungry. “A quick hamburger, then right to bed,” he told himself as he walked back down the hall to the elevator.

He took it up to seventeen, walked around two corners until he found 1748, and knocked on the door. Almost before he had finished knocking, the door swung open and Stevie's jaw just about hit the floor.

“Stevie!” Susan Carol Anderson said, pulling him into the room and throwing her arms around him. “I didn't think you were
ever
going to get here.”

Stevie saw Kelleher and Mearns sitting in armchairs behind her. Susan Carol stood back from him. “Let me look at you,” she said. “Tamara, you're right—he's at least five eight.”

Height had been an issue from the first time they had met ten months earlier in New Orleans. Stevie had grown about three inches since then, but Susan Carol was still taller.

“Generous,” he said, laughing. “And when are you going to stop growing?”

“Soon, I hope,” she said. “You are catching up, though. I used to be five inches taller than you—”

“Four,” he interrupted.

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “Four. Now it's closer to two.”

It looked more like three to Stevie, but why argue. She was as pretty as ever, even with her hair tied into a long ponytail. Stevie could see by the looks on Kelleher and Mearns's faces that the entire conversation amused them.

“I thought you were at the Canterbury?” he said, following her into the room.

“I am. Bobby and Tamara asked me over so I could surprise you. I was so glad to get out of there. When I checked in, there were a bunch of TV crews who wanted to talk about what happened.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“No. There were like three USTV PR guys there and they kept saying there was nothing for me to say because I had nothing to do with the change. Which is true, of course. But what's more true is they know I'd blast them. They've told me if I say anything negative about the network, I'll have breached my contract.”

“What are they going to do, fire you?” Kelleher said. “You're the big star, remember?”

“I guess you're right,” Susan Carol said. “But if I'm going to have to live with these people all week, it's easier if I'm not fighting with them every second.”

There was a knock on the door and Tamara stood up to answer it. “Susan Carol's right,” she said. “And she doesn't need to rip USTV. Everyone else is already doing it.”

She opened the door for the room service waiter. As soon as he had put Stevie's food on the table and left, Kelleher switched topics.

“So how did you end up riding with Sean McManus?” he asked. “What kind of job is he recruiting you for?”

Stevie told them all the story as he ate, finishing with “I know what you're going to say, Bobby—and this time I'm going to listen. No more TV for me.”

“Except this is different,” Kelleher said.

“Why? Because it's CBS?” Stevie said.

“Because it's Sean,” Kelleher answered. “He's not your typical TV exec. Maybe it's because of who his father is, I'm not sure, but he's never acted like being in TV makes him important. He's as nice as he seems, and, more important, he's honest.”

“Who's his father?” Susan Carol asked.

Kelleher gave her a surprised look. “Susan Carol, as much as you know about sports history, I thought
you'd
know. His dad's Jim McKay.”

“
The
Jim McKay?” Susan Carol asked, repeating a name Stevie didn't know.

“Uh-huh,” Kelleher said. “You've never heard of him, have you, Stevie?”

“Um, no.”

Susan Carol gave him the lack-of-sports-knowledge-sigh-and-eye-roll combination. “Jim McKay is only
the
most important sports broadcaster in history,” she said, looking at Kelleher, who nodded in affirmation. “He was the voice of ABC Sports for years and years.
Wide World of Sports,
the Olympics, golf. He was the one who said ‘the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.'”

“He was also the one who gave the world the news when the hostages were killed in Munich,” Tamara added.

“That
was
twenty years before I was born,” Stevie said—a weak defense, he knew, but the best he had.

“The point is,” Kelleher said, “Sean grew up in a TV home, he grew up around famous people. He respects Jim Nantz and Dick Enberg, and he knows the importance of having stars working for the network, but he seems to take the glitz stuff in stride.”

“So are you saying I should do it?” Stevie asked.

“I'm saying you should listen to what he has to say. It's only for the week, and if he promises not to tie you up all day, the
Herald
won't have a problem with it. Plus”—Kelleher paused as a grin crept onto his face—“it would be a great way to
really
stick it to USTV.”

