The Cut (2 page)

Gray smiled, and in that smile Sturtz saw that he had already considered this option. The sonofabitch had huddled with Palmer and forged a tag-team strategy long before this meeting.

“Sure, that sounds good,” Gray said. “But I doubt you'll find a team that'll give us what we want for him.”

“And what would that be?”

“Oh … two first-round picks.”

“That's absurd. No one in their right mind would…”

Sturtz trailed off, his mouth hanging open.
They know this. They know no one would agree to such a deal
. “You can't do this,” he said angrily. “You can't. I won't permit it.”

“Of course we can,” Gray replied in a tone so casual he could've been discussing the weather. “Right, Chet?”

“According to the contract that T. J. signed, we have tremendous latitude in what we can request if we decide to put him on the trading block.”

“I can't believe you're doing this,” Sturtz said unsteadily. “After everything he's done for this team.”

“We'll make him plenty expensive,” Gray ploughed on. “Or we can keep him and just sit him. Since we're not paying him much, we can find some other guy. Yes, I believe we've got lots of options here.”

Of all the ruthless scumbags Barry Sturtz had dealt with in his life, from the meeting rooms of zillion-dollar sports franchises to the ruthless Bronx neighborhood of his youth, these were the only two who had succeeded in making him feel physically ill.

“You're just trying to create leverage for yourselves,” he countered, feeling like a dying animal on its back, flailing at its tormentors. “You know you're ripping him off. Everyone does.” He gathered up his things and stuffed them into his shoulder bag. “And I'm still telling him to sit until he gets a new deal.”

“Watch out, Barry,” Chet Palmer warned. “You have your reputation to think about.”

He was right, and Sturtz knew this. But today he just didn't feel like giving a damn. Not with these guys.

“You need T. J. here, playing,” Sturtz told them. “Your own butt is on the line if he doesn't. Both of you, in fact.”

“Don't bet on it,” Gray replied.

“That's just what I'm going to do,” Sturtz said as he opened the door and went out.

*   *   *

Alan Gray's office was large but not spacious, not like something on the top floor of a corporate skyscraper. And, like its occupant, it was cold and utilitarian, giving away nothing personal. A huge flat-screen TV hung on one wall with wires running to a DVD/VCR combo. There was a pile of game tapes stacked on a nearby file cabinet, each neatly labeled. A markerboard larger than the TV was attached to another wall, decorated with the X's and O's of some play that was still in development. The handsome walnut furniture had been chosen and delivered at the team's expense. Notably, there were no framed family photos, no indication that the man had a life outside of here. Anyone who bothered to read the bio that had been written up for the team's media guide knew that he had been married to a woman named Lorraine for thirty-three years, and that the couple had two daughters—Eleanor and Marilyn. Independent research by the curious revealed that Eleanor was in her second year of law school and Marilyn was a marketing major at Brown. The only time anyone had seen Lorraine in the flesh was during the first party the team threw after Gray's hiring, but that was only for the rest of the coaching staff and select front-office personnel.

Shortly after returning to his desk, Gray summoned two of his coaches—offensive coordinator Dale Greenwood and tight ends coach Jim O'Leary. He almost didn't need to bother, as word of the meeting with Sturtz spread like flu in a daycare center. In fact, it would be on
SportsCenter
by the following morning, courtesy of a loose-tongued member of the organization that the top brass had yet to identify.

The door was half open, but Greenwood, leading the way, still knocked.

“Come in,” Gray said, reviewing some papers. “Take a seat.”

Greenwood was a large figure with a round face, steel-rimmed glasses, silver hair with faint traces of its former black, and an easy smile framed by a light rosiness to his pudgy cheeks. Every article of clothing on his body was flawless, from his pressed khaki shorts and team polo shirt to the fresh white socks and out-of-the-box sneakers. Holding the shorts up was a brown leather belt, and attached to it were a cell phone, a pager, and a PDA. He was never without these devices.

