The Cut Page 13

  “Bowen is not the same guy we saw in the combines,” Greenwood said. “He seems slower than he was, and he sure as hell can’t take a hit.”

  “Another guy who pulled it all together in Indy,” added Kevin Jefferson, the team’s receivers coach, “so he could get into a training camp. Another weight-room warrior. Knows how to look good just long enough to take the next step.”

  “But on game day,” Greenwood went on, “he won’t contribute much. I guarantee it.”

  Gray, with his elbows on the table and his hands bunched together, adopted an air of profound introspection. He was playing God with this young man’s future, so it was his dire responsibility to carefully consider all options before making a call. But it was all a façade—complete and utter bullshit. And everyone in the room knew it. They were so used to it by now, however, that no one displayed the slightest hint of dissension. Alan Gray knew as much about evaluating an offense as he did about bioengineering, and his capacity for compassion wouldn’t register on a jeweler’s scale.

  “Okay, let’s cut him,” he said gravely, as if the responsibility of making the decision hurt him deep down. “Have the Turk take care of it.”

  Don Blumenthal had been a busy man already, which was fairly unusual within the first week or so of an NFL training camp. The heads typically started rolling around the third week, after the first preseason game. But Alan Gray considered himself a quick study, and he was, in truth, uniquely gifted at estimating what went on in the hearts and minds of others. Throughout his life, more than a few people had accused him of a certain degree of paranoia, but he knew better—that “paranoia” was in fact a finely honed instinct, almost a sixth sense. He knew within days which guys in camp were on the weak side of the spectrum, which eight or nine definitely had no shot at making the team. Sometimes it was due to a lack of physical talent, but that was rare; the combines, plus four years of college performance and piles of statistics, gave a pretty clear picture of a young man’s physical abilities. Most of the time it was mental shortcomings—too easily distracted, unable to maintain consistency, bad attitude, not motivated enough, only here for the glory and the fame, only looking for a big payoff, etc. He had been in the league long enough to know a loser when he saw one, and he didn’t want to waste time on losers. So it became a characteristic of Alan Gray’s training camps that a handful of guys were out the door when other teams were just getting started with the paring process.

  He twiddled his pencil some more and said, “Okay, I think that about covers everything, right? We’ve got to prep for the first preseason game this Saturday.” He gathered his books and papers into a neat stack and began to rise. “See you all back here after lunch, when we—”

  “Hang on, Coach,” Dale Greenwood said. Jim O’Leary sat on his left. “We didn’t go over the tight ends.”

  Gray froze halfway up. He looked like he was waiting for a doctor to do a prostate exam.

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  The coach settled back into his seat. “Okay, tell me about the tight ends.”

  “Well, strange as it might sound, we’re having trouble figuring out which of the three new guys is the best.”

  Gray had taken his defensive playbook back out and was absently flipping through the pages, but this made him stop and look up. “What’s that?”

  “Hamilton, Reese, and Foster,” Greenwood said, “they’re pretty damn good.”

  “All three?”

  “Yeah. They ran the gassers faster than T. J.,” Greenwood told him.

  “They all did?”

  “Yeah. Not by much, but they did. Even Hamilton.”

  O’Leary: “Reese hasn’t dropped a ball yet.”

  Greenwood: “Hamilton knows the whole playbook already. I think they all do.”

  O’Leary: “Foster is the quickest tight end I’ve ever seen. And he’s got competitive fire to burn.”

  Greenwood: “He got into a fight with Kirch yesterday. Kirch.”

  O’Leary turned to Greenwood and said, “They’ve all got fire. I’ve never seen three guys so motivated.”

  Greenwood nodded. “Yeah, it’s like they’ve got the devil at their heels.”

  Gray was looking back and forth between them, absorbing every word. “And you’re telling me they’re all better than T. J.?”

  Greenwood said, “Well, I don’t know about that. If we used one of them, we’d have to make a few minor modifications to the system. They’re all close.”

  “Yeah, they’re all very close,” O’Leary put in. “Each has his own weaknesses. Hamilton’s aging body means he’ll run out of steam sooner rather than later. He’s showing no signs of it yet, but it’s only a matter of time. You can’t escape that. He’s got so much experience in the league, though, that he almost makes up for it.”