Stevie hadn't thought of it that way. But a little revenge did sound sweet. He looked at Susan Carol. “What do you think?” he said to her.

She gave him her smile, the one most people found irresistible. “I think you ought to go for it,” she said. “Mostly because you'll be good. But I'd also like to see the look on Mike Shupe's face when he finds out.”

“Maybe you can,” Stevie said. “If it works out, you can give him the news yourself.” He took a massive bite of his hamburger. It tasted very, very good.

4:
TOP DRAFT PICK

WHEN STEVIE FINISHED EATING,
they walked Susan Carol downstairs to put her in a cab.

“I thought the hotel was only a couple blocks away,” Stevie said when Kelleher suggested it.

“Yeah, but they're long blocks, it's about twenty degrees out, and it's close to midnight,” Kelleher said.

The mention of midnight reminded Stevie how tired he was, and Bobby had already suggested meeting for breakfast at 7:30 so they would have time to walk to the Dome—which was across the street from the Marriott—and deal with picking up credentials and getting through security before media day, as the Tuesday of Super Bowl week was called, began at 9 a.m.

“I have a breakfast too,” Susan Carol said, rolling her eyes. “They want me there when they brief my new partner.”

Stevie liked her apparent disdain for Jamie Whitsitt, although he could still hear her saying on the phone, “He
is
gorgeous,” a few nights earlier. That didn't thrill him.

It was snowing lightly when they said good night to Susan Carol. Mearns shook her head as they walked back inside the lobby. “Snow in Indianapolis in February,” she said. “Who would have guessed?”

Stevie was probably asleep about five minutes after he put his key card into the door lock, which was a good thing since his wake-up call came soon after that—or so it seemed. Except it wasn't his wake-up call. It was Sean McManus.

“I know it's early,” he said. “But I was hoping to catch you before you leave for the Dome. Have you had a chance to talk to your parents about what we discussed last night?”

He hadn't. He told McManus he was about to call his father and one of them would call him back shortly one way or the other.

“I'm curious,” McManus said. “What'd Bobby think of the idea?”

“Surprisingly enough, he wasn't against it,” Stevie said. “He's not usually very high on television.”

“I know,” McManus said. “But I think he knows me well enough to know I'm not like the guys you've been working for. I'll be straight with you one way or the other.”

Stevie hung up with McManus and called his dad's cell phone—knowing he would be en route downtown to the office at that hour.

“Dad, I'm going to ask you something, and I know your first reaction is going to be
absolutely not,
but listen to the whole story first,” he said.

“Given your history at big events, whatever it is you're up to, the answer is
no,
” his father said. He was laughing when he said it, though, so Stevie plowed ahead and gave him chapter and verse on what had happened since his plane had arrived in Indianapolis.

“Never a dull moment in your life, is there?” Bill Thomas said. “Tell you what, give me McManus's phone number and I'll talk to him. I think I'll call Bobby first so I can hear firsthand what he thinks. If nothing else, we owe it to him to be sure he's okay with the idea since he's the reason you're there.”

“I agree.”

By the time Stevie reached the lobby restaurant, Kelleher had talked to Stevie's father. “As long as they offer you decent money—which I'm sure they will—there's no reason for you not to do it,” Kelleher said. “The only day you're on a tight deadline for us is the night of the game, and you won't be doing anything for CBS then.”

Tamara laughed. “The way things are going, Stevie might replace Jim Nantz by Sunday night.”

“I see myself more in the Phil Simms role,” Stevie said. “I'm more of an analyst than a play-by-play guy.”

“Sure,” Bobby said. “And just like Phil, you can talk about the Super Bowl in which you completed twenty-two of twenty-five passes and were the MVP.”

“Who was that against?” Tamara said. “I'm blocked.”

“Denver,” Bobby said. “Twenty years ago. I was a senior in high school.”

“I wasn't born,” Stevie said.

“You're killing me, kid. Let's go. You know what security will be like.”

