North Dallas Forty (11 page)

“Coors?” It was a new bartender.

“No.” I started to order a Budweiser, then changed my mind. “Bring me a Pearl.” I nodded and smiled, pleased with my order.

“We ain’t got it,” the bartender replied unsmiling. “How ‘bout a Coors?”

“No. Bring me a Budweiser.” I felt a twinge of nostalgic remorse over the passing of the West and the end of Texas beer sovereignty. It was a rotten shame.

“Do you like these slacks?” Louis said suddenly and stepped into the middle of our circle to do a half-turn. They were madras slacks, the kind that were popular in East Lansing in the late fifties. “They cost forty-five dollars a pair here at Jack’s,” he continued. “But I get ’em for fifteen dollars a pair when I’m in Hong Kong. The guy’s got my measurements and everything.”

“Next time you’re over there, get me two pair.” Mutton-chops seemed interested.

“Two pair?”

“Yeah.” Muttonchops smiled. “One pair to shit on and the other to cover it up with.”

They all laughed again.

“I saw Conrad at Windwood Hills, Saturday,” said Muttonchops, changing the subject.

Windwood Hills was the newest, richest Dallas country club. Conrad R. Hunter was
the member
, as he was in all Dallas business and social circles of any consequence.

“He was hitting a few shots, waiting for the rest of his foursome.”

“Yeah, we were in the same foursome last weekend,” Louis interrupted. “Charlie Stafford was along. He goosed ol’ Con on the fifth tee and made him hit one in the water.”

They all laughed again.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I stood in front of a black urinal with gold fixtures, feeling guilty about the intense pleasure I felt. My eyes wandered around the room. It was a palatial toilet with gold-plated fixtures, hand-carved floor-to-ceiling doors, and walnut paneling.

A tiny black man crept up behind me and began brushing my back rapidly with a whisk broom. I ignored him and continued to survey the walls. A small mark on the paneling, just above the urinal, caught my eye. Leaning closer, I could make out four words etched deeply into the walnut:

CONRAD HUNTER SUCKS COCKS

It was 7:15
P.M.
as I drove back north on the expressway, heading for Joanne’s high-rise apartment. I had just turned off the radio after the seven o’clock report of death and violence in the Southwest: A Dallas property owner had been acquitted of the murder of a sixteen-year-old boy who was stealing tools from his garage. He had shot the boy twice in the back and left him to bleed to death in the alley. The police chief came on the radio to warn the citizenry that shotgun-wielding officers would be lying in ambush in high-crime areas. He was reminding the public to avoid suspicious behavior that might result in an innocent person getting blown in half. There had been twelve armed robberies in the last twenty-four hours.

I passed the North Dallas Towers. The tenth floor was brightly lit. They would be watching the New York films, designing the game plan for Sunday.

The light was on in Clinton Foote’s office. The general manager was working late too. I was reminded of one particular meeting in that office. Late one March I had been notified (a form letter addressed “Dear Player”) that my option had been picked up. I had answered by form letter and was quickly summoned by phone to the North Dallas Towers. Clinton’s was a corner office that smelled of fresh paint. One wall was covered by a full-color superstat of a fifty-yard-line ticket from Super Bowl I. The furniture was stainless steel and there was a complete selection of last year’s game programs on the glass coffee table.

Clinton was on the phone when his secretary ushered me inside. He waved me to take a seat and continued his conversation.

“No. No. Absolutely not.” His foot tapped loudly under the desk. Clinton worked long hours and often relied on Dexamyls from the trainers to keep going. The way his foot was working was a sure sign that time pills were going off somewhere. “No. Absolutely not, you can’t have it.” He hung up and picked a piece of paper off the desk. It was my letter to him. “Before we go any further, why did you send me this smart-assed letter?”

The letter had been mimeographed and addressed “Dear General Manager.”

“You sent me one. You could have just picked up the phone.”

“I got more than one contract to negotiate and more important things to do than concern myself with your delicate sensitivities.” He wadded up the letter and tossed it away.

“Sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I apologize.” I hadn’t expected him to get quite so mad. It had seemed funny while I was doing it. I didn’t need to be putting obstacles in my own path.

