The Cut (7 page)

Keeping his eyes trained on his beloved mother, he nodded absently. He hated the job so much that he forced himself not to think about it when he wasn't there. He hated everything about it—the tedium of the work, the jerkoff boss, the other idiots who worked there, and, in particular, the shitty little kids who came in there during the night to do nothing but cause trouble. He'd already broken up one knifepoint robbery and two gang fights. Risking his life for thirteen bucks an hour and substandard healthcare benefits. What a joke.

“You look nice today,” Alicia said, and he suddenly realized she was standing right in front of him. She tightened the knot on his tie and reached up to kiss him. He returned it with a weak smile.

“Thanks,” he said. “I guess I'll see you later.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

He walked over and kissed his mother on the cheek, then went to the side door and out. The little black Honda he'd had since his freshman year, with more than two hundred thousand miles on it and barely clinging to life, started up with a rhythmic hitch. He backed out of the driveway and down the littered street.

I will find a way,
that iron-willed voice in his mind spoke, as it always did when the feeling of helplessness was particularly overwhelming.
I will find a way to get all of us out of here, and I will never look back.

The Giants called ten minutes later.

5

ESPN's hair and
makeup artist put the finishing touches on NFL analyst Greg Bolton's face, then released him. He took his position ten feet in front of the camera. Behind him, a beautiful summer day was awakening in upstate New York, the shimmering blue sky complementing the wild green of the trees and the controlled green of the playing field where, by tomorrow morning, more than seventy hopeful young men would assemble to chase the dream of landing a roster spot for the forthcoming season.

Bolton smoothed his jacket, straightened his posture, and waited. A heavyset man wearing headphones peered out from behind the camera that sat atop a giant tripod. “In three, Greg. Two … one.…”

Inside those headphones, as well as the earpiece that Bolton wore but that could not be seen by viewers, came the voice of Tommy Spencer, another ESPN veteran broadcaster, who was seen almost every day via
SportsCenter
,
NFL Countdown,
and
NFL Live.

“… but one big story in the league right now is still the contract holdout of Giants marquee tight end T. J. Brookman,” Spencer was saying. “Our own Greg Bolton, senior NFL analyst, is on the scene at the State University of New York in Albany, where the Giants are about to open up this year's training camp, to give us the latest. Greg, what can you tell us?”

Bolton smiled as the small green light atop the camera went on. “Tommy, the Giants are so far remaining mum about the situation. I tried to speak to both head coach Alan Gray and general manager Chet Palmer as they drove in this morning, but neither was willing to comment. However, a team official who spoke under the condition of anonymity said they had, in fact, invited three free agents to try out for a tight end spot on the roster during training camp—Jermaine Hamilton, Corey Reese, and Daimon Foster. Hamilton, you may remember, was a standout tight end during his years with the Panthers, and won an Offensive Player of the Year Award after Carolina sent him to the Cowboys. But he wasn't signed to any team this year because of concerns about his age. Reese was a phenomenon from the start of his rookie season with the Ravens, then suffered multiple injuries to his right knee. A lot of experts thought he was done, but I'm told that he has successfully rehabbed himself and believes he's back in top form. And Foster is another big question mark—four good years in college, with solid numbers and a strong showing at the combines, but no one drafted him.”

“Sounds like the issue is far from over,” Spencer commented.

“Very far,” Bolton replied. “And the New York fans aren't too happy about the way the team is treating Brookman. He's been a favorite since he arrived here, and most feel he deserves better than the league-minimum pay he's received so far. There are also those inside the league, I'm told, who agree. With training camp right around the corner, this all becomes much more interesting.”

“Okay, thanks, Greg. Keep us posted.”

“You got it,” Bolton said. The green light went off again.

The cameraman came out from behind the camera, pulling his headphones down around his neck.

“Perfect,” he said to Bolton.

“Good.”

“So who's the anonymous inside source this time?”

Bolton laughed. “You won't believe this, but for the first time I have no idea. But I'm thankful I have him—everything he's given me so far on this story has been dead on.”

*   *   *

Chet Palmer went to the bathroom around the same two times every day—ten thirty and two. He was as regular as Big Ben. He liked this because he liked things that were stable and predictable. He had long ago designed a generic daily schedule for himself, covering nearly every aspect of his life, to eliminate as many variables as possible. He accepted and tolerated a few, but when events arose that reduced his precious planning to a confused mess, he became edgy and worrisome. He clung to this habit like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver, and for the same reason—if he didn't, he would sink and die. It never occurred to him that the world simply didn't work the same way all the time, and that he was merely soothing numerous deep-seated insecurities.

At precisely ten forty-four, he emerged from the stall in the men's locker room. Players rarely came in here; it was mostly for management. There were two showers, several benches, and a tiled floor with recessed drains. Employees were encouraged to work out in the mornings, to keep their bodies healthy and their minds sharp. Palmer spent a half hour in the gym every day (from six to six thirty, without fail), then came here to shower and dress, at which time gossip and dirty jokes were exchanged.

He went to the sink and washed his hands. As he did, the door from the hallway opened and Alan Gray came in.

Spotting him in the mirror, Palmer said, “Hello, Alan.”

“How are ya?”

“Okay.”

Palmer shook the excess water from his hands and reached for a towel from the little pile that had been stacked on the stainless steel shelf over the basin. Gray, meanwhile, stood at the urinal.

Palmer took a quick look around even though he was already sure no one else was with them. “Uh, Alan?”

“Yeah?”

“I received a call from Barry Sturtz about a half hour ago.”

“Oh? Did he apologize and relent?”

“No,” Palmer said. “In fact, he wanted to know if
we
were ready to relent.”

