The Case Against William (7 page)

Sam
exhaled cigar smoke that lingered in the air.

"Frank,
if William was a music prodigy—a pianist—would you nurture that gift?"

"Sure."

"Well,
he's a football prodigy."

"How
many pianists suffer concussions and long-term brain damage?"

"How
many make ten million a year? Frank, your boy's got a gift. I've been scouting
kids for thirty years now, I've never seen a fourteen-year-old boy like
him."

"You
scout fourteen-year-old boys?"

"No.
I scout twelve-year-old boys. Problem is, they're just hitting puberty, and
half of the good ones come out of puberty no bigger than they went in.
Normally I'd tell you to hold him back in school a year, maybe two, give him a
chance to grow before varsity ball. But that's not an issue with William.
He's already big—what is he, six foot?"

"Six-one."

"What's
his shoe size?"

"Thirteen."

Sam
whistled. "Size thirteen at age fourteen. He'll go to size sixteen,
maybe seventeen. I figure he'll top out at six-four, maybe six-five. How big
are his hands?"

"Bigger
than mine."

"What
does he weigh?"

"One-sixty."

"In
eighth grade. He'll go two-twenty, and he won't need steroids to do it. Which
is always a concern. You look at sixteen-, seventeen-, eighteen-year-old
bulked-up boys, and you always wonder if they're using."

"High
school boys are using steroids?"

Sam
chuckled. "You're spending too much time in the courtroom, Frank. Hell,
yes, high school boys are juiced. They get through puberty and realize they're
not going to be big enough, decide to give their bodies a boost. Anything to
live the dream. So I always check their hands and feet."

"Why?"

"I
see a pumped-up boy weighing two-twenty but wearing size ten cleats, I know
that doesn't add up. Too big for his feet. Same with their hands. Boys grow
into their hands and feet, not vice-versa."

"You've
got scouting down to a science."

"Size
and strength is science, but heart and guts isn't. A boy's got to have the
guts to compete and the heart to win. You can't coach that."

On
the field, William ran left, juked two defenders, broke four tackles, and
sprinted down the sideline for a touchdown. Sam regarded Frank's son with
awe. He pointed the cigar at the field.

"You can't coach that either, Frank. A boy's either got it or
he doesn't. Your boy's got it."

Sam
sucked on the cigar and again exhaled smoke.

"When
I got started in the scouting business, my mentor was an old-timer who scouted
Namath in high school. Said watching him play was like having an orgasm. I
never understood what he meant. Until now."

"An
orgasm? You're scaring me, Sam."

Sam
smiled then spit a bit of cigar.

"Gives
me chills, watching your boy play." Sam ran his fingers over his forearm
then held his arm out to Frank. "Here, feel the goose bumps."

"I'll
pass."

"Last
time I got even half this excited watching an eighth-grader was Troy Aikman up
in Oklahoma. That boy could play. I ranked him number one coming out of high
school. He did okay in football: went number one in the NFL draft, won three
Super Bowls with the Cowboys, made the Hall of Fame, earned millions. But he
wasn't as good as William at fourteen. Frank, if you don't nurture his gift,
give him a chance to live his dream, he'll hate you."

"He'll
hate me?"

Frank
smiled. He assumed Sam was joking. He wasn't.

"He
will."

Frank
couldn't imagine his son hating him.

"So
what's your advice, Sam?"

"First,
he's in a small private school. He's got no team around him to work
with." Sam gestured at the field. "He can't develop with a bunch of
losers."

"Losers?
They're nice boys."

"They're
lousy athletes. He's got no offensive line, no receivers who can catch. He
only throws the ball ten times a game. He can't develop his quarterbacking
skills playing an old-style offense that runs the ball. The forward pass is
the game today, Frank. The pro game is all about passing, which means the
college game is all about passing, which means the high school game is all
about passing. That's why freshmen can start and excel in college, why they
can go pro and start in the NFL. They've been running pro offenses since
middle school. You need to put William in a big public school that runs a
pro-style offense, throws fifty times a game, and has players around him,
preferably black players with speed and skills. And an indoor practice
field."

