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  "Can I offer you a drink?" asked Humphry.

  "Scotch, thanks," said White.

  "No ice, right?" said Lyles.

  Lyles poured two drinks, handed one to White, and sat down across from him in the other overstuffed chair. Lyles was becoming fond of White.

  "I'll be honest with you, Vance, I really don't have many friends. My life is working, and I've always had kind of a policy not to mix work and friendship. To be honest, I find it hard to relate to people anyway. But I think you and I are a lot alike. We're both hardworking, and we're both successful. And after what we're going to do with this team, I don't see how we won't be friends.

  "You see," Humphry continued, "I was never an athlete, but I always kind of liked the idea."

  He was living out a dream. To be sitting in his lavish office, drinking expensive scotch with a tough, physical man like White gave Humphry a fraternal feeling that he had always longed for. Just two guys with a football team that they were going to take to a Super Bowl. Two guys who controlled the fates of world-class athletes as if they were commodities on the exchange. And now he would become one of the guys himself. One of the guys like Vance White. They would be like the A1 Davis/John Madden team of the seventies.

  "You know, Vance, I like the way you're operating this team already."

  White nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Lyles."

  Humphry considered telling White to call him by his first name, but then decided against it. He sipped his scotch instead.

  "Winning really is a simple business concept, isn't it, Vance? Get the most out of your employees. Push them to their limits, make rhem produce."

  White nodded again, but said nothing. Instead he stared thoughtfully at his drink. How could a man like this own a football team? But Lyles was the boss. There was always a big fish that had to be kept happy. There was always an owner, or a university president, or some powerful alumnus to kiss up to. He had to make them feel like they were a part of team's successes, like the team was really theirs.

  But the only man a team belonged to was the head coach. That was why he was sitting in this office calling that chubby little puke "Mr." Lyles, because he was a coach and there was no other feeling equal to winning. He'd never talk to a weakling like Lyles otherwise.

  Miffed by White's silence, Humphry said, "I said, make them produce, right, Vance?"

  "Mr. Lyles, this team will kick ass all around the league."

  Humphry smiled. This was the kind of talk he liked, kicking ass.

  "You probably want to hear about Blackwell," White said.

  "Is he our man?"

  "Mr. Lyles," said White, raising his glass, "I think we have our first- round draft pick."

  "Excellent," said Humphry, also raising his glass. "Tell me about him."

  "Well, I must admit, I had my doubts. What with the little discrepancy on the personality test, and the fact that I felt Gavin Collins might be selling the kid just to get a big lineman to work with . . . but I gotta say after meeting him, this Blackwell is a coach's dream. He's bright but not sassy. He's certainly a physical specimen."

  "Is he?" said Humphry.

  "Yes, and I asked him flat-out if he would do anything to be a great football player. There's not much room for misunderstanding in that, is there? I tell you, Mr. Lyles, I really liked this kid's attitude."

  "Are you sure he'll still be there by the time we pick?" asked Lyles.

  "Oh yeah, we already know that Tampa has started negotiating with Roland Downs, that tailback from USC, and Memphis needs a receiver, so they'll take the DeVine kid from Miami. That leaves us. My predecessors did one good thing. Being one of the worst teams in the league last year left me with an early draft pick."

  White smiled at his own humor, but Lyles didn't.

  "So," said Lyles, "he's the one."

  "Well," returned White, "that is, if you don't have any objections. After all, you'll have to spend a pot of money to get this kid signed. His agent is that Clancy guy out of New York City, and I want to get this kid in here to start training on our program. Clancy won't make that easy. This kid won't come cheap."

  "Vance," said Lyles, "I appreciate your concern about the money, but believe me, this is the first time in my life that money is not the issue. If you think this Blackwell kid is what we need, and if he will fit into your program the way you like and help bring this team to the top, then it's as good as done."

  White smiled and said, "Mr. Lyles, with your money and my coaching, this team will be on top in no time."

  "This calls for a celebration," Humphry said. "How about dinner? Just you and I, the builders of a football dynasty."

