The Cut Page 8

  “Yes, sir,” came the chorus, but another group sentiment was drifting around the room among those who had been with the team awhile—You’re pretty good at blaming everyone but yourself there, Coach.

  “Okay. I’m going to make one final point before we get going. Most of you have been in an NFL training camp before, and those who haven’t probably know something about them from what you’ve heard, seen on TV, and been through at college. I won’t paint a rosy picture—training camp is hard. It may be the hardest thing you ever do in your life. You may look back on this next month years from now and think it was the shittiest, lousiest, most painful, most agonizing, most infuriating time you ever had.” Gray smiled. “I certainly hope so, because training camp has just one purpose as far as the coaches are concerned—to find out which of you has what it takes to be on this team, and which of you do not. It’s survival of the fittest, period. We’ve got ninety-two guys here now, and we’ll have just fifty-three when the day of the final cut arrives. It’s going to be a race, and the last fifty-three guys standing will be the winners. Winners are who we want. They have focus, they have intensity, they have drive, and they have dedication. They are also consistent. That means they operate at the highest levels every day. If you think you’re going to shine like a star for a few days, then relax the rest of the time and still make the roster, you’re wrong. If we think you can function at the top, then we expect you to do it all the time. Not some of the time, not once in a while. Who is in the Hall of Fame? Guys who had one or two great games? No—guys who put up big numbers consistently. That means training camp is also about endurance. Use up all your energy during the first half, and you will fall behind in the second. Keep that in mind. And remember that injuries hurt you more than just physically. You don’t make the team from the training room. Or, as some have said, ‘You won’t make the club from the tub.’ You better be damn near death if you’re thinking of walking off the field. Remember—time not spent in camp is time when we cannot evaluate you. And we cannot put guys on the team that we haven’t evaluated.”

  Gray trailed off here, cleared his throat again, and checked his notebook. “Boys, pay attention, try your best, keep your focus, and you’ll be fine. If you follow the rules, then all it comes down to is your talent. Everything else is a constant, so the talent is the variable. Those who are the most talented will make the team. Those who have a little less talent but are still worthy might end up somewhere else. And those who have very little will go home. It really is that simple.

  “So the first thing we need to do this year is find out who’s ready,” he told them. “Get suited up and get out there.”

  10

  The Giants’ practice field was located in the northwestern corner of the SUNY campus. It was set in a man-made depression about ten feet deep, and it was surrounded by a chain-link fence and many trees, which helped keep out the curious and minimize distractions. On the eastern side, however, were the university’s tennis courts, where beautiful young girls in tiny skirts occasionally jarred the attention of Giants prospects, much to the irritation of the coaching staff. The field also featured a set of heavy aluminum bleachers and, outlining the perimeter, a rubber, brick-red running track.

  Moving like a herd, the team gathered loosely around the fifty-yard line. Each player wore shorts and a jersey and carried his pads and helmet. They spent the first twenty minutes stretching, many of them lying on the grass like cows in a meadow. Fans happy to see the team for the first time since last season cheered from the fences. They would be allowed to observe some practices from closer proximity later on, but not now.

  Gray blew his whistle and ordered the squad into three groups—offense, defense, and special teams. Defensive coordinator Leo Miller took his boys to the western end of the field. Miller was a longtime friend and assistant to Alan Gray. Since Gray had a defensive pedigree, he and Miller shared similar minds, and their philosophies had evolved as a result of an ongoing joint effort. But while Gray was more reserved on the surface, Miller was basically a lunatic. It was he, not Gray, who was seen on television from time to time screaming from the sidelines, spitting and red-faced. It was also he who would be jumping up and down, pumping his fists and slapping helmets at every sack and backfield tackle. He hated offenses and lived for any opportunity to cause an injury. Most people around the league thought he would’ve ended up in prison if he hadn’t found football, and his nicknames ranged from “Miller the Killer” to “Milla’ the Hun.” He particularly liked the second one and had someone superimpose his face over an image of the actual Hun king, then framed it and hung it in his office.

  Special teams coach Frank Draybeck, who wasn’t much more stable than Miller, put his men in the center of the field, leaving the eastern third for Dale Greenwood and the offensive unit. Greenwood led them to the sideline and, with clipboard in hand and a silver whistle hanging around his neck, said, “All right, boys, we’re going to have some fun. Like Coach Gray said, the first thing we need to do is find out who’s ready to be here and who’s not.” A faint collective groan came from the defensive unit at the opposite end of the field, and the other players took notice. Most of them had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

  “You remember your old friend the gasser, right?” Greenwood asked, then smiled at the reaction. “Yeah,” he said to his assistant coaches. “They remember.”

