The Cut (20 page)

The elevator doors at the other end parted exactly twenty-three minutes later, and Corey Reese, along with four of his teammates, walked out. With full stomachs and aching bodies, they separated to their respective rooms. Reese kicked his cleats off, dumped his helmet and pads in the corner, and collapsed onto the cot—sliding back up on one elbow just long enough to activate the alarm. Then he crashed onto the pillow, pulling the thin woolen blanket over his head.

He was snoring within minutes.

*   *   *

When he awoke, his first thought was that he felt more refreshed than usual.
Deepest sleep I ever had.
Then it occurred to him that he had awakened naturally—not because of the alarm. Unable to believe that he had been asleep for less than an hour, he turned his head to look at the clock.

3:34.

“Shit!”

He jumped up and scrambled for his cleats. Then he rolled back into a sitting position, pulled them on, and tied them at light speed.

“What's wrong with this fucking thing?!” he snarled, smacking the clock with his open hand. Then he picked it up and inspected it quickly. The current time was correct, the volume was turned up to maximum (a necessity), and the alarm button had been pushed to the
ON
position.

What the hell?

He'd brought the unit from home. He had several alarm clocks, in fact, and purposely chose this one because it was historically the most reliable. He found it impossible to believe it had simply failed.

There wasn't time to figure it out now—he was already in enough trouble. He gathered up the helmet and cleats and turned to go out. Just as he reached the door, however, the alarm exploded—a series of urgent beeps that sounded more like an intruder alert in a military base.

Reese stopped and stared at the clock for a moment. Then he walked back slowly, set his gear down on the cot, and lifted the clock for the second time. It was so loud that he could actually feel the beeps through his skin. He shut it off and pressed the
ALARM SET
button.

3:36.

“What the f—”

That wasn't right. How did it change? A power outage?

You can't worry about it now. Get moving.

He set the clock down again and rushed out.

*   *   *

By the time he emerged from the building, the others were on their way back. Standing there waiting for them, he'd never felt like a bigger idiot.

As the crowd engulfed him, the comments began.

“Have a good sleep?”

“All rested up now?”

“We didn't disturb you, did we?”

“Must be nice.”

No one seemed to find any humor in it—especially Coach Gray, who gave him a look of disgust that he would remember for the rest of his life. The fact that he added a muttered “Nice of you to join us, Reese” didn't help. Greenwood and O'Leary didn't say a word, but neither looked pleased. There was also a touch of disappointment in their faces, which, for some reason, cut deeper than anything else.

Reese wanted to shout,
Hey, it wasn't my fault! My alarm got screwed up!
But, of course, he didn't. That would be an excuse, and you didn't get far with excuses in the National Football League.
But it wasn't my fault, I swear
.…

This was the moment when he realized someone might have intentionally changed the alarm just for the sake of getting him into trouble.

Could that be what happened? Would someone actually do that? If so, who?

He tried to locate Daimon Foster and Jermaine Hamilton in the group. Foster was nowhere in sight, but he spotted Hamilton walking among a cluster of four others, still in his pads and carrying his helmet.

He's smiling at me,
Reese realized.
The sonofabitch is looking in my direction and grinning.

It wasn't exactly the right kind of look—it wasn't smug or satisfied. Then again, Hamilton was an old pro, knew all the tricks.
That's what they've been saying about him, right? He's a tricky guy—compensates for his age by doing things others wouldn't even think of doing. Just the type who would pull something like this.

Reese and Hamilton remained in their staring match for a few moments, during which time Hamilton's smile bent to a frown and he appeared more confused. But Reese wasn't buying it.

If it
was
him, he's gonna pay,
Reese vowed.
He's gonna pay like he's never paid for anything.

19

Text of letter
sent by Michael V. Soltis, Esq., via registered mail on August 18:

Alan Gray, Head Coach and Director of Football Operations

Chet Palmer, Vice President and General Manager

c/o The New York Football Giants

Giants Stadium

East Rutherford, New Jersey 07073

Barry M. Sturtz, President and CEO

c/o Performers LLC

1152 Skyline Drive

Burlington, North Carolina 27216

T. J. Brookman

215 Hope Street

Franklin Lakes, New Jersey 07417

Gentlemen:

Concerning the ongoing dispute between Mr. Sturtz, his client, Mr. Brookman, and the New York Football Giants organization, I am notifying all parties involved that I have decided to let the matter continue on to a formal arbitration hearing, where, it is hoped, it can be settled in a way that is acceptable, even if not preferable, to all sides, and the matter can be put to rest. That said, I am appointing William T. Serra, Esq., to act as independent arbitrator. Mr. Serra, as some of you may know, has handled similar cases in the past and has firmly established himself as a fair, objective, and impartial overseer. I am confident that his final decision will be satisfactory.

Having stated the above, I now request that all sides kindly deliver whatever records, documents, and other evidence they feel will be necessary to Mr. Serra no later than ten days after receipt of this letter, per Section 5 (Discovery), Article IX (Non-Injury Grievance) of the current Collective Bargaining Agreement.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Michael V. Soltis, Esq.

Notice Arbitrator

CC: NFLPA, NFL Management Council

20

The last two
days had been dreamlike for Greg Bolton. At last—a break. Much needed; very much needed. The ESPN gods decided to cut him loose for seventy-two hours, lest he suffer a mental meltdown of unprecedented proportions.

Just one week earlier, he had been at the Cardinals' camp, held at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. The heat was such that two players collapsed from exhaustion. Then it was on to Nashville to watch Jeff Fisher and the Titans. The next day Bolton had to make two stops—the Falcons in Flowery Branch, Georgia, and the Saints at Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi. He and his crew filmed more than four hours' worth of material, of which perhaps twenty minutes would ultimately appear on national television. After the Saints visit, a Wednesday, he begged for a breather. His producer told him to go home and see his family until the following Sunday, when he would be due at Minnesota State in Mankato to cover the Vikings.

