The Cut (11 page)

Greenwood counted down the break in fifteen-second increments. As the five men dragged themselves to the starting line, the catcalls became louder, the taunts crueler. By the end of gasser number seven, the out-of-shape rookie looked like an exhausted puppy, his tongue actually dangling. Thomas continued his steady performance, making his time in each run. The strain was beginning to show around his eyes and in his careful, measured breathing, but that was to be expected. Otherwise, he was superhuman. Like the great Jerry Rice, Thomas subjected himself to a torturous off-season training program, and it paid the biggest dividends at times like this. Tate, amazingly, was beginning to catch a second wind. The rookies, in contrast, were not. They had expended too much of their energy trying to keep up in the first half. Now they had very little wind left. Everyone watching received a refresher course in the value of pacing yourself.

Only moments after Jason Thomas crossed the finish line for the tenth and final time, the unconditioned rookie collapsed on the other side of the field. He had not completed even half of the last run. Tate followed Thomas by about six steps, and the two surviving rookies came in side by side shortly thereafter. Tate bent forward, hands on his knees, eyes closed, and struggled to catch his breath. Some of the other players went over to the kid lying by the hash marks near the big 20 and tried to pull him up. They might as well have been moving a corpse. He turned out to be an unsigned free agent from Brigham Young and was thirteen pounds over his prescribed weight. He was carted off the field, and no one ever saw him again.

After the running backs came the offensive linemen. Since they were much heavier and inherently slower, they were given more time to complete each run—but not much. Whereas the RBs had thirty-three seconds per run, the linemen got thirty-nine. It didn't sound like much, but it made all the difference in the world—of the eighteen men who were vying for positions, only twelve completed all ten. Then came the five quarterback prospects, then the fullbacks. In each case the position coaches copied down all the times with notable indifference.

“Okay, tight ends, let's go,” Greenwood said, waving them on. Glenn Maxwell jogged to the line first. He was a lanky white kid with gold hair that he kept shaved on the sides and not much longer on top. He had dark slits for eyes, a nose so long and narrow that it looked almost feminine, and a tiny mouth—which was no inconvenience since he rarely used it. His teammates thought of him more as invisible than aloof; he didn't carry an aura of superiority, but seemed comfortable waiting in the shadows until he was needed. His appearance on the field just now was a perfect example—he didn't seem to be anywhere until Greenwood summoned him. No one noticed that he'd been stretching by himself for the last fifteen minutes near the goalpost.

Hamilton, Reese, and Foster came up next, spread out about ten feet from each other, and crouched into their stances.

Jim O'Leary came alongside them. “Ready, guys? On three. One … two …
three
!”

They took off in perfect synch, four thoroughbreds competing for the same prize. Daimon Foster trained his eyes on the white line at the far end of the field, nothing else. He had learned this from one of his strength and conditioning coaches at college.
Focus on one thing and become blind to everything else. But don't focus on the pain. Focusing on something else will help you think
above
the pain
. He controlled his breathing, too, keeping it mild and steady so he wouldn't burn out too soon. He was sure he could beat the prescribed time Greenwood had given them—thirty-five seconds per gasser—in the first three attempts. He could probably even go under thirty if he really pushed himself. But after that he'd be out of steam, and by the two-minute break he'd be immobilized. So he decided not to concentrate on the time at all—just the run itself.
Steady, calm, consistent
.

Corey Reese realized Foster was ahead of him by about a half step. So far the order was Foster first, him second, and Hamilton and Maxwell another half step back in a tie for third. He decided that was okay for now.
Let Foster burn himself out. I can beat the other two regardless.
In the end, the coaches would realize he'd been the smart one, the one who used both his body
and
his brains to overcome his opponents. That would matter, because NFL coaches liked smart players. Every guy had a good body; they wouldn't have reached this point if they didn't. The mind was the make-or-break factor on this level.