Gray laughed and shook his head. “What did you say?”

“I said we were holding our ground.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, good. Then he asked if that was our final decision, and I said it was.”

“Excellent.”

“Uh-huh. But look … I've been thinking a bit more about this situation, and maybe we should offer them
something
. Handling it the way we are is asking for trouble.”

Gray zipped up and stepped back, triggering the automatic flush. “Without bringing in these three camp bodies, we have no leverage.”

“And you have no trouble with the notion that these bodies are under the impression they've got a real shot at making the team?”

Gray shrugged. “They'll never know. That's business.”

Palmer, certainly guilty of a few transgressions of his own, was nevertheless forever fascinated by Alan Gray's limitless lack of sympathy. “It's still too great a risk, no matter how well you hide your true intentions.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Well, it's pretty clear that Sturtz knows what T. J.'s worth, and he's not the type of guy who's going to just let us roll over him. We can get away with that with a few other guys, but not him. They're in a decent position.”

“We're in a better position,” Gray said, then walked around Palmer to get to the sink.

“I understand that. But they have a few options, like arbitration.”

Gray shook his head. “They won't do that. Sturtz has a big mouth, but he won't go that far. It'd make him radioactive. Besides, if they file a grievance, who says it'll be green-lighted?”

“There have been more and more arbitrations lately. The league doesn't want a lot of these negative issues floating around. It's bad PR, so it's better just to deal with them. It also sets precedents.”

“It's still not likely.”

“I know, but do you really want to take that chance? Sturtz is not going to sit around and do nothing. He's not going to fold up and go home the way we want him to. He's pretty pissed off.”

Gray took a paper towel from the pile, dried his hands, then examined himself in the mirror.

“I don't suppose you'd want to franchise T. J. at some—”

“No, absolutely not. I won't waste the franchise tag on … on him.”

On an offensive player
was what he really wanted to say, Palmer knew.

“At the very least, he'll probably want—”

“Look,” Gray cut in, “we've got limited funds, right?”

“Well … yes.”

“So we have to make choices. I'm choosing to concentrate on the defensive side of the ball.”

That's because you don't want Dale Greenwood looking too good out there, do you?
Chet Palmer thought meanly. Mean or not, most people in the organization were aware of the silent rivalry between this uninspiring head coach and the offensive coordinator who was the real reason the team had been even remotely competitive the last four seasons.

“That said,” Gray went on, “I'm not eager to pour a fortune into T. J. Brookman. Everything needs to stay as is. That's the key right there—
everything has to remain status quo
. I want to invest in some of those new defensive guys we drafted, not to mention some guys during the season and next year. That money is mine.”

“Even if it means we lose T. J. now?”

“We won't lose him,” Gray said, and Palmer detected the faintest hint of concern.
You don't want to pay him what he's worth, but if you lose him, your ass could be on the line. That's quite a situation you've put yourself in—not to mention me.

“He's not going anywhere,” Gray assured him. He wrapped an arm around Palmer's shoulders. “We won't let that happen, right?” Alan Gray thought Chet Palmer was the biggest wuss on the planet—and thus had served him very well. Some GMs were alpha, and some were beta. The moment Gray realized Palmer was in the latter group, he made sure the team kept him around.

“No,” Palmer said with a sigh. “We won't let that happen.”

“And these three boys we're bringing in?” He smiled and held his hands out. “Well … life can be full of disappointments, right?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Then do whatever it takes on your end of things, and I'll do whatever it takes on mine, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Attaboy.”

6

During the four-and-a-half-hour
journey from Atlantic City to Albany, Daimon Foster kept telling himself that he had been invited to this training camp for a reason, and that reason was because he was
good
. The fact that he hadn't been formally drafted didn't mean a thing, other than the possibility that a lot of scouts and coaches had made the mistake of overlooking him. He was on his way up here because he had what it took to be a pro. If the Giants didn't truly believe that, they wouldn't be wasting their time.

It was this last thought that really got him pumped, inspiring him to savor the kind of grand visions he had previously kept in a dusty mental storeroom. Visions of a beautiful home for his mom and girlfriend, in some exclusive neighborhood. Nice cars and fine clothes and expensive jewelry. He would take Alicia to the best shops in the city and tell her to get whatever she wanted. He'd also stand on the sidewalk outside the house where they lived now and enjoy the sight of the hired hands loading the last of the boxes into a huge moving van, then watch it groan and belch black smoke as it bumped down that miserable street for the last time. He'd follow in his shiny BMW and not even glance in the mirror. With Alicia in the passenger seat and his mom in the back, he'd turn the corner, hit the Atlantic City Expressway going west, and begin to forget. Yes, it was true that the team was only going to pay him a pittance of just over eight hundred per week to be in camp (the vets would get just over twelve hundred), but he looked at it as merely a starting point. Hell, it was already more than he was making at the supermarket. But it would grow to much more if he could just show off his stuff.

Then there was the flip side to his euphoria—the stubborn certainty that things wouldn't work out. If there was one ugly truth he had come to believe with all his heart, it was that some people caught the breaks, and some did not. There was no profound reasoning for this; it was just the Way It Was. He'd recently read something about a woman who had won more than a million bucks in the lottery
twice
. The lottery board looked into the second win to make sure there hadn't been any foul play. There hadn't—she simply had what he liked to call “It,” that certain something, the X-factor that just made life
work
for some people. Whatever It was, he often thought he didn't have It. Even a casual inspection of his life provided some evidence to support this.

Then an idea occurred to him—maybe he could beat the odds anyway. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could overcome the lack of It and succeed regardless.