26

They were dropping like flies.

Two more cuts immediately after the Cleveland loss, and another four earlier this morning. Mondays were the worst, everyone came to realize. The coaches had a chance to review the game film, make their notes, and cast their judgments. Then they’d get together for final discussions with Gray, and the axe would start to fall. One seemingly offhand comment by a position coach could decide someone’s future. One comment, one observation, one mistake—your career hung by a thread every minute.

Jordan “Itchy” Fisher seemed to know this as well as anybody. From the day he came to camp, he was as nervous as a bee. He never sat still, which was why his teammates gave him the nickname. Itchy was a wide receiver in his fourth year in the league, a free-agent pickup from Green Bay. His record there had been mediocre at best. When the team cut him at the end of his rookie contract, only two other teams seemed interested, and the Giants were closer to his home state of Pennsylvania. He wanted to do well, to get on the team at least, even if he wasn’t going to be a starter. But he had such a negative outlook on the whole thing, it was almost as if he were condemning himself to a predetermined fate.

A few more cuts and it would be all over. The tension was so heavy it even made breathing difficult. Itchy was sitting on his cot thinking about how he would break the news to his wife when the inevitable occurred. Then he got to his feet, wringing his hands, and paced up and down between the two beds.

“She’s gonna cry,” he said. “I know she’s gonna cry.”

“You’ll be fine,” his roommate replied. Clarence Pittman had also been a free-agent pickup, in his fifth year in the league and a former victim of the salary cap. He’d done extremely well during his tenure with the Saints, but when it was time for a new contract, he and his agent discovered there was very little loot left in the New Orleans till, so they decided to try their luck elsewhere. Lying on his cot with one knee raised and the other leg propped over it, he flipped through a magazine and said, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke.”

“Yeah, sure, what the hell do you have to worry about? You’re safe.”

“Mmm—not necessarily. No one’s safe until the end.”

He was just trying to be humble. Inside, however, he believed Fisher to be correct—he would cruise past the final cut and coast into a nice fat contract. He’d had a great camp. Not his best ever, but pretty damn good. He’d studied his competition carefully and played just well enough to outdo them. It was the same theory motorists used to make sure they didn’t get pulled over for speeding—as long as they were going slower than the Other Guy, how could they get in trouble? Pittman knew the training camp game; he’d played it before.

“Yeah, well … I made some mistakes out there,” Itchy rambled on, taking his playbook off the dresser, fanning the pages absently, then throwing it back. “I know I did. They noticed, Pitt, I know they did. I don’t even know why I’m here now.”

“Because you’ve got heart,” Pittman told him, scrutinizing a full-page ad for women’s underwear. He believed this much, at least—for all of Fisher’s shortcomings, he did have passion. It almost made up for his errors. Yes, he’d made a few. Pittman wasn’t even an offensive player and he’d spotted them. But Itchy’s enthusiasm and competitive fire were unmatched. Pittman felt sorry for him. They had become casual friends. He didn’t want to see him disappointed, but.…

“Heart,” Itchy snorted. “Who cares about heart when you drop the ball?”

“Nah,” Pittman said, now tired of the conversation—so much like others they’d had. “You’ll be fine.”

They fell quiet for a while. Itchy sat down with his book and reviewed the plays they’d gone over that day. More study never hurt.

When the knock came on the plain wooden door, Fisher felt like a frozen hand had grabbed his heart. He looked over at Pittman, who casually returned the glance before going back to the magazine.

Itchy was about to say, Who do you think that is? Before he got the words out, someone on the other side said, “Fisher? Pittman? Are you in there?”

Fisher swallowed hard. He knew that voice. Everyone did by now.

“Uh … yeah. We’re in here.”

The knob turned. This happened at a normal speed, but in Fisher’s overdramatizing, hyperemotional mind it was much slower, like in a horror movie.

Then the Turk’s grim figure filled the doorway. He was wearing a navy blue windbreaker and a Giants cap that seemed absurdly large in relation to the size of his head.

Pittman closed his eyes and asked God for the incident to be quick, and for Fisher to find another team as soon as possible. He didn’t want to see the guy hurt any more than necessary.

“… would you come with me, please?” he heard the Turk say colorlessly. “Coach wants to see you. And bring along your playbook.” Heartless sonofabitch, Pittman thought. How can anyone do this for a living?

He had hoped he could get through the moment without becoming personally involved, but he was unable to control the desire to turn his head just enough to see the look on Fisher’s face. It was, he supposed, the same macabre fascination that made people slow down at car accidents.

Knowing Fisher as he did, his primary expectation was that the guy would bawl like a child. Pittman had heard about one guy who had to be pried from his cot and carried to the elevator. Fisher wasn’t of that stripe. He’d go peacefully, but he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

There were several other scenarios Pittman had envisioned as well, but none had the expression that he eventually found on Itchy’s face—slack-jawed astonishment. What was even more surprising, though, was that Fisher wasn’t looking at Blumenthal.

He was looking at him.

“Pittman,” the Turk repeated with a touch of impatience, “come on, let’s go.”

Clarence Pittman brought the magazine down slowly. He hadn’t actually seen Blumenthal yet, and for the rest of his life he would remember the moment with exquisite clarity—as the magazine slid away and the image of his executioner was revealed.

“What…?”

This came out with no force at all. He wanted it to sound angry. Instead it was feeble, almost pathetic. It was shock and disbelief and despair all jumbled together.

“Come on,” Blumenthal said. “Get your playbook. The coach has a lot to do today.”

Pittman turned again to Fisher, who looked utterly terrified.

The next twenty minutes would replay in Clarence Pittman’s memory in a soft-edged blur. He would remember his hand reaching out to retrieve the playbook, remember being led down the echoey hallway into the elevator and then onto a floor he’d never been to. He would recall the brief conversation with Alan Gray (… really thought you had a shot … felt some of the other guys did better…) and then, finally, being escorted to his car by someone other than Don Blumenthal—someone he’d never seen before and, he was sure, would never see again. The guy said something ridiculous like “Take it easy,” then walked away, leaving him there alone.

Just like that, it was over.