The Cut (28 page)

His cell phone vibrated during dessert (pistachio ice cream). In spite of his vow, he'd left the phone on in case of a true emergency—and his clients had already been warned that, should they call him under circumstances that were anything short of dire, he would remove their testicles with a dull knife.

He didn't recognize the number, nor could he even place the area code. He'd spent enough time on the phone over the years to know most of them, but this was a new one.
Maybe a misdial,
he thought. He doubted it, though. Odd how many wrong numbers landed on someone's home phone, but so few on a cell phone.

He stuck his headset into his ear and took the call.

It turned out that he did know the person after all. Knew him quite well, in fact. They had never spoken before, but he recognized the name instantly.

He asked about the purpose of the call. The caller told him.

His carefully constructed plans for the evening were quickly forgotten.

31

“Come on, let's
go! Let's
go
!” Jermaine Hamilton bellowed from the sidelines, clapping and pacing. His helmet was off, his uniform filthy. His hands had been bandaged, a bloodstain colored his pants on the right thigh, and every joint and muscle was in agony. He hadn't felt so alive in ages.

This is what I remember,
he thought.
This is it right here.
This
is what I've longed for.

From the start of what Jim O'Leary called the Game of Their Lives, all three burst out of the gate and never stopped. Not once did it feel like a preseason game. It wasn't exactly the Super Bowl, but it could've been. Every play mattered. Their senses had never been so sharp, so focused. They watched and absorbed everything. The only disappointments came when the offense had to hand over possession, forcing them off the field.

With Maxwell keeping the bench warm, Greenwood made good on his promise and dazzled the Dallas Cowboys' defense—ranked eighteenth the previous season—with a variety of double tight end sets. On the second play from scrimmage, Reese caught a shovel pass in the backfield that he then tossed to Foster for a twenty-two-yard gain. Six plays later, Hamilton pulled the ball down over the middle, smashed his way through two safeties, and pounded into the end zone. Then Foster, in a special teams role, caught a Cowboys kickoff four minutes later and ran it back to his own forty-seven.

In the second quarter, with the Giants leading 17–3, Greenwood blew everyone away by putting all three in the same play—Hamilton on the right side, Foster on the left, and Reese as fullback. Hamilton went in motion, the ball was snapped, and it drifted past quarterback Mark Lockenmeyer directly into Reese's hands. He tucked it in and plowed forward. With Hamilton leading the way, Reese motored through a hole up the middle and added another eighteen running yards to his eventual total of seventy-one—unheard of for a tight end. With less than a minute remaining in the half, Foster caught a Lockenmeyer laser in the end zone after finding open space in the corner. That one was so easy he went into the locker room laughing.

Early in the third, with the score 27–6, Reese was the final recipient of a double reverse, with Hamilton again throwing key blocks along the left side for a gain of twenty-two. On the next play, Hamilton ran a slant pattern and stiff-armed two defenders simultaneously on his way to his second touchdown. Daimon Foster would push the crowd into a frenzy at the end of the period when he drove into the middle of the field on a screen play, leaned down for a low block, and inadvertently flipped the guy up and over his back. The defender, more amused than humiliated, slapped Foster on the helmet and said, “Thanks for the ride, kid,” as he jogged away.

By the middle of the fourth quarter, with the score a comfortable 45–21, the media was running out of superlatives.

“I tell you, Jack,” WNYN broadcaster Martin Cole said from the booth, “I have never, ever seen a performance like this from a group of tight ends in all my years. I am just speechless.”

“And what's even more amazing,” Jack Neuweiler said, “is that none of them will be here come Monday, as you know.”

“Right. For those of you who
don't
know, the three young men who've been embarrassing the Dallas Cowboy defense all afternoon have been living on borrowed time since an independent arbitrator denied the grievance filed by star tight end T. J. Brookman in his quest for a more lucrative contract with the New York Giants. That decision effectively issued the death warrants for these three remarkable talents.”

