— either the harbor on one side and the stretch of city extending toward Central Park on the other. Any way you looked, it was a beautiful sight.
I headed toward my small office just off Jack’s, greeting my coworkers on the way. There weren’t all many of us, as careers went — only eight hundred agent positions even existed for eighteen hundred NFL players, though we had a few agents who handled other sports, a few baseball agents, a few basketball, and a couple of guys who dealt in contracts with hockey and soccer. But football was our specialty and the foundation of our company.
Jack sat at his desk, broad shoulders hunched as he hammered away at his keyboard, looking gruff. His tie was already loose, the top button undone, shirtsleeves rolled up. He was a cowboy in the literal and figurative sense — Jack Jones played for the Cowboys in the eighties and grew up in East Texas. He was a gang-buster, the type of guy to take no shit but who was always honest, even if it lost him a client. He was a rebel, always doing things the way he said would help him sleep best at night.
I popped my head in. “Morning, Jack.”
He glanced up and smiled from under his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Heya, kid. Busy morning already — Pharaoh Carson got a DUI last night and swung at a cop when they charged him, so I’ve got a tornado of bullshit to deal with, which means we have a tornado of bullshit to deal with.” He sighed and ran a hand through his slate-colored hair. “I knew that kid was gonna be trouble, but I signed him anyway. Lemme teach you a lesson — always go with your gut. If you even catch a whiff that a player’s a punk, if you think he’s going to give you hell, you remember that you sign that contract in the same ink he does.”
I nodded. “Where do we start?”
“I’ve gotten a few things done, just some of the big stuff. I need you to start going through his sponsors and touch base. Let them know we’re on it and see if you can’t buy us some time. When’s your meeting with Darryl?”
“After lunch.”
“All right. Let’s hit the pavement on this before it gets any worse. Cathy’s been fielding calls from TMZ all morning, and as soon as Pharaoh gets his ass out of jail, I’ll be on the phone with him. Might even need to fly to Atlanta to deal with it in person, be there when he’s released.” He sighed, looking tired. “I tell you one thing — it’s days like today that I wish I hadn’t quit smoking.”
I chuckled. “I’ll handle the sponsors. Just let me know what you need.”
“What I need is a shot of whiskey and for that dick to have kept his cool, but what can we do but clean up the mess. All part of the job, just my least favorite part of the job.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can make that shot happen at some point.”
He smirked. “At least we have that.”
With that, I headed into my office and took off my bag. When I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer, my inbox filled with forwards from Jack about Pharaoh. Shit had blown up, all right. I opened our database of contacts and dug in, starting with Nike.
Working as an agent was so much more pressure than playing football. I know it seems strange to say, but football was simple, easy. The rules were clearly defined, but as an agent, everything depended on your network, your relationships. Nothing was easy or simple, it was a web that required constant mending. And my next step, the next advancement in my career, depended on landing my first contract.
But first was Pharaoh.
It was hours before I finally came up for air. Dozens of calls, dozens of talk-downs. I’d had three cups of coffee and felt jittery, but thanks to the caffeine and the standing of Jack’s good name, they were appeased, if only for the moment. Cathy had ordered us lunch, hot Philly cheesesteaks, and had delivered them with a shot. Jack’s orders, she said.
I stood at the window for a long minute after I’d finished, just
I headed toward my small office just off Jack’s, greeting my coworkers on the way. There weren’t all many of us, as careers went — only eight hundred agent positions even existed for eighteen hundred NFL players, though we had a few agents who handled other sports, a few baseball agents, a few basketball, and a couple of guys who dealt in contracts with hockey and soccer. But football was our specialty and the foundation of our company.
Jack sat at his desk, broad shoulders hunched as he hammered away at his keyboard, looking gruff. His tie was already loose, the top button undone, shirtsleeves rolled up. He was a cowboy in the literal and figurative sense — Jack Jones played for the Cowboys in the eighties and grew up in East Texas. He was a gang-buster, the type of guy to take no shit but who was always honest, even if it lost him a client. He was a rebel, always doing things the way he said would help him sleep best at night.
I popped my head in. “Morning, Jack.”
He glanced up and smiled from under his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Heya, kid. Busy morning already — Pharaoh Carson got a DUI last night and swung at a cop when they charged him, so I’ve got a tornado of bullshit to deal with, which means we have a tornado of bullshit to deal with.” He sighed and ran a hand through his slate-colored hair. “I knew that kid was gonna be trouble, but I signed him anyway. Lemme teach you a lesson — always go with your gut. If you even catch a whiff that a player’s a punk, if you think he’s going to give you hell, you remember that you sign that contract in the same ink he does.”
I nodded. “Where do we start?”
“I’ve gotten a few things done, just some of the big stuff. I need you to start going through his sponsors and touch base. Let them know we’re on it and see if you can’t buy us some time. When’s your meeting with Darryl?”
“After lunch.”
“All right. Let’s hit the pavement on this before it gets any worse. Cathy’s been fielding calls from TMZ all morning, and as soon as Pharaoh gets his ass out of jail, I’ll be on the phone with him. Might even need to fly to Atlanta to deal with it in person, be there when he’s released.” He sighed, looking tired. “I tell you one thing — it’s days like today that I wish I hadn’t quit smoking.”
I chuckled. “I’ll handle the sponsors. Just let me know what you need.”
“What I need is a shot of whiskey and for that dick to have kept his cool, but what can we do but clean up the mess. All part of the job, just my least favorite part of the job.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can make that shot happen at some point.”
He smirked. “At least we have that.”
With that, I headed into my office and took off my bag. When I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer, my inbox filled with forwards from Jack about Pharaoh. Shit had blown up, all right. I opened our database of contacts and dug in, starting with Nike.
Working as an agent was so much more pressure than playing football. I know it seems strange to say, but football was simple, easy. The rules were clearly defined, but as an agent, everything depended on your network, your relationships. Nothing was easy or simple, it was a web that required constant mending. And my next step, the next advancement in my career, depended on landing my first contract.
But first was Pharaoh.
It was hours before I finally came up for air. Dozens of calls, dozens of talk-downs. I’d had three cups of coffee and felt jittery, but thanks to the caffeine and the standing of Jack’s good name, they were appeased, if only for the moment. Cathy had ordered us lunch, hot Philly cheesesteaks, and had delivered them with a shot. Jack’s orders, she said.
I stood at the window for a long minute after I’d finished, just
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