The Cut (30 page)

Staring out the window, Kenner replied, “I know that, and I know that mistakes are only valuable if you learn from them.” He turned back. “And so, as of today, I'm putting this team back on the road to success.”

“That's going to be kind of tough, isn't it? You don't even have a head coach or a general manager anymore.”

“Yes, I do. Not long after you leave this room, you will learn not only of Alan Gray and Chet Palmer's dismissals, but also of Dale Greenwood's promotion.”

“Dale Gr— Wow.”

“He's been a faithful contributor from the start. I should've hired him into the position before, and I thought about it. In spite of our lukewarm record these past few years, do you know how fantastic his statistics have been?”

“Yes, I do. T. J. loves him.”

Kenner was nodding. “Many people do, and that's what we need—good, quality people.”

“So what about the offensive coordinator position?”

“O'Leary.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I learned just last week that many of Dale's best plays were designed, either in part or in whole, by Jim. He is more than capable of handling the job. He has the smarts, he has the years. He's the man.”

“That's great,” Sturtz said. “T. J. thinks the world of him, too.” Then, thinking of his client's future with the team, he added, “But then who'll be coaching the tight ends?”

Kenner smiled. “I was hoping you'd ask that.”

He sat down at the big table, opposite Sturtz—in the same chair Gray had occupied earlier, which Sturtz found comically symbolic—and tapped the intercom button on the asterisk-shaped conference phone.

“Jodi?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have Mr. Nolan on the line?”

“Yes, he's here.”

“Kindly forward the call now.”

“Just a sec.”

There was a pause, during which Sturtz was trying to figure out what Nolan, a fellow agent located in the Midwest, had to do with this whole thing.

“Hello?” came Nolan's voice.

“Matt?”

“Yes.”

“It's Dorland Kenner.”

“Yes, hello.”

“Is Jermaine with you?”

“Yes, sir, he's right here.”

“Very good. Tell me, have you been successful in finding a team?”

“Er, no. No, we haven't.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“So are we.”

“I'm going to ask a question, Matt, and I'd like an honest answer from you.”

“Sure.”

“Do you feel you will be successful in finding one eventually?”

Another pause, and then, “Well, it doesn't look good. We'll keep trying, but the age issue, as you know.…”

“Again, I'm very sorry. Jermaine?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that, whatever happens, you've had a superb career on the field, and you should be very proud of yourself.”

“Thanks … thank you.”

Kenner looked at Sturtz and smiled again. “I know how hard it is to accept change, how tough it can be to get used to new things.”

“Uh, yes. Yes, it is.”

“But sometimes change can be good.”

“Sure, sure.” Hamilton, Sturtz thought, must be wondering,
Where the hell is this going?

“Well, I want to make you an offer, and I'd like you to think about it very carefully.”

“An offer?”

“Yes.”

“To play?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh. Okay.…”

“Should you be unsuccessful in your search for a spot on someone's roster, I'd like you to come back to the Giants and be our new tight ends coach.”

“Are you serious?”

Kenner smiled. “Yes, of course. You know we've had some changes around here today.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Today was the final cut, and … well, I did some cutting of my own. Some cutting that needed to be done a long time ago.”

“It sounds like it.”

“Yes, and now we've got some room on our coaching staff—room for someone with experience, a passion for the game, and a desire to be out there, every day, in the thick of it. What do you say? Wanna come help us out?”

There was another pause, and Sturtz thought he heard a faint “Holy shit” on the other end.

“Well, yeah. Sure. I'd love that.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Great. Okay, let me know by the end of the week.”

“I will.”

“Thanks. And thank you, Matt.”

“You're welcome.”

Kenner ended the call with a tap of the button and pushed the phone away, as if being close to it for too long might give him the flu.

“What about the others?” Sturtz asked. “Reese and Foster?”