"An
indoor practice field?"

"It
rains in Houston, Frank. Rain days are lost practice days. So all the big
public schools in Texas build indoor practice fields."

"I
thought our public school system was broke?"

"There's
always money for football. When they played the Super Bowl in Dallas, the
teams practiced in indoor arenas at high schools."

"But
he loves his school."

"Frank,
families move across the country so their sons can play at the best public high
schools running the best pro offenses."

"You're
kidding?"

"Do
I look like I'm kidding?"

He
did not.

"He's
got to get on track now—if you want him to play in the NFL."

"I
don't care."

"He
cares."

"He's
fourteen. Every fourteen-year-old boy dreams of being a star pro football
player."

"Difference
is, Frank, his dream can come true. He can be a star. He's got it. The size,
the strength, the speed. Bigger stronger faster."

He
said the three words as if they were one.

"I
read about you, Frank, that profile in the
New York Times
after you won
the senator's case—"

Frank
Tucker had become famous. The senator's acquittal had propelled him to the top
of the heap of criminal defense lawyers in America. He could have specialized
in defending members of Congress accused of ethics and criminal violations, but
he didn't want to spend so much time in Washington away from his family. And
there were plenty of white-collar defendants in Texas. Why travel?

"—how
you've never lost a trial. Why do you win all your cases?"

"Because
justice is on my side."

Sam
snorted. "Yeah, right. You win because you're smarter. In a court of
law, smarter beats dumber every time, right? That's the law of man. On a
football field, bigger stronger faster beats smaller weaker slower every time.
That's the law of nature."

Frank
gazed out at his son's smaller, weaker, and slower team losing to a bigger,
stronger, and faster team.

"Second,
he needs to spend his summers in quarterback school."

"What's
that?"

"Summer camps run by former pro quarterbacks and coaches.
They work with the top prospects in the nation. Throwing motion, footwork,
leadership skills, passing drills, reading defenses, recognizing coverage,
calling audibles … They teach the boys how to play the position. He does
that for a couple of summers, then goes to an Elite Eleven camp."

"What's
that?"

"Quarterback
camp for the best of the best. They hold them all over the country, invite
fifty or sixty boys to each camp. Maybe one boy from each camp moves on to the
five-day Elite Eleven finals up at Nike's headquarters. They call it 'The
Opening.' "

"How
much does all that cost?"

"Thousands.
Tens of thousands."

"That's
a lot of money."

"They
end up signing for millions."

"What
else?"

"You
need to put him on a training program with a personal trainer. Chisel his
body. Quarterbacks today, they're ripped. You ever see players at the combine
meat market, standing up on stage in their skivvies so the owners and coaches
can take a look?"

"Uh,
no. I haven't. And I don't want to."

Sam
chuckled. "It is a bit strange, white team owners and coaches eyeballing
these big black studs same way white plantation owners used to eyeball black
slaves being sold on the docks in Galveston—I saw a show on cable about that,
struck me—but difference is, these black players are going to make millions not
pick cotton. Anyway, I can give you some names of trainers here in Houston.
And a speed trainer, like Michael Johnson up in Dallas. Olympic gold medal
guy, he trains NFL prospects and players to get that extra step for the
combine. From four-five in the forty to four-four. One step faster can be the
difference between playing in the NFL or working at Wal-Mart."

"How
much will that cost?"

"Nothing
a famous lawyer can't afford."

"What
else?"

"A
nutritionist. Boys eat fast food, they build fat instead of muscle. He needs
to be on a strict diet."

"At
fourteen?"

"He
should've been on it at twelve."

"Public
school, quarterback school, personal trainer—"

"And
seven-on-seven tournaments."

"Which
are?"

"Passing
tournaments. A QB plus six receivers against seven D-backs. They run them all
summer."

"What
about family vacations?"

"You
vacation at the tournament locations." Sam inhaled on the cigar and
exhaled. "Look, Frank, if you want William in the NFL, that journey
starts now. His family's got to get on board, dedicate their lives to that one
goal."

