The Legend of Jesse Smoke (13 page)

“Good old Joshua Bennet,” Flores said. “It might be fun.”

“But not just that,” I said. “I mean, I hope you take this seriously.”

Flores glared at me again. Any hint of a smile left his face suddenly, like a light going out.

“I haven’t lost my mind, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking, okay? I’ve seen her play, and she’s better than any quarterback I’ve seen in my lifetime. That includes our current coach.”

“You really think so.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“What about the rules? Don’t they keep her out?”

“Not really. There is no specific reference that says women aren’t allowed. In fact, the Jets tried out a female kicker back in 2012 or 2013.”

“But it’s all about men—man-to-man defense, eleven men on a side …”

“Yeah, and the Declaration of Independence says all ‘men’ are created equal, but that doesn’t exactly exclude women, does it?”

He leaned forward, regarding me now with a look very much like cynicism—and very possibly supreme annoyance.

“You just have to see her play,” I said.

“Well, hell. Here we are, and it’s another season, another year.”

“Yes,” I said. But I wasn’t as keen as he sounded before he stopped smiling. I was just happy as hell to get out of there with what seemed like a kind of approval. I couldn’t wait until the coaches’ meeting.

We talked, at the coaches’ meeting about everything from travel arrangements to zone defenses. Flores attended, as he said he would, but he sat there silently, just listening. We discussed player development and contracts and offense and defense and special teams. We evaluated positions and discussed possible upgrades. I was caught between fear of mentioning Jesse and fear we’d never get to the topic at all.

Finally, near the end of the meeting, Coach Engram spoke up. “I think Skip Granger is right to suggest that we make no announcement concerning our new rookie quarterback.”

Flores seemed to give a brief snort of a laugh. But then he said, “I think that’s wise.” Only he, Coach Engram, and I knew who the new rookie was, but everybody nodded, and the meeting adjourned. That was it. Engram looked at me as though we’d dodged a semi.

So that’s how it got started. We didn’t need trickery, or any of those things I had been considering; didn’t need to scheme or
calculate or engineer a damned thing. It was done. Jesse was in. For the time being anyway. It was really a tremendous relief. I had no idea the pressure I had been feeling until it was removed. It felt as though I’d lost a hundred pounds.

We still had players to convince, of course, and there were a lot of other logistics to work on in advance so we could make Jesse’s transition to our team as smooth as possible. She would need her own place to dress, and shower, for starters. At Redskins Park that wouldn’t be difficult, because the coaches have their own showers and bathrooms, and I could let her use mine, though we’d have to schedule whirlpool time for her alone. On the road, though, it was going to be a problem. She’d have to shower and dress at the hotel; then ride in a taxi with me, dressed in everything but the full uniform with pads. She could get herself taped and put her cleats and pads on in the locker room with everybody else. If she got in a game and got muddy or wet, she’d have to ride back to the hotel the same way. No doubt about it, there were going to be some logistical challenges.

“The little things” is what Coach Engram called them. He was more concerned about how the rest of the league would respond, even if Jesse never got into a game. He was impressed with her talent, he told me that. But she was a woman, which was “three strikes” against her.

Jesse was happy to have the money, but she sure wasn’t spending it. She put it all in a savings account and let it accrue interest. When I found out about this—right before training camp was to start—she said, “I’m not going to use much of it, just enough to feed myself and pay the rent. Maybe buy some better furniture.”

“But why not?” I said. “It’s yours.” We were sitting in a Starbucks, sipping coffee. It was early on a Friday morning and I’d promised her a tour of Redskins Park. “I told you the bonus money is yours to keep.”

“I haven’t earned it yet.”

“Oh, you’ve earned it. For what you’re going to have to endure, you’re entitled to a lot more.”

I know I’ve mentioned them before, but she had the most expressive blue eyes. They spoke a wordless language that moved anybody that looked at her; except when she was backing up to pass, watching downfield. Then they were as cold as a serial killer’s. Anyway, when I mentioned what she would have to endure, she got this surprised, curious gleam in her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re going to be the best-known woman in the world.”