  In simplest terms, a “gasser” is a sprint used as a part of a conditioning regimen. Gassers are usually executed in a series, with minimal breaks between runs. They are arduous, often bordering on torture, and are loathed by sensible athletes. But they are also useful in gauging overall health and physical ability. Only players in the best shape can withstand a high-level gasser.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” Greenwood continued. “We’re going to do them in groups, by position. Last year we did a series of forty-yard dashes, but I’ve got enough data on your forties to smoke my hard drive.” He flipped through the pages attached to his clipboard, then glanced up at Hamilton, Reese, and Foster. “Except for you guys, that is,” he said, “but we’ll manage. So here’s what we’re going to do this time.” He took his pencil from behind his ear and pointed. “We’re going up and back the width of the field. That’s one hundred and sixty feet, or fifty-three and a third yards. Or, for you metric dorks, forty-eight point eight meters.”

  A few more moans drifted from the group—guys who had done this type of gasser before and remembered the experience well.

  “You are going to go up and back twice.” Greenwood said. “That means up and back, up and back. It’ll be a total of slightly more than two hundred yards.”

  “Why don’t we just use the full length of the field?” someone asked. It was Derrick Wilcox, wide receiver and rookie fourth-round pick from LSU. Daimon Foster glanced over at him and thought, Was he the guy they chose over me?

  “The field isn’t wide enough for all three units at the same time,” Greenwood said. “We’d be here all damn day. So, first, the running backs. Let’s go, get into position.”

  Five young men came forward, all black. In spite of this basic similarity, one stood out among them—Jason Thomas. Thomas had been the first-round, third-overall draft pick of the team three years ago. He made the starting squad without too much trouble and began performing from day one—137 yards in his opening game against the Cowboys. He would rush for more than eleven hundred that year, and over thirteen hundred the next. He was as slick as a fish, and he could squirt through the smallest of holes. Some said he had the tools to become the next Walter Payton. Whether that happened or not, he was in no immediate threat of losing his job. The second man on the depth chart, Charlie Tate, was a solid backup who had value in other roles. It was the other three guys who would be competing in this camp.

  They lined up along the sideline a few feet apart. Greenwood took five digital stopwatches from a canvas bag and handed them out—one to the running backs coach, the rest among a small cluster of
team gofers who were standing nearby. Most were bright young college students whose parents had landed them internship positions through their connections with team hierarchy. Everyone was assigned the task of timing a different player.

  “Your goal is as follows,” Greenwood said to the backs. “You will run a total of ten gassers, completing each one within thirty-three seconds. You will have another thirty seconds to rest in between, and a two-minute break after completing the fifth. Okay?”

  Thomas didn’t bat an eyelid, and Tate appeared only mildly disgruntled. The other three, however, looked petrified.

  “Ready? On three. One … two … three!”

  Bits of grass flew from their cleats as they sprang forward. Some of their teammates yelled in support, but none of the runners seemed to notice. When they reached the far end and turned, their faces were tightened with intensity. Thomas had the lead by a step or two, with Tate and one of the rookies nearly tied for second. The other two were doing their best to keep up. One of them—the one that appeared a bit heavier than the other four—was clearly not in good shape. Jermaine Hamilton had seen guys like this before, those who hadn’t fully devoted themselves to an off-season program and figured they’d lose the weight and regain their edge during camp. They were almost always the first ones to go. That’s one less person on the roster, he thought.

  Thomas crossed the line first, and Greenwood clicked off his stopwatch. Four more clicks quickly followed as the others finished. Then Greenwood started his watch again and said, “Thirty-second rest, guys. Catch your breath.”

  The running backs kept moving, walking around slowly and in no particular direction. Perspiration had already begun to shimmer on their foreheads. A gofer without a stopwatch held out a bottle of water and a towel. No one took the water, but Jason Thomas grabbed the towel and quickly patted his face.

  “Five seconds,” Greenwood announced, and the backs lined up again.

  The next two gassers were similar to the first, with Thomas in the lead and Tate and the one good rookie at his heels. But by gasser number four, the differences between the five young men really began to show. The rookie who had been keeping pace with Tate began to fall back a little bit, and the one who had arrived in camp out of shape was starting to wheeze audibly. During the two-minute break after gasser number five, the wheezer fell to one knee, then turned and crashed on his back. He accepted a water bottle and poured the contents over his face rather than drink it. The other two rookies were winded, but at least they were still standing. Tate appeared a bit worn as well, but he was smart enough not to show it. Thomas stood with his hands on his hips and stared into the distance, seemingly detached from it all. He had removed his shirt during the thirty-second break following the fourth run; his diamond-cut physique glistened in the morning sun.

  Greenwood counted down the break in fifteen-second increments. As the five men dragged themselves to the starting line, the catcalls became louder, the taunts crueler. By the end of gasser number seven, the out-of-shape rookie looked like an exhausted puppy, his tongue actually dangling. Thomas continued his steady performance, making his time in each run. The strain was beginning to show around his eyes and in his careful, measured breathing, but that was to be expected. Otherwise, he was superhuman. Like the great Jerry Rice, Thomas subjected himself to a torturous off-season training program, and it paid the biggest dividends at times like this. Tate, amazingly, was beginning to catch a second wind. The rookies, in contrast, were not. They had expended too much of their energy trying to keep up in the first half. Now they had very little wind left. Everyone watching received a refresher course in the value of pacing yourself.

