The Cut Read online

  Daimon Foster noticed O’Leary talking to Greenwood, showing him something on his clipboard. The other position coaches hadn’t done that. Too slow? he wondered. Since he wasn’t focusing on time, he had no way of knowing. I was faster than the others at the beginning, he thought. If I was too slow, that means we all were.

  He thought about moving closer to see if he could hear anything, but then Greenwood broke away and blew the whistle again. The break was over—five more gassers to go.

  They lined up again and took off. Foster focused on a blue ice chest someone had left on the far side. In spite of this and the two-minute break, he could feel some weariness settling in. His legs no longer had the poetic fluidity they did before. They were a bit sluggish now, more recalcitrant. Making the turn at the end of the field was a drain. Nothing was automatic now; more willpower was required.

  Corey Reese felt the fatigue as well, particularly in the damned knee. It was becoming painful, demanding. It was almost as if it were a separate living thing, and it was saying, Don’t push me, I can’t do this much longer. He’d be better off in practices and game situations, where you ran your heart out for a short period, took breaks between plays, then got a more extended rest on the bench after the defense took over. All this training camp crap was, without a doubt, the most physically demanding experience for a pro football player.

  By the eighth run, Jermaine Hamilton was still behind Foster and Reese, and struggling to hang on. They were finally beginning to slow down, as he’d predicted—but so was he. He felt like his lungs were on fire. He figured his careful pacing and measured breathing would carry him through, and this was where he’d claim the lead, but the early symptoms of age were unavoidable. He simply did not possess the stamina he had ten years ago; it was gone. There was nothing in the world he wanted less than to do two more runs. He turned away from the crowd during the thirty-second break, closed his eyes, and dropped his head. He wasn’t even certain if he would make it. Then he thought about life outside of here—his dying marriage, and that little prison in the basement. Now that he’d been able to put some time and distance between himself and that world, he began to see how poisonous it really was. Amazing how many people became trapped without even knowing it. Through the agony, he hazily remembered something about that from psych class in college—environmental factors. Something about influence. He thought it was all double-talk back then, but it made sense now. He felt happier right now, in spite of the pain, than he had in ages—simply because he’d changed his surroundings. How much longer would he have lasted in that misery? he wondered. Did he really want to go back?

  Greenwood blew the whistle to start the ninth run, and Hamilton found himself jogging up to the line. When he burst forward, it was with an enthusiasm that surprised everyone. He forgot about the visual focusing tricks and thought about Melanie, about watching the games from his couch and having no desire to answer the door or the phone. That was part of the past, he decided, and he was running away from it—and toward the future. He still felt the pull of the years, the greedy fingers of age wrapping themselves around every joint and muscle. But he was moving forward anyway.

  Corey Reese had no intention of coming in second to a veteran like Hamilton, or a kid like Foster. His mind was trained on keeping that gorgeous home and those beautiful cars, fending off the embarrassment of bankruptcy and the pity of fans, friends, and family. If he performed as he knew he was capable of performing, it would all be nothing but an unpleasant memory. A nightmare he woke up from and could then forget about. All he had to do was run.…

  Daimon Foster remembered the two women who had sole claim on all the affection he was capable of. He knew he could outshine the others, knew he could carve out a niche for himself in this league. The Giants were offering more than an opportunity to make their team—they were offering an opportunity to escape. He thought about that dream-moment that would come in four weeks when he could deliver those four magic words to Alicia: I made the team. Everything would be different then everything. Even if he didn’t land a zillion-dollar contract, he’d have enough to lower a bucket into the well of their despair and raise them up to the light of day. This was actually—finally—within reach now. He had no intention of blowing it.

  They crossed the line for the tenth time, their bodies unwilling to go any farther. Amazingly, they finished at the same time, with Maxwell not far behind. It took the greatest effort of their collective lives to remain standing. They spread out from each other in a way that seemed choreographed. No one refused fluid this time. Reese finished a bottle of lime Gatorade in seconds and reached for another. Hamilton poured most of the water from his container over his head. Foster kept moving in small circles because he was afraid he would collapse if he didn’t.