  White hesitated. He was tired and preferred even his wife's company to the owner's, but he knew that Humphry Lyles was a man who seldom made social engagements. To refuse would be a mistake. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have Lyles consider him a friend. You do what you have to.

  "That sounds like a fine idea, Mr. Lyles," White said, "just the two of us, like a couple of good old boys."

  Lyles smiled at that idea. White knew he would.

  Chapter FIVE

  I THINK THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING THING I've ever seen," Katie said.

  Clay, nervous as a virgin on her wedding night, smiled wanly at her. She felt foolish after she spoke, but it was the only thing she could say, and she had to say something. Clay and his parents were just sitting there, staring anxiously at the set. She was wedged between Clay and his mother on the couch. The tension was thick.

  On the screen, Paul Tagliabue, the league commissioner, stood next to a large black player named Roland Downs. Even Katie had heard of him, the great running back out of USC. He was wearing black leather, gold jewelry, and dark sunglasses. He and the commissioner held up a Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey and smiled for an explosion of camera flashes.

  "Son of a bitch will sign for about twelve million," grumbled Mr. Blackwell. He crumpled his beer can and opened another one despite the fact that it was only eight o'clock in the morning.

  Clay said, "These first few picks don't really matter. I know I'm not going to go this early."

  "When did Clancy say was the soonest?" asked the father.

  "Well, Vargass and Simms will probably go before me," said Clay. "Bill thinks my first real shot is with the Jets. They pick eleventh."

  "Eleventh is still big, big money," said the older Blackwell, "but what about Birmingham? You said you got a good feeling from White."

  "I didn't say I got a good feeling from him. Dad. The guy gave me the creeps. I just said that they seemed to really like me. I sure gave them the sell."

  "You did sell 'em, didn't you, Clayboy?" the father said. "Just like I told you." The older man turned his excited gaze toward Katie. "I told Clay," he said. "I said, 'Sell yourself to these guys, Clay. Give 'em what they want. This is business, and business is selling.' Isn't that what I said to you, Clay?"

  "Yeah, Dad."

  Clay didn't disagree. Everyone in the room knew that his father was just repeating the words of Bill Clancy. It was embarrassing.

  "So, maybe it'll be Birmingham. Maybe. You sure sold 'em," said the father, as if he had been there when Clay gave Vance White his speech on sacrifice.

  "It is possible," said Clay, but not just to shut his father up. Bill Clancy had told Clay a few days ago that the Birmingham pick was a mystery to everyone, so it really was possible.

  Clay thought he had done well on the personality test he knew they were giving to everyone, and Clancy had told him that White's visit was a good sign, though not conclusive.

  Clay hadn't told anyone of his conversation with Clancy. He didn't want to raise anyone's expectations that high. The third pick of the draft would bring him more money than he had really dreamed of, probably more than twice what he would get if he were to be picked only eight spots later by the Jets.

  On the TV, the commentators were busy predicting that the Memphis Gamblers would pick Cory LeVine, a wide receiver which the commentators said the
team could really use.

  "And Clay Blackwell is another possibility," said Mel Kiper, ESPN's expert on the college draft. "They could use real help on their defensive line too, and I think that even though most people have Vargass and Simms rated higher, Clay Blackwell may be the first defensive lineman to go today."

  "Oh, Clay, they're talking about you!" his mother said.

  The phone rang.

  "Hello," said Clay. He had purchased a twenty-five-foot cord for the phone, and had brought it into the living room from the kitchen so that he could answer the call when it came. His stomach was in knots.

  "Hey, you bastard! What the hell's up? Did you get picked yet?"

  It was Lever, and from the sounds of it, he was still drunk from the night before. Clay had left him at a fraternity party to spend the night at his parents' home, in his own bed.

  "You crazy shit," said Clay, "they might be trying to call me right now."

  Lever belched into the phone.

  "Lever, if you call again on this phone, I'll kick your ass."

  "Lever, you son of a bitch, come drink with me!" Mr. Blackwell yelled from his chair.

