The Draft (38 page)

“Okay, look,” he said, sitting down again, “it's a huge gamble, nothing more. There's no guarantee this is going to work. Cary thinks Raymond Coolidge is the real thing, so I'm taking a chance he's right. The fans may very well still tar and feather me and then hang my corpse upside from a lamppost like the Italians did to Mussolini in World War II.”

Tanner also sat. “Yeah, but there are no guarantees one way or the other. Getting McKinley wouldn't have
guaranteed
a third championship, either.”

Jon nodded. “I know. That's why I made the choice that I did. McKinley's amazing, no doubt, but one man doesn't make a whole team in this sport. Everyone knows that.”

“But everything else you did.…” Tanner continued, pausing to marvel over the details for a few more seconds. “The way Cavanaugh went down, and the fact that we don't have to sell off half our roster, and … all of it. We came up on the winning side of this in
such … a … big … way.
” He emphasized the last four words a hand gesture that looked like he was trying the judge the weight of a bowling ball.

“Well, that's the idea, isn't it? Winning isn't just for the players, you know.”

Tanner laughed and shook his head. “It took me a while to figure out why, when you had that phone conference with Moran, that you acted as though you still really wanted the pick. Then I realized—and correct me if I'm wrong here—all you were really doing was making sure
Denver
took it.”

Jon was nodding. “Yep. I know I have no fans over there. Alderman dislikes me almost as much as Cavanaugh. I knew if I whined a little bit, it would make them want the pick all the more. It increased their motivation—the thrill of getting it and being able to brag about it. It's like in poker, where you get someone to call a bet by enticing them into it. There are several ways to accomplish this. In this case, by making it seem like my pride would be hurt, I made irresistible for them.”

Tanner's heavyset body shook with laughter. “I love it, I just love it.”

“So in the end,” Jon went on, “we maintain our depth, Brendan Cavanaugh will be pumping gas somewhere in the Midwest, and we've got a great new quarterback at the helm.” He waved his hand. “Raymond will be fine. He just needs to be solid and sensible. Cary will make sure that happens. Remember when Trent Dilfer won it for us back in 2000? Everyone said he was average this, average that. But go take a look at the films and see how
steady
he was. He wasn't a highlight-clip kind of guy, but he made very few mistakes. Like I said,
solid.
That's what Raymond Coolidge is. And he's got so much support around him it's ridiculous. The guys already loved him. He's going to be terrific.”

“The contract you offered him was nice,” Tanner said. “Very generous. And easy on the cap, too, because of the relatively small bonus.”

“Manageable for us,” Jon replied, “but a huge shot in the arm for him and his family. His mom can retire now, and his uncle will get some proper medical attention.… It's all good.” Then Jon said, “By the way, have you figured out the
very
best part of the whole deal yet?”

“The best part? Haven't we already covered the best parts?”

“Well, most of them. But no, not the best part of all, at least from
my
perspective.” Jon rose and rolled the chair back into a neat position again. His workspace now looked as though it was ready to be photographed for an article about beautiful offices.

“Uh … no. I have no idea.”

“Well, think for a moment. What have I said, many times, was my one unfulfilled ambition in this business? What is the one football thing I always wanted to do but never did?”

Tanner's eyes shifted from spot to spot. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed. “Play. You always wanted to play on a pro team.”

“That's right. I never did because I simply wasn't good enough. I did okay back in school, but I sure as hell was never going to reach the next level.”

“All right, yeah. So … I don't get how this ties in with—”

“Tell me something,” Jon said, cutting him off. “Who has been our archrival in recent years?”

“Denver, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And why is that? What has always been their greatest strength?”

“Their defensive depth. They've always had—”

This time Tanner cut him
self
off. Then he went into an astonishing transformation. First, the grin he'd been wearing since he came in vanished. As it did, his mouth fell open, equally slowly, until it formed a neat little O. His eyes, usually soft and jovial, grew wide and trained on Jon in a look of both amazement and disbelief.