Negotiating with Clinton Foote was extremely difficult for three reasons. First, Clinton owned a small part of the club and had an override on profits. Thus, a percentage of any money Clinton saved in overhead (i.e., player’s salaries) came back into his own pocket. Second, Clinton tried never to let a player know the whole troth about his status with the club. It kept the players off balance and easier to control. A player didn’t need to know any more than was necessary to play on Sunday. Third, Clinton Foote was one smart son of a bitch.

Contract negotiations were honorless, distasteful, and totally frightening experiences. There were no fixed rules and behavior varied radically, depending on the individuals involved.

“Well, Phil,” he had been gazing at a yellow note pad. He set it down and looked directly into my eyes. The man who extracted millions from the television networks was about to extort a measly few thousand from a fool. “How much do you want?”

I shifted uneasily in my seat. My head was crammed with facts: number of catches, number of touchdowns, yards per reception, and so on. My head was also crammed with considerations: I was the starting flanker, I was younger than Gill—he was healthier but that could change—and more. The contest would be between my head, jammed full of assumptions, facts, and fear, and Clinton Foote’s note pad, a neat outline of undisputable truth.

“Well, Clinton, I ...” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and started again. “I was the starter last season and we won the division and I caught thirty passes, so ...”

“Only two of those passes were for touchdowns.” (I had known he was going to say that.) His eyes were on the pad.

“That’s right,” I came right back, “but, twenty of those thirty were key third downs and ...”

“I see you’ve been studying your own statistics.” Disgust edged his voice. Nothing is more despicable than an athlete who keeps his own score. He glanced at me and then dropped his eyes to the pad. He wrote something. I could hear his foot still tapping. It seemed slightly louder. My stomach churned nervously.

“Well.” Clinton always spoke in a firm, measured voice. Every word was carefully selected and clearly and loudly pronounced. “How much do you want?” He boomed it out

I wanted $20,000. The Player’s Association survey listed the average starting flanker’s salary at $25,000. I would start there, knock off $5,000 for my unpopularity and Clinton’s tight-fistedness, and arrive at $20,000. It seemed fair to me. Billy Gill was getting $24,500 and I had already beaten him out before I got my knee fixed.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

Clinton laughed in my face. “I’m sure we’d all like twenty-five thousand, but it’s out of the question.”

I had expected to be refused but there was a note of disrespect I hadn’t anticipated. It left me shaken and feeling foolish.

“What do you mean?” I was scrambling and trying to reorganize.

“Just what I said. You’re not worth it.” He ran his finger down the margin of the yellow pad. The finger stopped and a smile turned the corners of his mouth.

There was something I didn’t know. I dove back into my head: Griffith Lee, a spade from Grambling, was the only other possible threat to my starting job. but with Delma Huddle at split end and Freeman Washington starting at tight end, they wouldn’t give another black a shot unless he was awful good. Griffith Lee wasn’t that good. I was safe there. Where was my weakness?

“You paid that kid from New Mexico thirty-five thousand and he didn’t even make the team.” I knew that was a bad argument. In the early years of the club, Clinton had ordered the players not to discuss their salaries with anybody, including other players. The rule lost much of its effectiveness with the increased press coverage that came with winning, but a vestige of it still hung on in Clinton’s mind. He shot me an angry glance.

“What other players earn is not the concern here.” His foot started tapping louder. Christ, it would be just my luck if the damn trainers had given him a fifteen-milligram Benzedrine. I discarded my argument about Billy Gill making $24,500. “Besides, that’s one reason why we can’t pay you twenty-five thousand. I only have so much budget allotted for salaries. Mistakes like that have to be made up somewhere.”

I didn’t know how to argue with that kind of logic. It was based on the spirit of competition and free enterprise. Teammates have to fight each other for their piece of the pie. My confidence vanished. I sat dumbfounded and scared.

“Well, Clinton ... how much then?” When he started whittling he wouldn’t stop at any $20,000.

The general manager and director of player personnel took a long, slow look at his yellow note pad. His eyes ran up and down the page. He made a great show of figuring. Finally, he straightened up and cleared his throat.

“Thirteen thousand for one year.”

My heart stopped.

