The Cut (3 page)

“So … they don't want me there, but they don't want to let me go?”

“No—they
do
want you there, but they don't want to pay you any more than they are now. That's really what it comes down to.”

“That's crap.”

“I know.”

“These guys … oh, man. I can't believe it. I just can't believe they'd do this.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I've given them everything I have.”

“I know. I don't like it, either.”

Sturtz heard him exhale deeply, and it made him feel worse than he already did.

“So what do we have to do?” Brookman asked.

Sturtz turned onto southbound Exit 14. “Hang loose for a few days and see what happens. That's the most sensible option right now. Remember that you're one of the best tight ends in the league, maybe
the
best. The position has been changing and evolving, becoming more valuable, so our timing is pretty good. We have that going for us.”

Whereas the duties of many positions had remained more or less static over the years, the tight end spot had unquestionably increased in importance, particularly over the last decade. Defenses were faster now, more nimble and, in a word, more brutal. Defensive schemes had also gotten more complex as coordinators became better at figuring out offensive formations and how to get to the quarterbacks. In the modern era of professional football, therefore, defenses were gaining the upper hand. It was no coincidence that many D-side wizards were being elevated to head-coaching positions over their O-side counterparts. Bill Belichick, Marvin Lewis, and Tony Dungy all had defensive pedigrees—and all went on to become successful head coaches. The Age of Defense, it seemed, had arrived.

In order to survive, therefore, the offense had to evolve as well. Quarterbacks had to rely more on running plays and short passes—passes that got the ball to receivers quickly, before the pocket inevitably collapsed and the quarterback found himself under a pile of linebackers. And with the advent of the quick-passing game came the increased value of the previously underused tight end. Because the tight end had to be a big man, he added blocking power. But because he could also catch the ball, he was able to confuse defenders, creating new matchups and one more person to watch out for. Tight ends became Renaissance guys, able to perform multiple tasks and fulfill many roles. They were suddenly moving around in the backfield, replacing fullbacks, and sometimes throwing a pass or two. They drew linebackers and safeties out of their zones, opening routes for primary and secondary receivers. When they were ignored, they provided a safety net for quarterbacks who found their intended receivers unavailable. And due to their size and toughness, they were often assigned the generally unpleasant chore of running routes over the middle—truly the Valley of Darkness in the National Football League. More teams ran double tight end sets; more teams viewed them as not just key blockers but extra receivers. They were getting four or five passes per game, for sixty or seventy yards. Some could run deep routes. A few found themselves scoring eight or ten touchdowns per year. In short, the tight end was becoming an offensive VIP, and his importance would only increase in the years ahead.

“Twenty years ago,” Sturtz went on, “we wouldn't even be having this conversation. But now, I know a lot of teams can use you. Gray and Palmer know that, too. All of this might just be a bluff. I think it is, so we'll wait for them to blink.”

“Okay,” T. J. replied. “Damn.…”

“I know, this is bullshit. Let's see what happens. Meanwhile, keep yourself in shape, keep working out. Remember, these guys are animals, but we'll get 'em. Okay?”

For a moment Sturtz thought he'd lost the call. Then Brookman said, “Sure, okay.”

“Trust me. Have I let you down yet?”

“No, you haven't. I know it's not your fault. It's just … I've given everything to these guys. Everything. I can't believe any of this.” He sounded defeated now, tapped out.

“We'll figure something out. Just hang tight. I'm not letting these bastards beat us. They're out of their friggin' minds if they think I'm going to make it easy for them.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later.”

Sturtz ended the call and put the earpiece back into his bag, which was sitting open on the passenger seat. As he slowed to a halt at the toll booth, he thought about Gray and Palmer again and muttered a few words that would've been unrepeatable in mixed company.

*   *   *

Jim O'Leary came into Dale Greenwood's office just as Barry Sturtz was boarding his flight back to North Carolina.

“I've got them,” he said.

Greenwood, who had been sitting behind his desk working on the offensive itinerary for the first week of camp, looked up. “All right, let's see.”

It was a simple sheet of white paper with a list of names. There were eleven in total, but eight had already been scratched out by O'Leary. Greenwood studied the other three for a few moments.

“Oh, sure, I know these guys. Good choices.”

“Thanks.”

Greenwood kept looking at the list while massaging his chin, then set the paper down and shook his head. “This is crazy, Jimmy. Just sheer lunacy.”

O'Leary, who had never been a fan of internal politics—even after he became convinced this was one big reason why he hadn't climbed higher on the coaching ladder—simply shrugged.

Greenwood sighed. “All right. You'll make the calls?”

“Sure,” O'Leary said. “I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”

2

Hamilton

Jermaine Hamilton hated golf. He was simply no good at it, could not “get” it. He'd tried hard enough during the past eleven years—bought a nice set of clubs, took lessons, and spent countless hours on the best courses in the Charlotte area. But he never really found his groove. Finally, late last year, he called it quits, shoving the expensive clubs somewhere in his attic and forgetting about them.

Now his agent, Matt Nolan, wanted him to take them back out.

“Come on,” Nolan said over the phone earlier in the day, “it's for charity. No one's going to give a damn how good you are. Besides, you'll be with three other guys, and it'll be best ball.” Hamilton gave a noncommittal grunt. “How about this?” Nolan went on. “I'll make sure Dilfer is in your group. I think I can arrange that.” Aside from being a longtime journeyman quarterback in the league—and one of the few of that species who could claim he started, finished, and won a Super Bowl, which he did with the 2000 Baltimore Ravens—Trent Dilfer was also a superb golfer. He appeared at many charity events, where he usually ended up in the top of the field. “You can whiff at the ball all you want, and no one will notice,” Nolan said. “They'll be watching Trent the whole time anyway. Whaddaya say?”

