Out of Position (18 page)

I’m starting to get a feel for it, after just one day, I think. It’s a lot easier when you see a bunch of workouts back to back, and you can see the kids who have a real enthusiasm for the game. Watching the offensive line is as different from watching the position players as night and day. Yesterday it was all about fleet agility, speed and coordination. Today it’s about brute strength and, yes, speed, but a different kind of speed. It takes the linemen a lot longer to stop when they’ve done the 40, like a fleet of trucks applying the brakes as safely as possible. Because, of course, on the field, what will stop them will be another truck.

Their job is to stop the monsters across the line from getting to their quarterback, and to open up holes in the line for the runners to get through, so here we want bulk and agility. There are bears and boars, an elk and two rhinos, and a massive cougar. I want to take the cougar aside and tell him to switch positions, because he’s clearly over-bulked up in an attempt to compensate for his lack of weight. He’d be better on the defensive line with the wolves, tigers, and other cougars. He runs with a dispirited desperation, as though he knows he’s not as good as the rest of them but doesn’t believe he ever will be. He’s bigger than Dev, but not nearly as fluid or enthusiastic as my tiger, who will be working out tomorrow.

The interviews I do on my own are as boring as Morty promised. I scribble down a couple questions I’d like to ask some of these kids, and make notes on temperament when I think it’s appropriate. What I learn from the interviews is that every college coach is the best in the country, that every program is chock-f of quality teammates, that next year’s rookies are going to be the most humble, thankful group of pro football players I’ve ever seen, and that heaven is full of supportive relatives looking down on this rookie class and watching out for them. One wolf (Jarbo Kinnic, from way up north, a second-rounder probably) has apparently been told that he needed a dead relative, because he tells a tearful story about how his great-aunt had lifted him up when he was born and told his mother that his speed would bring great fortune to the family, but she died before she ever got to see him play football. The reporters nearest me don’t even bother to make more than a cursory note on that one, preferring instead to discuss the quality of the local escort service.

It’s at that interview that I see my first agent. At least, the first agent identified as such. I take him for a combine official at first, his fur is so sleek and his suit so neatly pressed. But one of the reporters in front of me catches sight of the rabbit accosting the wolf after the interview, putting his arm around the kid’s shoulder in a way no official ever would. “Slime,” the reporter says, the wolf next to him nods, and they go off together leaving me watching the rabbit lead Kinnic out through the dark doorway that leads back to the hotel. All I can think about is whether Dev is on any agent’s radar.

Morty and Vic recognize the agent, not one with whom the Dragons have a good relationship. But Kinnic isn’t high on our list anyway. Morty reckons that if he’s getting interest, some of the ones we do want might be falling lower, so he and Vic both make a point to review their notes and make a recommendation to the team. The debriefing, again, is so thorough that I feel someone’s scrubbed out my head. I can barely recall the taste of my pizza. But when it’s over, I fairly bounce out of the restaurant and to Dev’s hotel.

I call him from the lobby and say, “Is this the famous Devlin Miski? I believe I have a personal interview scheduled for tonight. I’m very anxious to see how you’ll fit in my scheme. I have a hole to fill that I think you’ll be perfect for.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve got another interview going on now. Tomorrow night okay?”

All the energy drains out of me. Yes, even down there. I slump against the wall. It’s his career, I remind myself. “Yes, of course. I’ll call you then.”

“Thanks,” he says, and I hear him talking to someone else as he hangs up.

The hotel has a bar and a nice restaurant. I resist the temptation to get a beer, because I know one beer will lead to three, and three will lead to me depressed, and I don’t want that. I mean, I don’t want it to get worse. So I catch a table at the hotel restaurant and order the unhealthiest dessert on the menu, a piece of cheesecake with chocolate strawberry topping, and I ask for extra whipped cream. It makes me feel a little better, good enough to walk back to my flea-infested stinkpit of a room and my cozy piece of floor.

Watching Dev work out on the next day almost makes up for it. There he is, a half-foot taller than most of the foxes and coyotes who traditionally go out for the defensive back position. This position plays to do two things: break up or intercept passes, and tackle runners downfield. The three most important aspects of this position are speed, vision, and decisiveness. And then speed, a couple more times. So there’s not much interest in how much this group can bench, but everybody’s eagerly watching as they line up in heats to do the 40.

