The Draft (3 page)

But he kept a level head and didn't take any of it personally. He understood the frustration and wanted to see the team succeed as much as anyone. He had studied the strengths and weaknesses of other teams through the years, collecting information that would be useful when this day came. He allowed himself the typical freshman mistakes and learned valuable lessons from each one.

He soon came to learn that the title “general manager,” like most other titles in the NFL, was without clear definition and ambiguous at best. Some GMs were businessmen, others were football men. Some had strong skills in marketing and promotion and would busy themselves with issues concerning everything from merchandising to ticket sales, whereas others knew the X's and the O's. Some did a lot of the front-office hiring, others delegated it. Their duties varied from team to team, and the best ones focused on their strengths.

Jon decided to take this sensible route. Knowing his pedigree was in football personnel, he brought in good people to take care of the things he didn't know rather than allow pride to rule the day and try to be a renaissance man. To some this was a sign of weakness. He hoped the men who had been largely responsible for bringing him here would interpret it as a sign of honesty, a dignified attempt to put the team's interests before his own. He kept tabs on what was going on, but he allowed his directors to direct and didn't meddle. And as his understanding of the pro football universe and his place in it began to crystallize, everything turned around.

In the first season under his guidance, which included a new head coach, two new scouts, a handful of new trainers, and even a new videotape librarian, the team went 7–9. Not a miraculous record, but a step in the right direction. The more fair-minded writers took note of the fact that a number of the players Jon had either signed from free agency or acquired through the draft were making significant contributions. One, a guard that Jon plucked from the third round, not only made the starting team but was elected to the Pro Bowl. Another, a defensive back, made the second team that same year. Even the most skeptical observers had to admit the Ravens were getting better.

During his first off season, Jon knew his central priority was improving the team's offense, and in a slick free-agent maneuver that would eventually grow to historic proportions, he managed to lure hot young quarterback Michael Bell away from what seemed like a done deal with the Denver Broncos. It was on that day, the talking heads determined, that the Ravens became a force. Bell, who'd spent his first three seasons with the Jaguars, had developed into a dynamic and confident leader with devastating pass accuracy and a slippery quickness that would have made Fran Tarkenton proud.

The next year the Ravens leaped to the top of their division with a 10–6 record and a wild card spot in the playoffs. Unfortunately their fledgling team was still too inexperienced to handle the pressures of playing on that level, and they were eliminated in the first round by the Jets. But they were on a roll, and the fans and media were rolling right along with them.

In Jon's third year, the Ravens made their statement. Completing their offense with a high-priced wide receiver and a pounding, powerhouse fullback, they stomped their way to a 9–0 record before losing their first game, by a field goal, to the Patriots. Two more losses to Miami and Tampa Bay completed an unbelievable 13–3 record and home advantage throughout the playoffs with a first round bye. Now Jon's name was being freely intermingled with the word “genius.” His gift for creating powerful chemistries was no longer deniable.
Sports Illustrated
ran a nine-page article on him—“Savin' the Ravens: Are They Losers Nevermore?”

In spite of the fact that the team stalled on the road to the Super Bowl by losing 24–17 to the Broncos in the AFC Championship Game, one thing was clear—the Ravens were headed to the top. Less than a week after the season was over, experts across the nation were picking them as next year's favorites.

Their faith was well placed—in an unforgettable march to the championship, the Ravens' defense allowed fewer points in a single season than any other team in league history while compiling their second 13–3 record. Then they hurdled three playoff games and authored a 34–14 Super Bowl victory over the Buccaneers. The next season they reached the top again, crushing the Panthers 42–7.

Only six other teams had won back-to-back Super Bowls—the Steelers, the 49ers, the Cowboys, the Dolphins, the Packers, and the Broncos. And
none
had managed a third. Many said it couldn't be done; it was impossible in the free-agency era. Free agency had, after all, been implemented to arrest the development of dynasties. But somehow, it appeared, the Ravens were building one anyway. Either enthusiastically or bitterly, the fans and the media were forced to admit Baltimore looked like the best team again. A third straight championship was within reach, and Jon wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life. It gave legitimacy to everything he'd ever done, justified all the hard work and years of toil he'd invested. It would lend solid, undeniable credibility to his “genius” tag and silence the few remaining doubters once and for all. His detractors were running out of things to say, his colleagues were boiling in their own jealousy (which, Jon could not help but admit, he enjoyed tremendously). To do something great in professional sports was one thing. To make
history
 … well, that was something else. Sometimes just the thought of it kept him awake at night.

Best of all, it was
possible
—the core of the club was still together, they were all still young enough to remain in top form, and there had been no changes to the coaching staff or even the front-office personnel. The chemistry remained; it looked very much like the Baltimore Ravens were on their way to making history.

After all, only a cruel twist of fate could stop them.

*   *   *

The Ravens' offices were located in a magnificent modern facility in the Maryland suburb of Owings Mills, a twenty-minute ride from the stadium. They were well secured and off limits to the public.

At the front gate, Jon waved to Gary Stone, the Ravens' head of security. Stone possessed a deep loyalty to Jon, who hired him. They had been classmates in high school and kept in touch when they went to separate colleges. Stone joined the FBI shortly after graduation and traveled overseas for a few years. When he returned to the states, he left the agency to be a private investigator but found the work distasteful—too many sleazy divorce cases—and wanted out. Jon heard about this and happened to be looking for someone reliable and experienced to work for the team. He wanted either ex-military or ex-FBI, which was a common criteria when it came to security positions in the NFL. Stone was the perfect choice.