“You knew they'd lose a lot of defensive depth with any deal they made for McKinley, because Skip wanted a defense.”

Jon shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah. It could've been us or it could've been them. Then Raymond came along and changed everything.”

Tanner's mouth moved soundlessly as his words bottlenecked. It wasn't that he had nothing to say, but rather he had many things to say and couldn't figure out which should come first.

“I studied Denver's roster pretty thoroughly,” Jon said. “I knew that little bastard would want McKinley more than ever after he found out we did, too. I factored this into the equation. So while I was studying the rosters of the other teams we'd be competing with, I studied theirs as well. And I realized the Broncos didn't have quite the depth on offense that we did. That meant they wouldn't be able to wheel and deal for other defensive players around the league like we could, so they'd have to give up some of their own. Maybe not starters, but from second and third teams. It would hurt them a lot more than it would hurt us.”

Tanner, with a look of awe and respect usually only given to religious icons and elder statesmen, said, “So you rammed McKinley down their throat in order to weaken their defense?”

“You got it.”

“So next year, they wouldn't be as strong defensively, and in turn they wouldn't be … my God, Jon.”

“As much of a threat to us,” Sabino finished. “That's right. They were our number one threat to making a third Super Bowl. Not anymore.” Sabino laughed. “Yeah, they have Christian McKinley, but he won't do much good on that team for a few years. By then, hopefully, we'll have secured our place in history.” Then he added, “
That
is how I've fulfilled my dream of playing—I wiped out a defense singlehandedly.”

Tanner was shaking his head now. “Incredible, Jon. Just in-friggin'-credible.”

“Thanks.”

Tanner laughed, too. A quick little hitch through the nose that somehow conveyed his incredulity.

“Connally was going crazy, you know,” he said softly. “I thought he was going to fire your ass at one point.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Now he's going to fall in love all over again.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

Jon turned off his desk lamp and headed toward the door. When Tanner rose also, Sabino put an arm around his shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way, my friend,” he said as they walked out of the office and began down the hall. “Cary brought us a new assistant coach on the team to help Raymond along. His name is Quincy Pressner.…”

Kevin Tanner was too punch-drunk at this point to be astounded anymore. Wearily, he simply nodded.

*   *   *

Raymond's last visit to the abandoned field at GW High came just days after he signed his contract with the Baltimore Ravens. Jon had given him a fair deal, especially for an undrafted free agent. A modest signing bonus of $1.7 million, plus a two-year deal worth $3.4 million, some of which was based on incentives. But he knew he was within reach of all of them.

He tossed the ball to his father, who held onto it for a moment before tossing it back. Raymond got the feeling he didn't want to really let it go.

“I'm glad to see you and mom getting along so well,” Raymond said after a while.

“Yeah, me too,” Quincy replied. “You know, she's the only woman I ever really loved. I want you to know that.”

“I know, Pop. I always knew.”

“Yeah, well, I did a lot of stupid things with other women when I was your age, as you now know.”

“Yeah.”

Quincy heaved it back again, and Raymond was surprised by the velocity, the strength. After all these years, that arm was still in pretty good shape.
I wonder if it
ever
realy goes away?
he wondered.

“I guess it sounds like something out of a movie,” Quincy continued, “but they didn't mean anything to me. None of them. I was thinking with my … well, you know.” He still didn't feel it was okay to use that kind of dirty language in front of his boy. “But in my heart, there was only one person.”

Raymond surprised his father with a laugh. “I forgive you, Pop, okay? If Mom does, I certainly can.”

Quincy smiled. “That means a lot to me.”

“You mean a lot to us,” Raymond countered quickly. “And to Uncle Pearly, too.”

“Oh, hell, what you did for him, son…” Quincy shook his head. “One of the most generous things I've ever seen. He'll never know what to do with all that money.”

“He deserves it,” Raymond said. “He's been through enough.”

A few kids had gathered on the fringes of the field now and were watching them. They appeared to be unsure as to whether or not they should come closer. Raymond noticed this and was equally unsure how to react.