“Thirteen thousand! Christ, you paid me eleven thousand to sit on the bench. You mean, you’re only going to give me two thousand more for starting on a championship team?”

“It’s all you’re worth. Besides, when you add in playoff and championship money, it comes to quite a bit.”

“But, Clinton, the average starter’s salary is over twenty-five thousand.”

“Don’t believe everything you read. And even if it was true, and it’s not, the players who are making that much signed for a lot more as rookies than you did.”

“You mean what you pay me now depends on how I signed out of college.”

“Of course, I’ve got a budget to balance. It wouldn’t be fair to your teammates if I gave you a bigger raise just because you didn’t have the foresight to sign for more money as a rookie.”

My rookie negotiations had been carried out over the phone. I was an eighteenth-round draft choice and signed for $11,000, after receiving Clinton’s personal promise that Dallas was signing only three other rookie receivers. Nineteen flankers showed for rookie camp but Clinton was quick to point out that only three were white.

“Goddammit, Clinton, I’m worth more than thirteen thousand. I’m the starter.”

“That remains to be seen.” His eyes were back on the note pad. What did he mean? I had beaten Gill out. They couldn’t possibly be thinking of Griffith Lee. That would mean three blacks catching passes. “B.A. is considering Gill the starter until we see how your leg responds.”

My intestines fell out on the floor. I was the starter. I had started all the games. They couldn’t bench me in the off season. Could they? My face collapsed. I could maintain no pretenses.

“My knee is fine. Ask the doc.” My voice was small. “I won’t play for that. Trade me.”

“I doubt if we could get much for you ... coming off surgery and all.”

“All right.” I had begun to control the panic. “What if I don’t sign and come to camp and if my leg is fit then well talk contract.” I knew I could beat out Gill. They wouldn’t move Lee to flanker. I was a sure bet by league season.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still only worth thirteen thousand.” He took a long look at his yellow pad. “I could give you a little more if you signed for three years.”

“No cut?”

“I don’t give no-cut contracts.” That was a lie. At least nine men, including Maxwell and Billy Gill, had no-cut contracts.

“How much money?”

Clinton took another long look at the note pad. He looked at me and frowned. “I shouldn’t do it. Conrad’ll be on my ass, but I’ll give you sixteen thousand for three years.”

“That’s not enough, Clinton, and you know it. It’s nine thousand dollars under the average.”

He shrugged. “Take it or leave it and hurry up, I’ve got other appointments.” He looked at his watch and started tidying up his desk.

“I’m not signing. Gill can have the flanker spot. I won’t come to camp.”

“Then you’ll be fined one hundred dollars a day until you do. You’re still under option to us. I could make you play for ninety percent of what you got last year, but instead I’ve made a fair offer. And don’t go out of here thinking you’ll get an agent to do your talking. I won’t deal with one.” He picked up the yellow note pad and tapped it against the desk. “I’ve already discussed your contract with B.A. and he thinks it’s fair. You just overrate yourself.”

“I won’t sign.” I got up and started out. Clinton stopped me at the door.

“Phil,” he called, smiling and sliding the yellow note pad into the desk drawer, “this is nothing personal, you know.”

“I guess not,” I answered, “if you can separate what you do in your job from what you are as a person. I can’t.” I slammed the door.

Clinton never called me back.

The day before camp opened Bill Needham, the team business manager, phoned me.

“I have to know if you need a plane ticket to training camp,” he said.

“I’m not coming.”

“Hold on a minute.”

A moment later B.A. came on the line.

“Phil, this is B.A. I don’t care about your contract squabbles with Clinton. That’s between you and him. I make it a point to never get involved. If you can get more money, more power to you. But I expect you in camp tomorrow, or I’ll fine you a hundred dollars a day for every day you miss. If I was in your position, I would have come out early.”

I arrived in camp the next day. That night I signed a three-year contract calling for $15,000 base salary per year plus a $1,000 incentive clause if I started. I took it all very personally.

I drove in silence for a while, dividing my time between worrying about regaining the starting job and the feeling I had forgotten something. By the time I pulled up in front of the Twin Towers Apartments my face was twisted into a scowl, trying to remember if what I thought I forgot was important or just casual anxiety.