Stevie remembered from the Final Four that it could take forever to pick up credentials and clear security on the first day. Even so, he wasn't prepared for the mob scene that greeted them once they had walked through the Indianapolis Convention Center, which was connected to the Dome, down a long hallway, following signs that said
MEDIA
and
CREDENTIAL PICKUP
. The good news was that the NFL public relations people clearly knew what they were doing. There were six lines for pickup arranged alphabetically. The only bad thing about that was that Stevie had to split from Mearns and Kelleher to get in the line marked
T–Z
.

While he was waiting, he heard someone behind him say, “So, even celebrities have to wait in line, eh?”

The voice was familiar. He turned and saw Joe Theismann standing behind him, a friendly smile on his face.

“Well, if you're on line, Mr. Theismann, then I guess celebrities
do
have to wait,” Stevie answered.

Theismann laughed and put out a hand. “It's Joe,” he said. “The only people not waiting in line this week work for CBS.”

That reminded Stevie that he still hadn't heard back from his dad about Sean McManus. Maybe he should have waited, he thought. He might have avoided waiting on line.

“What are you doing this week since ESPN isn't airing the game?” he asked Theismann.

“Little of everything. With ESPN, there's always some kind of show—radio or TV—that they want you on just about twenty-four hours a day. Today I'm supposed to take a crew onto the field and ask the quarterbacks if any of them can remember watching me when I played in the Super Bowl. Given that Eddie Brennan was two years old the last time I played in one, I don't like my chances.”

Stevie remembered that Theismann had quarterbacked the Washington Redskins into two straight Super Bowls—winning the first and losing the second.

“I think I've seen tapes of the second one,” he said, then stopped, because what he remembered was an awful interception Theismann had thrown.

“Yeah, I know, the interception,” Theismann said. “Every year about now people show that again and remind me. Twenty-four years ago and it might as well be yesterday.”

They had reached the front of the line. Stevie had learned his lesson from the Final Four about needing ID to pick up a credential. He'd had to send a
JPEG
photo because all Super Bowl credentials had photos on them. Now he showed the young woman working behind the desk his passport—which he had gotten after being hassled in New Orleans—along with his school ID. He waited to be told he needed a driver's license.

“I've seen your show,” the young woman said. “I'm sorry about what happened, but I'm glad you're here. Welcome.”

While she talked, she was pulling out a large envelope and a handsome computer case that said
SUPER BOWL XLII
—which in English, Stevie knew, meant Super Bowl 42.

“Your credential is inside the envelope,” she said. “Make sure you keep it around your neck at all times—the security folks are pretty strict about it. And if there's anything I can do to help you during the week, my name is Valery Levy.”

She put out her hand and gave him a smile that left Stevie a bit dazzled. Behind him, Stevie heard Theismann say, “Steve, there's no one better in the league office than Valery. She can solve any problem there is.”

“Oh, Joe,” Valery Levy said with a laugh, “you say that to all the girls.”

“Not anymore,” Theismann said, also laughing.

Kelleher and Mearns were waiting when Stevie thanked Valery Levy and put his credential around his neck. None of them had carried their computers over from the hotel since there would be plenty of time to go back to their rooms and write.

“The best thing about having the Super Bowl in Indianapolis is the logistics,” Kelleher said as they waited to go through the security checkpoint. “I was worried when they said they were building a new dome that it wouldn't be as convenient as the old one. But they just put a bigger, more modern building on essentially the same site.”

Stevie was about to walk through the metal detector when his cell phone rang.

“Sir, you need to turn the cell phone off to come through here,” a security guard said.

“Sorry,” Stevie said. He stepped out of line and answered the phone. It was Sean McManus.

“Can I call you right back? I'm going through security,” he said.

“Actually, our office is about fifty yards from where you are,” McManus said. “Why don't you just drop by here for a minute. I talked to your dad.”

“Okay,” Stevie said. He hung up, turned off the phone, and put it into the tray with his room key and some change. The security man was eyeing him skeptically, the way he was frequently eyed in these situations because of his age.

“Ever done this before?” he asked as Stevie stepped through the detector.

“Not at the Super Bowl,” Stevie answered.

That seemed to work. Stevie picked up his things and told Bobby and Tamara that he had just talked to Sean McManus.

“There's their office,” Kelleher said, pointing at a sign on the right side of the curving hallway they were now in. “The players will be on the field in about ten minutes. Don't take too long in there. You need to wander around, get a feel for all this.”