They briefly exchanged small talk, then Jon pulled through the gates and into his space near the front of the main building. Access required a security code on a keypad. Once inside, he turned everything on, then went to a small locker room reserved for the coaches and front-office echelon. It was similar in appearance to any scholastic locker room, with rows of steel boxes, wooden benches bolted to a tiled floor, and a set of showers.

Morning workouts had been part of his routine since he was a teenager. They were common not only to the players but to everyone who worked for an NFL club. The prevailing attitude throughout the league seemed to be that workouts were the proper way to start the day. They certainly were for him. A good workout provided the stamina he needed to get through the demanding twelve-to-sixteen-hour days without those sloggy, low-energy periods. And the solitude afforded him the opportunity to collect his thoughts and focus on current priorities.

After he showered and dressed, he returned to his paneled office. It was less dramatic and luxurious than one might expect for a man in such an exalted, high-profile position. It was relatively small, with a walnut desk and a computer, a few framed photographs of Kelley and Lauren, and three large windows overlooking the practice field. There was no wet bar, no cabinet humidor filled with Cuban cigars, no plush deep-pile carpeting. Most general manager's offices were like this one. Contrary to common belief, high-ranking team executives weren't pampered by any means. The only true luxury item Jon had was a new Volvo sedan, and even that was leased by the team. If a GM wanted toys, he had to buy them himself.

Early April was draft time, and for a general manager that meant
busy.
As Jon got into his comfortable leather swivel chair, he remembered how he used to think when he was a kid, like any other ordinary fan, there was very little activity in a professional football club during the off season. It didn't take him long to realize this was dead wrong, especially for the administrators. Pro football had its “down time,” but in positions like his it was only for a few weeks at the end of spring. Early September could also bring a simmering once everything was in place and attention turned to the players and the game. When that was over, however, a very different game began. This was the game the fans never saw and barely heard about. Perhaps it wasn't as glamorous, but it was just as tough, just as competitive, and the stakes were just as high. A young athlete's entire future was decided by the stroke of a pen. Millionaires were made in afternoon meetings. The power was tremendous and, for some, corrupting.

Preparation for each year's draft was particularly demanding. Technically the process began years before, when the scouts were reviewing players early in their college careers. By January, a team would begin to assemble their draft board, which was usually nothing more than a collection of names on a wall. These were the players a team deemed capable of playing in the pros. Of the tens of thousands of college players in the country, a mere two hundred or so would be considered. A team had to base their choices on two factors—what they needed, and what was available. It was nothing more than a guessing game, plain and simple. In most cases, someone other than the head coach made the final personnel decisions, but usually that person conferred with his coaches when determining his teams most urgent needs. If a coach utilized a system that required a large tight end who could block, then such a tight end became that much more valuable in the draft. Putting together the final draft list was in part a slow process of elimination. Beyond the board of college prospects, a team would also assemble boards of both semipro players and those who were of pro quality but, for one reason or another, were not playing for any team at the moment. And, as with the college boys, each pro team had staff whose job it was to keep the information on all such players fully updated.

Jon took a heavy folder from his desk. On the first loose-leaf page was a neatly handwritten list of the Ravens' desired picks, arranged in order of preference. The desk was usually locked as a standard security measure—insider information on a team's draft was worth a small fortune and treated like a military secret during wartime. This year, however, he doubted anyone would be interested. Due to last year's second Super Bowl victory, the Ravens naturally had the last pick in the draft's first round. By that time most of the surprises would be over and most, if not all, of the premium talent would be gone. Every now and then a gem would slip into the lower rounds, but those cases were rare and usually the result of a player who greatly exceeded expectations rather than an oversight on the part of the scouts.

Jon tuned his radio to a '70s station and reviewed the list for what seemed like the hundredth time. There were two, actually—a “wish list” made up of players he'd love to get but didn't expect to, and then a “reality list,” which he was studying now. He was still comfortable with it, sure that the player at the top would be available when their turn came. That player was Bryan Engler, a tackle from Florida State. The Ravens weren't in desperate need at that position, but the coaches felt they lacked depth. One of their present tackles, Craig Little, would probably retire in the next year or two, and Frank James, another veteran in the same position, was also mumbling about calling it quits. So they needed to think about his replacement. Engler, if they could land him, would fill the role nicely.

Jon was thinking about the next player on the list, a wide receiver from North Carolina State, when the phone rang. Surprised, he glanced at his desk clock: 7:04. Odd that anyone would be calling this early, he thought. It wasn't often they had business so urgent that it needed attention at this hour.

“Hello? Oh, hiya, Tommy. What are you doing up at this hou—what's that? No, I haven't put on ESPN yet. Why?” When Jon heard and absorbed the fateful news, his stomach tightened. He asked if it was a joke.

It wasn't.

2

Michael Bell's hospital
room was quiet except for the mechanized, rhythmic hiss of the respirator. Jon quietly stepped inside and shut the door. Bell's bed was surrounded by an array of high-tech medical equipment, the centerpiece of a macabre tableau.

Bell lay flat on his back with dozens of tubes and wires slithering over his body. Jon came alongside him, externally devoid of expression but internally battling several unpleasant emotions. The ribbed, opaque tube running from Bell's mouth was particularly disturbing for some reason.

Jon had become friends with some of the players, and Bell was one of them. He'd invited him into his home, introduced him to his wife and let him play with his daughter. Bell was charming in a roguish, naughty-little-boy sort of way. Women loved him, men wanted to be like him. He had two distinct sides to his character—the dirty side that wanted to drag every beautiful woman he saw to bed, and the moral side that sometimes succeeded in overriding the other. It wasn't hard to understand why so many people were fascinated by him. He was larger than life in every sense.