The Draft (6 page)

“Sorry we couldn't be meeting under better circumstances,” he said as he took a seat.

The first question came from Connally. Peter Connally was the Ravens' current owner. He'd made his first fortune simply by inheriting over twenty million from a beloved aunt. That got him into the financial elite, but the respect came some years later when, through his own smarts and mettle, he parlayed the original twenty into more than a hundred when he jumped into the world of satellite television long before any other investors would touch it. He last reported net worth was well over half a billion, with interests ranging from rare coins and gems to publishing, restaurants, hotels—and professional football. He had longish silver hair and large, round eyes, the combination of which gave him the vague appearance of a mad scientist. Born and raised in provincial Vermont, he still possessed a crisp New England accent, not to mention a New Englander's no-nonsense approach to life, especially business. His bottom line was simple, and ruthlessly enforced—get results or get out.

In spite of working for Connally these last few years, Jon hadn't made up his mind about the man. He had the same powerful business intuition that had brought fortune to most of the other owners, but considerably less charm and charisma. One day he could be patient and refined, even charming, and the next he was brash and uncouth. Art Modell, the previous owner, had run the team like a business but understood football, whereas Connally ran the team like a business, period. Sometimes he would show what appeared to be a genuine interest in the game, other times he behaved like a nervous accountant, obsessing over every penny.

“How does Bell look?” Connally asked.

Jon shook his head. “Not too good. He had tubes and wires running all over him, and a bandage on his head that looked like something on a mummy. But the worst part was the complete lack of movement. I mean … he
looked
dead.”

The others flinched. “Christ,” Tanner said in a whisper. Kevin Tanner, a jovial, bearded, heavyset individual, was the Ravens' salary cap expert. He'd been a mathematics whiz at Princeton, and one needed to be nothing less to understand the cap's vast complexities. He was, along with Gary Stone, one of Jon's closest friends in the organization.

“Yeah, it was awful. Have any of you spoken with Dr. Blackman yet?”

They all nodded. “We just had a conference call with him in here,” Mendel said. Alan Mendel was a stoic older man with fine hair and steel-rimmed glasses. Aside from being the Ravens' head physician, he was also an associate professor of sports medicine. And like other team physicians, his opinions carried tremendous power.

“So you know the details, the coma and everything?”

“Yes, Blackman went over the case with me.” Mendel shook his head. “Not good.”

Connally said, “So, no chance of Bell playing for us this year?”

“None whatsoever.”

“What about the following year?”

“We'll have to wait and see,” Mendel replied. Everyone translated:
He might not be able to play again, period.

Jon folded his hands. “Well, while we're waiting for him to get better, we should think about what we're going to do for a quarterback in the meantime.”

“Good idea,” Blanchard said. His trademark gravelly voice had evolved over nearly forty years of screaming and yelling at talented young men, a few of whom he came to love as if they were his own sons. “However, I don't know how many boys are out there who can get the job done.” Cary Blanchard had been the Ravens' head coach for five seasons; twenty-six in the NFL overall. He was another Sabino acquisition—Jon admired him for years and silently vowed to acquire him if he ever got the chance. Blanchard had retired at one point but was hinting through channels that he might return if the right offer came along. Jon went out of his way to make that offer.

“Okay, let's examine the simplest route first,” Jon said. “Promoting from within. I'm assuming this isn't feasible, right?” He turned to Blanchard.

“Right.”

“Neither of the two backups can get it done? No chance whatsoever?”

“Well, Nate may have the years,” Blanchard began. “but he isn't going to get it done. Sure, he's a real professional. He keeps his mouth shut, studies the playbook, and is always ready. That makes him ideal for emergency situations, and he can jump in on a moment's notice. But he's like an aging racehorse—he can't handle the long runs anymore. He's a stopgap. He's a great teacher and a great soldier, and I'd like to keep him around for another year, maybe two if he doesn't retire. But there's just no way he can go a whole season, not with those knees. If worse came to worse we could do it, but making the playoffs alone would be a miracle. Forget the Super Bowl. No way he can compete at that level.”

“What about Clark?”

Blanchard said, “He's likely to stay right where he is—third string. He's not going to amount to much, I'm afraid. He's got great physical assets, but mentally he's not sharp enough. He is exactly what he appeared to be when we got him—a typical sixth-round pick. He showed a little promise and a willingness to work hard, but he'll never be a Dan Marino or a Steve Young, or even a Michael Bell. He gets too frightened out there. The pressure unnerves him. The great ones feed on it, whereas he folds. It's a shame, too, because he's a really nice kid. But I think we've given him all the chances we can. We've been patient, we've been supportive, but he apparently doesn't possess the potential we thought we saw.” Blanchard shook his head. “So promoting from within won't work.”

Never one to dwell on a hopeless situation, Jon moved on. “All right, what about free agency?”

“That could also be a problem. From what I've seen, there's not much out there.”

“What do you think of that kid from the Bengals—Jarden?” Jon asked. “I believe he's available.”

“He not a very accurate passer,” Blanchard said, “He's quick on his feet, but we have a solid front line right now, so that's not as important as it might be. And he's been ruined by a lot of bad guidance. It would take us a whole year just to erase the bad habits he's picked up.”

“How about Cory Doleman?”

Blanchard said, “He fumbles a lot; more fumbled snaps than anyone I've ever seen. And he has issues with attitude, too. One time, I heard, he didn't show up for practice because one of his dogs was sick.” Blanchard shook his head. “No, he wouldn't make it here. At least not with me.”

“Kensley?”

“Great promise coming out of college, and he was pretty good in his rookie year. But then everything fell apart for him. He couldn't make the tough throws, couldn't read the defenses. Just one of those things.” Blanchard tapped the side of his head. “Something snapped up here and he never recovered. It happens.”

