J.J. Heywood flicked an ash off his cigar into a wastebasket. J.J., also known as Trader Joe for the sharp deals he made as General Manager of the Rams, blew out a puff of smoke and squinted at Marvin Jones through the haze. “So the kid can catch a ball. What’s the big deal?”
“You haven’t been listening, J.J.. I’m telling you, there’s no way he could have caught the ball, it was thrown so high.” Jones paused to let his last sentence sink in. “And that kick. I swear it went ninety yards in the air.”
J.J. gazed at his desktop, thinking. Finally, he lifted his head. “So what do you want me to do? Sign him to a contract? A kid never played college ball—or any other kind of competitive football for all we know? I’d be laughed out of the league, not to mention my job.”
Jones said, “I’m just afraid if we let him go he’ll sign on with one of the other teams and we’ll be kicking ourselves when he beats us silly.”
Heywood shifted his bulk in his desk chair. A long time ago he’d been a guard on a small college football team. That’s when any college kid who weighed over two-thirty had the coaches salivating. Made no difference whether or not he could run 100 yards in under thirty seconds, and Heywood had trouble running it under a minute. But when he just stood his ground at his position on the line, any opposing running back would have to detour several yards to gain any ground. By the time he reached his senior year, he made third team guard on the All-Inconsequential College League team. But he was a whiz at figures, so when he left college he joined a large firm of accountants. His bosses didn’t care if he could run, block or tackle, as long as he could add a column of figures and come out with a profit. Boring. Boooring work.
Heywood had never lost his love for sports, so when his sister-in-law’s son became a star quarterback at Stanford, he lived a vicarious life as his nephew’s greatest fan. Pro football scouts picked the kid for at least a third round draft number, and Heywood saw the chance to break out of his dull existence, use God’s gift of his brain, and do something in sports. He started a second career as a sports agent with one client in his stable: his nephew. After he had negotiated a seven-figure contract for the young quarterback, the newspaper publicity Heywood received attracted a college basketball star and a Nationwide Tour golfer to his fold. Although none of his athletes achieved superstar status, Heywood’s talent as a contract negotiator won him a client base that grew to the point where he sold out to a national sports rep organization for enough money so that at age 40, married with two daughters, he could live in comfort for the rest of his life if he never worked another day. But sitting in a swing on his patio was not in Heywood’s job description, so when the owners of the Rams offered him the position as General Manager, he jumped at it. Actually, J.J. Heywood had never been agile enough to jump, he just waddled.
Now he sat in his plush office opposite Marvin Jones who waited for a response to his concern about what to do with Max Aries. Heywood said, “Who’s his agent?”
Jones snorted. “Agent? You kidding? This kid is right off the street. A cherry ripe for the picking.”
Heywood’s brow wrinkled. “Something here doesn’t sound kosher. Here’s a potential super-super star who falls into your lap. The only thing we know about him is his name. No, I take that back. We know he never played football, unless maybe intramural or touch. Yet, he can make an impossible catch and make an impossible punt, right?”
Jones nodded. “Yeah, and don’t forget that thing with the weight bar.”
Heywood scratched his chin. “Marvin, either this kid’s from another planet, or you are.”
“Look, J.J.. I’m just telling you what I saw with my own eyes.”
“Okay, where do you propose to put him? You’ve got your quota of receivers. You’ve got your punter.”
Jones shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t have to tell you, guys get injured. Think of him as an insurance policy.”
“So we sign him to a base salary contract, then let him warm the bench until he’s old enough to retire just to protect ourselves,” said Heywood. “That what you want?”
Jones drummed the desk. “Y’know, maybe that’s not such a stupid idea.”
J.J. reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, the contract form. “Okay, Marv. I’m relying on your judgment. Even at base salary it’s gonna cost us, let’s see, about $800 a week for pre-season, and at least a grand a week for sixteen weeks of the regular season. Just to keep a warm body around.”
Jones stood, a grin spread across his face. “You won’t be sorry, J.J.. I promise you.”