She lowered her head and studied the coffee in front of her.

“And certainly the most famous football player in the world.” Anybody else would have been daunted by that notion, or at the very least impressed. I expected to see, even from her, a little stage fright. But when she looked back at me, her eyes had that steely quarterback’s glint. “I want to be the best football player in the world,” she said. “Not the most famous.”

“Jesse, you’re going to be the most famous
athlete
in the world. That’s just the facts. So … you think you can handle the shitstorm that’s coming once we announce what we’re up to?”

“Long as they let me play,” she said. “If they just let me play …”

Just before training camp began in July, we announced that the scouting department had signed about a dozen undrafted free agents, and we listed Jesse’s name among the others as J. Smoke. When the public relations department and the press wanted the particulars, we gave them—height, weight, position, last school attended, if any, and so on. Jesse was listed as 6′2″, 180 pounds. We lied a little about her weight, as she was actually closer to 170, but she was strong and solid even at that weight. No one in the press, not even the reporter who interviewed her, noticed her name on our list. We treated this as just what it was: a serious attempt to line up talent. Coach Engram insisted
that none of us act as though anything was funny about it. “You are not to joke about this, not now, and sure as shit not when the whole team knows. Nobody is going to joke about this.”

Even
I
saw this as a little bit unrealistic. “You can’t expect folks not to …”

“There will be heavy fines if any member of this team or this coaching staff makes a single joke. You understand?”

“You bet.”

“This thing’s going to be enough of a distraction, without us adding to it. The press is going to have a field day as it is. Not to mention the rest of the league. Until they see this girl throw a ball, we’re going to be everybody’s punch line.”

And we were once things got going. The hoopla that followed her first scrimmage shocked even me.

But before we got to that point, we had to deal with the players—locker room issues, pride, camaraderie, and so on. A football team, see, is a collection of individuals who bond in ways most people never understand. They don’t just call themselves a team, either. You never hear a football player talking about his “team.” It’s always “
football
team.” They never talk about a “game.” It’s always “
football
game.” (Even the announcers do that, which maybe isn’t so surprising since most of them are ex–football players.) And there’s a reason for it. These men suffer; they are tested to the limits of their endurance in circumstances where failure is as crushing, spiritually, as a kind of death. The metaphor of going to war is apt. Because it really is like war with the pain and the struggle, minute by minute, to prevail.

A football team, then, is unlike any other kind of team on earth; it’s a team where sheer effort and collective will can overcome extraordinary odds. You can’t rally any other kind of team to play above its talent, to claw out a win because of sheer emotion and inspired spirit. A baseball team needing to win one game can fall behind by five runs and it’s pretty much over. Oh, they might come back, but when they do it’s usually an accident of pitching, or maybe
somebody commits an error or some other “lucky” circumstance. It’s never truly the will of the team that brings them back. Same thing with hockey or basketball. Only a football team can rise up and with brute strength and unified force
take
a victory away from superior talent.

The offense itself is one team, the defense and special teams units are also separate teams. Each of these groups of men has their own language, their own goals and triumphs, but they work together with the other units to make up the entire
football team
.

And each year, we create a new one of these, made up of some players who remain from last year, as well as some new players acquired over the off-season—free agents or players traded from other teams, rookies from the college draft and rookies that were overlooked in the draft. The chemistry between these men that binds them to each other like comrades in a war, must start in minicamp, and it extends into training camp and beyond. But it is absolutely essential. If it’s missing, even with a ton of talent, a football team can end up having a miserable year.

So we had to begin with the players.

At the first team meeting, Jesse sat with the quarterbacks and me. Coach Engram took a few minutes to welcome everybody, and then introduced her. He didn’t say anything specific about her gender; he simply acknowledged the fact along the way. “This is Jesse Smoke,” he said. “She is an undrafted rookie. A quarterback.”

Most of the men laughed, thinking it was a joke. Others, I could see, had already talked to Darius Exley, Rob Anders, and Dan Wilber. A couple of them made the mistake of whistling.