Stevie nodded. He and Bobby had discussed his role for the week. In part, Kelleher wanted Stevie to look for the offbeat story—players, or others, who weren't getting that much attention, the classic sidebar sort of story. But he had also told him to keep his eyes and ears open for anyone or anything that looked odd or different or out of place. “Generally speaking, there aren't many real stories here during the week,” Kelleher said. “These teams have been covered to death during the season. That's why anything—including Stevie Thomas being fired by USTV—can be a story.”

As he walked through the doors marked
CBS COMPOUND
, Stevie glanced at his watch. It was 8:53. The Ravens were due to arrive at nine. They would be available for ninety minutes, and then the Dreams would follow them onto the field for their ninety minutes. The teams would also be available on Wednesday and Thursday mornings, but only for sixty minutes. The extra thirty minutes, Stevie guessed, was why this was called “media day.”

Stevie knew from his football fanatic research that each team would go straight from their meetings with the media to practice and then head off for afternoon film sessions with their coaches after lunch. The coaches liked to say that they wanted Super Bowl week to be like any other week of practice prior to a game. Only there was no way that could be the case. For one thing, there was no other week in which the players were required to meet with 2,000 media members on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday; and no other week when they were locked into hotels for seven straight nights instead of just the night before the game.

In past years, Stevie remembered, there had occasionally been problems with restless players showing up at night on Bourbon Street in New Orleans or South Beach in Miami. He guessed that wouldn't be a problem in Indianapolis.

Sean McManus was waiting for him just inside the doorway. The CBS compound was actually part of a dimly lit backstage area of the Dome. It looked to Stevie as if a bunch of plywood walls had been thrown up for the week to create temporary office space.

“Home sweet home, huh?” McManus said, noticing Stevie looking around. “The glamorous world of TV. Come on back. Let's talk for a couple minutes. I know you need to get onto the field.”

He led Stevie through a maze of desks. All around, people were shouting at one another about which camera crew was where. He heard someone yelling, “Where is all the talent? We need them outside now for publicity shots!”

Stevie's brief TV experience had taught him that “talent” was a term for the people who worked on camera. In CBS's case that would include Jim Nantz, Phil Simms, Dick Enberg, Lesley Visser, and Greg Gumbel—among others. At USTV, he and Susan Carol had been talent. Now she was still talent, and he was, in the words of his old boss Tal Vincent, “print riffraff.”

McManus led him into a small room that had a desk, several chairs, and a large-screen TV—which at that moment was showing what Stevie guessed was a closed-circuit picture of the playing field. He could see hundreds—maybe thousands—of media people milling around awaiting the Ravens' arrival. McManus offered him a chair and sat behind the desk.

“I think your dad and I have reached an agreement,” he said. “He's understandably leery of you jumping right back into TV. So I suggested that you do some work for us on Wednesday and Thursday and, if it goes okay, maybe do a piece for the pregame show. If it's too much, I'll back off. I told your dad I'd pay you the same if you're on one piece or on three—so there's no pressure and you can still primarily focus on working for the
Herald.
”

Stevie thought that was fair, especially since it meant he had today to get acclimated before he had to do anything for CBS.

“What do you want me to do exactly?” he asked.

“I'm not a hundred percent sure,” McManus said. “I'd like to have a crew with you during the time players and coaches are available. See what you find. If nothing else, we could have Dick interview you about what it's like to be a fourteen-year-old reporter at the Super Bowl.”

He knew Dick was Dick Enberg, the longtime play-by-play man who would be hosting the late-night show for CBS this week.

“Well,” Stevie said, “if my dad's okay with it, I'm willing to give it a try. I'd rather find the stories than be the story, but I hope you aren't expecting too much. There's a lot of media out there.”

“I have no expectations,” McManus said. “But I know your work pretty well. I have very high hopes.” He reached into his desk, pulled out a credential, and slid it across to him. Stevie picked it up and did a double take. It had his name and picture on it, but instead of having the word
MEDIA
across the top in black letters, it had
CBS
in the network's trademark blue and gold.