  Only moments after Jason Thomas crossed the finish line for the tenth and final time, the unconditioned rookie collapsed on the other side of the field. He had not completed even half of the last run. Tate followed Thomas by about six steps, and the two surviving rookies came in side by side shortly thereafter. Tate bent forward, hands on his knees, eyes closed, and struggled to catch his breath. Some of the other players went over to the kid lying by the hash marks near the big 20 and tried to pull him up. They might as well have been moving a corpse. He turned out to be an unsigned free agent from Brigham Young and was thirteen pounds over his prescribed weight. He was carted off the field, and no one ever saw him again.

  After the running backs came the offensive linemen. Since they were much heavier and inherently slower, they were given more time to complete each run—but not much. Whereas the RBs had thirty-three seconds per run, the linemen got thirty-nine. It didn’t sound like much, but it made all the difference in the world—of the eighteen men who were vying for positions, only twelve completed all ten. Then came the five quarterback prospects, then the fullbacks. In each case the position coaches copied down all the times with notable indifference.

  “Okay, tight ends, let’s go,” Greenwood said, waving them on. Glenn Maxwell jogged to the line first. He was a lanky white kid with gold hair that he kept shaved on the sides and not much longer on top. He had dark slits for eyes, a nose so long and narrow that it looked almost feminine, and a tiny mouth—which was no inconvenience since he rarely used it. His teammates thought of him more as invisible than aloof; he didn’t carry an aura of superiority, but seemed comfortable waiting in the shadows until he was needed. His appearance on the field just now was a perfect example—he didn’t seem to be anywhere until Greenwood summoned him. No one noticed that he’d been stretching by himself for the last fifteen minutes near the goalpost.

  Hamilton, Reese, and Foster came up next, spread out about ten feet from each other, and crouched into their stances.

  Jim O’Leary came alongside them. “Ready, guys? On three. One … two … three!”

  They took off in perfect synch, four thoroughbreds competing for the same prize. Daimon Foster trained his eyes on the white line at the far end of the field, nothing else. He had learned this from one of his strength and conditioning coaches at college. Focus on one thing and become blind to everything else. But don’t focus on the pain. Focusing on something else will help you think above the pain. He controlled his breathing, too, keeping it mild and steady so he wouldn’t burn out too soon. He was sure he could beat the prescribed time Greenwood had given them—thirty-five seconds per gasser—in the first three attempts. He could probably even go under thirty if he really pushed himself. But after that he’d be out of steam, and by the two-minute break he’d be immobilized. So he decided not to concentrate on the time at all—just the run itself. Steady, calm, consistent.

  Corey Reese realized Foster was ahead of him by about a half step. So far the order was Foster first, him second, and Hamilton and Maxwell another half step back in a tie for third. He decided that was okay for now. Let Foster burn himself out. I can beat the other two regardless. In the end, the coaches would realize he’d been the smart one, the one who used both his body and his brains to overcome his opponents. That would matter, because NFL coaches liked smart players. Every guy had a good body; they wouldn’t have reached this point if they didn’t. The mind was the make-or-break factor on this level.

  Reese had also learned to focus on one thing in order to filter out all other distractions, but in this case he couldn’t help thinking about the knee. It was the only thing that would keep him from landing this job. He was in better shape than Hamilton, had more experience than Foster, so the knee was the key. If it held up, he’d have no problems. So far it still felt funny. Not the best word, but adequate. Whereas he was barely aware of the movements of his other joints, he could actually feel things moving around down there—as if all the parts still hadn’t quite settled yet, hadn’t quite learned to live together harmoniously. And he considered this run the new knee’s first real test. He wasn’t in the comfort of his expansive backyard now, with the distant view of the other big houses. Everyone was watching, every move scrutinized. In spite of the weird sensations, the knee appeared to be holding together. As Reese pushed himself harder, h
is confidence increased. And as his confidence increased, so did his optimism. By the time he launched into the third gasser, he was neck-and-neck with Foster.

  Similarly, Jermaine Hamilton was surprised by how good he felt. Crossing onto the sidelines for the two-minute break after the fifth run, he expected to be gasping for air. He ended up in second place, with Reese and Foster tied for first. True, he was winded—even Jason Thomas had been a little worn a half hour earlier, and he was probably in the best shape of anyone on the team. But Hamilton had feared he’d be like walking death, a machine whose parts were barely holding together. He, too, had designed and stuck with a personal conditioning program, his disciplinary fuel coming from the blind hope that someone would sign him. It had only been in the last few months that he began to slack off, when the depression struck and he started believing his career was really over. But after his agent called and said the Giants wanted him, he got back out there—literally, that same evening. He jogged five miles, feeling more alive than he had in years. He felt a lot like that now.

  During the break, Maxwell vanished again. The other three tried to gauge the general condition of their rivals—without making it seem like they were doing so. They went out of their way to appear as though they were just fine. They turned down offers of water and Gatorade simply because they didn’t want it to look like they needed any. In truth, they would’ve downed a bucketful given half the chance. Young men and their egos.