  "Now see the shit you started," Clay said to Lever, looking sadly at his father.

  "O. K., O. K., I was just calling to wish you luck. Don't get pissed."

  "I'm not, just nervous as hell."

  "O. K., see you later, huh?"

  Clay hung up the phone. Memphis picked the wide receiver from Miami, and the commissioner said into the microphone, "Next up, the Birmingham Ruffians. They will have fifteen minutes."

  They sat silently. Five minutes went by.

  "Maybe we should let the TV people in," his father said, referring to the local camera crews Clay had asked to wait outside until he was picked. "This could be it."

  "Come on, Dad," Clay said with an imploring look.

  Clay's father shrugged and started another beer. The can hissed as he opened it.

  The commentators speculated about the pick. One felt they would take a quarterback from Purdue. Another said the running back from Clemson would be a smart pick. Mel Kipper didn't mention Clay. They concluded that this was the toughest pick to call, Birmingham had been quiet since the hiring of college football's black sheep, Vance White. The commentators talked for a few minutes about White, and then seemed to run out of things to say. The picture shifted to the desk where the Birmingham representatives sat among the other thirty-two teams. One of them was writing furiously, the other talked into a phone, presumably to the home office, where the coaches and staff sat in some meeting room making the decisions.

  Clay's phone rang.

  "Clay Blackwell, please."

  "This is Clay."

  "Clay, this is Gavin Collins with the Birmingham Ruffians."

  "Hi, Coach, how are you?"

  "Fine, fine. How would you like to be with us down here in Birmingham?"

  Clay's insides went numb. Birmingham, the third pick of the draft.

  "It's Birmingham," he said to his father, and stood up with the phone to pace the floor.

  "I'm . . . yes, Coach, this is great."

  "Well, we're going to pick you, and I just wanted to call to make sure that you're ready to join our team. Hang on, Clay . . ."

  There was confusion on the other end of the phone, and Clay heard himself being put on hold. On TV, the camera followed one of the men from the Ruffians table as he left the desk and approached the commissioner's podium. He handed him a card.

  Tagliabue read the card and said, "Birmingham picks . . . Clay Blackwell, defensive end from Northern University."

  The room exploded with cheers, his own included. His mother, his father, Katie, they were all screaming. Through it he heard a voice on the line.

  "Clay?"

  "Yes?"

  "Congratulations, Clay." It was Collins. "We're happy to have you."

  "Yes, yes," said Clay. Katie kissed him. His father was hugging his mother, and Clay could see that they were both crying.

  "Clay, we're going to want you to come down here for a press conference."

  "Yes, O. K."

  "How soon can you get to the airport?" Collins asked.

  "Now? You mean now, today?"

  "Yes, yes, the press wants to meet you, and Mr. Lyles, the owner, he wants to meet you."

  "Oh, of course," Clay said, and then whispered to Katie, "They want me to come, today."

  Katie nodded, smiling. His father opened the door, and a rush of reporters streamed into the house. The white light from three different TV cameras bounced off Clay's face. He smiled, not looking at the circle of people around him, but knowing they were there, dark shapes behind the light. He held onto Katie and the phone.

  "Yes, well, when can I be back, Coach? We're going to have a party."

  Collins said, "We'll get you back, don't worry. There're flights running through Atlanta all day. Clay, let me have our secretary arrange your flight. She'll call you back. I'm going to get you some teammates now to help you play that forty front. See you soon, congratulations."

  Clay touched the receiver down, smiling at the cameras, the phone rang again instantly. It was Clancy.

  "Hello, Bill!"

  "Clay, congratulations. This is very big. We're going to make you a very wealthy man."

  "Thanks, Bill. Hey, they want me to go down there . . . today, right now, but we're having a party here. Everyone's coming."

  "Sure, you're the third pick of the draft. They'll want to see you, meet the press. You're big news down there in Birmingham. Clay, this is really very good. You were the one they wanted all along, I guess. It really is great. You go down there, the party will be there when you get back. Go ahead, call me when you're down there."