“I am already negotiating a contract with Foster's agent. A three-year deal, I hope.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But don't you already have two tight ends? T. J. and Maxw—”

“Glenn Maxwell has been released,” Kenner told him. “I don't want that kind of nonsense here. His behavior.…”

“I heard about it. Bad stuff.”

“It is. And as for Corey Reese, I'm sure you know about that situation as well.”

Everyone did by now—courtesy, as usual, of Greg Bolton and ESPN. As they feared, Reese's knee was shredded for a second time. Multiple MRIs revealed damage far too extensive to repair through conventional means. Several surgeries would be required, plus at least another year of rehabilitation. He would walk again, the doctors said—but his playing days were over. One more injury like that and he'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

“A real tragedy,” Kenner added. “A shame.”

“It is.”

“But let's focus on T. J. for now. Let's get to work.”

Kenner hit the intercom one more time.

“Jodi?”

“Yes?”

“Can you bring in the paperwork I put together for the Brookman deal?”

“Right away.”

“Thanks.”

Kenner rose and took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. Then he loosened his tie. “Okay, Barry,” he said with a chuckle, “get your boxing gloves on.”

33

Six satisfied men
sat around a big table at Gossen's Fishhouse, one of the trendiest new restaurants on Manhattan's Upper West Side. It was going on midnight, and three of them had to be up early the next day to prepare for the first match of the year, an away game against the Colts. But the food was too good, the drink too plentiful, and the mood too high to stop now.

“Here's to Daimon Foster,” Freddie Friedman said to his newest client, raising his glass. Foster had been awarded a three-year, $1.7 million contract, almost half of which was guaranteed and included a signing bonus of a quarter of a million. His girlfriend had screamed into the phone, and his mother cried for half an hour. The search for a new home would begin the Tuesday following the game.

“Thanks,” Foster said, holding a champagne flute for the first time in his life. “Thanks for everything.”

“And to us,” Sturtz said with a more pedestrian bottle of Heineken.

Brookman, who'd been sitting next to Foster all night, getting to know the young man who would be standing opposite him on the line many times in the years ahead, grabbed his own beer and did likewise. “To us,” Brookman said, “proving once again that he who has the biggest set of nuts always gets the job done.”

There was a round of laughter, including a few snickers from other diners who weren't so tight-assed that they couldn't appreciate a little schoolboy vulgarity.

Matt Nolan, Jermaine Hamilton's agent, said, “And kudos to Dorland Kenner for doing the right thing.” Nolan was dressed in what Sturtz had already called “the ugliest damn sportsjacket I've ever seen in my life,” a black-and-blue plaid.

Hamilton was still reeling from the shock of it all. It wasn't so much from the opportunity that had been dropped into his lap as from the realization that he'd never even thought of a coaching position as a way of staying involved. He felt like an idiot, although he had the good sense not to say as much.

“You know, it almost makes you believe in the future,” Brookman observed.

“It does,” Nolan said, nodding. “I think this team will finally get back on track.”

“What about Gray?” Foster asked. “Anyone know what's going to happen to him?” He had surprised himself by feeling a little bit sorry for the guy. Not so much because he'd been fired, but because he'd reached the point where he felt comfortable doing the things he did in the first place. A sad story.

“He's interviewing at a few Division II colleges,” Sturtz said. “He knows a lot of people. A master politician like him will find a home. Guys like him always do.” The others grumbled. They felt he should be tarred, feathered, and hung from a lamppost.

“And what about Corey? Has anyone heard from him?”

“Not in two days,” Friedman said. “In fact, I'm glad you reminded me, because I had something for him.” He reached back and retrieved his cell phone from a small leather holster.

The others picked at their food and waited. Friedman let it ring more than a dozen times, then gave up. No answering machine, either.

“Oh, well,” he said, closing the phone and setting it back in its case. “I'll try him later.”

“A toast to him, then,” Sturtz said.

“Good idea,” Friedman agreed. “To Corey Reese.”

