The Cut Page 4

  Maybe forever.

  “When, Doc?” Reese asked, fighting back tears. He knew Clark wouldn’t mind if he cried; he was that kind of a guy. But years of conditioning in one of the last bastions of pure masculinity made it all but impossible. “When can I get back out there?”

  “It’s going to take some time. Time, hard work”—the doctor looked squarely at his patient—“and a bit of luck, too.”

  A chill settled over Reese’s body like a breeze carrying a light snow. “But I will be back, right?”

  “We’ll see. Just be thankful it wasn’t worse. I’ve seen players end up with crutches, canes, or wheelchairs for the rest of their lives. There’s very little chance of that happening here. With the right kind of care, you’ll be able to walk again with no problem.”

  “But not play?” A tear finally streaked down his face.

  Clark paused, then patted Reese’s hand. “We’ll see,” he said again.

  Jerry Wynn came by about an hour later. Corey sat up when he saw him and even managed a brave smile.

  “Hey, Coach.”

  Wynn was one of the older head coaches in the league, so much so that his retirement was a point of constant speculation. He was one of the few members of the “old guard” who had managed to survive and adjust to the free-agency era. He had a certain gentleman’s charm about him, the kind of guy players didn’t resent even when he was yelling at them. Although he’d never said so in public, he was all about the game—and nothing else. He considered the peripheral stuff a necessary evil, but he paid it no more mind than was required.

  “How are you?”

  “Doing okay.”

  “Yeah? You sure about that?”

  “Well, the doc says I’ll have to wait and see. But I think I’ll be all right in the long run.”

  Wynn leaned over and inspected the knee. “Looks … rough.”

  “Feels it, too.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Reese waited for the inevitable declarations. If you don’t recover from this, I promise the team will take care of you, or, We’re all pulling for you, etc.

  Instead, Wynn turned to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “I want you to know two things, Corey.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One, I’m very proud of you. You have been an invaluable member of my team, and one of the best tight ends I’ve ever seen.”

  A lump formed in Reese’s throat. This hadn’t happened since his last child was born. He felt foolish and hoped Wynn didn’t notice when he swallowed it down. “What’s the other?”

  In a way that was so direct yet so gentle Corey Reese would never forget it, Hynn said, “There’s more to life than this game.”

  Reese’s eyes began to sting. Under no circumstances would he descend to tears in front of this man, but damned if maintaining his composure wasn’t becoming a struggle.

  “I’m not saying you won’t be back,” Wynn added, putting his hands up. “I’m not saying that, Corey. The knee is a very tricky thing. I’ve seen guys come back from knee injuries that were so bad we feared they might not even walk again. So I’m not telling you your career is over. I’m just saying.…” A fresh smile now. “If it does come to that, don’t let it bring you all the way down. Do you understand? What I’m saying is this—don’t let football be the full measure of who you are. None of us should do that, okay? There’s more to life. There’s more to life than this game.”

  Reese’s response was barely audible. “Sure, Coach. Thanks.”

  Then Wynn was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  * * *

  Jeanine and the kids came later that night. Corey did his best to appear cheerful, but his wife suspected the worst from the moment she entered the room. They’d known each other since seventh grade, so he couldn’t hide much from her. He didn’t want the kids to worry, though. They were too young for any of that, he decided—Corey Jr. was only eight, Lizzie five, and Brenda three. He wanted every day of their childhood to be magical, so this would remain a secret for now.

  When Corey’s mom arrived a half hour later, he had her take the kids down to the coffee shop. Then he told Jeanine everything. They held each other, and they both cried. It was, he would think later, one of the three worst episodes in his life—the death of his father a month before he was drafted, the death of his younger sister from leukemia when they were both teenagers, and this. He’d never felt so weak and helpless.

  To his great surprise, it was also a moment of enlightenment. By the time he and Jeanine were in their freshman year of high school, he knew she would always be the love of his life. But he had no idea just how much he had come to depend on her, how much he needed her. Looking back on that day, he shuddered to think what the experience would’ve been without her. Some women would’ve bolted. There were so many players whose wives and fiancées and girlfriends seemed to build their affections on the promise of a good income and lavish lifestyle, and the moment trouble arrived they headed for the nearest exit. Jeanine wasn’t like that at all. He’d always thought so, but now he had proof. They were facing a crisis, and she didn’t step back—in fact, she stepped forward. After that night he knew he could never be apart from her. With her strength and support, he would defy the odds. He would astound Clark and the very laws of medicine. He would be back on that field, diving into the end zone and hotdogging in front of the cameras. He’d be on top again, leading the evolution of the tight end position. He had to—for his love of the game, his love of his fans, and his love of winning.

  On a more practical level, he knew he’d fall into financial ruin if he didn’t.

