The Cut (9 page)

He took one more look at his home for the next month, then turned and went out. There was time for a quick jog.

8

It was the
smallest dorm room Jermaine Hamilton had ever seen, too, but he wasn't about to complain.
I'm back,
he thought giddily.
Back where I belong.

An old and beloved warmth flooded into him as he set his bag on the bed. Unlike Corey Reese, he had always found something poignant about the utilitarian quarters players were given during training camp. It reminded him of his early years, when all he had was his wits and his enthusiasm. He had nothing to lose and everything to prove back then. Those were good times, full of promise and excitement. He felt like he was ready to conquer the world—and succeed. All he had to do was work his magic when the right people were watching.

And now I have to show them all over again
, he realized. It wouldn't be as easy this time. A guy could learn new plays, lose excess weight, and train away most mental errors, but he couldn't make himself younger. Age was truly the serial killer of NFL careers. If they thought you were too old, you were finished. The Giants obviously weren't sure in his case, so here he was.

As he unzipped his bag, the door opened. The kid who stood there was dressed in a tank top, baggy shorts, and sneakers. All of it was jet black. The only splash of color came from the wraparound sunglasses with the oil-spill reflection.

“Hey, man, you Jermaine?” the kid asked. Big smile, big teeth.

“That's right. You must be Freddie Turner.”

“You got it.”

He came in with the confident, cocky strut that is the sole property of the young. Although Jermaine had never met him in person, he knew Turner from watching him all last season. He was one of the Giants' wide receivers, second on the depth chart even though he was in his rookie year. He had been drafted high in the third round after breaking numerous records during his four years at Georgia Tech. Many expected him to move into the team's top spot after the legendary Malcolm Lowery retired and, after a few more years, fill Lowery's cleats quite well.

They exchanged a handshake, then a rudimentary hug that expressed just enough mutual respect without crossing into the forbidden land of genuine affection.

“It's great to see you here, man,” Turner told him. “I heard about the situation with T. J. Damn.…”

“Caught you off guard?”

“It sure did. Caught everyone off guard.”

Turner dropped his duffel on the other bed and moved his sunglasses up to the crown of his bald head.

“Would you rather have this bed?” Jermaine asked.

“No, this is fine. Thanks.”

They talked aimlessly as they unpacked, plucking topics out of the air. Jermaine avoided questions about Melanie, skillfully redirecting family talk back to Turner. He learned that Turner had had the same girlfriend for the last eight months, someone he met at a charity auction. She was a model and had some money of her own. “So it's not like she'll be after mine, you know what I mean?” Jermaine nodded. He knew.

When they were finished, Turner said, “Damn, I forgot a few things. Like a fan. I had one of those big fans in here last year that go back and forth. That's a necessity.”

“Yeah, I forgot some things, too,” Jermaine told him. The difference was that he forgot them on purpose. During the first few years of his career, he'd always accidentally forgotten to bring something at the start of training camp. By his fifth season, however, he had the list down pat. Then something unexpected happened—he discovered he missed the frenetic midnight run on that first night to find stores that were still open. A trivial point, perhaps, but it had still become part of the ritual, and he and his roommates always went together. It was also essential to the spontaneous comradeship that needed to be cultivated.

“Let's hit that Wal-Mart that's near here.”

“Yeah, I know where it is,” Turner said.

“Cool.”

*   *   *

An hour later they were back in Turner's Lexus RX350 with five big bags in the back. What had begun as a quest for a handful of items quickly evolved into a childish spending spree. Turner found the fan he wanted, and Jermaine realized he had to have one, too. They also bought a new CD player and more than thirty albums, a color TV, an Xbox system with a dozen games, a cube fridge, three boxes of cupcakes, two enormous bags of prepopped popcorn, and six gallons of cherry Kool-Aid.

Halfway back to the campus, Turner said, “Hey, I got an idea. Let's go out for a bit before we head back. I know this place about two miles away called Phatty's. It's a strip joint. Whaddaya think?”

Staying out late the night before camp started was always a dicey affair. About the worst thing you could do on the first day was show up half asleep. Guys had been cut on the spot for that. Regardless, Jermaine had thrown the dice and done it enough times—every year of his first four seasons, in fact. Again, here was a chance to recapture the magic of his early days.

Then came an alarming realization—he was damned
tired.
Not just fatigued, but worn to the bone. The kind of tired that robs you of everything. True, it had been a long day; packing, the long flight, and then the ride out to Albany. But still.…

I could've done it before.

“Sounds good,” Jermaine said, “but, you know, I should study the playbook instead. I mean, I haven't had the time to look through it like you guys have. I haven't been to any of the minicamps.”

He was thankful that Turner only nodded. “Yeah, I understand. I'll drop you off and go back out. I'm sure I'll see some of the guys there.”

The younger guys,
Jermaine thought.

“Cool. Have a good time.”

*   *   *

He waved as Turner motored out of the lot. Then he lumbered across the lawn, reached the sidewalk, and went to the doors, through the lobby again (which was empty now, although the folding table still had a handful of manila folders on it) and down the hallway. He turned toward the elevators.

Just as he rounded the corner, one set of doors opened to reveal Corey Reese. He was dressed in navy shorts and a long-sleeved white T-shirt, apparently on his way out for a run. Then the door to the fire stairs opened at the far end of the hallway and Daimon Foster appeared.