They drank up, and then it was time for dessert. Friedman announced that he'd be picking up the tab, but Nolan and Sturtz insisted that no,
they'd
get it.

A halfhearted argument ensued.

*   *   *

In the end, the mole was never caught. He simply disappeared.

Greg Bolton was sad to see him go. He wasn't about to complain—the guy had given him the kind of insider information a reporter only dreams about. Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

Sitting in front of his laptop in a hotel room in San Diego, Bolton saw his IM screen pop up while he was getting his butt kicked in an online poker tournmanent.

CMC88: Are you there, Greg?

He dropped his pizza onto its plate, which was lying on the bed next to him.

GEB@ESPN: Yes, I'm here. What's going on?

CMC88: Nothing new. Just wanted to say thank you and let you know that I'm signing off now.

Signing off?

GEB@ESPN: What do you mean?

CMC88: I mean we're all done here. I don't have anything left to report.

GEB@ESPN: So that's it? No more information?

CMC88: I'm afraid not.

GEB@ESPN: But wait—what about future stuff? What about the regular season? And the draft?

CMC88: Sorry, Greg. Maybe someday, but not now. Not for a while. Take care.

GEB@ESPN: No, please—don't do this.

No response.

GEB@ESPN: Hey, are you still there?

No response.

Bolton waited a few more minutes, then accepted that he was sending messages into dead space. He'd had a feeling this was going to happen soon. It really did suck out loud, but hell.… He'd been lucky. He just wished he could've found out
why.
Why him? Why then? And what kind of axe did this guy have to grind? He'd single-handedly brought down the most dysfunctional, degenerate, corrupt coaches in the league, which was a remarkable thing when you thought about it. Bolton supposed he would never know who it was. All there was left to do was laugh, so he did.
What a strange, strange time we live in,
he thought.

Then he went back to his pizza and his poker.

*   *   *

Roughly twenty-eight hundred miles away, in an elegant town house not far from where the three tight ends and their agents were having their dinner, Greg Bolton's informant went through the steps necessary to eradicate his Instant Messenger account from existence, then erase all traces of his Internet presence. He had learned how to do this, ironically enough, from a hacker's Web site. His tech skills had always been limited, but since this was important, he took the time to figure out what needed to be done. Now he'd made a clean getaway. Most important—his objective had been attained.

Satisfied, Dorland Kenner turned off the laptop, closed the lid, and went to bed.

34

He'd been refusing
all calls, all e-mails, and all visitors. He went into a cocoon and stayed there. Nothing mattered in the outside world. For Corey Reese, it was time to feel sorry for himself—sorry and angry. He was tired of the fight against shitty luck. Tired of being defeated, of being on the wrong side of the odds. He had come to realize that he'd been swimming against the current all his life. Nothing had ever come easy. Even when he did manage to chalk up a victory, it came at such a heavy price that it was impossible to enjoy. It had all been an illusion. He saw that now—saw that he had a destiny, and, ultimately, it was one of failure. He'd done what was required of him. He played the game and took the shots, and when he was down and out the first time, he said courageously, “I'll be back.” That had become his mantra after the first injury—
I'll be back
.

But he wouldn't be back this time. Whatever forces of cruelty controlled the universe, Reese had clearly angered them by having the temerity to beat them before. He was being defiant, and that wouldn't do. People like that needed to be punished. They needed to be forced back into the box that had been built for them. That's what the plan had been for him all along—frustration, anger, bitterness. He finally understood that. No matter how hard he worked and how much he sacrificed, he would never have the things he truly wanted. It didn't matter that they were noble things, decent and honorable and selfless things. It didn't matter that he wanted to hand his family the world, provide for his children in ways that his own parents had never been able to. It didn't matter that he never took performance-enhancing drugs or that he never once cheated on his wife. He knew guys who did both—and plenty more—and they were living the Dream. Not him. The verdict was in, and he was out. Simply being a good man, once again, had produced nothing.