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Marcus didn’t notice the sky and had no time for flowers. As he strapped on his shoulder pads, spread black grease under his eyes to cut down glare and cleaned the grass and dirt from his cleats, all Marcus could concentrate on was the banter and good-natured trash talk from his teammates in the locker room. “Just hand me the ball, I’ll make even you look good!” “Sheeet, Jonesy, you couldn’t find the end zone with a guide dog, a GPS and a sherpa!” a quarterback playfully responded. And so it went. The ease and confidence of players who were signed, guaranteed paychecks regardless of performance, injury or an act of God. Next week the roster would be cut to sixty, and the practice squad was almost full. It was obvious who had a contract, and everyone else walked a thin line between intensity and angst. It hadn’t always been like this, Marcus barely remembered. Wasn’t it only seven months ago he was an All-SEC defensive back, a captain for the thirteenth-ranked Georgia Bulldogs? Marcus was a man to be seen with, signing autographs, making appearances on local TV and radio, eating comped meals at Athens’ best steak houses, but most of all dreaming of playing in the NFL. Of course there were other options, after all his mother had raised two sons and a niece working in housekeeping, and not one of Shreveport’s finer hotels at that. Marcus had a business degree from the University of Georgia and made a few half-hearted attempts to get a white-collar job during his senior year, but when the Browns drafted him in the sixth round there was no doubt what he wanted to do. Dreams were quickly diluted by reality; Marcus would stun the coaches at mini-camp and earn a starting spot and a huge, multi-year contract. Or he’d impress the coaches and sit on the bench for a year learning the pro game. Or he’d be signed to the practice squad and make a nice living till the Big Break came. But in reality, Marcus was one missed tackle or blown coverage from unemployment, and everyone knew it. “HEY!” Someone slapped Marcus on the back of the head hard enough to make his ears ring. “C’mon, rook, you want Coach to see yo ass comin out last…again?” Jonesy was right, this game was a lot faster than college, not just between whistles but in the weight room and on the practice field. Even watching tape seemed to go quicker. It had been so easy and natural at UGA, not just football but day-to-day life was taken care of for him; tutors submitted his exams without Marcus ever reading them, NFL scouts loaned him Ford Expeditions, alumni picked up checks for travel and entertainment. Lovers came and went, colliding with his life as powerfully as a jet’s sonic boom and slowly dissipating like it’s vapor trail. Marcus had just married his high school sweetheart, Vanessa Atwater, a cheerleader at Alabama for four years, and they were expecting a daughter in November. Not gonna be last, not gonna be last Marcus thought as he jogged through the tunnel and onto the field for the first intra-squad scrimmage of the camp. After practice, Marcus showered and walked a quarter mile to where he had seemingly abandoned his car in the press section of the Berea training camp facility. Rookies reported to camp before anyone else, and his first day Marcus was almost a full hour early to initiation, more from butterflies and excitement than anything else. He had spent the night before fading in and out of sleep, conscious daydreams wrapping around what lay not so far underneath, though he’d swear he was awake all night. He’d made the mistake of parking his five year old Nissan Altima in the player’s section; after practice, a canary-yellow Ferrari Mondial flanked Marcus’ car on the left and a white Bentley God-Only-Knows-What to his right. And these were rookies! As Marcus shuffled toward his bright red Nissan with wire rims and a rear spoiler (and monogrammed plates with Georgia tags that ironically read TOPDAWG. Dawgs being a dubious distinction in Cleveland, albeit one worn with pride, earned through slogging away season after season of being viewed as a hapless underdog, no pretty-boy superstars with million dollar endorsements. Maybe sneaking into the playoffs once in a while because Cincinnati lost or Tennessee won, never knowing the feeling of representing your conference in the Super Bowl, cheering or booing the longest and loudest from the worst seats, behind the end zone and known as the Dawg Pound), he self-consciously glanced around as the remote lock chirped. “’Sup, Jackson?” Jesus Christ, the projected starting running back snuck up behind him in a virtually empty lot. Way to pay attention, Marcus chastised himself. “Shit, boy, why don’cha just park this fly-ass ride at the stadium in Cleveland? No wonder you got nuthin’ left at practice, walkin’ yo ass from the press lot every day! Took me two minutes to catch up!” Stephan Handley is a six year veteran, an unrestricted free agent that Cleveland re-signed to a three year deal worth well into eight figures, and here he was, following Marcus on his Walk of Shame to the Booty Bus, or so it was known in college. “How you feel, Jackson?” “Good, Stephan, I’m feelin’ good, man.” Marcus’ ribs were bruised, his ears were ringing from a