  “And Reese,” Greenwood said, “has clearly lost a little speed due to that injury. He’s still fast as hell, but he’s come down one level. Plus he has great hands, and he knows how to get open and block. He’s still very reliable.”

  “Foster,” O’Leary finished, “is a special kid. I don’t know how everyone missed him. He’s so fast, so smart, and so intense. He’s about as focused as anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s made a few typical rookie mistakes, but he learns from them and self-corrects. There’s no doubt he’s going places.”

  Now Gray was smiling, something he hadn’t done all day. “Interesting, very interesting. If you had to make a decision right now, who’d get the job?”

  “Impossible to tell,” Greenwood said. “Too close to call.”

  “Yeah, too close,” O’Leary said. “But I know this much—all three are a pleasure to work with. Three good guys with real talent. We were incredibly lucky to get them.” He shook his head and added, “Too bad we can’t sign them all. We could use two for trading fodder.”

  Gray was staring off into space, his moronic grin still pasted to his pudgy face. This was a good idea, but unrealistic. Spots on the roster were precious, and he wasn’t about to start playing Monopoly with these guys; they were serving an entirely different purpose for him at the moment. Furthermore, agents rarely went along with tactics like this unless it meant a sweet deal for their clients. More trouble than it was worth.

  “Okay,” Gray said finally, “I appreciate the information. Please keep me informed.”

  “Sure.”

  With that, everyone rose and left the room.

  Instead of leading the pack this time, Gray took up the rear. As he went out, Jim O’Leary’s words replayed themselves in his mind. We were incredibly lucky to get them.

  He was still smiling when he broke from the rest of the group and headed to his office.

  * * *

  Text of letter sent by Chet Palmer via registered mail on August 12:

  Barry M. Sturtz, President and CEO

  c/o Performers LLC

  1152 Skyline Drive

  Huntersville, North Carolina

  28070

  Mr. Sturtz:

  This letter is in response to yours of August 3 concerning the ongoing “stalemate” between you and your client, T. J. Brookman, and the New York Giants. First off, let me apologize for not responding in a more timely fashion, i.e., within seven days of its receipt as per the terms outlined in the CBA. As you know, the team has been involved in the opening of its annual training camp activities and, as such, Coach Gray and myself have not had a chance to respond sooner.

  That said, we would now like to address the matter at hand. After careful consideration of all facts, we have decided not to revisit the possibility of renegotiating your client’s current contract. Instead, we reaffirm our belief that he should honor the terms as they stand, and again offer to put together a “new-and-improved” contract at the end of this season, when the present contract naturally terminates. At that time, we will be willing to forge a deal that is beneficial to both parties; one that will take your client’s improved skills and contribution to the team into full consid
eration. In turn, he will be paid adequately in respect to other premium performers at his position around the league, as you have requested. But, in the interim, we do not feel that it would be appropriate to alter, in any way, the agreement he has with us now.

  In consideration of the above, Coach Gray and myself would therefore like to request, for the second time, that your client report to training camp as soon as is reasonably possible, where he can join his teammates in preparation for the coming season. Failure to do so, as we have stated before, may result in disallowing him to participate in all team activities going forward. We would, naturally, prefer not to take this course of action. But we will do so if we feel no other reasonable choice is afforded us.

  At your convenience, kindly let us know how you wish to proceed.

  With Best Regards,

  Chester T. Palmer, General Manager

  The New York Football Giants

  CC: NFLPA, NFL Management Council

  16

  Corey Reese never realized how much he missed the cheers of the fans until he emerged from the tunnel at Giants Stadium shortly before noon that Saturday. Even though it was only the first preseason game of the year, traditionally a low-key affair, every seat had been sold on this postcard-perfect day. The crowd exploded in prolonged applause upon seeing their team take the field after the long off-season hiatus. Since the Giants were playing the Jets, who shared the stadium with them, it was hard to tell which fans were cheering for whom. Reese didn’t care—the moment he stepped out of the shadows and back into public view, he swelled with that old familiar warmth, which had been gone for so long. He knew most of the fans weren’t cheering for him specifically, but he enjoyed imagining it, and certainly some were. One black youngster who was leaning over the rail by the mouth of the tunnel and wearing one of his old jerseys yelled, “Corey! Corey, up here!” The kid gave him a thumbs-up. When Reese returned the gesture along with a smile, the boy turned around to report the exchange to his father.

