The Cut (10 page)

“Another thing we don't have time for is bullshit personal stuff,” Gray continued, clearing his throat. “Stuff like calls from mothers who miss you or friends who want to come and hang out here. We won't tolerate it. This isn't summer camp, it's
training
camp. If someone strikes us as being more interested in his life at home than his life here, we will be glad to accommodate him—by showing him the door. Don Blumenthal, by the way, will take care of that. Most of you already know him, either from your arrival yesterday or from being with the team in the past. We call Don ‘the Turk.' Most teams have a Turk, and Don is ours. The Turk is assigned several unpleasant jobs, one of which is to find the guys who've been cut and bring them to my office.”

Reese spotted Blumenthal standing in a far corner among the rest of the coaching staff, plus a few other front-office types. He looked as dour and uninspiring as ever.
No wonder he gets the job of cutting people
.
Grim work for a grim guy.

“If this happens to you, don't even think about getting nasty with him. First off, you don't want to piss off anyone that ugly.” No one laughed at this tasteless attempt at humor, but Blumenthal seemed unmoved by it. A few guys in the room even felt a little sorry for him.

“And second,” Gray went on, “he isn't the one who made the decision to cut you—I did. My staff provides me with the information I need concerning who will make up the best team, but I make the final call. So if you are unlucky enough to fall into this category, the Turk will come and find you, and then I'll talk to you. But, to get back to my main point, your mind has to be right here for the next four weeks, and nowhere else. The outside world does not exist right now. If you have a genuine emergency, we'll deal with it in an appropriate fashion. If not, your entire universe begins and ends on this campus. Is that understood?”

A selection of affirmative replies rose from the crowd in an atonal jumble.

“Now, I'm sure you are all aware that this team has not performed up to its potential over the last few seasons. And I'm sure you know how disappointed I've been.”

These two sentiments were followed by a deathly silence. The thought that came to Jermaine Hamilton's mind was
Five and eleven last year
,
six and ten the year before that. Yeah, I'd say you have some issues.

Gray held up his right hand and splayed out all the fingers. “Five wins—that's pathetic. It is my belief that there's a losing attitude in this club, and when a losing attitude starts to spread, it's like a poison, making the body sicker and sicker until it just up and croaks. This is the first thing that needs to change. I have already cut five guys, and camp really hasn't even started yet—guys who, in spite of their skills, were losers at heart. Guys who were here only for the big paycheck, or the notoriety, or the glory, or a little bit of all three. I'm not saying I have anything against those things. But first and foremost, if you are not interested in winning football games, I will expose you and throw you the hell out of here. Mark my words—we will not have a losing attitude in this organization this season. Do we understand
that
?”

“Yes, sir,” came the chorus, but another group sentiment was drifting around the room among those who had been with the team awhile—
You're pretty good at blaming everyone but yourself there, Coach.

“Okay. I'm going to make one final point before we get going. Most of you have been in an NFL training camp before, and those who haven't probably know something about them from what you've heard, seen on TV, and been through at college. I won't paint a rosy picture—training camp is hard. It may be the hardest thing you ever do in your life. You may look back on this next month years from now and think it was the shittiest, lousiest, most painful, most agonizing, most infuriating time you ever had.” Gray smiled. “I certainly hope so, because training camp has just one purpose as far as the coaches are concerned—to find out which of you has what it takes to be on this team, and which of you do not. It's survival of the fittest, period. We've got ninety-two guys here now, and we'll have just fifty-three when the day of the final cut arrives. It's going to be a race, and the last fifty-three guys standing will be the winners. Winners are who we want. They have focus, they have intensity, they have drive, and they have dedication. They are also consistent. That means they operate at the highest levels every day. If you think you're going to shine like a star for a few days, then relax the rest of the time and still make the roster, you're wrong. If we think you can function at the top, then we expect you to do it
all the time.
Not some of the time, not once in a while. Who is in the Hall of Fame? Guys who had one or two great games? No—guys who put up big numbers
consistently.
That means training camp is also about endurance. Use up all your energy during the first half, and you will fall behind in the second. Keep that in mind. And remember that injuries hurt you more than just physically. You don't make the team from the training room. Or, as some have said, ‘You won't make the club from the tub.' You better be damn near death if you're thinking of walking off the field. Remember—time not spent in camp is time when we cannot evaluate you. And we cannot put guys on the team that we haven't evaluated.”