“But only as far as the Giants are concerned,” Neuweiler added quickly. “They are free to sign with whoever else they wish.”

“And you know, Jack, maybe that's exactly why we're seeing so much of them today. Maybe someone down there likes them.”

“Maybe.”

Cole and Neuweiler weren't the only announcers to make the connection; Dale Greenwood knew the media would eventually put the pieces together. The rest of his offensive guys figured it out, too. For that matter, so did the defense, special teams, the kids who carried the towels and the Gatorade bottles, the stadium security, the fans, and everyone else who watched the game.

Including Alan Gray.

Greenwood began feeling his icy stare starting around the middle of the second quarter. He made a point of putting as much distance between them as possible. He knew Gray was going to say something sooner or later. At halftime, he stayed at the far end of the locker room, but Gray finally caught up to him in the hallway as they approached the tunnel. Grabbing him by the sleeve, Gray said gruffly, “What will you be getting, a percentage of their new contracts?” When Greenwood didn't respond, Gray added, “Cool them off, Dale. And do it now.” Seconds later they were enveloped by the deafening roar of the crowd.

Greenwood made no effort to heed Gray's command. If anything, he was more determined than ever to see that the three young men were put front and center. When Daimon Foster caught his second touchdown, the head coach stood with his arms folded and stone-faced. It was such an odd moment—a head coach unmoved by a score from his own team—that several broadcasters commented on it.

O'Leary walked over to Greenwood at one point and said, “We're going to have detention for a month,” to which Greenwood gave no reply.
The hell with him,
he thought.
If I'm going to get fired, I'm doing it with a clear conscience.

With less than five minutes remaining, Greenwood asked his magical trio if they wanted to sit out the rest of the way. They vigorously declined.

The Giants got the ball again with 4:14 to go. On the first play from scrimmage, at their own thirty-one, backup quarterback Blair Thompson—who was now making the calls on his own—threw an incomplete post route. On second down, an end run produced just two yards.

When they returned to the huddle, Reese said, “Blair, this guy on the right, number 67, is exhausted. I can put some space between us pretty quickly.” Thompson agreed.

Following a short count, the offense executed the out pass perfectly. Reese started inside, 67 fell for it, and he cut out and took off like a bullet. When the ball came, he'd achieved a separation of almost five yards. He had to go up to get the throw, but not much. And he knew there was nothing but empty space ahead. One more score to cap off an unforgettable game.

Then it all went horribly wrong.

As he came down, he failed to notice the Dallas safety charging in his direction. This was Andre McKinney. Like Hamilton, McKinney was an aging veteran trying desperately to squeeze as much time as possible out of his career. Unlike Hamilton, he was failing miserably. Dallas still had eight cuts to make to get to the required fifty-three on Monday, and it was all but certain that he would be among those to go. He believed he still had a fighting chance today, but the stellar performances by New York's three tight ends dashed any remaining hopes. As a result, McKinney, his blood boiling, was waiting for the opportunity to get even.

His plan was not to injure Reese in any way, just to smash him good and hard. Ring his bell, as the saying goes. As he dove, he aimed for Reese's midsection. But that wasn't where his helmet—and, subsequently, the full weight of his 270-pound body—made impact.

There was perhaps a half second when Reese realized what was going to happen before it did. And just like the first time, everything unfolded in slow motion. As he came down with the pass, he saw McKinney in midair. He tried to turn away—or at least he thought he did (later he wouldn't be sure)—but quickly realized he'd never make it. He first felt the knee bend too far inward, then the dull snapping sensation—and then the fire, as if someone had doused it with gasoline and set it ablaze. In the next moment he was on the ground, his hands grasping either side of the ragged joint, struggling not to scream but screaming anyway. He pressed and prodded the muscles and ligaments in an attempt to switch off the agony, but the shock waves kept coming.