"Why?"

"Because
every other William Tucker out there, his family is. That's what it takes
today."

"Are
there any other William Tuckers out there?"

"No.
But their parents think they are."

"Why
do they do it?"

"Fame
and fortune. There are thirty-two NFL teams. Thirty-two starting
quarterbacks. Average salary is five million. By the time William is drafted
number one, he'll get twenty million. A year. Guaranteed."

"But
he needs to get a good education, maybe at an Ivy League school, then—"

Sam
laughed. "
Ivy League?
Shit, Frank, most high school teams in
Texas can beat the hell out of Harvard's football team. Forget the Ivy League,
Frank. William's got to go to a big D-One school."

"—medical
or law school."

"And
be a lawyer like his daddy?"

"Maybe."

"When
do you figure on retiring, Frank? Sixty-five?"

"Depends
on how much my wife can spend between now and then."

"NFL
quarterbacks retire at thirty-five. You watch the Olympics?"

Frank
nodded.

"You
see those little gymnasts? They're sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, been living
in dorms since they were ten, so they can be near their coaches, train every
day for their one shot at glory. One shot at fame and fortune. One shot at a
life. Sports today, it's younger than ever. You've got ten years max to make
it. You're in the game at twenty-two, out at thirty-two. If you're lucky and
don't get a career-ending injury. But if you play it right, you're sitting on
a pile of money. You're set for life."

"So
it's about money?"

"It's
about William doing what he was born to do. Play football."

Frank
watched his son play football. Was that what William Tucker was born to do?

"You
ever been wrong, Sam? About a boy?"

"Sure.
There was a boy named Montana. Skinny, slow, couldn't throw a football fifty
yards. You wouldn't pick him for your high school team. But he had ice water
running through his veins. He won a national championship at Notre Dame and
four Super Bowls."

"I
mean, on the downside. A boy you knew would make it, but didn't."

Sam
nodded. "Many times. You can never be sure what's inside a boy. The
heart and guts thing. Whether they'll thrive on pressure or fall apart. And
there's always the injury factor. One injury and a promising career can be
over."

"What
if you're wrong about William? You want him to give up a great education at
the Academy and the Ivy League for football? What if he doesn't make it?"

"Plan
B."

"Which
is?"

"His
rich daddy. He can go back to college, maybe law school. No worries for
William. It's the black kids, the ones without a Plan B, they're the ones I
lose sleep over. Football's their only way out of the 'hood, it's all or
nothing. A lot of them end up with nothing." Sam stared at the field.
"But I'm not wrong about William."

"So
I'm supposed to make a major life decision for my son based upon your
appraisal?"

Sam
held his hands up as if in surrender.

"Hey,
you're his dad. I'm just a scout."

Sam
chuckled then took a long drag on the cigar and blew out smoke.

"Frank,
when you were a kid, did you dream of being a pro athlete? You sure as hell
didn't dream of being a lawyer."

Frank
nodded. "Golfer."

"Did
you love the game?"

"I did."

"Were
you any good?"

"Not
good enough."

"What
if you had been? And not just good, but great. How would that have felt?
Would you have chased your dream? Would you have been mad if your dad had
denied you that chance?"

Sam
Jenkins answered his own question.

"You
would've hated him. And William will hate you."

Sam
waved the cigar at the teams on the field.

"That's
his dream, right out there. You gonna take that dream away from your son,
Frank?"

A
good father wouldn't take his son's dream away, would he?

William's
team was losing. Again. He had scored five touchdowns, but the other team had
scored nine. His team ran off the field. The linemen bowled over Ray and
knocked him to the ground. All the water bottles he carried in his little
carry rack went flying. Ray was now the team manager, aka, the water boy.
William stopped and helped his friend up. He then picked up the plastic
Gatorade bottles and replaced them in Ray's carry rack. It looked like an
old-time milkman's carry rack, except Ray carried bottles of Gatorade not milk.