The Franchise Page 4
I killed time by loading data from yesterday’s victory over the Ravens into my model. Next week’s team, the Lions, was also coming off a big victory, so interest in the game was huge.
After I loaded the data, I ran my model. If Schultz, through Frank, used my defense like he had against the Ravens, we’d destroy the Lions. They might beat us on first down, which was hardest to predict, but we’d shut them down on second and third. For the first time, we felt like the right word. I no longer felt like an outsider.
When the phone finally did ring, I jumped. It wasn’t Milliken. It was Kevin, my roommate. “Congrats on the big win,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said with a new pride in my voice. “You know I lived it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kevin.
After he promised not to tell a soul, I’d told him everything—about the confrontation in the weight room, about Frank and I calling the defensive plays. Like me, he was at his internship. Like him, I was finally making a real contribution.
“The first opportunity was to get the internship, but the second was to succeed,” I said. “It’s only one game, but I proved to them my system works. Data matters.”
“Well, if you ever get tired of grown men bashing each other’s brains in, we could use your smarts over here. We’re making lighter, tougher armor for soldiers.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen, because as we keep winning, they’ll show loyalty to me and tell people what I—”
Kevin laughed, too loud for something that wasn’t meant as a joke. “Seriously?”
“Seriously what?”
Another bolt of lightning laughter from him; another jolt of thunder anger from me.
“Latrell, do you seriously think they’re going to let anyone know that a seventeen-year-old kid is secretly running the defense? We’re interns. We’re unpaid and invisible, especially you.”
“I’m sure Milliken will—” But then I stopped in midsentence. Was I exiled from Milliken’s office because I’d succeeded?
I flipped on the TV that displayed four cameras from around the stadium. In one corner of the screen, Allen sat with reporters huddled all around. Frank was nowhere in sight.
Kevin and I talked until the call came from Milliken.
I hustled into his office. He sat behind his desk, smoking a cigar. I coughed.
“You wanted to see me?”
On the wall of his office were five TVs: three set to local stations, one to Fox, the other to ESPN. He didn’t say a word to me, but on the TVs his voice boomed like a conquering general’s. I stood still, almost at attention, like a soldier. A loyal, lowly foot soldier. A pawn.
He stared at the TVs, smoked, smiled like he meant it, and listened to his own voice.
Finally, I spoke. “I have the matchups for Sunday’s game.”
“Good.” He flashed that fake smile, but the angry frown on my face was real.
“It’s not fair,” I mumbled as I pointed at his image on the TV screens, taking credit for the Stars’ win.
“You’re right, Latrell. It’s not fair. But we can’t have some math-whiz-kid sideshow story. It’d be a distraction.” He sucked smoke into his lungs, held it for a moment, then said, “It’s not what’s best for Latrell. It’s what’s best for the team.”
SEVENTEEN
October 2 (Tuesday)
Roxanne placed the cake on the table. It was a three-layer cake made from scratch. The top layers leaned like a short, wide tower about to fall.
“A lopsided cake for a lopsided victory,” laughed Frank.
“Now, Dad, you know what happens when you make fun of the cook?” asked Roxanne.
Frank looked at me and laughed that big, booming laugh of his. “You starve!”
“That’s right,” said Roxanne. “Now, eat up. It’s red velvet. Your favorite.”
Frank handed me the knife. “You do the honors, Latrell. It was your victory more than anyone else’s.”
I was glad my system got recognition, if only from Frank. My system had stopped the Raven’s offense, just as I knew it would. It placed their defense on the field too much, and the Stars’ offense took advantage. I slid the knife into the pink frosting. “Thanks for the honors. I just wish you and I got credit for it.”
“That’s not gonna happen, son,” he said.
I made a mental note. It was the first time he’d called me “son.” I liked it.
“When a team wins, all eyes should be on the players,” Frank said. “But in L.A., the only stars are the ones in suits. Allen’s crap as a coach, except when he listens to his coordinators.”
“We’ll take the Lions on Sunday. With back-to-back wins, folks will catch on.”