“Get used to it, Ray,” his father said. “They used to come for me. Now they'll be coming for you. You'll get it everyday.”

Eventually the boys—a total of four—worked up the collective courage to approach the newest celebrity in sports, and a local figure at that. Even two weeks ago this wouldn't have happened. But the heavy rotation of the story on ESPN, and thus in every other sports-related media outlet in the country, had turned Raymond into an overnight sensation.

The boys only wanted autographs, which Raymond gave happily. His father watched from a comfortable distance, experiencing one of the proudest moments of his life.

After the boys left, father and son went back to their game of catch. The initial purpose of this visit was to run some basic drills that Quincy wanted to show him, but somehow that didn't seem appropriate anymore. There would be other days, other opportunities. For now, though, it was enough that they simply throw the ball around, just as they had when Raymond was a little boy; a wide-eyed child looking up to the capable father. And in many ways that was still the ease. They had made their memories then, and they both knew the time had come to make some more.

They stayed until the sun dipped below the trees to the west. Then they headed for home.

EPILOGUE

December 2006

Within the eerie quiet of Arrowhead Stadium, with more than seventy thousand Chiefs fans watching in disgust on an otherwise clear and beautiful autumn evening, Ravens quarterback Raymond Coolidge crouched down behind his center, hands open and ready, and began the count.

They ran another new play—a variation of their “Stem I Right Close Z Peel—P 82 F Arrow”; an action pass used in goal-line situations. Receivers on either side ran shallow crossing routes to create a rub and pick a linebacker. Kansas City's defense tried to break the line in their frustrating search for a sack, but they'd been unsuccessful all day. Only one so far, plus two hurries, and the game was almost over. Raymond, trusting his protection, ignored them and waited for Darryl Bailey—who was playing in only his third game of the season after a long period of rehabilitation—to get open. DB did, cutting a straight line down the right side, and Raymond lofted it effortlessly into his waiting arms. He was taken down at the two. On the next play, Raymond faked to fullback Paul Ellis and ran the ball in himself for the touchdown. With less than two minutes remaining and the score at 28–3, most of the Chiefs were thinking about next week's matchup against the Jets.

Jon, standing next to Quincy, said, “He's going to have one hell of a career.”

Jon nodded. This was a Monday night game late in the season, and the Ravens were leading the league with their 11–2 record. Defensive coaches wanted to confuse, or at the very least rattle, Raymond into making typical rookie mistakes. But it appeared he had indeed inherited his father's legendary calm, transposing himself from an emotional young kid into a cold-blooded, steely-eyed warrior the moment he got on the field. His memory was also outstanding, to the point where Blanchard felt comfortable creating new plays just for him. Soon the media was raving over him. When word hit that he was the son of Quincy Pressner, and that Cary Blanchard had also been blown away by Quincy's natural leadership talents and hired him as Baltimore's assistant quarterbacks coach, there was a frenzy. The cameras couldn't keep away from the former legend and mystery man. Patti Sheridan had written the “welcome to the world” piece as a freelancer for
Sports Illustrated
and was promised the book deal, if it came to that.

The Broncos, with their depleted defense and their tepid 7–6 record, fumed but remained stoic. They knew they'd been had. The press wouldn't let that go, either. They constantly goaded Jon in the hopes of starting World War III, but he wouldn't cooperate. He knew the Broncos would get even with him eventually. That's how this part of the game was played. But by the time they exacted their revenge and McKinley was up to speed, it wouldn't matter as much. All he cared about was the current campaign—a third Super Bowl and on to history. And he knew they were on their way to both.

Baltimore got the ball back with less than a minute remaining. Raymond took it in hand and dropped to one knee, and Quincy went out to his son. Jon Sabino savored the moment because he knew it wouldn't last. Tomorrow he'd be expected to conjure a more miracles and record other victories. Such was the nature of his job, to which he knew he was hopelessly addicted.