The Draft (4 page)

It seemed surreal to see him lying there, unmoving and helpless. A recognizable face that had appeared in countless magazines and newspapers, and on television. This hulking figure of a man—six foot five, which was a good size for a quarterback—who seemed nearly indestructible on the field, was now as vulnerable as a baby. He probably wouldn't believe it, Jon thought. They were all like that; it was a quirk of the breed he had long grown used to. The average pro player was treated like a prince everywhere he went. He was young, healthy, and rich. The last thing he worried about was his mortality. Many of them did think they were indestructible.

The door opened and a man in white lab coat came in. He was tall and slender, perhaps in his early fifties. He wore large round glasses and suffered a common form of pattern baldness that had already cleared off the top of his head and was working its way down.

He came forward with a smile and held out his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Sabino. I'm Joshua Blackman.”

“Nice to meet you.”

They turned to Bell together. “He looks like he's in pretty bad shape.”

Blackman nodded, but the smile remained. “He is, right now. But it could have been much worse. You know about what happened?”

“I heard on the way over.”

“He received a great deal of the impact directly, with only that thin metal door for protection.”

Jon shook his head. “He preferred sports cars over SUVs. If he was in a big Ford Expedition, this never would have happened.”

Most NFL players drove sport-utility vehicles, and not simply because they could fit into them more easily. They were contractually bound to maintain peak physical health, and the average SUV protected them from potential road injuries. It was hard enough staying healthy during the course of a game.

“If he was an ordinary man,” Blackman continued. “I doubt very much he would have survived.” Then he added, “Getting hit by linebackers all those years was probably the best preparation he could have had.”

“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear that when he wakes up,” Jon said. When he realized the seriousness of what this implied, he added, “He
will
wake up, won't he?”

Blackman nodded. “I don't know if anyone's told you, but he's not just unconscious—he's in a low-level coma right now.”

“He's what?”

“I know, ‘coma' is a scary word. But don't let it be. Most people have been conditioned to believe a coma is about the worst state you can be in short of being dead, but that's a myth. Sometimes a coma is the brain's way of protecting itself. Often patients are chemically induced into temporary low-level comas to aid in the recovery process.” Blackman looked back at his patient. “Mr. Bell still reacts to most of the conventional stimuli, and he's been moving around and making sounds.”

“So he'll come out of it?”

“I can't make such a prediction with hundred percent certainty, but I'm as certain as I can be.”

“How long?”

“I'm guessing anywhere from two days to two weeks.”

“Any damage to his head or … you know, his brain?”

“Not that we can tell, but it's still early. We'll be running tests on him in the coming weeks, though. Many of them, I'm afraid.” Then he added, “I think you should know the coma is only one of the problems. Maybe the least of them.”

“Oh?”

“He'll wake from it eventually, but he sustained some injuries elsewhere that concern me very much.”

“Such as?”

“Well, he has four broken ribs, one of which punctured his right lung. He also has a broken right leg and two broken fingers on his left hand. But what really concerns me is his spine.”

“His spi … No, don't tell me—”

A slow, confirming nod. “The lower portion sustained severe trauma.” He paused, and the question that lingered between them was so obvious that neither bothered to articulate it. “There's a small chance he won't be able to walk again.”

Jon looked back at his star quarterback. “My God.”

“But it's highly unlikely. Again, because he's in such good physical shape … I just want to prepare you for the worst. But it's still too early to tell. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.”

“Okay, okay.” Jon shuffled for a moment, hands in his pockets. “Uh, look, doc. About this coming season. Any chance he'll—”

Blackman might've laughed, but he didn't—he was absolutely stonefaced. “No, no way at all.”

Jon's shoulders sagged. It was the reply he dreaded most.

“There is absolutely no way he'll be able to play this season. That would be impossible. Next season … maybe. But this year, no way.”

Jon stared at Blackman for what seemed like a long time, unable to pull his eyes off the man who had just told him that his team's chances of making NFL history were basically over.

*   *   *

As he breezed through the hospital's hallways he focused on just two things—Bell's long-term health, and the team's quarterback situation; his thoughts ping-ponged from the personal to the professional. When he emerged from the paired glass doors in the emergency wing and was nearly trampled by a herd of reporters, photographers, and cameramen, he jerked back as if shaken from a dream.

Damn—I should've known.
When anything like this happened, of course the press would be there. They were nothing if not reliable. Of course they'd show up for this.

Impromptu press conferences were one of the more unpleasant aspects of being a general manager, but it went with the job. By their very nature they were sheer chaos. You had no time to prepare, so it became something like a skeet shoot. The most seemingly innocuous remark could turn into tomorrow morning's headline. Players suddenly resented you, colleagues were giving you the cold shoulder, owners were screaming. Sometimes you came in and found your office locked and your personal effects in a box in the hallway.

The questions came fast and furious. A dozen voices babbled at once. Early on Jon found this daunting, even a little frightening. But he had learned through experience and from talking to other GMs to simply relax, listen, and sift through the cacophony for the three or four points the writers obviously considered most important. Even though they were a group of individuals, they often functioned as a single, organic unit.

“Jon, how is Mike Bell?”

“How's Bell doing?”

“What's the state of Michael Bell's health?”

He felt uneasy without the protection of a podium, so his hands went into his pockets. He scanned the crowd briefly, noting and naming each face. Everyone was familiar; same old group. They weren't friends, but they weren't really enemies, either. They were acquaintances, professionals with a job to do. A lot of Jon's peers considered the media a necessary evil, but he hadn't reached that point yet (although he feared he would someday). You couldn't really be buddies with any of them, he felt, but you didn't have to hate them, either. You just needed to be careful.

