The Draft (33 page)

“I come down here and work out most mornings,” Jon said. “Gives me the energy and stamina I need to get through the day. If you make the team,” he said to Raymond, “you'll be allowed to use this any time you like.”

Raymond took a long look around and nodded. He had no idea what to say. It was a football player's paradise; a fantasy world. This far surpassed any dreams he had conjured. He felt numb, apart from himself.

“Okay,” Jon said, rubbing his hands together, “so let's get started. This is James Carr, one of our trainers.”

Carr, in his midfifties and smallish with silver hair that he kept perfectly combed, seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt with the omnipresent Ravens' logo on the left breast, he smiled quietly and put out his hand. As Raymond took it, he noticed Carr had a clipboard in the other, and a pencil behind his ear.

“Nice to meet you, son.”

“You, too, Mr. Carr.”

“If you follow me, I need to take some measurements.”

He led Raymond into a small cement-walled room where there was a scale, an examination table, and, to Raymond's puzzlement, a camera on a tripod. There was also a cabinet with glass-fronted doors, through which he could see a variety of medical equipment.

Carr asked Raymond to strip down to his underwear, then had him stand on the scale so he could weigh him—212 pounds—and get his height to the nearest eighth—six feet, five and one-half inches. Next he measured the span of Raymond's throwing hand from the tip of his thumb to that of his pinkie, and then his arm length—the distance from the shoulder blade to the tip of the middle finger. Carr jotted down all these measurements on his clipboard without any indication as to whether they were good, bad, or otherwise. In fact, he was so impassive and clinical during the whole procedure that Raymond felt like a cow being readied for a meat auction.

When Carr was done, he took Raymond back out to his entourage. Jon was telling the others how proud he was that most of the new facility had been built using local companies and local labor. After a quick
good luck,
Carr withdrew, and Raymond did not see him again.

They next went to the indoor field. It was like nothing Raymond had ever seen—as spacious as an airplane hangar, with immaculately maintained turf and a towering white canvas ceiling. Industrial fans kept the air circulating, and in each corner was a revolving door. All sounds, he realized very quickly, echoed like crazy in here. He wondered just how noisy it was during a formal practice, with pads striking pads, coaches barking orders, and whistles blowing.

One of the revolving doors began turning, and two men emerged. Raymond recognized the first one instantly—Cary Blanchard. He was dressed in a Ravens' windbreaker and matching hat, plus khaki shorts and new white sneakers. It seemed almost strange to see a man of his age in athletic garb, but Raymond suspected he dressed this way all the time.

Like Carr, Blanchard carried a clipboard. When he got close enough, he put on a big smile.

“You're Raymond Coolidge?” the future Hall of Famer asked, putting his hand out.

“Yes, sir,” Raymond replied.

“Very nice to meet you.” Blanchard turned towards the rest of the group and zeroed in on Quincy.

“And you're Quincy Pressner, his father?”

“Yes, that's right.”

Blanchard laughed as they shook hands. “I'm going to bet you don't remember, but we met once before.”

“We did?”

“In 1984, in Chicago. I was a defensive assistant with the Bears. We stopped and chatted at midfield just before the game.”

“Hmm … I'm sorry, coach, I don't remember that.”

“That's okay, that's okay. I was sizing you up, trying to get a feel for you,” Blanchard said.

“Did it work?”

“Nah—you beat the hell out of us.”

Jon introduced the rest of the group, then Blanchard turned back to Raymond.

“Son, this is my quarterbacks coach, Glenn Hallworth.”

Raymond nodded and said hello but received only a slight nod in return. Hallworth, who looked to be in his midtwenties at the most, seemed almost indifferent. This made Ray more nervous.

“All right,” Blanchard said, “so let's get moving. Raymond, I took a look at your game tapes this morning. Not bad, really, but they don't tell me what I need to know the most—can you play on this level? La Salle is a fine school, and you had some tough opponents. Your numbers were very good, and you no doubt brought your team to a higher plane. But college isn't the pros. This is a different universe. Guys are bigger, meaner, and faster.
Much
faster. They play for keeps here. Linebackers don't care if they hurt you. They
want
to hurt you. I'm sure you father has told you a lot of this already.”