Hamilton and Foster rushed across the field just behind the physicians. Foster knelt down, unsure what to do. Hamilton, conversely, took a swing at the baffled McKinney and landed it squarely in his stomach. The latter went down like a shot buck, and a referee signaled for Hamilton to be ejected. He couldn't have cared less.

“Corey, is it the knee?” asked head physician Michael Grady. Grady was forty-six, still boyishly handsome, and in his fourth year with the team.

“Yeah … my God.…” Tears had begun streaming down his face.

“Let me have a look. Let go for a second.”

Grady cut the pants up the side, revealing what he feared most—the area was already beginning to swell.
Not a good sign.

“Okay,” Grady said to his assistants, “get a brace for it right away, and get the stretcher and the cart out here. He's not going to be able to walk this off.”

As they waited, Reese said through clenched teeth, “How bad, Mike?”

“I don't know yet. I'll have to—”

“Mike,
how bad
?”

Reese stopped writhing just long enough to look into Grady's brown eyes.

“Bad enough,” Grady said.

The patient was put on the stretcher, the stretcher onto the cart. Then the cart motored away.

The crowd stood and cheered.

Reese didn't hear them.

32

“Well, sorry you
boys lost,” Gray said, “but that's the way it goes. You win some, you lose some.”

He sat directly across from Barry Sturtz, in the same conference room, and in fact the same chair, as he had over a month ago. His fingers were laced behind his head, his feet up on the mirror-glossy mahogany table. All he needed was a big cigar and a diamond stickpin. Chet Palmer was next to him, going over the final paperwork. He was almost as giddy as Gray, but he worked hard not to show it. To the victors go the spoils … and the bragging rights … and the arrogance … and an open license to act like assholes.…

“Yeah, I agree with you,” Sturtz said, a smile on his face and his leather shoulder bag in front of him. Both Gray and Palmer couldn't understand why he wasn't acting more …
defeated.
Denial? Smug defiance? Well, whatever the case, he could act however he wished. The cards had been played and the hand was over. Their puzzlement at this petty rebellion was a small price to pay. Still, it was
irritating
.

“You'll have to sign this,” Palmer said matter-of-factly. He glanced at the sheet one last time, then slid it over. It bumped against Sturtz's bag before coming to a halt. He ignored it.

“It basically tells us you have read and understood the fines that are about to be levied on your client,” Palmer plowed on. “If they were relatively minor, we could do it verbally, but considering the amount, there needs to be paperwork. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” Sturtz said.

“And he is required to return to his duties immediately,” Palmer added.

“Right.”

An uneasy silence drifted between them, and the staring match went on. Palmer looked to Gray, whose cocky grin was fading fast.

“Don't you understand what's happening here?” Gray said finally, an edge to his voice for the first time. “Don't you know what's going to happen to your client going forward?”

“No, please enlighten me.”

Gray pulled his feet from the table and moved into a sitting position so fast Palmer jumped. “I'm going to work the
shit
out of him. I'm going to make him pay for embarrassing me, and us, and this team. I'm going to teach him a lesson in humiliation that he won't forget for the rest of his life. Do you understand me?”

“I believe I do,” Sturtz said, gently setting his fingers together and swiveling back and forth in the chair.

“Then what the hell is your problem?”

“No problem here, Coach.” He picked up the paper Palmer had passed over, lifted it about a foot off the table, then let it fall again. It seesawed twice before coming to rest somewhere in the middle. “But this is bullshit, and we're not going to do it.”

Gray's neck started turning red. Palmer had identified this barometer of his temperament long ago—he was about a second away from a full eruption.

“What?”

“I said we're not doing it. No fines, no suffering, no nothing. T. J.'s still sitting out as far as I'm concerned.”

Gray, to Palmer's amazement, did not blow—he just sat there, staring, for what seemed like a long time. In an oddly robotic way, he turned to face his general manager, then turned back. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you on drugs or something?”

“No, I'm quite clearheaded. I really appreciate your concern, though.”

“You can't do this. You
can't
!”