The Cut Page 5

  Alicia came into the room via the door on the other side, the one that led into Cleona’s bedroom. Cleona used to sleep on the second floor, but not since she’d lost her sight. After this adjustment, her entire world consisted of just four places—bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom—totaling about two hundred square feet. She might as well be in a goddamn zoo, her son thought.

  “I’m putting your pills on the table,” Alicia told her, “right in front of the lamp.”

  Cleona nodded. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “Sure. And your soup will be ready in a few minutes. We’ll eat together.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Are you enjoying the book?”

  “Oh, yes, very much.” It was a comprehensive history of the Harlem Renaissance. Sometimes she read fiction, sometimes nonfiction, and she seemed to have no particular preference for either.

  Alicia reached for her hand, and Cleona took it briefly before letting go. If there was one bright spot in Daimon’s life, it was Alicia Spencer. She understood him, understood his suffering and his anger. She had been stuck in this sorry neighborhood all her life, too. Technically, she lived two blocks over, on Magellan Avenue, but she was rarely there. Her mother had died when she was three, struck by a public bus while walking to work, and her father, an alcoholic who couldn’t hold a job for more than a few months, was violent even when he wasn’t drinking. She met Daimon at the New Hope Baptist Church, which she still attended but he had given up on. They were both twenty-two, although she looked much younger. She had a beautiful, fresh-faced innocence about her, which would have been an advantage under ordinary circumstances. In this town it was more of a liability.

  They clung to each other, waiting for the day when they could take flight. His athletic ability appeared to be key. By the time he was fifteen, he was six foot three and weighed more than 225 pounds. He had hands that could hold on to a catch even after receiving the most punishing hits. He was fearless when it came to using his body as a weapon, throwing blocks into defenders who outweighed him by fifty pounds or more. He let his anger fuel his passion, and none of his peers could match his intensity. It gave him an edge and, perhaps most important, had earned him a football scholarship to New Jersey’s Rutgers University. Receiving that letter was one of the few happy moments of his youth. He framed it and hung it on his bedroom wall.

  He decided to major in business administration. He figured if the football didn’t work out, the degree would have multiple applications, landing him a job pretty much anywhere, certainly beyond the limits of Atlantic City. If, on the other hand, Lady Luck smiled upon him and he ended up with a pro team, the training would be valuable there as well.

  He was tremendous on the field, first as a wide receiver, then as a tight end. He never gave much thought to the latter, but his coaches felt he was a natural at the position. He was starting for the Scarlet Knights by his sophomore year. When he graduated, scouts thought of him as a promising young prospect. A few agents called. There were whispers that he might be taken as high as the fourth round, maybe even the third. The dream was in reach!

  Alicia threw a party at the house on draft day. There was pizza and beer, pretzels and potato chips, and an enormous football-shaped cake. Some of Daimon’s teammates showed up, plus two of his coaches. No one had ever seen him so happy. It was as if he were a different person. The unsteady, deep-set lines that had been engraved into his brow by years of disappointment and rage were gone. He looked instead like a contented young man, cheerful and hopeful—and, in a way, like the little boy he probably always wanted to be. She was seeing a side of him she had glimpsed only fleetingly in the past.

  He sat on the floor with his legs pulled up, arms hanging over his knees with his hands laced together, as he watched the proceedings from New York City. The first round went by without incident, which didn’t surprise anyone. A first-round pick would’ve been heavenly, but it was so remote it wasn’t even worth considering. Besides, Daimon had already studied all the teams thoroughly and concluded that none of them needed a tight end that badly. Of course, that was a crucial factor in this situation—team needs. If no one needed you, no matter how good you were, there was a chance you wouldn’t be taken at all.

  When the second round passed, the mood in the room began to change. Not much, but enough to be noticed. Even a second-round signing was a slim chance—but it wasn’t impossible. The feeling of complete abandon, of unbridled celebration and the “anything’s possible” mentality, began to fade. As all prospective draft picks know, the phone will ring right before a team chooses them. Usually it will be the head coach or the general manager, sometimes the owner. But there’s always that call, and the magic words, “We’ve decided to take you,” from the other side. This call never came.

  The draft resumed the next day, and everyone was there from the previous afternoon. Daimon was starting to look a little nervous, and the wavy pathways in his forehead reappeared. The first pick of the third round came and went, then the second … then the third. By two thirty, the fourth round had begun. Daimon’s cell phone mocked him with its silence. People began making excuses, patting him on the back and hoping their reassurances didn’t sound too much like pity. Alicia could sense his anger. Even more tragically, she could also sense the slow, epic death of his hope. In a life that had been marred by frustration from day one, here was one more dark moment to contend with. What had he done to deserve this? she wondered. Was he leading a secret life as a serial killer? A child molester? A dope dealer? It had to be something, she thought. No one should have to go through this much without a reason.

  As the draft rolled to a close, Daimon’s friends reminded him that undrafted free agents got signed all the time, and that some of them went on to great success—Wayne Chrebet, Priest Holmes, and Drew Bennett, to name a few. Kurt Warner won a Super Bowl MVP Award with the Rams, and Adam Vinatieri earned a reputation in New England as one of the greatest clutch kickers of all time. Daimon took their encouraging words with gratitude, but after everyone left he sat alone in his room while Alicia cleaned up. He wanted so badly to cry, but he refused to give whatever invisible forces were working against him any more satisfaction than they already had. He wanted to scream, beat his fists, break something into a million pieces. Instead, he turned on his side and went to sleep. He didn’t give a damn about anything anymore.

  He just wanted to disappear.

  * * *

  By July, the sting had mellowed into something more refined, adrift in the simmering cauldron of fury at the bottom of his soul. With his degree in hand, he found a job as a supermarket manager on the south side of town. He had to work the graveyard shift, the pay sucked, and the owner was a first-class prick. As he sat in his tiny office, which he shared with the two other managers—one of whom kept leaving stupid jokes on the marquee screen saver of the store’s ancient computer in a flaccid attempt to bond with his fellows—he thought often about the opportunity that never was. He’d stood at a crossroads, with one way leading to unimaginable riches, the other to … this. How close had he really been? He wished there was a way to find out. Were there many discussions about him? Were there any? How many teams had really been interested? He knew the Bills had sent a scout, as had the Giants and the Packers. Surely their information traveled around to other teams. Scouts talked to each other. His statistics were available, both from college and from what he thought was a solid outing at the combines in Indianapolis. So was he ever a serious contender, or was he just kidding himself all along? Maybe he was supposed to be someone’s pick, but then they changed their mind moments before their reps had to hand in that little card from their table down in the orchestra pit. Maybe it really was that close.

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

  * * *

  Alicia walked past him and into the kitchen, where she stirred the tomato soup on the stove one more time before pouring it into two small bowls. She set them on a silver tray along with
a sleeve of saltines.

  “You’d better get to work, sweetheart,” she told him, already sounding like the concerned and loving wife. They had talked about marriage, and she knew he’d pop the question sooner or later. Now just wasn’t the time, though, and neither of them had any idea of when that time would be. “You’re going to be late.”

  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 mat
ter 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.