The Cut (21 page)

“No, it's fine. What's up?”

“I'm sitting on a plane that has yet to leave the runway. I'll be in Madrid for most of the day.”

Kenner waited for the obligatory response—a grunt, an “okay,” or whatever—but there was nothing.

“When I was leaving my hotel, I saw the report on
SportsCenter
about the arbitration hearing.”

Another pause. Then Gray said, “What about it?”

“What's going on with it?”

“I don't know yet. I'll know more when the hearing begins.”

“Okay. But I'm surprised. I thought there wouldn't be one. During our last conversation, you were fairly confident the league would deny the request.”

“I guess I was wrong,” Gray said.

“I guess so. How confident are you that the arbitrator will rule in the team's favor?”

“I have no idea. I can't read his mind.”

Kenner didn't have to be a psychologist to realize he'd caught Alan Gray in a bad mood. “I understand that, Alan. But what's your sense of it? If you had to make a call right now, from your gut, what—”

“I don't know, Dorland, okay?!”

A frigid silence followed, during which an embarrassed Kenner scanned his immediate surroundings to see if anyone nearby had heard the outburst. “Okay, Alan, take it easy. I'm just trying to get a grip on what's going on.”

“Yeah,” Gray said, now sounding more tired than angry. “Sure.”

“I'll call back tomorrow, all right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.”

The line went dead without so much as a good-bye from the other end. Kenner watched absently as the airport workers loaded the baggage into the belly of the aircraft. His current itinerary required him to be in Madrid for the next three days, then on to Brussels, and then back to the States for a series of meetings in Dallas.

Now he wondered if it might be better to forgo Dallas and head straight to the Meadowlands.

*   *   *

Since coming to Giants training camp, Daimon Foster had discovered a peculiar quirk about himself—he was incapable of eating dinner without showering first.

After the second session each day, the players had one more short break before heading to the dining hall. Then it was on to the usual trio of evening meetings: first the whole team with the head coach, then splitting into three groups—offense, defense, and special teams—and then into further groups with the position coaches.

Foster chose to use this break to run back to his room (or walk back, depending on how he felt), take a quick shower, and put on a fresh tracksuit. He had already permitted himself one luxury—he'd hired a service to come and do his wash once a week. Almost everyone on the team used the service, so it was fairly cheap. He stuffed everything into a canvas bag, pulled the tie-string shut, and set it in the hallway. By the following afternoon it was back, everything inside washed and folded.

He came into the room just after five o'clock, set his gear down on the rickety little student desk against the far wall, stripped naked, jammed everything into the canvas bag, and went into the bathroom. He didn't wait for the water to warm up—the initial cold spray did wonders for the aches and pains. He grabbed the soap and started lathering everywhere. As he did, he reviewed the day's work in his mind. He'd had two terrific sessions, making almost no mistakes. He couldn't help but constantly arrange and rearrange the ranking, as he imagined it, of himself, Reese, and Hamilton in the eyes of the coaches. Some days he felt like he was in last place, other days in second. At the moment, however, he was definitely on top.

He turned the water off ten minutes later and stepped out. After drying himself thoroughly, he got dressed. The clock on the nightstand read 5:44—sixteen minutes before dinner began. It only took five to walk over there, but he liked to be a little early. Being late was always a risk.

Before he headed out, he pulled back one of the desk drawers to retrieve his playbook. There were some things he wanted to go over while he ate. He had finally developed a small group of friends—although he still thought of them more as colleagues or associates—that he sat with at mealtimes. They would needle him about his over-the-top focus and determination, but ultimately they would leave him alone.

When the drawer opened, however, Foster saw to his alarm that the book wasn't there. He opened the other drawers in a rush but found only an ancient No. 2 pencil with a broken point and a chewed-off eraser.

He searched the room up and down, flipping the two mattresses and digging through both laundry bags. This killed about ten more minutes, leaving him no safety buffer before dinner. His heart was racing, his throat dry. It wasn't just a matter of not being able to squeeze in some bonus study time—
the fine for losing your playbook.
Twenty-five hundred bucks! Christ, where was he going to get that money?

“Shit!”