Reese had also learned to focus on one thing in order to filter out all other distractions, but in this case he couldn't help thinking about the knee. It was the only thing that would keep him from landing this job. He was in better shape than Hamilton, had more experience than Foster, so the knee was the key. If it held up, he'd have no problems. So far it still felt funny. Not the best word, but adequate. Whereas he was barely aware of the movements of his other joints, he could actually
feel
things moving around down there—as if all the parts still hadn't quite settled yet, hadn't quite learned to live together harmoniously. And he considered this run the new knee's first real test. He wasn't in the comfort of his expansive backyard now, with the distant view of the other big houses. Everyone was watching, every move scrutinized. In spite of the weird sensations, the knee appeared to be holding together. As Reese pushed himself harder, his confidence increased. And as his confidence increased, so did his optimism. By the time he launched into the third gasser, he was neck-and-neck with Foster.

Similarly, Jermaine Hamilton was surprised by how good he felt. Crossing onto the sidelines for the two-minute break after the fifth run, he expected to be gasping for air. He ended up in second place, with Reese and Foster tied for first. True, he was winded—even Jason Thomas had been a little worn a half hour earlier, and he was probably in the best shape of anyone on the team. But Hamilton had feared he'd be like walking death, a machine whose parts were barely holding together. He, too, had designed and stuck with a personal conditioning program, his disciplinary fuel coming from the blind hope that someone would sign him. It had only been in the last few months that he began to slack off, when the depression struck and he started believing his career was really over. But after his agent called and said the Giants wanted him, he got back out there—literally, that same evening. He jogged five miles, feeling more alive than he had in years. He felt a lot like that now.

During the break, Maxwell vanished again. The other three tried to gauge the general condition of their rivals—without making it seem like they were doing so. They went out of their way to appear as though they were just fine. They turned down offers of water and Gatorade simply because they didn't want it to look like they needed any. In truth, they would've downed a bucketful given half the chance. Young men and their egos.

Daimon Foster noticed O'Leary talking to Greenwood, showing him something on his clipboard. The other position coaches hadn't done that.
Too slow?
he wondered. Since he wasn't focusing on time, he had no way of knowing.
I was faster than the others at the beginning,
he thought.
If I was too slow, that means we all were
.

He thought about moving closer to see if he could hear anything, but then Greenwood broke away and blew the whistle again. The break was over—five more gassers to go.

They lined up again and took off. Foster focused on a blue ice chest someone had left on the far side. In spite of this and the two-minute break, he could feel some weariness settling in. His legs no longer had the poetic fluidity they did before. They were a bit sluggish now, more recalcitrant. Making the turn at the end of the field was a drain. Nothing was automatic now; more willpower was required.

Corey Reese felt the fatigue as well, particularly in the damned knee. It was becoming painful, demanding. It was almost as if it were a separate living thing, and it was saying,
Don't push me, I can't do this much longer
. He'd be better off in practices and game situations, where you ran your heart out for a short period, took breaks between plays, then got a more extended rest on the bench after the defense took over. All this training camp crap was, without a doubt, the most physically demanding experience for a pro football player.

By the eighth run, Jermaine Hamilton was still behind Foster and Reese, and struggling to hang on. They were finally beginning to slow down, as he'd predicted—but so was he. He felt like his lungs were on fire. He figured his careful pacing and measured breathing would carry him through, and this was where he'd claim the lead, but the early symptoms of age were unavoidable. He simply did not possess the stamina he had ten years ago; it was
gone
. There was nothing in the world he wanted less than to do two more runs. He turned away from the crowd during the thirty-second break, closed his eyes, and dropped his head. He wasn't even certain if he would make it. Then he thought about life outside of here—his dying marriage, and that little prison in the basement. Now that he'd been able to put some time and distance between himself and that world, he began to see how poisonous it really was. Amazing how many people became trapped without even knowing it. Through the agony, he hazily remembered something about that from psych class in college—
environmental factors
. Something about influence. He thought it was all double-talk back then, but it made sense now. He felt happier right now, in spite of the pain, than he had in ages—simply because he'd changed his surroundings. How much longer would he have lasted in that misery? he wondered. Did he really want to go back?

