The Draft (25 page)

Through the enclosed porch and into the living room, she set the briefcase on top of a small bookcase and slipped out of her jacket, which she then hung in the front closet with her characteristic orderliness. Still out of breath, she went back to the porch and leaned down to collect the day's mail. Two bills, the new
TV Guide,
and the rest junk. An example of the latter, an invitation to have her chimney swept, was addressed to “A. Pressner.” She shook her head and tossed it into the garbage can in the hallway. She had reverted back to her maiden name the day the divorce was finalized. That same week she had Raymond's surname changed as well. It wasn't that she hated Quincy and would feel somehow soiled if she kept his name, but she had come to understand that the life of a relative of a professional athlete had more downs than ups. She didn't want any part of that, and she certainly didn't want it for her son. Better to stay as close to anonymous as possible.

She removed her shoes, propped up the pillows on her bed, and read quietly for a while. The book was a collection of poems and short stories by Dorothy Parker, which she'd borrowed from the local library. It was worn almost to the point of dysfunctionality; even the clear plastic protector was cracked and cloudy.

When the thirty minutes were up, she went into the kitchen, filled a large steel pot with water, and set it on the stove. They'd have pasta tonight. Raymond never complained about her cooking even though it wasn't exactly cordon bleu. Her son had a healthy appetite and few quirks. Put something in front of him and he'd eat it.

She poured a can of sauce into another pot and was stirring it when Raymond came in. His white sweatshirt and gray sweatpants were decorated with grass stains and dirt smears.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Hi. Spaghetti okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. That's fine.”

He watched her for a long moment—the quiet, sturdy woman whom he loved with every ounce of his heart. He was by no means a wizened and worldly adult, fluent in the language of life and nimble in his understanding of things cosmic and ethereal, yet he knew on some primal level that his mother had sacrificed for him, starved whatever dreams and ambitions she may have had to make sure he was raised properly, given as good a chance as anyone else, and without asking for anything in return. Each day brought him a greater sense of awe.

“Ma, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

He shuffled his feet. “Um, I was at the field today, throwing the ball around … and Dad showed up.”

He watched her carefully. Her reaction was minor, almost imperceptible—she stopped stirring for just a moment.

“Really? And how's he doing?”

Raymond wanted to be careful here. Unlike some divorced mothers he knew, his mom had never discouraged him from talking about his father. She knew how important Quincy was to him, and she didn't want him sharing in any bitterness or resentment she might harbor over the failed relationship. Raymond also understood there was a part of her that had always loved him and still did, and it was this part that concerned him. He was afraid the mere mention of his father would irritate old wounds.

“He seemed okay. Ma … he told me what happened.”

“‘What happened?' What do you mean?”

“With him … in the NFL.”

She stopped stirring and turned.

“He told you about that?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

She drifted into some far-off place for a few seconds, then returned to her duties.

“How do you feel about it?”

Raymond laughed a little. “I was surprised at first. I mean, I thought.…”

“I know what you thought. That's what your father wanted everyone to think.”

“What those guys did to him was wrong, but he did some things, too.”

His mother nodded slowly. “Yes, he did.”

“I don't know what to think about it, Ma. That was a long time ago. It didn't have anything to do with me. I'm sorry he hurt you, though. I'm really sorry about that.”

“It's okay,” she said softly. “Like you said, that was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, well … did you hear what Uncle Pearly did? He sent some of my game tapes to this guy, this agent.” Again he watched her carefully.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was mad at first, but … now I don't know.”

“Did this agent respond?”

“Yeah. He thought I was pretty good.”

Althea nodded. “You are good. I thought you should've tried to get into the draft last June, after you graduated.”

Raymond smiled. “Well, this guy said he thought I had a shot at making an NFL team anyway. A real shot.”

“I see.”

There was another pause, and then Raymond said with excruciating delicacy, “I want to go for it.”

At first his mother didn't speak, move, or show any other reaction. In fact it almost seemed as though she hadn't heard him at all. Then she said, “What about graduate school?”

“If I don't get signed, I'll go,” he said quickly. He had already anticipated this question. “Or, I'll use my bachelor's degree to get a job.”

“Is that what you want? To get a job?”

“Well … not really.”

“What do you really want?”

He paused, then spilled it out—“I want to play.”

It felt good to say after so many years—
I want to play.
Deep down, that had always been the truth. He loved football, loved everything about it. He loved the feel of the ball in his hands, loved connecting with a receiver, loved the pressure and the intensity, loved being out there in the midst of chaos. And most of all, without a doubt, he loved
winning.
Finally being able to admit all of this was perhaps the most cathartic moment of his life. But would his mother approve? If she didn't, he knew, this great love would remain confined to a public field in suburban Philly for the rest of its life. So he held his breath and waited for the verdict.

When it came, it was in a form he never expected—the saintly woman who had raised him almost singlehandedly and was the strongest, most resilient soul he had ever known, turned to him with a rare smile and a gleam in her eye.

“Then get to it,” she said simply.

Raymond realized this was a catharsis for her, too. And never in his life had he felt so motivated.