  Clay hung up the phone. It rang again. It was the secretary from the Ruffians, and she gave Clay his flight information. When he was through, he unplugged the phone. The reporters began to fire questions at him. He moved back to the couch to sit. The circle of reporters followed, and he began answering their questions. He was distracted. He murmured his responses and asked them to repeat many of the questions. He was overjoyed but in a daze, and he couldn't stop thinking about himself as if he were another person. It was all real now. Nothing could change what he was this day. He felt as though he had climbed and climbed and climbed his whole life. The going had been difficult, but he was there now, at the top. Despite all the speculation, the reality of it was somehow mystical, unexpected. The thrill of the height was breathtaking. He was Clay Blackwell, football player, defensive end, and now, millionaire. It was all real. But in the back of his mind, Clay felt a lonely chill, the kind only felt at a summit. The feeling that somehow you might fall.

  An hour and a half later Clay's plane lifted gently from the Syracuse runway and into the air. Clay watched for his house, which he knew he would see as the plane made its ascent. He was sitting in first class, something he felt he could easily get used to. The young stewardess recognized him and flirted without inhibition. He would probably have to get used to that too, he thought. He would soon be in Birmingham. No one would really know about him and Katie there. She would be at school, and he would be out and about with no girl, except for when she came to visit. But when she was away, he would be known as an NFL player who was not married.

  He sipped his beer and turned his thoughts to the money. What would he do with it all? First thing was to buy a car, a nice car. He had never had anything but the used heap he'd bought with the meager earnings from his summer job. As a local kid who stayed home to play football at Northern instead of going somewhere like Notre Dame, he had gotten the best kind of summer jobs. They were always easy desk jobs that he got, and he was admittedly overpaid, enough so that he could afford a used car and still save enough money every summer to keep him in drinking money and gas the entire year. He still had his rusty '78 Bronco. It met his needs during school, but now he would drive in style, maybe a Porsche or a BMW. Bill Clancy had offered to lend him the money to buy hi
mself a new car while he was still in school, but Clay refused. He wanted to wait until he was drafted, and the money was only a technicality. He never agreed with the notion of spending what he didn't have.

  Clay changed planes in Atlanta and arrived in Birmingham at one o'clock. He was greeted by a driver, who led him out into the hot sunlight and then to a long black limousine. The driver opened the rear door for Clay, and he got in. He liked the elegance of the car, and smiled to himself as it pulled away from the curb. A young couple with two children and a mountain of luggage paused to try to see through the car's dark windows. Clay toyed with the air conditioning control. The driver played some annoying rap music at a volume that Clay knew he wouldn't if the car's owner were present. Clay wanted to shut the glass partition, but he felt that would be rude.

  When he arrived at the Ruffians complex, the TV cameras were waiting for the car at the front door. Clay got out of the car before the driver could get around to the door. After getting away with the loud music, the driver wasn't in a hurry to help him. The cameras converged on Clay, but no questions were asked. The reporters were waiting inside, where the Ruffians public relations staff had set up a press conference. But the cameramen were outside to film his arrival in the long black car. There were seven of them from different network affiliates across the state of Alabama. Clay knew that TV cameramen were like geese--probably only one of them had the idea to shoot him getting out of the car. But when one of them starts after something, the rest always follow, afraid they might miss something.

  A man in a business suit broke through them and held out his hand. "Clay, I'm An Walton, the public relations director for the Ruffians."

  Clay shook the man's hand and followed him into the building. It was a simple brick building that looked like any other structure that served as a place for white-collar business. The difference was the backdrop. They had ridden to the outskirts of Birmingham, and the building was alone in what was otherwise a rural area. Clay had seen a field of cows as they turned off the main highway. Behind the offices stretched a huge grass area with three separate football fields marked off on it. The grass fields were bordered by trees that seemed to extend indefinitely into the distance. The landscaping suggested taste and elegance, and Clay had the feeling that the whole complex belonged in a suburban business park rather than plopped down in the midst of woods and farmland.