  Preseason games have their detractors, most of whom usually define them as pointless, a waste of everyone’s time, and so on. Players understandably don’t want to get hurt during a battle that has no bearing on the regular season. And many fans, even hardcores, find it challenging to keep their attention on games that are ultimately meaningless. But coaches place great value on them—every one affords yet another angle from which to evaluate their talent pool. They can put young prospects through every drill in the book, show them countless hours of film, and force them to memorize playbooks as thick as phonebooks—but nothing compares to being out there.

  Furthermore, anyone who thinks the preseason lacks competitiveness simply because the outcome has no impact on a team’s chances to reach the eventual postseason doesn’t understand that, individually, every man out there is fighting for a roster spot. There are, of course, a handful whose jobs are more or less safe, like players in the prime of their careers who performed solidly the previous season, but those cases are rare. A head coach’s job during training camp, above all else, is to assemble the best group of first-stringers possible. If that means replacing a veteran with a rookie, so be it. Very few guys have the luxury of avoiding this pressure, and those who think they do are often the first to go. So while the actual score of a preseason game has little meaning in the big picture, one kid’s performance during the course of that game can mean the difference between the rewards of an NFL contract and toiling in a nine-to-five job for the rest of your life. What it boiled down to was this: Your objective in every preseason game was to impress your coaches, and you had to remember that the guy you’d be facing on the other side of the line would be trying to do the same. Someone had to come away the loser.

  Jermaine Hamilton, from his many years in the league, was fully aware of this when he was ordered onto the field immediately after the kickoff. He was stunned to be out there so early—he figured the starting squad would be featured for the first series or two at least, and he’d be showcased later on—but Dale Greenwood said he wanted him “in the thick of things.” The Giants had won the toss, and the Jets’ defensive starters strolled out confidently like the professional hit squad that they were. Gang Green had managed to compile a 13–3 record the previous season but lost the AFC Championship Game to the Bengals by a field goal. The Bengals went on to lose the Super Bowl to the Saints, and several of their marquee players had jumped ship via free agency. The Jets, conversely, had managed to keep their core intact. So, with the Bengals hobbled, they were thought to be the AFC favorites this coming season. Certainly their defense was the best in the league. Hamilton reflected upon this as he lined up for the first snap in his first official NFL game in almost two years. Please, God, just let me survive.

  He didn’t have much participation in the first three plays, two of which were long, incomplete passes. Then Greenwood called for him to run a seam route to the center of the field—straight into the defense’s epicenter. They’d be stunned by the sheer audacity of it, and they’d want to levy a generous punishment in response. When quarterback Mark Lockenmeyer called the play in the huddle, Jeff Lewis, the Giants’ right tackle, grinned and said to Hamilton, “Oh, shit, dude. May the Force be with you.”

  With both a fullback and a halfback behind him, Lockenmeyer ran a long count, and second tight end Glenn Maxwell went in motion in the hopes of acting as a decoy, possibly for a blocking role in a phantom running play to the right side. When the ball was finally snapped, most of the Jets’ linebackers did drift to that side. But one—Jacob Harvey—wasn’t fooled. He came forward a little but stuck to his zone, obviously suspicious. The problem with misrepresentative formations, of course, was that it was so easy to oversell them, and Harvey got a sense of this. Hamilton jogged the first five yards of his pattern, then cut in and turned on the afterburners. Lockenmeyer, by this time, had already faked the handoff to both backs and turned to find his mark. Harvey followed his eyes and began screaming, “Here! Here!” while pointing to Hamilton. The ball came at bullet speed, which was a necessity. Unfortunately, it was also thrown a little ahead. As Hamilton reached out for it, he saw Harvey charging toward him. Everything began slowing down, as it always did before a collision. Incredibly, although he knew this phenomenon would occur, he never got used to it the way some guys apparently did. As he felt the leather slide into his fingers, he clamped down and pulled the ball inward. A nanosecond later, he absorbed Harvey’s bull-charge impact. That was when the situation elevated into something like an out-of-body experience—distantly, he felt himself spin around, the ball hit his gut as he tucked it in, then the cool of the grass as it zoomed up to meet him. He was aware of the bounce as he came off the ground for an instant, then the repeated thumps of other players piling on top of him. Once all motion ceased, the sluggish dream-sequence linearity cleared away. He heard several whistles blowing, and he could feel the bodies being lifted off one at a time. He knew he had taken a monstrous shot, but he also knew he had held on to the ball. Some luck had been involved, of course, and he knew that. But still … in simple terms, he had made one hell of a catch.