  * * *

  He grew up in a mostly white, working-class neighborhood in northern California. His parents met on an assembly line and married within a year. They had four children, and although money was always tight, they managed. As one of the few African American kids in his class, he learned how to fit in and forge alliances, and so was rarely hassled for his color. His mother was a sensible sort who taught the values of home and family. His father was a quiet, dignified man who worked hard, mastered his trade, and made sure his children had the things they needed. Theirs was a steady and solid life. Perhaps the Reeses would never hold a seat on the New York Stock Exchange or a membership in a country club, but they would also never live on welfare or end up in a tenement in the middle of an urban war zone.

  Once Corey realized he had the potential to play in the National Football League, he began to envision a grander life for all of them. He dared to dream of a life lacking the burdens of financial worry, where there were virtually no limits, no ceilings. He knew a little bit about his family’s genealogy—knew, for example, that he and his siblings were the first on either side to attend college. He also knew that, should he puncture the tough membrane of the league, he would be the first in his line to make truly good money. If that happened, he thought, he would share his rewards with all of them. His parents could quit their jobs if they wished (his mother eventually did, but his father refused), and his brother and two sisters could go out and buy whatever the hell they damn well wanted. When he asked Jeanine to marry him, he was still in college. But he was also at the top of every prospective draft list. He told her their kids would never want for anything. She knew he meant it. He had never been egocentric; he loved sharing anything good that came his way. If he made a million dollars and spent most of it on friends and family, he was happy. The love and attention he received in return was all he seemed to require. It was this quality that had made him a favorite with the fans. He gave generously to charities, earned a reputation as a young man with a strong moral foundation, and was at his best when bathing in the glow of public adoration.

  He was drafted high in the second round. The Ravens had given up their first-round pick in a trade the previous February. That meant Reese was actually their first pick. Their general manager, Jon Sabino, gave him a very fair three-year contract with a $2.7 million signing bonus, and the moment
he got the first installment he went out and bought the house. Then he purchased two more homes—one for his mother and another for his brother, Donny. His sisters had both done well in their own careers and turned down his offer to pay off their mortgages, so he got them new cars instead.

  On the field he was superb. Statistically he was among the top line tight ends in the league in his rookie year, his strengths being his quickness and vise-grip hands. He wasn’t quite as good as a blocker, but it almost didn’t matter—he was a reliable safety net for his quarterbacks. His ability to shake defenders was uncanny. He appeared to have a priceless gift: He could reduce the speed of a play in his mind to the point where he could “see” how it would develop. If it was unfolding properly, he would lure defenders away from the center of the action, weakening their chance of breaking it up. If, on the other hand, something went wrong, he could get open almost at will, giving his quarterback a new passing option.

  His personal income grew parallel to his value both on and off the field. He was assailed with everything from endorsement offers to cameos on sitcoms. With this increased wealth came increased spending habits. The last time he’d really paid attention to his bankbook was at the beginning of his third year, when his accountant told him he had amassed a fortune of just over two and a half million dollars after taxes and all the gifts he had bestowed on his loved ones. (The accountant himself received a Cartier Pasha Seatimer the day he told Reese he was a bona fide multimillionaire).

  He held back nothing from his children—whatever they wanted, they got. He and Jeanine were conscientious enough as parents to see that the three of them didn’t morph into typical “rich brats,” but Corey also wanted them to grow accustomed to high living and know nothing else. They would never feel the sting of wanting without having, the way he had as a youngster. All their wishes would come true.

  At some point, in spite of warnings from the accountant, Reese’s finances passed from black to red and headed into the treacherous land of mounting debt. Too many lavish gifts, too many trips to exotic locales in the best hotels, and too much ignored investment advice. The accountant hung in there, but he was exasperated. Reese chose not to listen to him. He was certain there would always be another payoff down the line, another endorsement or a bigger signing bonus. He was at the top of his game. He promised himself that, yes, someday he would dial down the spending and “get real,” as he termed it. But it wasn’t time for that yet—he was still in his twenties, living a life that most couldn’t even conceive. He’d have plenty of time to play the miser later on.

  The day he fell to the turf in LP Field he was under the zero-line to the tune of more than $1.7 million dollars, and his contract was ending at the conclusion of that season.

  As his family’s sole breadwinner, he knew he was in big trouble.

  * * *

  The surgeries went well, but, as Clark had predicted, the rehab was slow and torturous. Reese did everything he was supposed to do, and he maintained a positive attitude. His agent kept everyone in the league updated on his progress. Meanwhile, creditors came calling. The beleaguered accountant kept them at bay with minimal payments, but the last of the cash reserves were running out. There were suggestions of selling off nonessential items. Heartbroken, Reese resisted the idea. He changed his mind when the only other option was giving up the cars and the house. The wolves were closing in.

  Standing on the edge of his property that breezy July afternoon, he realized his situation really wasn’t uncommon. Moving trucks rolled through the development all the time; surely they weren’t always bringing people in. He’d never suspected this lifestyle could be so transitory. Then he remembered some of the local stories he and Jeanine had heard through the years: the guy who got caught embezzling and lost everything, the couple who were running heroin and lost everything, the elderly couple who got scammed and lost everything. Being wealthy, he concluded, was a tightrope walk—and many fell off. Acquiring wealth was tough, but maintaining it was tougher.