Dev’s not going to do well against the foxes, specifically. We might have been bred to play this position. Quick, agile, and predatory, the best DBs have always been foxes. The coyotes running for this position are the lighter specimens; heavier yotes with more developed legs will go for wideout, where all they have to do is run fast, learn to run routes, and grab the ball when it’s near them, and where their extra bulk is useful to block when the play isn’t going to them. But the top five prospects at this position, the kids who are going to go in the first three rounds of the draft, are all foxes.

Besides Dev, there are a few other species: a white-tailed deer, who just might have a shot at it, two small, light bobcats, a cougar, and a skunk. The only reason I can think of for the skunk to be there is that maybe his scent distracts wideouts enough to disrupt plays, but when I check the Dragons’ list, I find that he’s actually ahead of Dev. Huh.

He sees me watching him. I flick an ear; he stares and then the corner of his mouth quirks up, and he goes back to warming up for the run. He turns in a pretty good time. The foxes dominate the top of the board, with Milt Russell, the top prospect, blazing through with a 4.21 (that’s good). Dev is a half-second slower, 4.75, good enough for the middle of the pack. The skunk is faster than I would have thought, running at 4.5. Just proof that you can’t always judge by species.

Digression: there’s a lot of debate over how much a half-second matters, let alone hundredths of a second. Isn’t field awareness and smarts better than a half-second more of speed? Well, yes and no. In practice, that half-second could break up one more play a game, one ball you just get your fingertips on and alter the path of, one tackle you make by your shoestrings. More importantly, there’s no way to measure field awareness with a stopwatch. Morty assures me that the 40 is just one factor in the team’s decision, but there’s no question it’s an important one. For Dev, I know that 4.75 is close to his personal best. I’d hoped he could crank it up a little more, but at least he didn’t really do himself any damage. I give him a little wave as he heads off the field and get a nice warm feeling when I get a wave back.

After that, Morty drags me along to a press interview with a guy the Dragons are strongly considering, a tough wolf who played tackle for Ocean State. The team’s only concern, according to Morty, is a correctable one: his footwork needs a little improvement on the left side. I saw him work out, and my impression is that he’s one of those talented guys who’s so used to being the best that he never adjusts to having to work hard to maintain his edge. Yeah, okay, I get this from maybe five minutes watching, but because he was on my list and marked, I also stayed close and listened to him talk. He called the rest of the guys “punks” and even said he was better than most current players. Which even from five minutes I could tell he wasn’t.

So we’re sitting there in the press room, and I’m listening to this blowhard go on about how much he’s looking forward to playing in the pros, and yes, of course his grandfather inspired him to play football and he wishes he could be here today to see this proud moment. “He’s got no sense of perspective,” I say to Morty, who looks as bored as I am. “I mean, ask him what Hall of Fame tackle he compares himself to. Bet he can’t even name one.”

His ears stand up straighten. He looks up at the wolf thoughtfully. “Aren’t that many in the Hall,” he says.

Just then, the reporter in front of us raises his paw. “What player would you say your style most resembles?” he asks.

Morty and I both stare at him. He’s a wolf himself, rangy and tall, and obviously with excellent hearing. I hadn’t even noticed his ears swept back.

The kid preens a bit, then comes back with the names of two well-known tackles currently playing who get a lot of press. They probably won’t even get considered for the Hall. Though, as Morty observed, that pretty much goes without saying when you play that position.

I get a more appraising look from Morty after that, and it might just be my imagination, but that answer doesn’t seem to go over well with the reporters in the room. The questions become chillier and more cursory, even if the wolf—the kid, I mean—is too full of himself to notice.

“Nice question, kid,” the wolf reporter in front of us says when the interview is over and everyone’s stretching, waiting for the next one.

“He didn’t do too well at it, did he?” I say.

Morty chuckles. “You noticed that, didja?” I nod. “Most of the guys, like Tripski here,” he waves a paw in the wolf’s direction, and the wolf dips his muzzle, “are old-school, like to see a sense of history. The kid had attitude, and that’s okay, but you gotta have respect for history too.”