  Twenty feet away, Jim O’Leary conferred quietly with the other three timekeeper-gofers. Greenwood watched from a distance, puzzled. After a few moments, O’Leary left the group and approached him with a frown on his face.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  O’Leary handed him the clipboard and tapped a figure at the bottom with his pen.

  “What’s that?”

  “Their times.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I checked and double-checked.”

  Greenwood kept staring. “You’re sure this is right?”

  “Positive.”

  The three new prospects had mostly recovered now and were lingering, waiting for their next challenge.

  “Damn,” Greenwood said.

  * * *

  That first practice session ended just after eleven thirty. The final offensive group to run gassers was the quarterbacks. There were five prospects, two of whom had been on the roster for several years—Mark Lockenmeyer, the starter for the last three seasons, and Blair Thompson, thirteen-year journeyman and veteran backup. The rest were rookies, one acquired in the seventh round of the most recent draft, the other two free-agent signings. Lockenmeyer, a longtime Greenwood favorite who many said had much greater talent than his record and his statistics suggested, logged the best time, with Thompson logging the worst; it didn’t matter, he knew they’d keep him. He was experienced, competent, affable, and—of paramount importance—relatively cheap. One other highlight of the gasser session was that two more players had to be removed from the field, both massive defensive linemen. Gray screamed at one of them as the kid lay in the grass.

  The team walked wearily to the dining hall, where another lavish layout awaited them. They ate greedily and silently, eager to replenish their carbs and electrolytes for the afternoon session. Jermaine Hamilton found himself sitting alone again, hunched over a heap of roast chicken and new potatoes. His legs ached already. On the first damn day, he thought worriedly. He prayed it was merely a symptom of the torture he had just endured and that it wouldn’t get any worse. Corey Reese wanted desperately to sit with somebody—anybody. He knew how important it was to socialize, to make it appear that you were accepted by your teammates, that you fit in. It was the kind of political thing coaches would notice. It might not be a make-or-break factor, but it helped. Daimon Foster didn’t have as much of an issue with the idea of sitting by himself. He had a feeling he’d done pretty well with the gassers. He still felt like an alien, totally out of place in his surroundings. He didn’t know anybody, didn’t know where anything was, and didn’t feel particularly welcome. He was already learning that the world of pro football could be fairly cold and impersonal. So he focused on his performance. That’s what really counts, he told himself.

  After lunch came a one-hour break, followed by drills with no pads. Nothing unusual, just one-on-ones and other basics. Then dinner, and finally a series of meetings—first the whole team with the head coach, who recapped the day by saying he wasn’t pleased with anything, then smaller group sessions. The tight ends met with Dale Greenwood and the rest of the offensive coaches and players, getting the itinerary for the rest o
f the week, and finally with Jim O’Leary, who was friendly and upbeat and did most of the talking. While Maxwell was his usual stoic self, O’Leary could sense that the other three were uncomfortable around each other, and he tried to ease that. When it became clear he couldn’t, he focused on the playbook, giving everyone a heads-up on what would be expected of them in the coming weeks and what the Giants were looking for, overall, in a tight end. He was impressed by how thoroughly his three new students had studied the book so far. They were asking questions of greater depth than others in the building were probably asking at the moment. He sensed they also wanted to know about T. J. Was he really cut from the team? If not, why were they here? And what happened that caused all this controversy in the first place? They wanted to ask these things, but they didn’t.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock, every person in the dorm who was hoping to be in a Giants uniform come September was asleep except one. Sitting on the toilet with the lid down, the bathroom door shut, and the lights off, an exhausted Jermaine Hamilton opened his cell phone and, with his oversized fingers, phoned home. His heart pounded harder with each ring, and a part of him wanted to kill the call before anyone picked up. Melanie would be furious—she’d know he was checking up on her. She hadn’t been around much. He’d seen her only three times since he was contacted by the team, in fact, and only in passing. She breezed in, then out. The conversations were terse, chilly. Anger seemed to be her default position now. He didn’t want to argue with her, didn’t want to fight, but he wondered if that was the only way to get her attention. He couldn’t believe this was the same woman he had fallen in love with seven years earlier, the one who seemed so loving, attentive, and cheerful. She used to hang on him like a Christmas ornament, her arm wrapped around his and locked so tight he thought it might become gangrenous and fall off. Could it really all have been a scam? Could a person be that shallow, that conniving? He’d been warned by a handful of people to be careful of her through the years, that she matched the profile of the classic gold digger, ready to latch on to anyone who could provide the luxuriant life she craved. But he didn’t believe it—he thought that kind of stuff only happened on soap operas. Sometimes in real life, but not as often as some people seemed to believe. No, Melanie Nemus wasn’t that way.