Gray trailed off here, cleared his throat again, and checked his notebook. “Boys, pay attention, try your best, keep your focus, and you'll be fine. If you follow the rules, then all it comes down to is your talent. Everything else is a constant, so the talent is the variable. Those who are the most talented will make the team. Those who have a little less talent but are still worthy might end up somewhere else. And those who have very little will go home. It really is that simple.

“So the first thing we need to do this year is find out who's ready,” he told them. “Get suited up and get out there.”

10

The Giants' practice
field was located in the northwestern corner of the SUNY campus. It was set in a man-made depression about ten feet deep, and it was surrounded by a chain-link fence and many trees, which helped keep out the curious and minimize distractions. On the eastern side, however, were the university's tennis courts, where beautiful young girls in tiny skirts occasionally jarred the attention of Giants prospects, much to the irritation of the coaching staff. The field also featured a set of heavy aluminum bleachers and, outlining the perimeter, a rubber, brick-red running track.

Moving like a herd, the team gathered loosely around the fifty-yard line. Each player wore shorts and a jersey and carried his pads and helmet. They spent the first twenty minutes stretching, many of them lying on the grass like cows in a meadow. Fans happy to see the team for the first time since last season cheered from the fences. They would be allowed to observe some practices from closer proximity later on, but not now.

Gray blew his whistle and ordered the squad into three groups—offense, defense, and special teams. Defensive coordinator Leo Miller took his boys to the western end of the field. Miller was a longtime friend and assistant to Alan Gray. Since Gray had a defensive pedigree, he and Miller shared similar minds, and their philosophies had evolved as a result of an ongoing joint effort. But while Gray was more reserved on the surface, Miller was basically a lunatic. It was he, not Gray, who was seen on television from time to time screaming from the sidelines, spitting and red-faced. It was also he who would be jumping up and down, pumping his fists and slapping helmets at every sack and backfield tackle. He hated offenses and lived for any opportunity to cause an injury. Most people around the league thought he would've ended up in prison if he hadn't found football, and his nicknames ranged from “Miller the Killer” to “Milla' the Hun.” He particularly liked the second one and had someone superimpose his face over an image of the actual Hun king, then framed it and hung it in his office.

Special teams coach Frank Draybeck, who wasn't much more stable than Miller, put his men in the center of the field, leaving the eastern third for Dale Greenwood and the offensive unit. Greenwood led them to the sideline and, with clipboard in hand and a silver whistle hanging around his neck, said, “All right, boys, we're going to have some fun. Like Coach Gray said, the first thing we need to do is find out who's ready to be here and who's not.” A faint collective groan came from the defensive unit at the opposite end of the field, and the other players took notice. Most of them had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

“You remember your old friend the gasser, right?” Greenwood asked, then smiled at the reaction. “Yeah,” he said to his assistant coaches. “They remember.”

In simplest terms, a “gasser” is a sprint used as a part of a conditioning regimen. Gassers are usually executed in a series, with minimal breaks between runs. They are arduous, often bordering on torture, and are loathed by sensible athletes. But they are also useful in gauging overall health and physical ability. Only players in the best shape can withstand a high-level gasser.

“I thought you'd be pleased,” Greenwood continued. “We're going to do them in groups, by position. Last year we did a series of forty-yard dashes, but I've got enough data on your forties to smoke my hard drive.” He flipped through the pages attached to his clipboard, then glanced up at Hamilton, Reese, and Foster. “Except for you guys, that is,” he said, “but we'll manage. So here's what we're going to do this time.” He took his pencil from behind his ear and pointed. “We're going up and back the width of the field. That's one hundred and sixty feet, or fifty-three and a third yards. Or, for you metric dorks, forty-eight point eight meters.”