His first thought was how much he should reveal. This instinct was automatic now; part of his training as a high-ranking team executive. Everyone within an NFL club was instructed, either directly or indirectly, on what should and should not be discussed with the press. That was why so many phrases and comments came from the same template—
I have the utmost confidence in him and what he brings to the table
or
We have as good a team as anyone, and as good a chance of making the Super Bowl as anyone.

“I spoke with the physician a short time ago, and it appears Michael is in pretty rough shape.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Right now he's still unconscious and has multiple injuries to his arms, legs, chest, and back.”

That came out well, he thought. Specific enough to satisfy their curiosity and remain completely truthful.

“Will he be ready to play this year?”

It took Jon only a nanosecond to decide honesty was best here. There was no point in taking any other approach—the facts would leak out one way or another. His prudence told him to hedge, but he knew damn well the hospital people would talk.

“Uh, no. His doctor has made it clear that there's no chance of him playing this season.”

The ones who brought notepads scribbled this down. The rest held out their microphones and microcassette recorders.

“So then his injuries must be pretty serious?”

“I can't really give any specifics yet.”

Jon searched their faces. As he expected, some looked skeptical. He wasn't surprised—it sounded like a bullshit response. It sounded like he was hiding something.

“We'll know a lot more in about two days. The doctor said the next forty-eight hours will be critical in determining his long-term health. Until then, I don't want to speculate.”

A kid who looked to be in his early twenties nudged his way to the front of the crowd. “Are you being truthful about that,” he asked with a crooked smile, “or are you saying it just because the draft is coming up and you don't want to lose any negotiating power?”

The moment Jon saw Bobby Verlucci, he expected a dumb question. How this guy still had a sportswriting job was a mystery to him. Jon considered him brash and arrogant, hopelessly ignorant, and under the peculiar impression that interviewing someone was synonymous with harassing them. No question was too scandalous, no topic too sensitive. A real First Amendment hawk. Dealing with Verlucci was like dealing with
The National Enquirer.

“That question is so idiotic I won't even dignify it with a response. Next.”

Verlucci's eager gaze faded. He was embarrassed, but the discouragement was temporary. Jon knew he'd be back and in a vengeful mood next time. Losers like him always kept score.

A handful of other questions were tossed out—considerably more reasonable than Verlucci's—and Jon answered them frankly and honestly. Nothing too difficult, nothing unexpected. Then Patti Sheridan raised her hand. Jon spotted her and smiled for the first time all day.

Patti was the only woman in the group; always had been. When she first arrived on the scene just over five years ago, everybody figured she'd be eaten alive. A female writer in the exclusive boys' club of sportswriting? No way. Admission for new
males
was rare. The old schoolers were particularly offended by her audacity. To them she was a symbol of the modern age. This simply wasn't the
place
for women. Couldn't she understand that? Surely she was pursuing it only to make a statement for feminism and liberalism, and for the fun of getting under their collective skin.

In time Sheridan
did
work her way under their skin—by evolving into a first-rate journalist. She churned out penetrating and insightful articles in a direct, objective style that readers loved. Then the stories about her past began to surface—mother died when she was a child, father committed suicide, raised by grandparents who were barely able to take care of themselves, paid her own way through college. Perceptions began to change. Gone were the days when no one would share their notes with her or invite her to dinner after a big event. She became a full-fledged member of the club, the little sister with dozens of big brothers. And God help you if you pushed her around.

Jon admired her grit and made a point of giving her at least one nod during each conference. He knew it was a wise investment—she didn't ask Verlucci-type questions. But she did often ask tough ones.

“Patti?”

“With Michael Bell out for the season, what are you going to do for a quarterback?”

“Yeah, are you going to enter the McKinley Sweepstakes now?” another reporter added. “Is drafting Christian McKinley your only option?”

A third said, “If so, are you eager to get back into the ring with Brendan Cavanaugh?”

Jon knew the Cavanaugh Question was coming, yet hearing it still made his stomach knot.
Do these guys ever forget?

“I'm sorry, guys, but right now I just don't have that many answers for you,” he said, disappointed that he couldn't give Patti something better. His response received a collective groan from his audience.

Within minutes he was in his car, speeding back to Owings Mills.

*   *   *

If you asked ten different people around the league who, if anyone, hated each breath that kept Jon Sabino alive, all ten would, without hesitation, give the same reply—Broncos general manager Brendan Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh was sitting as his desk when the phone rang. On the wall across from him was a huge team logo flanked by smaller photos of Denver's greatest players—John Elway, Terrell Davis, Shannon Sharpe. All were inscribed.

Cavanaugh glanced at the number on the caller ID and decided to let his assistant get it. She was stationed in a small antechamber next door.

“Hello, Brendan Cavanaugh's line. Yes? Hold please. I'll see if he's in.”

An attractive brunette's face appeared in the doorway.

“Are you here?”

“It's Corwin, right?”

“Yes.”

Cavanaugh shook his head.
Not that little bastard.

“He'll just call back if I don't talk to him now. All right, put him through.” He cursed and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Don.”

“Cav? That you?”

“Sure is. What can I do for you?” The fake smile alone was a struggle. It wasn't easy being friendly to a man who'd said so many negative things about your team through the years. But a general manager had little choice. Tell a writer to piss off and you left yourself wide open. At the very least they would report that you “refused to comment,” which was interpreted as an admission of guilt anyway.

“Well, I'm calling to get your take on this whole Bell issue.”

“Bell issue?” It came out so sincere he almost believed it himself, as if Corwin wasn't really the third scribbler to call in the last hour. “You mean the car accident?”