He gritted his teeth, kicked his helmet into the corner, where it spun at great speed for a few seconds before winding crazily away, then turned and stormed out. The slamming of the door echoed dramatically through the hallway. As he strode to the elevators, he went over the problem methodically in his mind.
Where did you last have it? Did you leave it there? If not, then where
?

He wondered if his roommate took it by accident. This was unlikely. First, that guy was trying for a shot at special teams. Second, failing that, he'd been a safety in college.
Even if he lost his book, he wouldn't have any use for mine
.

It wasn't until the elevator reached the bottom floor that Foster was struck by the idea that it might have been stolen. By the time he exited the building and started across the lawn, he had calculated that this was, in fact, the most likely possibility. He was making enormous strides in ability. He was becoming a genuine threat to the other two, a force to be reckoned with. Maybe they felt they couldn't beat him any other way. Maybe this was a sign of their desperation—
time to play dirty, huh?
He'd seen his share of underhandedness in college. Plenty of it, in fact, and it always made him sick to his stomach. He hated people who dragged things down to this level. Was it Reese, or had it been Hamilton? He didn't know.

One way or another, he promised himself, he would find out.

21

The next day,
a Saturday, began with noticeably fewer bodies. Four more players, it was reported around camp, had been cut the previous evening. Don “the Turk” Blumenthal was now regarded as a spectral, horror-story type of character, the gridiron equivalent of the Grim Reaper; the only time anyone saw him was when he came to fill his death-bag. Even then, only his victims and their roommates could claim a sighting. Where was he the rest of the time? they wondered. Did he stay in the same building? Was he even on campus? Whatever the case, he scared the hell out of everybody, with his cruelly ugly face and permanent scowl. A few players even claimed to have had nightmares about him.

What started as a squad of ninety-two hopefuls was now down to seventy-eight—just three over the required number of seventy-five by August 29, which was ten days away. As the number went down, the tension went up. Every little mistake mattered now. Everything you did was studied and judged. Gray wanted to get them away from tryouts and into practice mode for the real season as soon as possible. Many said this was foolish—too anal and overefficient. Alan Gray did it anyway.

The team would be leaving on the buses tonight for tomorrow's second preseason match, in Buffalo. So today's two sessions would be a bit more like a formal practice, with fewer drills and more strategy.

Daimon Foster walked to the fields already wearing his pads and helmet, keeping to himself and still reeling from the sting of the playbook theft. He asked a few guys during dinner if he could borrow theirs for study, but the only ones who had brought them did so for the same reason. When he got to the second meeting, with Dale Greenwood and the rest of the offense, the first question was “Did you bring your playbooks?” When Daimon sheepishly admitted that he hadn't—and couldn't—the room fell silent. He made a point of watching Reese's and Hamilton's reactions. Reese just stared, mouth slightly open but with no particular emotion. Hamilton, on the other hand, shook his head and turned away.
What the hell is that all about?
Could it be translated as suspicious? Did it suggest he knew something?
Or is this sonofabitch actually
judging
me?
If so, where did he get the goddamn nerve? It was hard to tell. They were both hard to read.

Greenwood wasn't, though, nor was O'Leary. Their disappointment was clear on their faces. Greenwood even looked a little pissed. He mumbled something to a nearby assistant—a gangly, pimple-faced kid wearing the obligatory khaki shorts and team polo—who then unlocked a rolling crate, took another playbook from inside, and walked it up to Foster. Greenwood went on to remind the guilty party about the fine for the oversight. This produced a few snickers around the room, and Foster nodded before taking his seat.

Oddly, he didn't feel any anger toward the two coaches. He had already decided they were honest men who were giving him as fair a shot as he could hope for. He felt that he had sufficiently impressed both of them, and that they believed in his chances to find a place in the league. Their disappointment in the lost playbook, regardless of the reasons, stemmed from their desire to Get Things Done. Nice guys or not, they were here to win, and you didn't do that if you couldn't hold on to your goddamned playbook.

So, as he strode onto the field that Saturday morning, he had just one objective in mind—to make up for the incident by dazzling them. As ticked off as they had been, Foster knew they'd forgive and forget when he demonstrated how he could be a difference maker. Other guys had incurred fines and were still here. It wasn't the end of the world. It sucked, but it wasn't the end of the world.

