The Cut (18 page)

Daimon Foster stepped in four plays later, when the Giants had moved the ball down to the Jets' eleven. His heart thudded as he prayed everything went smoothly on this, his very first play in the National Football League. He knew thousands of eyes were on him, knew there was a good chance some of the commentators were speaking his name, broadcasting into millions of homes in the area, and he knew Alicia and his mom were watching, as excited and as nervous as he was. This would not be the best time to make a mistake. As he broke the huddle and took position just behind the line of scrimmage, he went over the assignment in his head. He would not be the receiver, just a lure. He was on the right of the front five, opposite Glenn Maxwell on the left, so there was no strong side. Receiver Willie Knight stood next to him, on the outside, and would be getting the ball in the end zone. That was the plan, anyway—but the Jets' red zone defense had allowed just twenty-one touchdowns during the previous season.

The ball was snapped after a short count, and Foster followed an inward slant pattern, moving to the center of the field. The Jets had given up the zone for man-to-man, and Daimon quickly acquired one of their linebackers. Since the guy was pacing him on his right side, executing his assignment was now problematic. He had to cut back to the outside to draw at least one more coverage man off Knight. Now he had to improvise.

He took two quick steps forward, as if to break free from the coverage and continue across the center of the field, and the linebacker fell for it. As soon as he turned on the gas to follow, Foster pulled back and cut right. The linebacker spun to stay on him but lost his footing and went down.

Foster's momentary satisfaction evaporated when he saw that Knight had miscalculated his own pattern—instead of cutting left in the end zone, he went right. Lockenmeyer, who had to rely on the synchronicity of the play, had already released the ball, which was now drifting toward the spot where Knight was supposed to be—and where a Jet defender who also noticed the error was heading.

Foster discarded the design in his mind and charged full-bore to the site of the forthcoming disaster. As much as he would love to be able to put his first pro touchdown into the record books—and on his first play, no less—he didn't think he'd be able to get to the ball in time. Personal gain aside, what he needed to do here, he knew, was play a little defense of his own.

The ball came down, and the Jet safety had both hands out, ready for the interception. As in a dream, it seemed so far away to Foster—much too great a distance to cover in such a short time. He dove headfirst, arms outstretched, and screamed something unintelligible. The safety did manage to get both hands on the ball, but Foster knocked it loose before he had the chance to pull it in and gain full possession. It then fell harmlessly to the ground and bounced crazily away.

Up in the Giants Stadium press box, Sal Clinton, the color commentator, said into his microphone, “Not bad. I thought that would be Jets ball for sure.”

Ken Vreeland, who handled the play-by-play, responded, “I agree. A very good heads-up play. That's one of Big Blue's new tight end hopefuls, Daimon Fostek … er, Foster, wearing number eighty-two.”

“All three of their TE prospects have looked fairly sharp so far. First Jermaine Hamilton, the veteran, looking as youthful as any rookie out there. Then Corey Reese, with a rehabilitated knee you'd never suspect if you didn't already know about it, and now this kid. An interesting little saga so far, if you think about it, with the reported benching of T. J. Brookman, who has had such an impact over the last few years.”

“Just goes to show you no one's job is safe in the league these days,” Vreeland added.

“You're not kidding, Ken, you're not kidding.”

The Giants made another first down on the next play, then ran a left-side sweep two plays after that for the first score of the game—one in which Maxwell had been placed on the right side while Foster carved a lane for his running back with one of the play's key blocks.

As Foster jogged off the field, Alan Gray pulled his headphones down around his neck and clapped effusively, slapping him on the back as he went by. This was a purely cosmetic gesture, as Gray figured the cameras would be on him at that moment. He imagined—correctly, as it turned out—that both Barry Sturtz and T. J. Brookman would be watching the game somewhere, and he wanted to communicate the message that he was pleased with his new tight end talent. More leverage … always more leverage.

“Pretty good, huh?” Dale Greenwood said from a few yards down the sidelines. Gray had told him to make sure all three were given plenty of time on the field so he could better evaluate them.

“Yeah, not bad,” the head coach called back, grinning like a demon. “Not bad at all.”

17

Hours later, Corey
Reese was sitting toward the back of the team bus, watching the miles go by. The sun was setting on the New York Thruway, reducing the Appalachian Mountains to an uneven run of dark shapes against a canvas of muted reds and violets.

They had pulled out the victory, 21–20, against the predictions of the broadcasters, bookmakers, armchair quarterbacks, and, apparently, everyone else who'd bothered to form an opinion. It hadn't been easy, though. They lost one prospective starter on the offensive line to a broken foot, and a promising young safety blew out his Achilles tendon. His career in the National Football League was likely over before it had begun.

That aside, Reese'd had a fantastic game. He kept going over his performance in his mind, scanning for places where he could make improvements. This constant self-evaluation was a vital component of success, because you were expected to push yourself to get better. At the same time, however, he was aware that his rivals had also done well. Hamilton made several key blocks, including one that paved the way for the team's second touchdown, plus a pair of against-the-odds receptions. And Foster was absolutely fearless, going head-to-head with everyone during the Jets' fearsome blitzing schemes. Plus, the little bastard was
quick.
His ability to find dead zones in the secondary and get open was pretty damn good. Whereas Reese was reacquiring his mechanics, Daimon Foster had the seeds of real vision. He sensed where the holes would open up before they did. This wasn't something you could teach—it was a gift. It wasn't fully developed yet, as Foster was simply too young and inexperienced for that, but it was on its way.

Nevertheless, Reese thought with a wicked smile, he was the one who ended up with the ball in the end zone, not Foster or Hamilton. It was a fourth-quarter leap that gave the Giants the lead for good. And that was the stuff people remembered.

