of
the nineties had been implicated in the performance-enhancing drug scandal.
Lance Armstrong won his seventh straight Tour de France; at least there was one
clean athlete in America. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan waged on. Something
called Facebook was launched, as if thousands of people were really going to
put their entire personal lives on display for the world. Frank tried more
white-collar criminal cases and won them all. William played more private
school football games and lost them all. It was a Thursday afternoon in late
October, and his eighth-grade team was losing again. His father stood along
the chain link fence that surrounded the Academy field. Sam Jenkins stood next
to Frank and smelled of Old Spice and tobacco. Sam was short and stocky and
smoked a cigar. He was a college scout.
"He's
fourteen," Frank said.
"He's
special."
"He's
a kid."
"He's
an athlete. With a big-time future. If you manage his career correctly."
"His career ?"
"That's
right. His career. A career that could be worth a couple hundred million
dollars, Frank. Top pro athletes make more than movie stars today … and a
hell of a lot more than lawyers."
"He's
playing eighth-grade football."
"He's
four years from playing college ball, eight from pro ball, maybe six if he
leaves college early."
"He
won't."
"Play
pro ball?"
"Leave
college early."
Sam
nodded. "That's what they all say. But when an NFL team offers millions,
a college degree doesn't seem so important."
"What
are the odds of William playing pro ball?"
"What
are the odds of winning the lottery? But someone always wins."
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
the nineties had been implicated in the performance-enhancing drug scandal.
Lance Armstrong won his seventh straight Tour de France; at least there was one
clean athlete in America. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan waged on. Something
called Facebook was launched, as if thousands of people were really going to
put their entire personal lives on display for the world. Frank tried more
white-collar criminal cases and won them all. William played more private
school football games and lost them all. It was a Thursday afternoon in late
October, and his eighth-grade team was losing again. His father stood along
the chain link fence that surrounded the Academy field. Sam Jenkins stood next
to Frank and smelled of Old Spice and tobacco. Sam was short and stocky and
smoked a cigar. He was a college scout.
"He's
fourteen," Frank said.
"He's
special."
"He's
a kid."
"He's
an athlete. With a big-time future. If you manage his career correctly."
"His career ?"
"That's
right. His career. A career that could be worth a couple hundred million
dollars, Frank. Top pro athletes make more than movie stars today … and a
hell of a lot more than lawyers."
"He's
playing eighth-grade football."
"He's
four years from playing college ball, eight from pro ball, maybe six if he
leaves college early."
"He
won't."
"Play
pro ball?"
"Leave
college early."
Sam
nodded. "That's what they all say. But when an NFL team offers millions,
a college degree doesn't seem so important."
"What
are the odds of William playing pro ball?"
"What
are the odds of winning the lottery? But someone always wins."
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
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