The Draft (5 page)

“Yeah, what do you think about it?” Corwin's phlegmy voice made Cavanaugh's skin crawl. He could almost
smell
the old man's halitosis.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, without Michael Bell, the Ravens' chances of reaching that hallowed third Super Bowl are next to nil. That must put a smile on your face.”

“A man was in a car accident that left him in a coma,” Cavanaugh replied, sounding pious. “If that puts a smile on your face, then you need professional help.”

He was pleased with how that came out. It might have been a little self-righteous, but the point was inarguable.

“But let's face it, Cav—chances are the Ravens won't reach that third Super Bowl now, and that'll keep them out of the history books. In fact they'll probably have a pretty rough season. You must get some satisfaction out of that.”

“I'm not concerned with the Ravens right now. The draft is less than two weeks away, so I'm concerned with the Denver Broncos.”

A BS response if there ever was one, and a seasoned vet like Corwin would certainly realize that. But it was all he was going to get.

“What about Christian McKinley? The rumor is Sabino will be after him now.”

“Rumor? What rumor? I didn't hear that. Who told you that?”

“I'm sorry, I can't reveal my sources.”

Greatest alibi the press ever had,
he thought. It had given them license to get away with damn near everything.

“It doesn't matter. What Sabino does doesn't affect our plans.”

“But I heard you guys are also after McKinley.”

Cavanaugh smiled. “Sorry, I can't confirm that. You know—can't reveal my sources.”

He was being an asshole now and he knew it, but what the hell. It was worth it.

“If it's true, though,” Corwin went on anyway, “then it's kind of a general manager rematch, don't you think?”

“I wouldn't think of it that way, no. Whatever Sabino does is Sabino's business. If he does something that affects us, we'll deal with it then.”

“But what about—”

“Don, I gotta cut it short. Alderman just walked in.”

He replaced the receiver without waiting for Corwin's response. Then he rose and went to the doorway.

“I'm not here for the next hour, okay?”

“Okay.”

He shut the door and slumped into his chair. He leaned back and thought about Corwin's remark—
It's kind of a general manager rematch, don't you think?
They never forget, he reminded himself.
Never …

The incident occurred almost five years ago and centered around Bell. Five long years, but it might as well have been last goddamn week. Bell had started his NFL career with the Jaguars, drafted from the third round out of LSU. He had tremendous potential but was wild and undisciplined on the field, often leaving the pocket early and attempting throws Johnny Unitas couldn't have made on a good day. The consensus among coaches was that he might be able to function as a starter if given the proper attention. But the average NFL team wasn't as quarterback-friendly as it used to be. Only a few were willing to invest the time required to develop a quarterback properly. It was assumed Bell would land a starter spot on some perennial .500 team for a few years, then fade into obscurity. It was a familiar pattern.

At the start of his third season, however, he showed up for minicamps in near-perfect condition and requested a shot at the starting job. Skeptical at first, the coaches finally relented and discovered they had a very different Michael Bell in their midst. His decisions were more mature, his throwing was more accurate. He scrambled only when necessary and had learned the value of sliding before being tackled rather than try to plow through defenders. With increased skill came increased confidence, and with that came a more natural leadership. By the end of the preseason it was obvious he had taken possession of the team, so the coaches gave him the nod and never looked back. During the regular season he amassed staggering statistics and shattered team records. The following season was even better as he carried the Jaguars to their first playoff appearance in ages.

When that season ended he was an unrestricted free agent. His contract had been so structured because, in plain truth, the team never expected him to amount to much. Since his rebirth they had put out feelers to see if he'd be interested in a new deal, one that would give him more money up front while keeping him in the organization. But his agent, Jerry Wahlberg, always declined. The general feeling was that he planned to shop Bell's services around to assess their market value.

Which is precisely what Wahlberg did. In the quarterback-poor NFL it came as no surprise that his value turned out to be very high indeed. Six teams beyond Jacksonville expressed interest, all with handsome long-term offers featuring huge signing bonuses. One of those teams was the Denver Broncos.