  Was she?

  Four rings later, he heard a familiar voice. “Hi, you’ve reached the Hamiltons. Leave a message after the beep.” The voice was familiar because it was his. Was she there, listening? If so, was she alone? Had she returned to the house only after he left? Was she stretched out on the couch with some guy she picked up at one of the clubs? Were they doing all the things that they used to do, in a time so distant now that it seemed like it belonged to someone else? The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. Other images, hopefully fictional, came rolling off the assembly line of his imagination. Amazing how efficient the human mind can be at tormenting its owner.

  He terminated the call without leaving a message and, after some hesitation, tried her cell phone. Voice mail again. He left no message, for he knew it would never be returned.

  He sat there in the dark for what seemed like a long time and debated what to do. The disciplined part of him issued the order to go to bed so he’d be fully rested for the long day tomorrow. You’re not going to make this team if you don’t. His body simply did not function without proper rest anymore, and this was training camp, for God’s sake. If you didn’t do the things you were supposed to do, the coaches would know it and you’d be gone. There were ten guys waiting in line to take your place, and ten more behind them. Finding someone to play on an NFL team wasn’t too tough. It was the ultimate buyer’s market.

  Another part of him wanted to keep dialing, call and call until Melanie got so fed up that she answered just to scream at him, tell him to leave her the hell alone. That wouldn’t be pretty—but it would be something. Was that where his feelings had settled? he asked himself. Was that all that was left? Even if she yells, at least it’s attention in some form. He knew guys like that, whose wives treated them like shit, and their rationale was Hey, it’s better than being ignored. This made him feel even sicker, and it was an inward-facing disgust. He couldn’t help it, though. Part of him still loved her, still wanted her (the old her, his mind emphasized), and that part was writhing in pain over visions of her infidelities. If he could interrupt them just by pushing a few buttons on this tiny, toylike device in his hand, why not?

  He tried the home number again.

  11

  Text of letter sent by Barry M. Sturtz via registered mail on August 3:

  Alan Gray, Head Coach and Director

  of Football Operations

  Chet Palmer, Vice President and General Manager

  c/o The New York Football Giants

  Giants Stadium

  East Rutherford, New Jersey 07073

  Gentlemen:

  This letter concerns the matter we discussed as a group on July 14, which was then briefly revisited by Chet Palmer and myself one week later over the phone—that of the desired contract renegotiation between my client, Thomas James Brookman, and your organization. To restate the matter, it is the belief of my client and myself that the former is fully within his rights and within reason to request the aforementioned renegotiation, as he has, statistically and provably, performed at a level above and beyond that of his peers since his entry into the league. Over the course of the last season, in fact, he has carried out his duties in a fashion that could readily be termed “best” at his position. And yet, he is earning a salary commensurate with players at the lowest-performing levels. When I requested that his salary be increased to that of his contemporaries playing on the same level—not that his salary be higher, but only representative of an average of the other three top players at his position—I was firmly rebuffed, and in fact threatened to have my client “benched” for the course of the upcoming season. When I suggested several other options, all were met with a similar response.

  Therefore, after careful consideration, I regretfully submit this as notice to the following: 1) that my client will continue to remain at home rather than in training camp until this matter can be resolved fairly and amicably, and 2) that this be considered a formal grievance filed by myself on behalf of my client.

  I would like to state again that I hope we can settle this matter in a fashion that is fair to both parties, and move forward. It is requested that the parties to whom this letter is directed kindly furnish a response, in accordance with the Collective Bargaining Agreement (Article IX, Section 3) within seven days of receipt.