  He went through the agility trainer again, then spent a few minutes cutting corners in a four-cone drill. He was doing all right, and the knee felt fine. He wished some trainers could see him. At least someone in the media. He was ready for his triumphant return, he was sure. Even Dr. Clark had said his recovery was nothing short of amazing. Now all he needed was a team to join. No problem.…

  He picked up the Gatorade bottle and jogged back to the house, entering through the sliding door on the porch. Corey Jr. was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, eating saltines with peanut butter and watching Nickelodeon. Jeanine was boiling the fat out of some chicken breasts in preparation for a barbecue. She wasn’t smiling, Reese noticed. She didn’t smile much anymore.

  “Where are the other two?” he asked.

  “Upstairs, playing and fighting.”

  Reese nodded. In happier times that would’ve been funny, but the money problems were like storm clouds that never cleared. They were always overhead, blocking out all warmth and sunshine.

  “Can I show you something?” Jeanine asked, setting the stove to simmer and wiping her hands on a towel.

  “Sure.”

  They went through the living room, which had a thirty-foot ceiling, and into the office, furnished with a small desk, some bookshelves, a computer and printer, and a cabinet with a lock. Jeanine opened the latter and took out the latest set of overdue notices. They had arrived earlier in the day, but she’d waited to show them to Corey so he wouldn’t be distracted during his workout.

  He read through them quickly. More penalties, more punishments. He was beginning to grow familiar with the names. The language was increasingly hostile, the underlying sentiments more threatening. Lawyers were now involved because no one felt there was any choice. The situation was drifting out of control, and the numbers were staggering—five and six figures. Numbers he had dismissed in the past were starting to become real. He had bought a car for an old friend that cost more than his parents’ combined income for a year when he was a child. He thought nothing of it at the time. Now he thought of it in exactly this way.

  “I’m going to talk to Freddie tomorrow,” Reese said, hoping the thought of getting his agent involved would provide some comfort, some sense that things were happening. “I’ll see if we can get something going.” Little did either of them know his agent would be calling later that very evening, after he first spoke with the Giants.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to play again?” she asked. “I don’t want you forcing it and ending up … you know, crippled.” Tears broke free; she was unable to help that. Just the thought of it, and of everything else that was happening right now.…

  He smiled and took her in his arms. “Come on, now. I’m ready. I can do it. Look, either I can or I can’t. But I’m not going to sit around here and wonder about it. The only way I’m going to know is by trying.” He lowered his voice and added, “And the only chance we have of getting out of this mess”—he held up the letters—“is by trying.”

  She nodded, but she clearly didn’t like the idea. She had a feeling she would never know if he was being completely truthful or if he had decided to take the risk in order to keep their world intact. She knew he’d be willing to take that risk, even with the possibility of spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair, but she could not determine how great the risk really was. Truthfully, neither could he. All he knew for sure was that they had run out of alternatives.

  He had sacrificed everything for this life. He would take any opportunity to hold on to it.

  4

  Foster

  His mother sat, as she always did, in the rocking chair by the largest window in the living room. The oversized pages of her latest book hung over her legs as she ran her wise fingers over the Braille pimpling. Her face was a living catalog of expressions, revealing the emotions of each passage. Sometimes her lips moved, too, but silently.

  Cleona Foster began losing her vision shortly after her sixty-second birthday. S
he developed headaches when she read—a favorite activity all her life—because she was suddenly having trouble seeing the text. Her primary care physician referred her to an ophthalmologist who misdiagnosed the condition, and by the time a second doctor realized she had cataracts, her vision was so cloudy that the damage was irreversible. As she had accepted so many other bad breaks in life, she accepted this one and began learning Braille while she could still detect bright light and a few hazy shapes. She also practiced getting around her small home on Caspian Avenue in Atlantic City. The last image her dying eyes ever registered was the soft-edged figure of her son, Daimon, coming into her bedroom on the afternoon of December 9, 2004, to kiss her on the cheek before leaving for work. She could barely detect his movement as he left. Then she took a short nap, and when she awoke, there was only darkness.

  Daimon watched her from the doorway that separated the living room from the tiny kitchen. He watched her rock slowly back and forth, reading line after line, smiling at the happy parts and shaking her head at the sad ones. And he felt a familiar anger rumbling inside. It had been there so long that he couldn’t remember the time when it wasn’t. The unspeakable cruelty this woman had endured, the harshness that had been delivered upon her. The blindness, the failed marriage, the other child she lost, the lifetime of poverty. All that she’d been through—and yet there she was, smiling and happy, asking for no more than a good book and a comfortable place to read it. She’d been beaten down that far; she accepted everything now. She’d played the game of life and lost. That made her son so angry there were days when he felt homicidal.