helmet-to-helmet collision on his third series (or was it from the hit he put on number 82, an old veteran bench-warmer picked up from Baltimore on waivers?), every muscle was sore and the ACL he tore at Georgia never hurt so bad. “Then you aint tryin’ hard enough, boy.” Handley put his arm around Marcus and walked him away from the Nissan, further from the training facility. “Listen, man, guys like you get one shot at this. I seen you play some at Georgia, you got heart, but this shit’s fo real. Real money, real celebrity, real security. Who’s your agent, man?” Marcus stared at the warm, black asphalt with white lines and the word “PRESS” painted on each space. Handley reached into a pocket of his dark brown, Italian leather jacket and handed Marcus a worn business card. “You make the last cut, call my boy. This cat just got me a Coke deal, you’ll see my spot when the season starts. Until then, get here earlier, stay later and quit fuckin’ around.” Handley bumped fists hard enough to make the Rolex Presidential rattle slightly on his wrist and turned to go. “My man, Jackson. Now I gotta walk back to Berea.” Marcus sat in his Nissan without putting the keys in the ignition for a full fifteen minutes, turning the card over in his hands, memorizing every crease, dog-ear, printed word and scribbled note:
Jonathan P.
Summers, JD On the back was a handwritten note: “13.8/3; ’08- 750 for 1K, 750 for 12, 500 for 16. NON-NEGOTIABLE!!!” Someone, presumably Summers, responded in red Sharpie, “Done.” Almost fourteen million dollars guaranteed for three years, and two million more this season if Handley ran for a thousand yards, scored twelve touchdowns and stayed healthy. The drive to Marcus’s unassuming, rented two-bedroom ranch house in Shaker Heights, beautiful wife and unborn daughter was filled with daydreams of that kind of deal. He pulled into the driveway with little recollection of the twenty minute commute on I-71. Marcus started to open the front door, but Vanessa had been waiting for him. She threw open the door and embraced him with a ferocity rivaling some linemen, knocking his rock-hard, six-foot-two, two hundred and ten pound frame back an inch and kissing him on the mouth decidedly unlike a lineman. “Great news, baby, you got an offer!” Marcus’ heart began to pound and he had to grab the thin, white iron railing with chipped paint and tiny rust spots to steady himself. “Already?” Marcus was dumbfounded. Was this really happening? Or was his fantasy so encompassing it had eclipsed reality and he’d wake up at the traffic light around the corner at Medford and Eighth, still making two grand a week as a human tackling dummy till the next cut came and he was tossed aside like a child’s old doll on Christmas morning… “What do you mean, ‘already’? You applied to Hartman and Morris before you even graduated,” Vanessa replied as she handed Marcus a sheet of thick, yellow paper with “Hartman and Morris Consulting” letterhead. Marcus felt his heart sink to his toes as the fragile dream vanished like a wisp of fog. He dutifully began to read the words on the page without remembering what any of them were: “’Mr. Jackson: The managing partners are pleased to offer you a position at the Hartman and Morris business consulting firm. As per your request, your salary will be set at $65,700 per annum, payable on the first and third Friday of each month, and you will report to…’” Marcus’s voice drifted off. “What’s the matter, Consultant Jackson?” Vanessa ran her long fingers through Marcus’s close-cropped hair, sliding down his neck and gently massaging his thick, dark shoulders. She looked stunning as the red highlights from her black, braided hair caught the last evening rays of sunlight and spilled onto a faded New Orleans Saints sweatshirt (Vanessa would only wear Georgia’s SEC rivals Alabama or LSU when she was pissed at him). She had a cheerleader’s smile and energy, but her dark eyes conveyed as much intellect as empathy, perceptive almost to the point of knowing your most intimate thoughts yet caring enough to hang on your every word. “Nuthin’, angel, that’s great, I was just hopin’, you know, I was hoping I could play a couple years first. I mean, business will always be there, but I’m young and healthy- “ “You’re not healthy, Marcus. How does your knee feel?” “It’s better, Coach Ellison, you know, the strength and conditioning coach, he’s really helped me out. It feels a lot better.” Vanessa took his head in both hands and stared deep into his eyes. “I saw you take a shot yesterday,” she said simply and evenly. Marcus felt an ice pick in his chest for the second time in as many minutes. The harder he tried to hide the pain, the more deceptive he became and the more he rationalized simply blocking it out. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, right? Trouble was she did know, and she was probably the only one who truly cared, actually saw him as more than a commodity. Coach Ellison was adamant, cortisone injections only worked so many times and this wasn’t even pre-season yet. The message was clear, if you’re still around at mid-season lick your wounds then, otherwise you’re not tough enough anyway. Just before he left for Cleveland, Marcus had his family doctor in Louisiana, where they grew up, fill a modest prescription of 500cc under the name Vanessa Atwater-Jackson. It was almost gone already. Marcus dropped his eyes and took Vanessa’s hands. “Let’s go inside,” was all he could think to say. Later that night, after Vanessa had cooked chicken Parmesan, cleaned the kitchen and gotten ready for bed, she cuddled next to Marcus in the narrow hallway, adorned with pictures of family (glowing cheerleaders in short skirts with colorful pom-poms, serious-looking young men protected by plastic armor, or blood relatives wearing pearls and ties and perpetually beaming at their kin’s success), that connected the living room and bedroom. “The smell of Ben-Gay gets me sooo hot!,” she cooed seductively in his ear. Vanessa didn’t bring up the painkillers or consulting job again. She was always supportive of Marcus’ career, though she knew nothing of the game, bless her perky little heart. Vanessa earned a 3.6 GPA at Alabama (unlike Marcus who got a 3.2 from Georgia) and a degree in social service. After college, she had plenty of offers in Birmingham and Shreveport but eschewed them all to move to Ohio when Marcus was drafted. Marcus brushed his teeth, took two percoset and an Ambien, put on a clean pair of Browns training camp sweats and laid down next to Vanessa. Secondary Coach Stinson had called a defensive backs meeting before the team meeting at nine, as he had done the two previous Wednesdays, and Marcus hoped three glasses of wine and the sleeping pill would allow him to settle down long enough to get some much needed rest. Tomorrow would be a long day, with an early meeting and the second scrimmage with pads. “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” was the last thing he heard before drifting off into a deep, drug-induced sleep. “…took a look around, see which way the wind blow.” Jim Morrison’s voice, via Kid Leo’s morning show on WMMS, shattered the serenity of Marcus and Vanessa’s bedroom. “Did a little girl in a Hollywood bungalow.” Marcus reached over and slapped the snooze button. Six thirty-one was considerably earlier than most team members would be up today, however he had three reasons for waking now. The early meeting meant defensive backs would be there first, unless another masochistic position coach had his players up before the bankers. Marcus could also be more than a little superstitious, not unlike many athletes, and since junior high he thought it lucky to start his day to the minute of his jersey number. He wore number thirty-one in Cleveland, so that afforded him sixty seconds more sleep than his number thirty at Georgia allowed. The first-round picks usually had the privilege of selecting a number within the parameters of the position they played (being thirty-nine would be such a perk right now!), however Marcus was nowhere near that echelon. But the predominant reason was that mornings were especially tough on his knee. The ACL throbbed until his blood began circulating at the usual rate, and anytime his left knee was still for a few minutes it began to stiffen up. After almost seven hours of virtually motionless sleep, thanks in no small part to Ambien and California pinot noir, putting any weight on his knee was excruciating for the first hour. What should take twenty minutes took more like forty-five. As the French roast finished brewing, Kid Leo suddenly bellowed, “…Doors with ‘LA Woman’, and Dylan wrapped up the Women of Wednesday Morning block with the Rainy Day variety, Numbers Twelve and Thirty-four on the home of the Buzzard, and some damn good advice if you ask me!” Marcus could run a forty yard dash in under four and a half seconds on a good day, but he couldn’t beat Vanessa to the alarm on his best. And right now he could barely walk. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, I forgot I hit the snooze…” “Sokayhoney, go back tsleep.” She looked so goddamn beautiful right now. Twenty-three weeks with another human being living inside her and she hadn’t missed a step. Of course she spent more time at the gym, no sense looking for a job when her life will be turned upside-down in three months, and she really didn’t know anyone in Ohio yet. She’d always stayed in shape and even the gentle curve of her belly, seemingly becoming more rounded by the day, somehow didn’t look at all out of place. Vanessa had forgotten to take the small diamond stud from her nose before she went to sleep and her half-tied braids cascading across the pillow made her look like an urban Rastafarian princess. Marcus poured the coffee in a thermos, grabbed his keys, wallet and phone, kissed Vanessa on the forehead and gingerly left for practice. The sixty-thousand square foot Casey Coleman Field House is located within the thirteen acre Cleveland Browns Training and Administration Complex in Berea, Ohio, just off-campus of Baldwin-Wallace College. In addition to a full locker room, sauna and state-of-the-art weight room, it boasts three full-sized grass fields and one seventy-yard field used for position drills. The back-up players and practice squad were assembled, along with most of the coaches and a few probable starters, on the full northwest field for the second light-contact scrimmage of camp. Marcus smelled the freshly-cut Kentucky