*   *   *

The Baltimore Sheraton didn't have any smoking rooms available, but that didn't stop Jerry Wahlberg from lighting up. He sat at the little round table by the heavy curtains (which were closed) and read through Bell's contract one line at a time. He didn't recall it being so dense, but then he wasn't looking at it the same way this time. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for
exactly,
but he was sure he'd know when he found it. He was well aware that player contracts varied tremendously in certain areas, such as pay—signing bonuses, performance incentives, licensing fees, etc.—and status within an organization—whether a player would be restricted or unrestricted as a free agent when the term of his contract was up. But in other areas they were standardized, fashioned after the template contract in the Collective Bargaining Agreement. There were boilerplate sections on injuries, pay deductions, conduct, grievance procedures, and so on, i.e., points that were almost never negotiable. The average contract was rarely more than ten pages long, with six copies being distributed among the player, his agent, the league office, the team, the National Football League Players' Association (NFLPA), and the management council.

When the print began to blur and the content became meaningless, Wahlberg rose and stretched. He hadn't found the weak spot he was searching for. He pressed every inch of the ice, but no cracks appeared. He shuffled across the carpet and grabbed the complimentary newspaper the hotel had left on the dresser. It was lying next to a room-service tray full of empty plates and glasses (he never,
ever
left food uneaten). Then he went into the bathroom and switched on the ceiling fan.

He had just sat down when the answer came to him. He froze, then a tiny smile appeared. He threw the paper on the tile floor, yanked up his pants, and dashed outside.

The flaw he was looking for didn't exist in the words that were in the contract—it was in the words that
weren't
in the contract. The idea was a stretch, of course, but it was
possible.
His gut told him it was the right approach. He laughed out loud—a horrible cackle that sounded like a small animal caught in a trap.

He reconnected the phone and dialed his office.

*   *   *

The next morning, sitting behind his desk, Jon reviewed a request from one of the trainers for a new piece of equipment. It had been designed in California a few months ago and was supposed to improve agility. The trainer was bright and ambitious, just the kind of person who would know all about the latest technologies. Sabino liked him, admired his drive and youthful enthusiasm. But the kid had a tendency to be long-winded in his writing. The description of the device was so detailed that Jon felt like he could build one from scratch.

The phone rang. Susan wouldn't be in for another hour. Reluctantly he reached over and grabbed it. An already bad day was about to get ten times worse.

“Hello?”

“Jon Sabino?”

The voice was vaguely familiar. He couldn't place the name through his sleep-deprived haze, but his stomach tightened automatically. Whoever it was, his instincts told him it wasn't someone he liked.

“Yes?”

“Jerry Wahlberg.”

Oh shit, not him … not now …

“Little early for you, isn't it?”

“Actually I've been up for a while. Already been to the hospital to see my boy.”

He sounded chipper, and that always meant trouble.

“I thought visiting hours didn't start until eight.”

“They don't, unless you know how to get around it.”

Jon didn't really want to hear Jerry Wahlberg's handy tips for superseding the rules of the average hospital.

“How's he doing?”

“Great, just great,” Wahlberg replied. Then, gravely, he added, “But he's very concerned.”

“About what?”

“About his future with the Ravens.”

“What exactly are his concerns?” Jon had learned long ago that the best way to handle Jerry Wahlberg was to answer his questions with questions of your own. Direct answers—especially those that had any legal implications, no matter how seemingly abstract—would be stored away for future use. Wahlberg had very few real talents, but a lockbox memory was one of them.

“Well, he's worried about this rumor that's been going around about you guys replacing him with Christian McKinley.”

“You know I can't discuss our draft plans one way or the other.”

“I think I—er, we, have a right to know.”

“Yes you do—
after
the draft.”

“I'd like to know right now.”

“I'm sure you would.”

“I've heard rumors, and I'd like them confirmed.”

“Good for you.”

“I'd like to remind you that my client has a contract with you.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“I'd also like to remind you that
we
are well aware of your salary cap situation. It would be impossible for you to sign Christian McKinley and keep Michael Bell at the same time.”

“I agree,” Jon said. It would be pointless to argue this obvious detail.

“So I'm assuming you're going to release Michael if you get McKinley?”

“You can assume whatever you like.”

“If that happens because of his accident, will he be compensated?”

“If that happened, he'd get whatever the rules called for him to get. We wouldn't try to deny him anything that wasn't rightfully his.”

“I see.” Wahlberg paused, cleared his throat. “According to the Collective Bargaining Agreement, I believe that would call for his full salary for the remainder of this year.”

Jon's headache began to expand. “Yes, that's correct.”

“And what about the rest of it?”

“What about it?”

“We'd be interested in receiving it, or, at the very least, a portion of it.”

Headache notwithstanding, Jon sat up again. At last they'd reached the real reason for this call.

“You're kidding, right?”

“Not in the least.”

“If the situation you describe was to come about, there's no way in hell we'd strap ourselves that badly. Why would we?”

“He deserves every penny.”

“Oh really? And who decided that? You?”

“Are you placing him on the PUP or the NFI?”

It was clear Wahlberg had prepared thoroughly for this phone call. A player placed on the physically unable to perform list, or PUP, was entitled to his full salary while he was recuperating, whereas an NFI player was not entitled to any compensation. And as Bell's agent, it was well within Wahlberg's right to discuss this.

“For now he'll be placed on the NFI. His injury was, after all, unrelated to the game.”

“And then?”

Jon sighed. “And then we'll see.”

“I'm afraid that's not good enough.”

“It'll have to be, for the moment.”

“You can't just cut him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can't release him, because you have no grounds. He kept himself in perfect physical condition, so you can't cut him because he wasn't in good shape. He's the best quarterback on the team—maybe the best in the league—so you can't cut him for competitive reasons. He's done nothing to embarrass the organization, either. And, perhaps most importantly, there's nothing in his contract that specifically deals with termination in conjunction with a non-football related injury.”