Hamilton said he'd think about it, then asked the question that Nolan knew was coming: “Anything else going on?” And Nolan, following the script the two of them had unintentionally created over the last two years, said, “No—sorry, pal. Nothing today.”

That call came shortly after ten. Now, at one thirty, Hamilton was in the basement of his comfortable Georgian home. Built in 1999, it was a two-story brick house with a three-bay garage, hardwood floors, four full bathrooms, a swimming pool, and an extensive irrigation system. Hamilton and his wife got it for a steal at less than half a million from an investment banker who was tangled up in a securities scandal and needed some quick cash for his legal defense. Its value had skyrocketed since, and real estate agents were always calling to see if the present occupants were interested in giving it up.

For the first time since he moved in, Hamilton was thinking about it.

The basement had been finished by the banker. He'd covered the cinder blocks with Sheetrock and the cement floors with wool carpeting. He'd also divided it into four rooms—one large central chamber, two smaller ones, and a half bath. The main room became a kind of narcissistic temple, with plaques and trophies, a framed copy of the first check he ever received for seven figures, a set of clay poker chips bearing his initials in an absurdly ornate script, and an enormous painting of himself that followed the brooding, old-school style of gentlemen's clubs of the early twentieth century.

Hamilton didn't have a fraction of the ego the banker did, so when he recast the room to fit his own preferences, it was for an entirely different reason. He decided to make it a museum of sorts—not for his love of self, but for his love of the game of football, with only a modest nod toward his involvement in it. There were lighted glass cabinets with climate-controlled interiors, and the memorabilia ranged from worthless to priceless—ticket stubs from his earliest high school games, balls and jerseys signed by legends both living and gone. There were framed photos, posters, and letters, and shelves full of books and magazines. Inside a freestanding case was a square foot of aging sod—a small section of the field from Hamilton's best game as a pro. It was against the Saints, when he had twelve receptions for 164 yards and three touchdowns. The soiled cleats and jersey were also there, enveloped forever in the vacuum-packed aura of that magical afternoon. The grass was gnarled and colorless, the soil dry and flaking. Time had robbed it of all moisture. A good breeze would blow it to dust.

There was an unusual display in the southeast corner of the room, the one that many visitors noticed first—a single locker. It was little more than a tall wooden box with a shelf near the top, and another toward the bottom for sitting on. There were hooks on either side for hanging jerseys or street clothes and, under the seat, a small cabinet with a lock.

Hamilton kept it exactly as it had been during his tenure with the Panthers; it still had his nameplate screwed onto the upper shelf—“Hamilton 66.” Although he had played for four different teams, his time in Carolina was his most cherished. They were his peak years both personally and professionally, the culmination of all his hopes and dreams from the moment he discovered the game as a toddler. He had never focused on anything else, never cared about anything else. All he wanted to do was play for a pro team, and he shaped his life around that goal so that all effort and energy was devoted to it. And when he reached that fabled land via the second round of the 1997 draft, he knew he was at the threshold of the happiest time of his life.

There was nothing—absolutely nothing—about being in the NFL that he didn't love. The shining moments on the field were givens; even the most indifferent player got a charge out of those. Same with the adoration from the fans and, of course, the big money that went with being a member of the athletic elite. But Jermaine loved the little stuff, too, the minutiae that the average pro overlooked—the quiet moments before a game, sitting alone in the locker room, hands together in prayer. He liked going to the team facility in the off-season and working out by himself, walking through the bowels of the stadium when no one was around, or helping the maintenance guys do little chores most people didn't even know about. He simply had to be
around
it, feel like he was a part of it. It was the only world in which he felt he belonged. Even when his father bought him his first football and warned that sports wasn't the easiest way to make a living, he knew he would do it. There was no scientific formula to it, no solid physical evidence he could hold in his hand. He just knew.

The one negative factor that he refused to acknowledge for years was that the day would come when he'd have to let it all go. Of course he knew his career would end at some point, but that time seemed so ridiculously distant that it wasn't worth thinking about.

But time has a funny way of creeping up on people who don't pay attention to it, and while Jermaine Hamilton was living the dream, the years zoomed by. It seemed as though he had just signed his second four-year contract with the Panthers when, suddenly, he was being led into his coach's office, politely asked to take a seat, and told that the team was moving forward without him. True, his last two seasons hadn't been as productive as the first four, but he was still putting up good numbers, still contributing. He had plenty of gas left in the tank.

Several other teams thought so, too, and one of them signed him—the Dallas Cowboys. He spent two years there, the first of which was the inevitable I'll-show-'em campaign in which he returned to his earlier glory and earned an Offensive Player of the Year Award. That was at the age of twenty-eight, and he still wasn't feeling the early pull of his thirties. He felt young and fresh, as if he had an open road ahead of him. But the second year in Dallas wasn't anything close to the first, and the end of that season culminated in yet another roster move that left him unemployed.

He landed a one-year deal with the Rams the following March, started fourteen games, then pulled a hamstring. While it was only a minor injury, it gave St. Louis's rookie tight end an opportunity, and the kid made the most of it. With apologies, Hamilton was again shown the door.

He saw limited playing time during his six months with the Chargers—seven games, only two of which he started. He knew they would cut him, and he took it in stride. His injury had healed completely, and his performance during his few on-field appearances wasn't that bad. The bottom line, he felt, was that he was still reliable. He was an excellent blocker, rarely dropped passes, and had a remarkable playbook memory. But he was now fighting not just age but a reputation as a has-been, someone who had hit his peak and was on his way down. In the fiercely competitive National Football League, that was a roadblock few could circumvent. Perception was everything. In spite of Hamilton's efforts to get himself into flawless condition in the off-season, no one called for him the next year. For the first time since 1997, he watched five months of pro football from his living room.