Connally ran a hand over his silver mane. “There must be somebody.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Doug Birch!”

The others laughed. “Shit,” Blanchard said. “I'd have to seriously consider retirement if we got that desperate.”

Connally was genuinely puzzled. “I don't understand. I thought he was good.”

“He is,” Jon said. “He'll never make it to the Hall of Fame, but he's very capable.”

“So what's the problem? He's available, right?”

“Yes.”

“But that's because no one wants him,” Blanchard added. “Talk about attitude problems. He makes Doleman look like a saint.”

“He's that bad? So bad that no one wants him in spite of the shortage of talent at quarterback?”

“Someone will take him eventually,” Jon said, “if not now, then later in the year, as the injuries pile up. But not this early. He's a troublemaker. He's prone to temper tantrums and creates tension in the locker room. He's the first one to point a finger when something goes wrong, but never at himself. And the worst part is, he doesn't have nearly enough talent to justify such an attitude.”

“If he did, he wouldn't have to be that way in the first place,” Blanchard added. The others nodded.

“That's right. Maybe it's insecurities. I don't know, I'm not a psychologist. All I know it he's more trouble than he's worth, even with the quarterback situation being what it is.”

“Okay,” Jon said, “then it looks like we're down to making a trade or drafting someone.”

“And trades are uncommon in this sport,” Connally said. “Right?”

“That's right,” Jon replied. He had to admit he was impressed with the way Connally had applied himself in recent months to learn as much as he could about the way the league worked. In the years prior, he seemed to regard his team as little more than one of his many investments. But when it began paying off—namely in the form of those championships—his interest intensified. Suddenly he wanted to know everything he could about professional football.

“If a team is eager to let a player go,” Connally continued, apparently eager to show off his newfound knowledge. “It's probably because that player can't do the job. It's rare that they'd release someone who was genuinely contributing.”

“The only time that happens,” Tanner added, “is when there's a salary cap or contractual problem.”

“And player-for-player trades are particularly rare. Both teams have to know exactly what they're getting.”

“The real bottom line is this…” Jon said. “No team in their right mind is going to trade a good quarterback anyway. Not now. They're just too scarce. Teams will release other good players before they sacrifice a prime quarterback. So I think a trade is definitely out of the question.”

Connally leaned back and folded his arms. “Seems to be a seller's market.”

“It is,” Jon replied. “And that brings us to our final option—the draft, right?”

“And there aren't a great many choices there either, are there?” Connally said. It was more of a grave pronouncement than an inquiry.

“No there aren't,” Jon said. “Not this year.”

“Just one decent choice, in fact.”

“Yep, just one.”

“And the media has already been asking about him.”

“I'm not surprised,” Blanchard said.

Jon looked directly at him. “Is McKinley good enough?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He can fit into your system?”

“I believe so.”

“And he could start this year?”

“I have no doubt. Barring some devastating injury, you're talking about a future Hall of Famer.”

No one in their right mind would question Cary Blanchard's evaluation. He'd been around too long, seen too much, coached too many. He'd cultivated dozens of great players, two of whom were already enshrined in Canton. His word was gospel. And Jon was the only other person in this room who knew he was contemplating retirement, permanently this time. If he did in fact win that incredible third straight Super Bowl, he'd hang up his clipboard and headset and take the fast track to Canton. Jon would miss him tremendously—as would the rest of the organization. When that happened, assistant head coach Grant Palmer would take the reins. While Palmer certainly had the faith and respect of the entire staff, players included, he was not Cary Blanchard. Without Blanchard acting as the linchpin, at least a handful of the assistant coaches would seek jobs elsewhere, too. Dave Leibler, the genius behind the mind-boggling defensive schemes, would almost certainly be offered a head coaching position somewhere.

“He's got all the assets—speed, strength, accuracy, quickness, intelligence,” Blanchard continued. “He's everything they're saying he is. He's fearless on the field, with that magic ‘X factor' that makes him a little bit more than human. He's the best new quarterback to come along in ages.”

Connally asked, “And what would it take to get him?”

All eyes turned to Jon.

“A lot,” he said. “A real lot.”

“Is it possible? Do we
have
a lot to give?”

Jon shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven't looked into it. I have to take a good hard look at our roster tonight. We'll have to have another meeting first thing tomorrow. I'll need all of you to evaluate our assets from your individual perspectives. McKinley will go with the first pick, I guarantee it. So we have to move from last to first. I'm not sure it's ever been done. Hell, up until this morning we all thought this draft was going to be a snap.”

“And it's less than two weeks away,” Tanner pointed out.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Sure. There's something else to be considered, too. And this isn't going to make it any easier, either.”

“What's that?”

“As far as the cap is concerned, things are getting pretty tight for this year. However…” He looked around the room. “We could free up plenty of space if we released Bell now.”

They all looked uncomfortable, even Connally—a man who had terminated hundreds, maybe thousands of employees in his lifetime.

“For the time being,” Jon said, “We'll have to put him on the NFI.” The others nodded. NFI stood for “non-football injury” list. When a player was placed there, he was not entitled to any compensation but his contract was still valid. Often it was nothing more than a holding place until a more concrete decision could be made. “After that I guess we'll have to release him, if it really will be impossible to keep him and sign the whiz kid at the same time.”

He looked to Tanner, who shook his head. “There's no way we can keep both of them. And it won't be any better next year, either. We'll lose at least half a dozen guys to free agency. It had to happen sooner or later. It's a miracle we've kept this squad together as long as we have. Easton, Simmons, and Sawyer are definitely going to shop around, and I'm sure they'll get hefty offers.”