  Eight minutes further into the quarter, Corey Reese was called in. His knee felt tight this morning, when he first got up. That wasn’t unusual, but the fact it hadn’t loosened since then was. After some stretches and a brief jog, it was usually fine. Not so today. This made him worry about it—but not half as much as that great grab by Hamilton. Outdoing his competition was his primary objective. It had to be.

  His assignment on this play was fairly simple: move first inside to block as if you were punching a hole for a running lane, then head upfield fifteen yards and drift outward, at which time the ball should be sailing toward you. Again, two backs were used as decoys, and again most of the Jets’ defense bought into it. But the safeties stuck to the zone defense, and Nelson McCann, on the strong side, didn’t trust the sight of Corey Reese—whom he had covered in years past—zipping toward him. Reese tried to stutter-step to the middle to br
eak McCann’s concentration, but the veteran was too experienced to fall for it. There was a time, many seasons ago, when it might have worked; Reese’s mental file on him was a bit outdated. McCann simply moved back a yard, buying himself another precious moment to determine the receiver’s true path. When Reese cut back outside, McCann became glued to him. Far in the back of his mind, Reese noted the improvement in McCann’s coverage skills. He was so close that they were almost sharing the same damn jersey, yet he wasn’t so intrusive that he risked an interference call. In other words, Nelson McCann had become a damn good safety.

  As the ball launched from Lockenmeyer’s hand, Reese saw that he’d have to go up and get it—not only because it was slightly overthrown, but also because McCann’s leaping ability was considerable, and both men, by rule, had a right to the reception. Sluggish knee or not, Corey Reese would have to earn this one.

  He leaped off the grass with a grunt, McCann hanging over him like a mugger. All four hands grazed the bottom of the ball as it moved along its downward trajectory, causing it to pop back up slightly, spinning end over end. As it came down a second time, Reese, who focused on it so rigidly that the rest of reality was effectively blocked out, managed to get his fingers around both sides as he, too, continued downward. He could feel McCann’s arms slither over his shoulders, and then the pounding fist that tried to knock the ball free. Reese yanked it down and tucked it away just as he crashed in a heap at the Jets’ thirty-three-yard line, McCann landing painfully on top of him. It had been a fairly tough catch, but he managed it. When he got back on his feet, the crowd was cheering wildly. He held the ball high—intentional drama—as he jogged it back to the ref. What made the triumph even sweeter was that the knee, while still a little tight, was in one piece.

  Daimon Foster stepped in four plays later, when the Giants had moved the ball down to the Jets’ eleven. His heart thudded as he prayed everything went smoothly on this, his very first play in the National Football League. He knew thousands of eyes were on him, knew there was a good chance some of the commentators were speaking his name, broadcasting into millions of homes in the area, and he knew Alicia and his mom were watching, as excited and as nervous as he was. This would not be the best time to make a mistake. As he broke the huddle and took position just behind the line of scrimmage, he went over the assignment in his head. He would not be the receiver, just a lure. He was on the right of the front five, opposite Glenn Maxwell on the left, so there was no strong side. Receiver Willie Knight stood next to him, on the outside, and would be getting the ball in the end zone. That was the plan, anyway—but the Jets’ red zone defense had allowed just twenty-one touchdowns during the previous season.