Frank took a bite of cake. “You really think they care?”
“They gotta care some,” I said. After I said it, I doubted myself. “Don’t they?”
Frank dug out another forkful of cake. “When I went to Milliken after the doctor told me about my head injury, they first told me I couldn’t blame it on football. Then they told me I should have played smarter on the field and not hit so much.”
I looked over at Roxanne. She pushed the cake with her fork, but she wasn’t eating. “Did you know that?” I asked.
“I do now,” she said. “All Dad wanted was to be better than anyone else on the field.” She looked up at me. “And look where it got him.”
Frank went for another slice of cake as the wheels in my mind turned. I’d help Schultz on Sunday, give him the best defensive calls, and we’d crush the Lions’ offense.
It dawned on me then. The system that brought me here—my numbers, charts, percentages—could spell success, just like it did in last week. But in the process, I’d be the one making more players like Frank. Football was a head-crunching machine, and I’d become a cog.
EIGHTEEN
October 7 (Sunday) Detroit Lions
Stars Stadium was half-full when players from both teams came out for warm-ups. Even at half capacity, the noise was deafening.
Frank surveyed the crowd, a huge grin on his face.
“This is what you were talking about, right? The roar of the crowd?” I asked.
“When you do something that makes sixty thousand people cheer, there’s nothing like it.”
“Well, I’m hoping for another win today.”
Frank focused on the field. He kicked the dirt. “Schultz doesn’t trust you or me.”
“But the Lions’ offense is so predictable. If he’ll just listen to me—”
“He’s in a tough spot. He wants to win, but he’s got his pride,” said Frank. “Once you lose that, you’ve lost it all.”
The second half was pure good news. The Stars’ defense shut down the Lions’ attack in all but two plays. In the first play, Schultz called an outside linebacker blitz against the model’s recommendation. The Lions saw it coming, called an audible, and a short, five-yard flare led to a seventy-five-yard sprint to the end zone. Then the Lions made a bizarre call in a situation that called for a handoff to the fullback, but they faked it and threw a long pass for a second TD. Trouble was, my model only predicted logical play-calling, but humans—even football coaches and players—were not always logical.
The Lions were scoreless in the second half. The Stars’ D kept them to under a hundred yards combined. The offense did enough to give the defense a lead to hold. As the last seconds ticked down, the crowd roared.
“Congratulations, Latrell. You succeeded at this assignment,” Milliken said.
I expected a handshake but got a hard slap on the back instead.
NINETEEN
October 12 (Friday)
“Latrell, the Stars are like a family, and families sometimes need to keep things secret,” Milliken said as I followed him into a large conference room. Schultz and two white guys in suits sat at the table.
Milliken continued. “We’re going to tell some people in the office about your system, but nobody outside can know. I mean, if another team found out, they’d tr
y to take you away from us, and we’d lose our edge. And in football, you need every edge you can get.”
Schultz added, “Or worse, you could become a distraction to the players. Who knows what would happen if they found out a kid was calling the plays?”
“I understand. I just want the chance to prove myself,” I said.
“You will.” Milliken pointed at the two guys in suits. “So, let me introduce you to Bill Palmer, our head stat guy, and Steve Snider, in charge of IT.”
I shook their hands.
“Now, all of your data is on a laptop—” Milliken started.
“That’s not secure or fast enough,” Snider interrupted.
“I know you’ve got good data, but I have access to more of it,” said Palmer.
“So during the game, you’ll relay the defensive setup call—” Milliken said.
It was Schultz’s turn to interrupt. “You mean his suggested call.”
Milliken flashed the fake smile. “You, Bill, and Steve will be a team. I want them to work with you. In a sense, they’ll be your interns. Teach them the ins and outs of your system. When the season’s over, we’ll see that you get credit.”
“I don’t know if I can wait four more months,” I said.
“Four months?” Snider asked.
I held the room’s attention like I owned it. “Right, four months,” I said. “The Super Bowl isn’t until February.”