  Thank you.

  Sincerely,

  Barry M. Sturtz, Owner and President Performers LLC

  CC: NFLPA, NFL Management Council

  Greg Bolton knew he needed to improve his diet. He’d been making that promise to himself for … what, two years now? His physician—the same guy he’d been seeing for the last six years after finding him randomly in the United HealthCare search engine just one week after he and his family moved to Michigan—told him repeatedly that he needed to mend his high-cholesterol ways or earn honorary membership in what he called “Club Cardiac.” “You’re thirty-nine now, Greg, not seventeen,” the bastard said sternly, sounding like a grandmother. “Your body doesn’t bounce back the way it used to.”

  Sitting in the darkened corner of a Chili’s restaurant in North Carolina’s Raleigh-Durham International Airport with an almost-finished cheeseburger on the plate next to his laptop, Bolton thought about this and shook his head. What the doc doesn’t realize is that I’m going to kill myself from overwork anyway, so I’m going to eat whatever I want in the meantime.

  The pace had indeed been murderous these last few weeks. ESPN had him back in the hot seat of the third-straight “Greg Bolton’s Training Camp-Palooza.” The first one had been a monster hit two years ago, featuring a not-so-subtle mix of humor, behind-the-scenes investigation, and solid reportage. Bolton discovered, to his astonis
hment, that he actually had some on-screen charisma. He didn’t see what the big deal was, but if the fans enjoyed it, that was good enough for him—and certainly good enough for the network. The gods rewarded his newfound fame with a salary bump and a new title, which was great. Of course, it also meant longer hours, more work, and more stress and strain. In turn, that meant less time at home with his wife and five-year-old son, Chase, whom he adored and couldn’t wait to see in a few hours. Still, this was what he’d always dreamed about since he came out of Kent State with his journalism degree. John Clayton (whom he secretly thought of as one of the most encyclopedic minds the sportswriting world had ever seen) had his own thing, and draft guru Mel Kiper Jr. had his. Now he had one, too.

  He finished off the burger, and when the waitress came to clear the table, he ordered some ice cream (disregarding the tiny barbs of guilt over not making it frozen yogurt or sherbet instead; screw that). An easy evening glow had settled along the horizon, somehow making the concrete of the tarmac and the steel of the airplanes postcard-pretty. He appreciated the view for a moment, but it was more to take his eyes away from the screen than anything else. When he wasn’t in front of the camera, it seemed, he was staring into the damn thing. He didn’t wear glasses yet, but he knew they, too, were in his future. Most of the ESPN folks pulled double duty as writers, and he had a syndicated column in more than a hundred papers around the country, plus a handful overseas.

  The piece he was working on right now was an update on the Panthers’ camp. Coach Martello had been helpful but reserved. Once again, Martello and his staff had pulled off a very quiet but very excellent draft, and once again they managed to get all their new guys signed and on the field in plenty of time. Jerry Richardson ran a tight ship over there, and Bolton was, like countless others around the league, very impressed with the organization. Martello was a formidable coach, and the Panthers always produced a competitive team. Solid—that was the word he always thought of, although he had already applied it to them so many times in his writing that he had to find other ways to get this point across. This afternoon he’d shot about two hours’ worth of film from their camp in Spartanburg. Maybe three minutes would end up on television. And nothing of great note occurred, so there wasn’t much to write about. During one-on-one drills, a rookie receiver got into a shoving match with a veteran safety, and it descended into an all-out brawl. Bolton was standing no more than twenty feet away. It wasn’t the first such altercation he’d ever seen, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But he didn’t mention it in the article. Neither player ended up getting injured or tossed off the team, so there really wasn’t anything to say. What he found personally interesting about these incidents, however, was the way the coaches seemed to like them. It showed fire in the souls of the participants, a certain competitive spirit that was essential to success in the NFL. He even knew of several fights that had been purposely precipitated by the coaches, who instructed a veteran player to push a younger guy around to see what kind of guts he really had. Bolton didn’t think that was the case here, though. Just two idiots losing their temper in the heat.