“Got that right,” Tripski says. “Not like it matters. He’s got freakish speed, someone’s gonna take a chance on him.” He squints at Morty. “Thinkin’ I’ve got a good idea who.”

Morty swats me on the shoulder with the rolled-up combine program. “C’mon, Lee,” he says, “let’s get ready for the next one.”

My seemingly-innocent question is the major topic over dinner. Vic is impressed, and taps me on the shoulder a couple times. “You mighta cost him a few mil,” he says, more than once, but Morty doesn’t seem as convinced.

“That’s for the team to decide,” he says, but I note that he’s made a couple marks next to the wolf’s name on his list.

We’re there two and a half hours and three rounds of beer, distilling information, trying to remember every nuance of everything we saw some kid do or not to. It’s exhausting, but at the same time I don’t want it to end.

“You don’t look tired,” Morty says to me a little after eight. “You still into this?”

Vic’s got his head in his paws. “I’m wiped. One more beer and I’m ready to call it quits.”

I flick my ears. “It’s just, when this is over, that’s it. I go back to school and
Charlotte Temple”

“
Didn’t know you were Jewish.” I can’t tell whether Morty’s serious or not.

“That one of your professors?” Vic asks, with a glance at the cougar.

I shake my head. “It’s this, uh, really dull 18
^th
century novel about… well, I’m not really sure what it’s about yet. It’s for one of my college classes.” I take another drink. “This stuff is so much more interesting.” Sure, I’m playing it up a bit for them. I love English, and
Charlotte Temple
is a really well-written book. Honest.

“Well,” Vic says, “got to pass your classes, right?”

“Yeah.” I almost make a comment about my parents. Almost.

“Hey,” Morty says, “how about we wrap this up and get that last beer over at Kelly’s?”

“Sure,” Vic says, and I agree to tag along. I know Dev’s waiting, but part of me wants to make him wait a little longer. More than that, though, it’s trying to hold on to this company, feeling like I’m part of the whole football scene with these guys who respect what I can do and what I know. That makes me feel warm inside. Or maybe that’s just the beer.

When we get to Kelly’s, Morty buys the first round, something imported, which is a bit of a surprise. We all toast. “To another combine in the books,” Morty says.

“Amen.” Vic and I gulp the beer. After the stuff from the brew pub, it tastes a bit canned, but I’m not gonna complain as long as Morty’s buying.

Vic raises his mug next. “And to Lee,” he says. “You been a big help this time round.”

“Thanks.” My ears flick. I can’t help smiling. “You guys are fun to work with.”

We all drink, and then Morty and Vic look at each other. Morty grins. “Vic and I been talking,” he says. “How’d you like to stick around with the club for a while, watch some film with us?”

I stare at him, then turn to Vic. I want to pinch myself. “Combine’s always hell,” Vic says. “You handled it real good.”

Morty nods. “Now, it’d just be an internship until the draft in April. After that we’d consider bringing you on as a full time scout. You think it’s crazy now, wait ’til colleges start practicing in the summer.”

I squeeze my beer mug. My tail wants to lash back and forth like crazy. “Uh, so, what’s the internship pay?” As soon as I say that, I curse my father for putting those thoughts in my head. It’s a job with the Dragons. Who cares what it pays?

Morty and Vic exchange a look. “Well,” the cougar says slowly, “I’ll see what I can get out of the club. So what’cha think?”

I’m grinning fit to burst. “I had a blast,” I say. “Hell, yes.”

It’s only two beers later that it occurs to me to wonder what effect that will have on my school schedule. One more beer postpones that worry for later. Two more and I insist I have to be off to bed, which is true; I just haven’t said whose.

By this time, I know the lobby of Dev’s hotel pretty well, and I decide to surprise him. The combine’s over, for all intents and purposes, and all he’s gonna be doing is packing up to go home tomorrow. It won’t really be a surprise, because he’s expecting me, but I don’t even want to wait long enough for a phone call. I’m so excited it takes me three tries to hit the right button for his floor, and when I finally get there, the lighting in the hall is all weird and I have to get right up close to the numbers on the doors to see them properly. But finally I locate 517 and knock.