The man who represented Denver at the time was Brendan Cavanaugh, their new general manager. He was in the job only six months, backed by eight years of NFL experience along with his MBA for Northwestern. He had a reputation for two things—brilliance and ruthlessness. Some said he was still a bit too inexperienced, including sportswriter Don Corwin. Also too young, too brash, and too cocky. An Ivy League rich kid who had stepped on too many toes and cut too many throats to get to the top. But those were his detractors, and there were always a few. The people who knew him best had no worries. He was careful, he was cautious, and he was calculative. Like watching a great poker player at the table, Cavanaugh's were certain he could pull off the deal.

Cavanaugh knew he was in a sweet position to put Bell in a Bronco uniform. The team had had some rough seasons, finishing no better than 8–8 in the last five years. Their head coach was one of the NFL's finest, but the front office had been too money conscious during his tenure, developing a reputation for low salaries and in turn routinely losing their best players to free agency.

The upside was that they had plenty of room under the salary cap when Bell became available. That put Cavanaugh in a very attractive position; so attractive in fact that he was sure he would cut the deal. He never came out and said as much, but he couldn't resist implying it in his blind desire to rub the writers' noses in his all-but-certain conquest. Consequently the Denver fans came to believe Bell was already theirs. What began as a distant hope evolved into a sure thing. With this new and brilliant quarterback would come a new era in Broncos history. There was talk of the playoffs, and in some bars and backrooms even the words “Super Bowl” were uttered. With Bell at the helm, it seemed reachable.

Then Cavanaugh walked into his office one morning in late February, turned on ESPN, and discovered Michael Bell had been signed by the Baltimore Ravens. He stood in the cool of his office, blinking in disbelief as the report rolled out on the screen. And like any great poker player who had just suffered a bad beat, he replayed the hand in his mind many times, searching for the spot where it all went wrong.

The reaction by others was horrific. Phillip Alderman, the team's principal owner and president, was clearly pissed. He didn't come out and say so because it simply wasn't his style. He was a refined, gentlemanly type who thought it disgraceful to allow your emotions to grow beyond your control. But Cavanaugh knew it. Everyone did; even the guy who emptied the garbage cans in the locker rooms. Alderman was leading the charge to build a new and better Bronco team, and he wanted Bell in the worst way. “Whatever it takes,” he'd said to his young general manager, in whom he had repeatedly expressed overwhelming confidence. “Just get him.” The quarterback was the starting point to any offense, and the one Alderman wanted had slipped away. Who knew when such a gem would become available again? His plans would have to wait now. He barely spoke to Cavanaugh for the next three weeks.

The sportswriters, on the other hand, had plenty to say. Corwin, for example, joyously reminded his readers of his many predictions about the “inexperienced rich boy,” conveniently forgetting that almost all of the other dazzling acquisitions that had led the Broncos back to prominence had been Cavanaugh masterstrokes. He implied instead that Cavanaugh's reputation was based a few freak acquisitions that just happened to work out—isolated moments of sheer luck that were parlayed into an overblown career. The fans weren't quite as cruel, but a few called into the sports-talk radio stations and demanding Cavanaugh's demotion. Once, when Cavanaugh was recognized as he drove home in his black Porsche, he was pelted with beer cans, some of them full. Such was the murderously competitive nature of the National Football League—not just on the field but on every level.

The furor died down eventually, but the media never forgot or forgave. Every time Bell led the Ravens to victory, someone would mention it. Cavanaugh rarely made it through an interview without hearing about it. After Baltimore won their second straight Super Bowl and the camera panned to a smiling Michael Bell carrying the Lombardi Trophy above his head as his teammates rode him on their shoulders and confetti fluttered around him, Al Michaels, one of the greatest football commentators of all time, said, “The Denver fans must be
livid.
”

But Cavanaugh survived. He survived and went on to make other deals, most of them superb. He was ultracompetitive by nature and never quite got over his one miserable defeat. He desperately wished the whole Bell affair would be forgotten; an unpleasant chapter in his personal history that would fade away in time.