bluegrass-perennial rye turf, heard the intermittent blasts from the coaches’ whistles followed by shouts of admonishment or praise (he couldn’t really tell the difference without understanding the coaches’ words) and felt the same tension from the locker room yesterday morning. Careers were on the line today. At the two minute warning of the first half of Wednesday’s scrimmage, Head Coach Reynolds yelled, “Thirty-one, get in there, thirty-six out!” Marcus felt a rush of adrenaline as he strapped on his helmet and ran onto the field, slapping hands with Billy Hutchinson, 36, a veteran and virtual lock on the number three strong safety spot. How exhilarating to be in the huddle, even if he was playing his own team. “Okay, watch the corners, they’re gonna wanna stop the clock, so let’s keep it in-bounds and on the ground. They got two time-outs, let’s make ‘em use both right here on offense.” Matt Ratcher was the starting inside linebacker last season, and would almost surely start again this year. “Thirty-eight, thirty-one and Travoli, keep your man covered, let’s force the run. D on three!” All eleven players put their hands together in the middle of the huddle. “One, two, three…” “D!” everyone yelled in unison as the white team broke the huddle and strode to the line. Marcus took his position across from number 86, a backup wide receiver last season, Artemis Evans. He listened intently to the snap count. “Red Bull, cross, Double X Omaha pull 22, Red Bull, Omaha 22, set…HUT!” Marcus hadn’t studied the playbook all that much, didn’t think it was his job as a defensive player, but he knew Red Bull was a pass play and a crossing rotation had an excellent chance of ending up in his coverage. He’d taken two steps back from the line of scrimmage as soon as he heard Red Bull, and now he bumped shoulder pads with 86, hard enough to knock Evans off his route a half step and give himself momentum to spin around and pick up coverage downfield. Evans still had a step on him (how the hell are these guys so quick off the line?), but Marcus was fast and had a long, powerful stride. He sprinted as hard as he could, covering the veteran and watching 86’s eyes for a clue where the ball was. As it happened, the late afternoon sun cast a long pall across the field; Marcus could see the ball’s shadow on the dark green turf as it sailed toward Evans, and also toward him. Make your move at the ball’s highest point, his mind heard Coach Papano from Washington Carver High screaming. At the last possible second, Marcus turned toward the ball and leapt high over 86, using every centimeter of his six feet and two inches, put both hands in the air and intercepted an under thrown pass from the number four quarterback. He landed awkwardly, losing his balance and hitting the turf hard with his hip, but held onto the ball. Instead of trying to get up and run it back, Marcus wisely stayed on the ground and waited a half second for a tap from the brown team (that would not be a tap in a real game, Marcus was well aware) and the referee’s whistle. Someone from the white team grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. Marcus flipped the ball to the nearest official, the Head Linesman, and jogged to the sideline. Coach Stinson slapped the top of his helmet. “Nice play, kid, keep your eyes downfield and watch your man. Good heads-up stayin’ on the turf, most rookies wanna be a hero. Goddamn, that was a horrible throw!” he concluded, shaking his head. “Rook’s got some hands up in here!” Hutchinson was laughing and clapping as he approached Marcus. “Man, I better watch my back with this kid around or I’m gonna end up deliverin’ yo pizzas!” Marcus slapped hands again, but this time without any excitement or anticipation. Everyone knew Hutchinson cheated, and now that it was coming down to the final roster positions and Marcus had been working harder and looking better every practice, he felt more and more resentful that he could lose a job because of it. The rest of the scrimmage went by quickly, though Marcus was used sparingly and that was his only chance to make a play. Practice was over by four o’clock, and he was on his way home at four-thirty. Marcus told Vanessa about the interception, omitting that the throw was abysmal and delivered by a player who almost surely wouldn’t be around next week. He could tell Vanessa had something else on her mind, and was pretty sure he knew what it was. “I’ve gotta decide about Hartman and Morley.” “Hartman and Morris.” “Whatever. Can’t it wait till Monday?” Vanessa’s expression answered more articulately than words could ever hope to. How could he stall four more days? True, even if he made Monday’s cut there was still one more after pre-season started, but Marcus knew a lot of players would be signed Monday. And more wouldn’t be. And still more would be left off the roster altogether. Though he didn’t want to do it, he could accept a job at the firm, hedging his bet against getting cut. If he made the team, sorry guys, you understand. But Marcus knew there was a lot more to it than that. He knew it was killing Vanessa to see him in pain, but even worse was her concern over how he dealt with it. Making the team would surely put more stress on their relationship, to say nothing of Marcus’ knee, but that was all that would make him happy right now. Maybe in three months when their daughter was born none of this would matter, but for now one hundred percent of his attention must be on football. To build a solvent future for his family. “Okay, I’ll fax Morley a real nice acceptance letter first thing tomorrow.” Vanessa sighed deeply and smiled, looking as if a Volvo had been lifted from her back. Most payers listened to rap and hip-hop during drills, but Marcus preferred the old rock standards. Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Aerosmith, that’s what got him fired up. As his turn approached on the tackling dummy, Marcus pulled his helmet over an expensive pair of Skull Candy earbuds and switched on his tiny iPod Shuffle. Changes fill my time, baby that’s alright with me Though the course may change sometime, rivers always reach the sea There were twenty players each in three lines in front of the tackling dummies who ran through a course of twenty tires laid flat on the ground, hit the dummy as hard as they could and took their place at the end of the line. When the player in front of him was through the tires, Marcus took off, churning his knees high, setting each foot dead center in the middle of the tire and springing off immediately with the grace of a dancer. After he’d cleared the last tire without so much as a nick, he ran full speed ten yards toward the dummy. His eyes burned and were the epitome of intensity, his every motion fluid, wasting not an iota of energy. He put his shoulder pads down and slammed the dummy with so much force and violence he knocked it back with a metallic cha-chink that mixed well with his vicious grunt. Vixen in my dreams, what a great surprise to me! Never thought I’d see your face the way it used to be Marcus allowed himself a peripheral glance at Coach Stinson; his graying head popped up and down, nodding approvingly and furiously scribbling on his ever-present clipboard. The position coach had been a linebacker in the league for seven years, and looked every bit the part at 260 pounds, telephone poles protruding from the holes in his shorts where legs should have been, a defiant, black and silver, three-day growth of beard. At the age of 45, Arty Stinson could still bench-press over four hundred pounds and run a post that would burn more than a few starting safeties. Marcus thought briefly that Coach Stinson could surely burn Billy Hutchinson if not for the pharmaceutical help Hutch received from a personal trainer at the Meadowlands in Jersey. It was Thursday, four days before the next cut, and Marcus knew he needed every opportunity to make an impression on the entire coaching staff. Marcus drove to work Friday morning in a solemn mood. The second-to-last cut was in three days, then the first pre-season game against the reviled Denver Broncos the subsequent Sunday. He thought he had a pretty good idea what the depth chart looked like at this point, and a strong notion that he was not on it. The mood at camp mirrored his own. Everyone, even solid veterans, seemed distracted as they filed in for the nine o’clock meeting. Scottie Robinson, the starting center last season, was telling a fellow offensive lineman about spending an obscene amount of cash at Centerfolds, the player’s favorite strip club in the Flats. Marcus felt more comfortable around his teammates, so he tried a little levity to break the gloom. “Damn, Robinson, yo house is so poor yo back door and front door are on the same hinge!” Robinson smiled politely (or as politely as a three hundred and forty pound lineman can) and turned to go into the meeting room. “Sup, Jackson.” “Hey, Stephan, was’sup today?” Handley nodded toward a bank of lockers with no one around. “The league just popped Hutchinson with his second BS. He’s out six regular season games. Can’t practice, neither.” Marcus’ jaw dropped. Billy Hutchinson, number 36, was almost guaranteed to be signed to the position Marcus played. It was common knowledge amongst the defensive backs that Hutchinson used Winstrol, an anabolic steroid and definitely a Banned Substance, in the off-season, but he’d sworn he was off it. Apparently not. “Yeah, looks like you got a job, rook, but I wouldn’t act too happy about it. Some of these boys been playin’ with Hutch fo a minute.” Marcus was speechless; Handley gave him a long, hard look and nodded his head. Finally he embraced Marcus. “My man,” was all he said while thumping Marcus on the back, “see ya inside.” Marcus stood there by himself for a few seconds (it could well have been five minutes) reading the names on the lockers in front of him. “S. Lowell.” Gone. “T. Murphy.” Gone. “P. Snyderman.” Never heard of him. Coach Reynolds broke his reverie. “Mornin’, Jackson.” Marcus was too stunned to answer. “The brass wants to see you upstairs at admin ASAP. You’re gonna be on the roster as third option at DB, maybe some special teams. You’ll suit up for games, but work out mostly with the practice squad.” Reynolds paused a beat to ensure the news had the desired effect. It had. Marcus was numb and allowed his hand to be shaken. “Congratulations, kid, welcome to the Show.” Dave Dutka, ddutka4@hotmail.com copyright 2009
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