By late morning, the team was practicing in full pads, with eleven men on each side of the ball. They were focusing on the running game (because of the perception that Buffalo had a weak defensive front) and the strength of their secondary (since Buffalo's offensive coordinator liked to stretch out the passing game).

Foster's blocking had been fierce, earning praise from his teammates and, most rewarding, an eventual slap on the back from O'Leary. Then came a sweep play to the right side—his side. With a double tight end set involving him and Jermaine Hamilton, the ball was snapped after a short count, and fullback Benny Krueger cut left while running back Jason Thomas moved right. Hamilton had already gone in motion in the backfield, suggesting that he could be slicing open a running lane for Krueger in the gap between the blind-side guard and tackle. When quarterback Mark Lockenmeyer confirmed this by handing off to Krueger, the defense shifted in that direction. Then Krueger pitched the ball back to Thomas, who found an easy lane waiting for him, courtesy of Foster. They broke beyond the line of scrimmage, and Foster cut inside to continue leading the way. Unfortunately, he quickly came upon a considerable barrier—not a defensive player but Jermaine Hamilton. Surprised, he tried to slam on the brakes but slammed into Hamilton's massive bulk instead. As he hit the ground, he realized he was supposed to cut out instead of in—this was one of the new plays he'd wanted to study earlier but had been unable to. He'd gone over it late last night after the meetings, but, with so little time to absorb it, he simply forgot the assigned route. Thomas managed a few more yards on his own, but, without his lead blocker, he was taken down.

As Foster rose with a curse, he heard Hamilton say, “If you had your playbook, you would've known better.” Foster turned, his eyes wild.

He made sure Greenwood and O'Leary heard him, too.

As Hamilton turned away, Foster, unable to swallow another ounce of pride, attacked. He pushed Hamilton down from behind and jumped on him, striking one blow after another. Hamilton was able to twist around and give a few swings of his own. But since both men were still in their pads and helmets and thus fully protected, the effort was largely futile.

With dozens of players and coaches rushing in, the incident was over in a matter of seconds. One of the first on the scene and pulling Foster off, notably, was Corey Reese. Foster was too enraged to hear him saying, “Hey! Get ahold of yourself!” When Hamilton rose, he stepped away to leave—then turned back and shoved Foster hard. Daimon tried to lunge, but one of the linemen held him while two other guys set themselves in front of Hamilton.

“Little piece of shit!”

“Fuck you, you bastard!” Foster spat back. “Where's my playbook, huh?”

“What?” was Hamilton's perplexed reply. Through the cloud of his fury, Foster registered that he seemed genuinely surprised by the accusation. If it was an act, it was a damn good one.

“You're crazy, man. You watch too much TV. Shit.”

“Yeah, right.” Foster finally yanked himself free of Reese's grip. “Let's check your room and see.”

“Yeah, let's
do that
,” Hamilton said firmly, gesturing with his finger for Foster to come forward. Although careful not to show it, Foster was shaken by his confidence.
Could I be wrong?

Before either one got the chance to continue the discussion, Dale Greenwood inserted himself between them and said, “If you children are finished, I'd like to continue with the practice.”

Foster and Hamilton stared hard at one another. Then someone tugged on Foster's jersey and said, “Come on, let it go.”

Eventually the crowd dissolved and the session rolled on. Foster and Hamilton kept clear of each other for the rest of the day.

22

Looking down upon
the field at Buffalo's Ralph Wilson Stadium from the dimly lit pressroom, their noses almost touching the smoked, one-way glass, were WWGR's Don Cummings and Howard Kayland. The pair had been calling the Bills' play-by-play (Cummings) and color (Kayland) commentary for more than a decade. Cummings, although in his midforties, could still pass for a college boy. He had a clean-shaven face and dark brown hair combed neatly to one side. Kayland, conversely, looked like a carefree academic, with his corduroy coat, tousled golden hair, and beard-mustache combo that he only trimmed when his wife nagged him about it. He was heavyset and sloppy, often wearing clothes decorated with old food stains. He had the diet of a man secretly trying to commit suicide, augmented by the occasional cigar. He also had a sterling sense of humor that dovetailed with his cohort's button-down straightforwardness.