The silence between them seemed to stretch to eternity; in reality it lasted about five seconds. They gave each other a cursory appraisal, their faces blank. On other teams, under different circumstances, they would all be friends. Even in the National Football League, where millions were on the line and futures were decided by the slimmest margins, young men competing for the same job usually allied with each other and got along well. But there was just too much at stake for each of them this time around. These guys were rivals, plain and simple.

Reese broke the stalemate by saying, “'Excuse me,” and breezing past Hamilton. “Sure,” the latter replied flatly. He then stepped into the elevator without another word. Daimon Foster waited until the doors closed again, and Reese was well on his way, before continuing on his own journey to the vending machine.

9

Day One

The last precious moment of true peace the players would know for weeks occurred at exactly five forty-four the next morning. One minute later, alarms buzzed throughout the building, followed by the erratic rhythm of footsteps that marked a weary exodus to the elevators and down the stairways.

Reese, wearing the Giants lanyard and photo ID he'd been issued, was among the first to enter the long, sunlit dining hall, although it was filling up fast. A woman in a white catering uniform was arranging the last of the chafing dishes while another filled the coffee urns. Paper plates and cups were stacked next to tubs of cutlery—all plastic. As soon as the team was done eating, each of the thirty tables would be cleaned simply by pulling the four corners of the tablecloth together to create a “bag” and then dumping it into a rolling garbage can.

The sheer volume of food was staggering—hundreds of pounds of scrambled eggs, pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, corned beef hash, toast, and bagels, plus healthier items like bran cereals, smoked salmon, fruits, and vegetables. Two cooks in paper hats were on hand to make omelets. For drinks, there was a choice of low-fat milk, various juices, nutritional shakes, and bottled water.

Corey always found it odd that there were no limits to what you could eat. No stern dictums from the team, no dietary specialists designing individual plans. In some other sports, an athlete's diet was closely monitored. Personal trainers hounded your every step, slapping forbidden items out of your hand. In professional gymnastics, for example, you were lucky if you were allowed more daily calories than a parakeet. Not in the NFL—as long as you maintained your weight as prescribed by your coaches, no one cared how you did it. And if you had a heart attack in your early forties from years of high cholesterol, that was your problem.

Corey loaded his plate with high-protein items, to which he had grown accustomed since the injury. Then he looked for a suitable place to sit—and realized this might be something of a challenge. He didn't know too many of the other guys, so he couldn't just squeeze his way into a crowd. There were a few he'd played with here and there, but no one he considered a real friend. It also occurred to him that most of these players had been together at least since minicamps, and in that time some bonds had formed.

This point was never clearer than when he realized half the guys in the room were staring at him. He was the unknown quantity. He tried to appear casual while praying that someone, anyone, would wave a hand.
Yo, Corey, over here, man.
No such luck.

With as much dignity as possible, he strode to a corner table where two huge windows met like panes of glass in a fish tank. He almost felt sorry for Jermaine Hamilton and Daimon Foster when they came in less than five minutes later and ended up following the same pattern.

Three tables for three outcasts.

*   *   *

Breakfast lasted exactly thirty minutes. Not
around
thirty; not twenty-eight or thirty-six—exactly thirty. Like everything else, meals were precisely scheduled and regimented. Then the players were herded out of the room, up a set of stairs, and into another room—a small lecture hall. The stadium-type seating angled sharply downward and followed a gentle curve from left to right. There was a small island in the pit area and three blackboards on the wall. You were allowed to sit wherever you wished.

A side door opened, and Alan Gray appeared as if stepping onto a stage. He walked to the island and set down his notebook, then turned to face his audience.

“Welcome to this year's training camp for the New York Giants. As most of you know, I'm Alan Gray, the head coach. Before we get going, there are a few things I'd like to go over. Now that we're all past the minicamps and other off-season programs, I trust you are in good shape and at the proper reporting weight that you were assigned in May.” He smiled. “If not, be on notice that you will be fined the sum of one hundred dollars a day for each pound that you are over. That means someone who is ten pounds overweight owes the team a thousand dollars today. If you're still ten pounds over tomorrow, you'll owe another thousand. If this sounds like you, then I strongly suggest you find a way to lose the excess baggage very quickly. If you don't, you will end up either bankrupt, out of a job, or both.”

Players looked around uncomfortably. Those who would be writing checks to the team stood out by the bug-eyed astonishment on their faces. Others snickered and pointed at them. Reese and Foster were already at their ideal weights; thank God they'd kept up their daily workouts. Jermaine Hamilton, on the other hand, had discovered he had thirteen pounds of excess when he first spoke with Jim O'Leary. He had eleven days to lose it. He went back to fruits and vegetables and jogged five miles in the morning until he reached the required number. Stepping on the scale just before he left for the airport, he was relieved to find himself with four pounds to spare.

“And since we're on the subject of fines,” Gray said, “let me discuss a few others.”

The lights went out, and Gray flicked on an overhead projector. When he set a transparency on the glass, a bulleted list appeared on the wall. It was like a menu, with each line item followed by a price—and some of them were staggering.

“You'll all find a printed copy of this waiting in your rooms when you take your first break, after lunch. But have a quick look here, because anything can happen between now and then.

“As you can see, we're very serious about these infractions. Put simply, we don't want them. That's why they're so costly—when you make these kinds of mistakes, it costs
us
. It slows down the team, and we don't have time for that. The numbers on this list might look high, but focus for a minute on the crimes themselves. Losing your playbook, being late to meetings, bringing your cell phone to practice—this is the stuff that hurts everyone, not just you. This is amateur crap, and I expect you to act like professionals.

TRAINING CAMP FINES