O'Leary, who was Greenwood's subordinate as well as Gray's, was a bit more pedestrian. He also wore a collared shirt bearing the Giants' familiar blue-and-red logo in concert with khaki shorts and sneakers. It was not at all unusual to see a great percentage of a club's staff dressed almost identically, as if they all worked in the same fast-food restaurant. He had boyish features, spoke softly, and was notably good-natured as long as the boys under his tutelage were performing well. His neatly cut red hair was barely noticeable under the team cap that he wore every day, which protected his fair Irish skin from the brutal New Jersey sun.

The two men took their seats on the other side of the desk. Gray went on reading for a few seconds, then looked up and, without any transition, said, “You both need to know that I just told Barry Sturtz I was going to sit T. J. Brookman this season.”

Dale Greenwood felt something die inside him. “He's the best guy I've got, Alan.”

“I'm aware of that,” Gray replied, “but Sturtz wants to renegotiate his contract. He wants more money.”

Jim O'Leary said, “But T. J.
is
the best tight end in the league right now, Coach. We kind of figured he'd be asking for a new contract anyway.”

“I think it's a bad idea for any team to continually give in to this kind of thing,” Gray responded. “He signed a contract, and we expect him to stick to it. And if that means we get him cheap, then we get him cheap. We don't need to compromise. Besides, we're already neck-deep in cap problems.”

Thanks to Chet Palmer's management blunders,
was the unspoken sentiment that lingered between them.

“So what now?” Greenwood asked.

“Get some replacements in here, and fast.”

“Replacements? For T. J.? No one plays like T. J.”

Gray shrugged and picked up another piece of paper. “Then we'll have to make some changes to our system.”

Dale Greenwood knew what this meant—
he
would have to make changes to
his
system. A system he had painstakingly created and nurtured over the many years of his career. A system known for its innovation and originality. Parts of it had been designed with Brookman in mind, based on his unique skills and abilities. It was more than just a collection of plays—it was his masterpiece. Having a guy like T. J. Brookman in your arsenal was a joy for any offensive coordinator, particularly considering the fact that this team refused to spend much on offense. A lucky “find” like Brookman was the only way to put a decent unit together in such a skewed environment.

“I know that'll be a pain,” Gray said, “but I'm confident you guys can handle it.”

Alan Gray had a defensive pedigree and, much to Greenwood's relief, had never interfered much with the way the offense was managed. As far as the offensive guys were concerned, Dale Greenwood was their head coach. Gray didn't get too involved, as his great love was keeping opponents from putting points on the board. Scoring them was something he left to others. But, as Dale Greenwood had also discovered, Gray was always willing to let the credit for the team's offensive achievements fall into his lap. He had done so in the bright glare of the media many, many times. Greenwood played the good sport and remained tight-lipped on these occasions, but many who knew him suspected his patience was wearing thin.

“There's no chance that Maxwell could fill the role, right?” O'Leary mumbled halfheartedly. Glenn Maxwell was the Giants' other tight end—as well as an occasional receiver, special teamer, and, in a pinch, both lineman and punter. He was serviceable at everything but an expert at nothing.

“No chance,” Greenwood said. “He has to stay right where he is. He doesn't possess the kind of skills we need.”

“That's what I figured.”

“Look,” Gray said, “the real bottom line is that we can't just give in to any of the Sturtzes in this business. If we cut this deal, agents for every other guy on the team will be marching in here the next day. It's time to move on. We need to find someone else, and someone cheap.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“No, I'll leave that up to you two. Let's get, say, three new guys on the field. Training camp is less than two weeks away. Send them what they need and tell them we're looking forward to having them.”

“Sure, okay.”

“Does Kenner know about this yet?” Greenwood couldn't help invoking the name of the team's current owner. Mostly he wanted to gauge Gray's reaction.

“I haven't said anything to him, but I'll call him later, although my guess is he'll be too busy with whatever he's got going on in Europe right now.”