Bolton came through the door that evening with a bag full of presents. Chase, to his amazement, ignored them and leaped into his arms. Bolton played with his son for the next two hours. When the boy finally lost steam and fell asleep on the living room couch, he grabbed the opportunity to sneak upstairs with his wife, Alexandra, for some practice in the art of conjugal privilege (which, incidentally, would result in the birth of their second son, Kenneth, nine months later).

Over the next three days, all work-related matters were ignored while he and his family patronized a string of amusement parks, shopping malls, and restaurants. He took Chase to and from school on Thursday and Friday, taking time to speak with his teachers. On Friday evening they visited Alexandra's parents, whom he actually liked, and didn't return until well past midnight.

Saturday was spent just hanging around and generally enjoying the art of doing nothing. But he knew he'd have to get back into the swing of things, at least in a preparatory capacity, that evening. His flight to Minnesota left at eight twenty-two the following morning, so he had to get ready—pack, review notes, get onto the Internet and find out what had been going on for the last few days. He also wanted to field some e-mails, lest his in-box become overloaded and unable to receive any more.

By nine thirty, Chase had been read his favorite Pooh story, Alexandra was upstairs reading the latest book by her own favorite author (Amy Tan), and Bolton was sitting in his den, going through the formidable pile of letters and packages that had accumulated over the last four weeks. So much of it was just garbage, but she didn't like to throw anything out. Who knew what might be important? He appreciated her discretion, but certainly some of this crap could've gone.
A flyer from ShopRite? An offer for a credit card? A coupon from the local deli?

He had already tackled the e-mails, deleting about two-thirds of them out of hand and responding to the rest, in most cases, with just one or two sentences. At precisely nine forty-seven, as he was navigating through NFL.com at his desktop computer (his ESPN-issued laptop was “resting” in its case on the other side of the room), his Instant Messenger popped up in front of everything else. His first thought was
Oh, shit, not now
. Then he saw the name of the sender.

CMC88: Greg? Are you on?

His fingers moved in a chattery blur across the keyboard.

GEB@ESPN: I sure am. How've you been?

How've you been?
What a ridiculous response. As if he were talking to someone at a funeral.

CMC88: I'm okay. I see you've been busy.

GEB@ESPN: Yes, very. But I'm home now for a few days, taking a break. What's new?

CMC88: Well, there's been a development today. Something I figured you would want to know about.

Okay, so I'm getting back to work a few hours earlier than planned
. He'd sworn he wouldn't, yet he didn't feel the least bit guilty considering the circumstances. It'd been almost a full week since he last heard from the guy (he was pretty certain it was a guy, anyway).

GEB@ESPN: Sure—I'm listening.

CMC88: The league has granted arbitration in the matter of the team vs. T. J. Brookman and Barry Sturtz.

Bolton read the line several times.

GEB@ESPN: You're kidding.

CMC88: No. The letter was received earlier today. They're going forward with it. The hearing will commence in less than two weeks, and then the decision will be handed down fairly quickly.

GEB@ESPN: This is incredible. How is Gray taking it?

CMC88: He was shocked at first, then angry.

GEB@ESPN: I'm not surprised. Most of us in the media figured it would be denied. We assumed the league would want the team to work it out internally.

CMC88: That's what Gray thought would happen. But more of these issues have been turning up in recent years, so the arbitrators probably feel they have to deal with them or else they'll never go away.

GEB@ESPN: I guess this doesn't bode well, right? I mean, if they're willing to review the situation, then it seems more likely that they'll rule in favor of Brookman, won't they? Why would they bother otherwise?

CMC88: I'm not going to speculate on that. I have no idea what kind of hidden meaning, if any, this decision has.

Bolton nodded.
Playing it safe. But he sounds a little disappointed, too. I wonder if my Mystery Man is Chet Palmer?

GEB@ESPN: Is Chet Palmer upset, too? I would imagine he would be.

A pause.
Is that significant? Or did the guy just reach over to get a tissue and blow his nose? How much should I read into this?

CMC88: No, he's not happy either. They're both a little concerned. If the ruling goes against them, they could be in a lot of trouble.

Trouble? What did that mean, exactly?

GEB@ESPN: What kind of trouble? Can you elaborate?

A second pause, longer than the first.

GEB@ESPN: Are you still there?

CMC88: I have to go now. Sorry.

GEB@ESPN: Wait—just one more thing. What did you mean by Gray and Palmer being in trouble?

Nothing else came. The person on the other side—whether it was Chet Palmer or not—was gone. As always, Bolton felt short-changed, but he was electrified.
Lead-story material.

Ignoring the rest of his mail, the NFL.com news page, and pretty much everything else, he opened a new Word document and began typing. Within thirty minutes he had the piece ready to go; it landed in his producer's in-box seconds later. Then he had to figure out how to work it into the Vikings segment tomorrow morning.

The minivacation was over.

*   *   *

Bolton's report the following morning was short and sweet, delivered in a segment that would be run separate from his Vikings visit. Everyone around the United States and the world saw it—including Dorland Kenner, who had been on his way out of his London hotel room en route to Heathrow Airport.

As he settled into his first-class seat for a quick flight to Spain, he called Alan Gray on his cell phone. He got Gray's assistant again, who said she didn't know where he was but would try to locate him. Kenner was then placed on hold.

“Yes, Dorland, what's up?” Gray said gruffly after a nearly ten-minute delay.

“Did I catch you in the middle of something?” Kenner asked, glancing at his watch. “I figured you'd've been in your office by now.”