“Yes, he has.”

“There is very little room for error. Most guys can't make the change. If I had a dollar for every college star I saw that failed miserably in professional ball, I could probably buy a Rolls-Royce. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me coach.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good. Like I said, we're here to answer just one question—can you play in this league? That's what we're going to try to determine. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, then.” Blanchard motioned toward Hallworth, who stepped forward. At the same time, a few Ravens players in full pads and uniforms began streaming in.

Jon shepherded the rest of Raymond's support staff to the sidelines, conveying the message that the tryout was beginning, and only those directly involved would be allowed on the field.

A chair was brought out for Pearly, who accepted it gratefully. He eased into it, then set his cane between his legs and took a deep breath. And as he watched his nephew, taking direction from the Raven coaches and looking more ready and eager than he ever had, Pearly realized
This is really it
—the opportunity for the boy that he had worked for, hoped for, prayed for time and time again. For years, all he wanted was for Raymond to have a chance.
Just give him a shot. Let him prove himself, that's all I ask.
But now that dream had transformed; evolved for the very first time. Initially it was pure hope, nothing more. He felt Raymond could blow them away if they just took the time to look him over. Now he was
certain
Raymond would blow them away. Maybe that was why the chance hadn't arrived until now. Maybe it was one of the laws of life—that you didn't get an opportunity, no matter how badly you wanted it, until you were ready for it. All the hours of hard work, all the sacrifice, and all the emotional strain was time and effort well spent based solely on the events that were unfolding in front of him now. This was becoming one of the proudest and most satisfying days of his life.

“Raymond,” Hallworth said, “let's start by getting you warmed up. Do some stretches and that stuff. You've got fifteen minutes, then report back to me.”

Raymond ran the perimeter of the field twice, then hit the ground and vigorously stretched, making sure all key muscles were suitably loosened up—groin, hamstring, thigh, calf, and Achilles. Quincy stood nearby, making sure his son didn't overdo it. Then Hallworth blew the whistled that dangled around his neck, and Raymond jogged over.

Raymond began the tryout of his life with the forty-yard dash. The forty was the gold standard for determining a prospect's speed and explosiveness, and Raymond had practiced it repeatedly over the years. He set himself into the perfect stance—left hand on the white line with thumb and forefinger well apart, other arm up at his side with the elbow bent at roughly a 45° angle, right foot—often called the “plant foot”—about four inches behind the line, the other—the “drive foot”—set six inches behind the first. He kept his head lowered and waited for the whistle. When it blew, he lunged forward with might and determination, knowing the first ten yards often set the pattern for the remaining thirty. He held his breath for those ten, leaning slightly forward, head down, and hands open and relaxed. The open hands were crucial because, closed, they would tighten the arms and shoulders, thus reducing the range of motion. In the next ten yards he exhaled mightily and imaged that there was a pack of wolves—which terrified him—just inches behind, hoping to drag him down. This kind of illusionary motivation, he discovered a few months ago, really helped. The first time he tried it, he bested his previous forty time by two-tenths of a second. In the pros, that could be the difference between contract and cut.

He inhaled deeply as he passed the thirty-yard mark. He was tempted to look up, to gauge the reaction of the others by getting a glimpse of their faces. But he held back, knowing unnecessary movement would add time to the run. In the last ten yards he exhaled normally and felt his body give an extra push as soon as the finish line came into view. Raymond often had this kind of “bonus” burst of energy; especially, it seemed, when he needed it most. He had no idea where it came from but was thankful for it. He also suspected it would be one of the first traits to go when age finally settled in.

As he crossed the line, he glanced over at Hallworth. The coach was staring at his digital stopwatch, and Raymond detected a look of surprise on his face. It was there for just a flicker of an instant.

“How was that?” he asked.

“Not bad,” Hallworth said, “but it could be better. Let's go again. We always do it twice, then take the best of the two.”