Dorland Kenner, the team's owner for the last five years, was the son of the previous owner, a billionaire entrepreneur who passed away at the age of ninety-six. Few people in the organization had even met him, but those who had came away with a favorable impression—smart, focused, decent. The problem was, he was so busy with the numerous other business interests he'd inherited after his father's death that he had no choice but to rely on Alan Gray and Chet Palmer to run the team.

“I'd like to maintain my moratorium on press interaction among the coaching staff about this,” Gray went on. “No talking to anyone. Not about anything else, and not about this. They'll find out things from other people, but not from us, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. All right, get to it.”

Everyone stood.

“This really is a big gamble,” Greenwood said as he headed for the door.

“I know that,” Gray replied, slapping him on the shoulder. “But I'm a gambling man, Dale.”

*   *   *

At the same moment that Greenwood and O'Leary were exiting Gray's office, Barry Sturtz was turning onto the New Jersey Turnpike and heading south, away from Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands and toward Newark International Airport. He hated the Northeast, with its miles of traffic jams, oppressive legislation, and ludicrously high prices. When he finally had enough money to buy a home, he packed up and headed south to the Carolinas, where sales were booming and people from the Northeast were migrating en masse. He found a three-story farmhouse and twenty acres of untamed land for less than half the asking price of anything in the Garden State. He dumped another sixty thousand into renovation and ended up with a fully modernized castle.

He attached a Bluetooth headset to his ear and pressed a speed-dial button on his cell phone. It rang twice before Brookman picked up.

“T. J.”

“Yo, what's up?”

“How are you?”

“Doing okay, how about yourself?”

“I've been better.”

“Oh yeah? How'd it go?”

“Not good.”

“No?” The kid sounded surprised. “What happened?”

Sturtz took a deep breath. “They don't want to renegotiate. They're digging in their heels.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, no kidding. And it gets worse.”

“Worse?”

“I tried threatening them with a holdout. You know, like we discussed?”

“Yeah?”

“And they said they'd sit you.”

Brookman's response was instantaneous. “
What?
Can they even do that?”

“Yeah, they can,” Sturtz replied. “They can sit anyone they want to. They could sit the whole team if they felt like it.”

“I can't do that. I'd lose a year of stats, a year of exposure.”

“I know.”

“And who wants to sit? I want to
play
.”

“I figured you would.”

“What about the contract? Does anything there help me?”

“Not really. It doesn't specify that you
have
to play, only that you have to make the team. Like I've told you before, since it was your rookie contract and you were a low draft pick, they had a lot of leverage. Unfortunately, your last agent gave in to everything they demanded.” Sturtz tried to say this with as much objectivity as possible—he knew T. J.'s last agent, knew the guy was a bit of a lightweight, but he didn't like to say it in so many words. He derived little pleasure from bashing his contemporaries.

“Damn … I wish you'd been my agent then,” T. J. said. He'd expressed this sentiment several times in the past.

“Yeah, me, too.”

“I'm losing money every day.”

“I know.”

According to the amended 2006 Collective Bargaining Agreement, a team is allowed to fine a player who is voluntarily sitting out of training camp the maximum sum of $14,000 per day. Exact amounts varied per team, and the Giants had thus far made it clear that Brookman would be paying $3,500 per missed day for the first week, and another $3,500 per day would be added in each successive week. Thus, if he still wasn't in camp during the fourth and final week, he would be charged the full $14,000 for each day of absence. Furthermore, the team was allowed to charge him another $14,000,
plus one week's salary,
for each missed preseason game.

“I mean, I can afford it, but … it's going to be pretty rough. I hope to hell this works out.”

“I know, and they know it, too. It's more leverage for them. That's the whole point of the fines in the first place.”

“So what about being traded? Is that possible?”

“I suggested that, and they said they'd do just what I told you they would—make you too expensive. No one would pick you up. They're not going to give you away, T. J. They're going to want a fortune for you—and that's because they
don't
want you going to another club.”