“That’s enough of that,” Coach Engram said, and it got quiet.

“There’s going to be a lot of hoopla about this,” Engram went on. “But I would like to keep things as low-key as possible. Understand? There will be enough attention when this story breaks. You can talk
about it all you want after that. Until then, I want complete silence on the subject. I also want respect for this young woman and her talent. She is a prospect at quarterback.”

I looked over at Jesse, who was sitting upright, staring straight ahead. Even cut short, as it was now, her hair curled along the side of her face and down the back of her neck. I expected she might flush with embarrassment, knowing all eyes were on her. But she did not seem to be moved.

Again there was a kind of nervous laughter, and the men started whispering to each other. I heard somebody say, “Is he serious?” I also heard the word “dyke.”

Engram must have heard it too. “I won’t have any of that, goddamn it. You hear me?”

Somebody said, “Are you serious, Coach?”

A lot of mumbling ensued, even some muttered curses. “This is bullshit,” I heard somebody say.

Coach Engram looked at me.

Corey Ambrose sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Quarterback,” he said with disgust. He looked at Jesse. “This—this,
girl
.”

“Everybody shut up now,” Coach Engram said.

But Darius Exley didn’t. He was not a shy man, but he almost never spoke, so when he did speak people tended to listen. At the sound of his voice, everybody quieted down, though no one seemed to hear what he said.

Coach Engram said, “Darius, you got something to say?”

“I say she knows how to throw the ball.”

“Doesn’t miss, either,” Rob Anders said, turning slightly to address the rest of them. “We ran some drills with her and she threw me every kind of pass. Short, long, intermediate. You name it. I never even had to break stride.”

“Come on,” Walter Mickens said. “Joke’s over, okay? Who is she?”

“I mean, no way this ain’t against the rules?” somebody said.

Orlando Brown laughed. “We in a fuckin’ movie or somethin’, Coach?”

Dan Wilber stood up now and it got quiet again. Engram nodded his assent, and then Dan spoke. “I’ve seen this girl throw a football, okay? I’ve worked with her, on some of the plays in our playbook. She’s passed to Darius and Rob at full speed. I held nothing back—
nothing
—and neither did they. We played hard.” He paused, looking around the room. Then he said, “She’s the real deal.” He sat down. A few people cleared their throats. Jesse, I could see, was smiling.

As for our other three quarterbacks—Corey Ambrose, Ken Spivey and Jimmy Kelso—and most of the rest of the players, they looked as if, well, as if they’d just watched a
woman
get introduced as a quarterback at an NFL team meeting.

Early practices and drills began rather routinely. To guard against hard feelings, to help Jesse feel comfortable, and to keep a promise I made that first day at Divas practice, I invited Andy Swilling to watch her. I invited Nate, too. He was ecstatic and came with his girlfriend. They were both dressed in Redskins T-shirts and black tennis shoes. Andy came, but was, I felt, very reticent, even distant. I could see he was not going to forgive me for stealing his prize starting quarterback; still, he liked Jesse enough to want to see how she would do and knew it was a good thing for her. Truthfully, I was sort of proud of the guy for being able to see that and for behaving honorably because of it.

Coach Engram’s plan was simple enough—let Jesse out on the field for all the reps and drills, without any comment to the press. In the early sprints she showed she could keep up with just about everybody but a few of the defensive backs and, of course, Darius Exley and Walter Mickens. She came close, in fact, to beating Rob Anders in the first wind sprints, but once he saw that potential he found a
reserve of speed to make damn well sure he outpaced her. He didn’t beat her by much, though. Jesse could run.

In seven-on-seven drills, she excelled, already knowing the playbook inside and out—probably better than Jimmy Kelso, which is saying something. At one point, he dropped back for what he thought was a screen left, and the play was called to the right. Jesse sort of hissed and yelled in one breath, “Right, right, right.” Most of the players heard it. Coach Engram did too, though all he did was look down at his clipboard and make a few notes on it.