mentor was an old-timer who scouted
Namath in high school. Said watching him play was like having an orgasm. I
never understood what he meant. Until now."
"An
orgasm? You're scaring me, Sam."
Sam
smiled then spit a bit of cigar.
"Gives
me chills, watching your boy play." Sam ran his fingers over his forearm
then held his arm out to Frank. "Here, feel the goose bumps."
"I'll
pass."
"Last
time I got even half this excited watching an eighth-grader was Troy Aikman up
in Oklahoma. That boy could play. I ranked him number one coming out of high
school. He did okay in football: went number one in the NFL draft, won three
Super Bowls with the Cowboys, made the Hall of Fame, earned millions. But he
wasn't as good as William at fourteen. Frank, if you don't nurture his gift,
give him a chance to live his dream, he'll hate you."
"He'll
hate me?"
Frank
smiled. He assumed Sam was joking. He wasn't.
"He
will."
Frank
couldn't imagine his son hating him.
"So
what's your advice, Sam?"
"First,
he's in a small private school. He's got no team around him to work
with." Sam gestured at the field. "He can't develop with a bunch of
losers."
"Losers?
They're nice boys."
"They're
lousy athletes. He's got no offensive line, no receivers who can catch. He
only throws the ball ten times a game. He can't develop his quarterbacking
skills playing an old-style offense that runs the ball. The forward pass is
the game today, Frank. The pro game is all about passing, which means the
college game is all about passing, which means the high school game is all
about passing. That's why freshmen can start and excel in college, why they
can go pro and start in the NFL. They've been running pro offenses since
middle school. You need to put William in a big public school that runs a
pro-style offense, throws fifty times a game, and has players around him,
preferably black players with speed and skills. And an indoor practice
field."
"An
indoor practice field?"
"It
rains in Houston, Frank. Rain days are lost practice days. So all the big
public schools in Texas build indoor practice fields."
"I
thought our public school system was broke?"
"There's
always money for football. When they played the Super Bowl in Dallas, the
teams practiced in indoor arenas at high schools."
"But
he loves his school."
"Frank,
families move across the country so their sons can play at the best public high
schools running the best pro offenses."
"You're
kidding?"
"Do
I look like I'm kidding?"
He
did not.
"He's
got to get on track now—if you want him to play in the NFL."
"I
don't care."
"He
cares."
"He's
fourteen. Every fourteen-year-old boy dreams of being a star pro football
player."
"Difference
is, Frank, his dream can come true. He can be a star. He's got it. The size,
the strength, the speed. Bigger stronger faster."
He
said the three words as if they were one.
"I
read about you, Frank, that profile in the New York Times after you won
the senator's case—"
Frank
Tucker had become famous. The senator's acquittal had propelled him to the top
of the heap of criminal defense lawyers in America. He could have specialized
in defending members of Congress accused of ethics and criminal violations, but
he didn't want to spend so much time in Washington away from his family. And
there were plenty of white-collar defendants in Texas. Why travel?
"—how
you've never lost a trial. Why do you win all your cases?"
"Because
justice is on my side."
Sam
snorted. "Yeah, right. You win because you're smarter. In a court of
law, smarter beats dumber every time, right? That's the law of man. On a
football field, bigger stronger faster beats smaller weaker slower every time.
That's the law of nature."
Frank
gazed out at his son's smaller, weaker, and slower team losing to a bigger,
stronger, and faster team.
"Second,
he needs to spend his summers in quarterback school."
"What's
that?"
"Summer camps run by former pro quarterbacks and coaches.
They work with the top
Namath in high school. Said watching him play was like having an orgasm. I
never understood what he meant. Until now."
"An
orgasm? You're scaring me, Sam."
Sam
smiled then spit a bit of cigar.
"Gives
me chills, watching your boy play." Sam ran his fingers over his forearm
then held his arm out to Frank. "Here, feel the goose bumps."
"I'll
pass."
"Last
time I got even half this excited watching an eighth-grader was Troy Aikman up
in Oklahoma. That boy could play. I ranked him number one coming out of high
school. He did okay in football: went number one in the NFL draft, won three
Super Bowls with the Cowboys, made the Hall of Fame, earned millions. But he
wasn't as good as William at fourteen. Frank, if you don't nurture his gift,
give him a chance to live his dream, he'll hate you."
"He'll
hate me?"
Frank
smiled. He assumed Sam was joking. He wasn't.
"He
will."
Frank
couldn't imagine his son hating him.
"So
what's your advice, Sam?"
"First,
he's in a small private school. He's got no team around him to work
with." Sam gestured at the field. "He can't develop with a bunch of
losers."
"Losers?
They're nice boys."
"They're
lousy athletes. He's got no offensive line, no receivers who can catch. He
only throws the ball ten times a game. He can't develop his quarterbacking
skills playing an old-style offense that runs the ball. The forward pass is
the game today, Frank. The pro game is all about passing, which means the
college game is all about passing, which means the high school game is all
about passing. That's why freshmen can start and excel in college, why they
can go pro and start in the NFL. They've been running pro offenses since
middle school. You need to put William in a big public school that runs a
pro-style offense, throws fifty times a game, and has players around him,
preferably black players with speed and skills. And an indoor practice
field."
"An
indoor practice field?"
"It
rains in Houston, Frank. Rain days are lost practice days. So all the big
public schools in Texas build indoor practice fields."
"I
thought our public school system was broke?"
"There's
always money for football. When they played the Super Bowl in Dallas, the
teams practiced in indoor arenas at high schools."
"But
he loves his school."
"Frank,
families move across the country so their sons can play at the best public high
schools running the best pro offenses."
"You're
kidding?"
"Do
I look like I'm kidding?"
He
did not.
"He's
got to get on track now—if you want him to play in the NFL."
"I
don't care."
"He
cares."
"He's
fourteen. Every fourteen-year-old boy dreams of being a star pro football
player."
"Difference
is, Frank, his dream can come true. He can be a star. He's got it. The size,
the strength, the speed. Bigger stronger faster."
He
said the three words as if they were one.
"I
read about you, Frank, that profile in the New York Times after you won
the senator's case—"
Frank
Tucker had become famous. The senator's acquittal had propelled him to the top
of the heap of criminal defense lawyers in America. He could have specialized
in defending members of Congress accused of ethics and criminal violations, but
he didn't want to spend so much time in Washington away from his family. And
there were plenty of white-collar defendants in Texas. Why travel?
"—how
you've never lost a trial. Why do you win all your cases?"
"Because
justice is on my side."
Sam
snorted. "Yeah, right. You win because you're smarter. In a court of
law, smarter beats dumber every time, right? That's the law of man. On a
football field, bigger stronger faster beats smaller weaker slower every time.
That's the law of nature."
Frank
gazed out at his son's smaller, weaker, and slower team losing to a bigger,
stronger, and faster team.
"Second,
he needs to spend his summers in quarterback school."
"What's
that?"
"Summer camps run by former pro quarterbacks and coaches.
They work with the top
Similar Books