Greenwood blew the whistle to start the ninth run, and Hamilton found himself jogging up to the line. When he burst forward, it was with an enthusiasm that surprised everyone. He forgot about the visual focusing tricks and thought about Melanie, about watching the games from his couch and having no desire to answer the door or the phone. That was part of the past, he decided, and he was running away from it—and toward the future. He still felt the pull of the years, the greedy fingers of age wrapping themselves around every joint and muscle. But he was moving forward anyway.

Corey Reese had no intention of coming in second to a veteran like Hamilton, or a kid like Foster. His mind was trained on keeping that gorgeous home and those beautiful cars, fending off the embarrassment of bankruptcy and the pity of fans, friends, and family. If he performed as he knew he was capable of performing, it would all be nothing but an unpleasant memory. A nightmare he woke up from and could then forget about. All he had to do was run.…

Daimon Foster remembered the two women who had sole claim on all the affection he was capable of. He knew he could outshine the others, knew he could carve out a niche for himself in this league. The Giants were offering more than an opportunity to make their team—they were offering an opportunity to
escape
. He thought about that dream-moment that would come in four weeks when he could deliver those four magic words to Alicia:
I made the team.
Everything would be different then
everything
. Even if he didn't land a zillion-dollar contract, he'd have enough to lower a bucket into the well of their despair and raise them up to the light of day. This was actually—
finally
—within reach now. He had no intention of blowing it.

They crossed the line for the tenth time, their bodies unwilling to go any farther. Amazingly, they finished at the same time, with Maxwell not far behind. It took the greatest effort of their collective lives to remain standing. They spread out from each other in a way that seemed choreographed. No one refused fluid this time. Reese finished a bottle of lime Gatorade in seconds and reached for another. Hamilton poured most of the water from his container over his head. Foster kept moving in small circles because he was afraid he would collapse if he didn't.

Twenty feet away, Jim O'Leary conferred quietly with the other three timekeeper-gofers. Greenwood watched from a distance, puzzled. After a few moments, O'Leary left the group and approached him with a frown on his face.

“You're not going to believe this.”

“What?”

O'Leary handed him the clipboard and tapped a figure at the bottom with his pen.

“What's that?”

“Their times.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, I checked and double-checked.”

Greenwood kept staring. “You're sure this is right?”

“Positive.”

The three new prospects had mostly recovered now and were lingering, waiting for their next challenge.

“Damn,” Greenwood said.

*   *   *

That first practice session ended just after eleven thirty. The final offensive group to run gassers was the quarterbacks. There were five prospects, two of whom had been on the roster for several years—Mark Lockenmeyer, the starter for the last three seasons, and Blair Thompson, thirteen-year journeyman and veteran backup. The rest were rookies, one acquired in the seventh round of the most recent draft, the other two free-agent signings. Lockenmeyer, a longtime Greenwood favorite who many said had much greater talent than his record and his statistics suggested, logged the best time, with Thompson logging the worst; it didn't matter, he knew they'd keep him. He was experienced, competent, affable, and—of paramount importance—relatively cheap. One other highlight of the gasser session was that two more players had to be removed from the field, both massive defensive linemen. Gray screamed at one of them as the kid lay in the grass.

The team walked wearily to the dining hall, where another lavish layout awaited them. They ate greedily and silently, eager to replenish their carbs and electrolytes for the afternoon session. Jermaine Hamilton found himself sitting alone again, hunched over a heap of roast chicken and new potatoes. His legs ached already.
On the first damn day
, he thought worriedly. He prayed it was merely a symptom of the torture he had just endured and that it wouldn't get any worse. Corey Reese wanted desperately to sit with somebody—
anybody.
He knew how important it was to socialize, to make it appear that you were accepted by your teammates, that you fit in. It was the kind of political thing coaches would notice. It might not be a make-or-break factor, but it helped. Daimon Foster didn't have as much of an issue with the idea of sitting by himself. He had a feeling he'd done pretty well with the gassers. He still felt like an alien, totally out of place in his surroundings. He didn't know anybody, didn't know where anything was, and didn't feel particularly welcome. He was already learning that the world of pro football could be fairly cold and impersonal. So he focused on his performance.
That's what really counts,
he told himself.