He waited until the guy sitting next to him—defensive tackle Bryan Pettit—was asleep before taking out his cell phone. It was otherwise quiet on the big charter, with most guys either out cold or listening to their iPods.

Jeanine answered on the second ring.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Reese said, keeping his voice to a whisper.

“Hey.”

“Did you see me? Did you see the game?”

“We saw most of it, but the kids were running around crazy.”

“Did you see the touchdown?”

“Yes, we saw that.”

“Wasn't it great? Man, I'll tell you, I didn't think I was gonna get it. Mark was throwing a little ahead of everybody today, but he'll get better.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Coach Greenwood, he was all excited, telling me how great it was. Gray wasn't too happy, though. The defense made some mistakes that nearly cost us at the end. We got lucky, though, but he was screaming at them in the locker room. Man, he was
pissed.
”

Silence.

“My knee feels all right. A little sore, but not as bad as I thought it would. It was tight when I got up, but it was okay by the time I jogged out onto the field.”

More silence.

And then, listening close, Reese thought he heard—

“Jean?”

No response.

“Jean? Are you … crying?”

It'd been faint, almost like the high squeal of a door. Then the chilling, choking sound as she tried to catch her breath.

“Jean, oh my God, what's wrong? Baby … what?”

More squealing, then a feeble attempt at speech. One thing Corey had always found oddly endearing about her was the childlike quality of her grief. It made her seem so frail and vulnerable—and made him that much more protective of her.

“A man came to the house today,” she said finally, and he could picture her wiping her face with her hands, trying to gather herself. “Two men.”

“What did they want?”

“They wanted your car,” she said. Enhanced by her emotion, it sounded sinister.
They came for your car today
.…

With his elation gone, Reese asked, “From the bank?”

“I guess so. But they didn't look like … bank people.”

Repo guys,
Reese thought, and a slithering disgust moved inside him.
Not exactly the kind of people I want near my family.

“Did they … do anything?” This was the only way he could think of putting it. The more generic the better.

“They scared the
hell
out of the kids!” she screeched, and in that one reply Reese realized just how frightened she really was. This was about much more than the car—this was the Ugly Monster they had been fearing for the last year and a half. It was like death after a prolonged illness. You knew it was coming, yet you were never fully prepared for it. No matter how much you braced yourself, it was still a jolt to the system.

“Okay, okay. Take it easy, sweetheart. Did they do anything else?”

“One of them went over to the garage and looked in the window, as if I might be lying when I said you weren't around.
He looked in our goddamn window!
”

“All right. Anything else?”

“He said he'd be in touch.”

“Did he leave a card?”

“No, nothing. That scared me, too—he said he'd be in touch but he didn't leave any information. My God, Corey, those two guys could've come from anywhere.”

No, not anywhere,
Reese thought,
just whatever part of hell repo people call home.

She started sobbing again, and Reese pressed the phone even harder against the side of his head so no one would hear.

“Okay, look, baby. I'll give Dennis a call first thing tomorrow. Maybe we can hold them off with a minimum payment or something, all right?”

She calmed down just enough to say, “Okay.”

“In the meantime, relax. I'm doing pretty good out here. Remember that I love you, and that we'll get through this one way or another.”

“Right, right.”

“And tell the kids I love them and I miss them.”

“I will.”

“Okay.”

Another moment of silence, broken by his wife saying, “Corey?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm so scared.”

The figurative light frost that had settled over his skin turned into an arctic freeze. Everything that he had been fighting back all these months had now, literally, come to his front door. Today's visit, he knew, was just the beginning.

“Don't be, baby,” he said in a whisper, a lump forming in his own throat. “We'll be all right.”

They ended the call by wishing each other good night. As Reese folded the phone and replaced it in his pocket, he caught Daimon Foster staring at him from across the aisle. Then Foster turned away.

Look all you want, kid,
Reese thought.
Take a real close look at the guy who's gonna beat your ass right off this team.

*   *   *

“And now,” Tommy Spencer said into the studio camera and, simultaneously, millions of homes, “we turn back to the NFL and the continuing story of the New York Football Giants and their future at the tight-end position. And to help us, as always, is our own training camp stud, Greg Bolton. Greg, what's the latest?”

A chuckling Bolton appeared on the right side when ESPN switched to the split-screen perspective. He was wearing a navy blazer with a light blue shirt and no tie. Behind him, blurrily, the Giant players were going through more drills in what appeared to be an afternoon session.

“Hey, Tommy. When I spoke with Coach Gray today, I wasn't surprised to find him elated—almost giddy—about the situation with the three new prospects that were brought into camp: Jermaine Hamilton, Corey Reese, and Daimon Foster. I've been told that all three have continued to impress everyone here with their intensity, their focus, and their physical skills. In fact, one unnamed team source said offensive coordinator Dale Greenwood and tight ends chief Jim O'Leary still have no idea which one they like best.”

A surprised Spencer said, “Is that right?”

“That's what I heard. None of the three is quite on Brookman's level, but they're close. Judging by their performance in Saturday's first preseason game, a lot of fans in the area seem to agree.”

“And what's the latest on Brookman and his agent, Barry Sturtz?”

“Well, the story there is that the two of them are still waiting for a judgment from the league on their grievance. As I reported earlier, Sturtz's formal complaint was rejected by the Giants in what was the first step toward independent arbitration. Put simply, both sides said they were going to stand their ground, so nothing was resolved. The next step, then, was for Sturtz to request a third-party review of the situation, which he has. As you know, his argument is that Brookman deserves a new contract due to his exceptional performance for the team over the last two seasons, and the Giants' feeling is that, with only one year left on his current contract, everything should remain status quo until that one runs out.”

“At which time he'd get a new one.”