But now Jon Sabino was going to join the race for Christian McKinley. He would throw everything he had at it. And Sabino had a lot. Deep down Cavanaugh knew he was a bona fide genius. But so was he. What the press reported was part of a different reality. Maybe the fans believed everything they read, but what they read was rarely the whole truth. He knew he was just as good as Sabino; better in some ways. And others knew it, too. Plus, he was a lot older now—older and considerably wiser. The sting of that singular defeat was still surprisingly sharp. With the kind of supermasculine motivation that possesses everyone who devotes their life to the NFL—whether on the chessboard that lies between the goalposts or in the boardrooms and bedrooms beyond—Cavanaugh's desire to crush his opponent's ego and humiliate him, if for no reason than to even the score, suddenly shifted into overdrive. If he failed this time, he knew, it would be all over. Maybe he wouldn't be out of a job, but his respectability would be history. The fans had forgiven him once, albeit grudgingly, but they wouldn't do it twice. Same with the press. Even now, he knew, they were hunched over their laptops, rubbing their hands together as they waited for the saga to unfold. This would be his sweet revenge … or his final defeat. And the latter could not happen. It simply wasn't an option.

As the phone rang yet again, one thought blinked in his mind—no matter what it took, he had to get Christian McKinley.

*   *   *

Jon listened to the radio on the short ride back to the offices. The talking heads were already at it, speculating about the team's next move. The naysayers conveniently reappeared after an almost three-year absence, squawking about how the Ravens were no longer this year's Super Bowl hopeful, just as they had predicted, etc. Someone cut in with a sound bite from the meeting outside the hospital. Jon heard his own voice crisply and clearly, and he marveled at the speed with which technology made news reporting possible these days. He'd spoken those words not more than fifteen minutes ago. Incredible.

He also got some information on the old lady who'd caused the accident. She was shaken up and had a bruised sternum from the impact with the steering wheel, but ultimately she'd be okay. He shook his head at the irony. Just like a drunk driver,
she
was the one who didn't get hurt. She claimed not to remember any of it. That was the final touch, Jon thought. Her insurance company would handle the legal end of things, and she'd just walk away. If only his quarterback had been so lucky.

He was thankful there were no more reporters waiting when he arrived. Must've gotten their fill for the day, or at least for the morning.
Is it still only morning?
He checked his watch—11:05. The day wasn't even half over yet. He shook his head and got out of the car.

The offices were buzzing. People moved through the hallways at a speed that was almost comical. Phones rang, paper spilled out of the fax machines, the copier ran nonstop. It seemed like a typical American business center, but then that's exactly what it was—a business. In spite of their individual burdens, each person found a moment to glance at him. Their expressions belied a mixture of fascination and pity.

He turned toward his office but was stopped by his secretary, Susan Schiff. Schiff never smiled, spoke only when necessary, and wore horn-rimmed glasses with thick plastic frames. Some referred to her as “Susan Stiff” or just “Stiff.” In spite of her almost complete lack of personality, though, she was about the most organized and efficient individual that Jon had ever seen.

“The others are waiting for you in number two.”

“Who's in there?”

“Mr. Connally, Coach Blanchard, Kevin Tanner, and Dr. Mendel.”

“Anyone else expected?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The Ravens' conference room was, like Jon's office, surprisingly modest. The centerpiece was a long table with a white Formica top. A markerboard ran the length of one wall and featured ghostly remnants of past scribblings. Lavishly framed photos of noted gridiron figures hung on the others like dead members of a gentleman's club. Visitors were invariably drawn to these, whereas the staff paid them no mind.

The others were standing in a cluster at the far end when he came in.