“Yeah, there's room for improvement,” Quincy said, creating motivation.

Raymond nodded and began walking back to the starting line. He wanted to ask what the exact time had been, but he had a feeling Hallworth wouldn't tell him. And he was right. What he didn't know was that Hallworth was so impressed that he didn't want Raymond slacking off on the second run by knowing that the time of the first was 4.4 seconds. That was good for a
wide receiver,
almost unheard of for a quarterback. On the second try, Raymond again hit 4.4, and Hallworth shook his head in disbelief.

He was no less impressed by the results of Raymond's next three tests. The first was the twenty-yard short shuttle, which determines quickness and agility. Raymond began by straddling the five-yard line in a three-point stance. He was required to run left and touch the ten with his hand, then run right and touch the goal line, then go back to the five. A normal time for a quarterback hopeful was about 4.8. With Quincy barking at him (“Hustle! Hustle! Let's
go
!”), he nailed a 4.4 on the first try, and a stunning 4.2 on the second.

On his vertical-jump test, which measured lower-body strength, he reached thirty-four inches the first time, thirty-five on the second. Average for a quarterback was in the twenty-four- to twenty-eight-inch range. And when Hallworth took him back to the weight room for his 225-pound bench press, Raymond blew him away with twenty-four reps, the first fifteen seemingly without effort. For a quarterback to manage twenty was unusual.

After a short break, Raymond was brought back to the field, where he was introduced to Ravens wide receiver Anthony Jennings, who had been in one of the player lounges earlier. From the waist down he was dressed in a full game uniform. On top, only a white microthermic shirt. The tight fabric shaped itself around his torso so perfectly that every abdominal ripple was clearly outlined.

“You're Raymond?” Jennings asked.

“Yes,” Raymond replied. He wasn't sure if he should say “sir” or “Anthony” or “Mr. Jennings,” so he decided to play it safe.

Jennings put out a hand and smiled. “I hear you're pretty good.”

Raymond shook his hand and smiled back. “Thanks. I guess we'll find out.”

Jennings leaned in close. “Don't let these ladies intimidate you—the defense
or
the coaches. They're just trying to rattle your head.”

“Don't worry, I won't.”

Jennings was caught off guard by the young man's confidence. Then his smile grew. “Good answer, my friend. Very good answer. Most guys are peeing in their pants at this point.”

“The day's not over yet,” Raymond replied, causing Jennings to laugh out loud.

Hallworth wanted Jennings's help in the position drills. He gave Raymond a set of basic play designs, allowed him only ten minutes to study and memorize them, then stood behind him and barked out both the patterns and the number of steps he wanted Raymond to take in each drop before firing to Jennings. This went on for nearly thirty minutes, and in that time Raymond missed only twice. In truth, he found the whole thing ridiculously easy. Hallworth got a sense of this and upped the stakes by getting some coverage men involved; first single, then dual. Raymond handled it beautifully, mailing the ball to the receiver with a perfect spiral and just enough finesse to make it easy to handle. Even when Jennings tried to throw him a curve by breaking a pattern at the last moment or overshooting his targeted catch site, Raymond adjusted. Although the veteran receiver didn't say so, he thought at the end of the drills that this kid was the kind of quarterback every receiver dreamed of—someone who seemed to know, just
know
, what the receiver was thinking. It was as if Raymond could actually see into his mind. Aside from enjoying that relationship with Michael Bell, Jennings had never experienced it with any other QB.

As he walked back past Raymond, he tossed the ball to him and said quietly, “So when you can start?” Then winked and slapped him on the shoulder. Raymond sensed he'd made his first friend on the team.

Blanchard got involved again when it was time for a full scrimmage—the starting offense versus the starting defense. Raymond hadn't expected this, and neither had anyone else. Freddie Friedman wanted to say something, then thought better of it. And as Blanchard passed Hallworth walking off the field, Hallworth smiled and winked at his head coach. Hallworth's bad-cop facade could be set aside now, and the evaluation delivered—
this kid's got it.
But Blanchard still showed no reaction; not yet.