A few more moans drifted from the group—guys who had done this type of gasser before and remembered the experience well.

“You are going to go up and back twice.” Greenwood said. “That means up and back, up and back. It'll be a total of slightly more than two hundred yards.”

“Why don't we just use the full length of the field?” someone asked. It was Derrick Wilcox, wide receiver and rookie fourth-round pick from LSU. Daimon Foster glanced over at him and thought,
Was he the guy they chose over me?

“The field isn't wide enough for all three units at the same time,” Greenwood said. “We'd be here all damn day. So, first, the running backs. Let's go, get into position.”

Five young men came forward, all black. In spite of this basic similarity, one stood out among them—Jason Thomas. Thomas had been the first-round, third-overall draft pick of the team three years ago. He made the starting squad without too much trouble and began performing from day one—137 yards in his opening game against the Cowboys. He would rush for more than eleven hundred that year, and over thirteen hundred the next. He was as slick as a fish, and he could squirt through the smallest of holes. Some said he had the tools to become the next Walter Payton. Whether that happened or not, he was in no immediate threat of losing his job. The second man on the depth chart, Charlie Tate, was a solid backup who had value in other roles. It was the other three guys who would be competing in this camp.

They lined up along the sideline a few feet apart. Greenwood took five digital stopwatches from a canvas bag and handed them out—one to the running backs coach, the rest among a small cluster of team gofers who were standing nearby. Most were bright young college students whose parents had landed them internship positions through their connections with team hierarchy. Everyone was assigned the task of timing a different player.

“Your goal is as follows,” Greenwood said to the backs. “You will run a total of ten gassers, completing each one within thirty-three seconds. You will have another thirty seconds to rest in between, and a two-minute break after completing the fifth. Okay?”

Thomas didn't bat an eyelid, and Tate appeared only mildly disgruntled. The other three, however, looked petrified.

“Ready? On three. One … two …
three
!”

Bits of grass flew from their cleats as they sprang forward. Some of their teammates yelled in support, but none of the runners seemed to notice. When they reached the far end and turned, their faces were tightened with intensity. Thomas had the lead by a step or two, with Tate and one of the rookies nearly tied for second. The other two were doing their best to keep up. One of them—the one that appeared a bit heavier than the other four—was clearly not in good shape. Jermaine Hamilton had seen guys like this before, those who hadn't fully devoted themselves to an off-season program and figured they'd lose the weight and regain their edge
during
camp. They were almost always the first ones to go.
That's one less person on the roster
, he thought.

Thomas crossed the line first, and Greenwood clicked off his stopwatch. Four more clicks quickly followed as the others finished. Then Greenwood started his watch again and said, “Thirty-second rest, guys. Catch your breath.”

The running backs kept moving, walking around slowly and in no particular direction. Perspiration had already begun to shimmer on their foreheads. A gofer without a stopwatch held out a bottle of water and a towel. No one took the water, but Jason Thomas grabbed the towel and quickly patted his face.

“Five seconds,” Greenwood announced, and the backs lined up again.

The next two gassers were similar to the first, with Thomas in the lead and Tate and the one good rookie at his heels. But by gasser number four, the differences between the five young men really began to show. The rookie who had been keeping pace with Tate began to fall back a little bit, and the one who had arrived in camp out of shape was starting to wheeze audibly. During the two-minute break after gasser number five, the wheezer fell to one knee, then turned and crashed on his back. He accepted a water bottle and poured the contents over his face rather than drink it. The other two rookies were winded, but at least they were still standing. Tate appeared a bit worn as well, but he was smart enough not to show it. Thomas stood with his hands on his hips and stared into the distance, seemingly detached from it all. He had removed his shirt during the thirty-second break following the fourth run; his diamond-cut physique glistened in the morning sun.