TWENTY
October 14 (Sunday) Denver Broncos
“Congratulations, Latrell!” Milliken shouted as the final seconds ticked off the clock. Another Stars victory and another defensive shutout. Although the Broncos had scored two touchdowns—one a punt return and another on a fumble—the only time they’d mounted sustained drives was when Schultz ignored my system.
“I have to admit, I didn’t believe it, but down after down, you predicted right,” Palmer said. In reviewing my model before the game, he’d expressed his doubt. But unlike Schultz, who was old-school, Palmer believed in stats.
“I have to get to the press room for interviews, but before I do—” Milliken took out his wallet and handed me five twenty-dollar bills. “You have a girlfriend, Latrell?”
I blushed, nodded, looked away, but said nothing.
“Why don’t you take her out tonight and—” He stopped talking when something on TV grabbed his attention. He grabbed the remote, unmuted the TV, and we all watched. The sideline reporter had his mic in front of Frank, who smiled into the camera.
“As linebacker coach, your guys made some key plays today, Frank. Tell us—”
“Get him off the TV, now!” Milliken shouted into his phone. As loud as he yelled, I’m sure they could’ve heard him all the way down on the field. “Do it now, or you’re fired!”
I stared at the screen. I remembered Frank’s interviews back when he was a player. I thought he earned the nickname “Franchise” because he had such command on the field. But now his expression was almost like that of a child. Frank talked, but wasn’t making a lot of sense.
“Frank,” the interviewer insisted, “I think what you’re saying—”
Schultz entered the screen, wrapped his arm around Frank, and whispered something.
“Frank’s not feeling well today,” Schultz then told the interviewer. “I’ll take questions in the press room.”
I turned back to say something to Milliken, but his chair was empty.
After he reached the press room, Milliken called to tell me not to leave and to continue to explain my system to Palmer and Snider. I went over the data with them as best as I could as Milliken, Allen, and even Smackdown Schultz beamed for the cameras on the TV behind us. After an hour, as a hundred dollars burned a hole in my pocket and thoughts of Roxanne smoked in my brain, Milliken returned. He took one step into the room and motioned for Palmer and Snider to join him. The three of them huddled briefly, then Milliken sat with me at the table as Palmer and Snider closed the door behind them.
“So, you wanted an internship in the GM’s office? You thought you’d get to meet players, deal with agents, all that fun, exciting stuff, right?” Milliken asked.
Before I could answer, he started again. “This is a hard game, and I’m not talking about how hard it is on the field. Players take their hits, but what I do up here hurts just as much.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Maybe a computer can call plays, but winning teams need leadership on the field and from this room.”
I needed more information. “What are you trying to say?”
He took a seat in the big chair that overlooked the field. He poured another drink and lit a victory cigar.
“You’re going to learn leadership through action.” Milliken sipped his drink and blew out smoke. “Before our next game, I need you to help me fire Frank.”
My jaw dropped.
Milliken continued, “I know you’ve gotten friendly with his daughter.”
I started to talk but he cut me off.
“Just listen. The way I figure, if you can convince her to tell her dad he’s got to quit for his health, she’ll listen. We can make this whole thing go away without any damage to the organization. Without any embarrassment.”
“But Mr. Milliken I can’t—”
“Enough. You can, Latrell. If you’ve proved anything in the last few weeks, you’ve proved you can be very persuasive. Get this done, and you’ll find my gratitude is well worth having.”
TWENTY-ONE
October 17 (Wednesday)
As we searched for a parking space, the clunker gave off a loud boom that echoed off the buildings on campus. I ducked in the seat from embarrassment while Frank pumped his fist in the air. “We’re here!” he shouted. That’s what I liked best about Frank. He kept it real, didn’t mask the truth or cover things up.
And while Milliken was making me choose between the Stars and the Foleys, I didn’t need an algorithm to know what was best for me.
The class assignment for the day was to bring someone from where we worked to speak to the class. I chose the one person I respected most.
Roxanne and I entered the class first. Everyone went silent when they saw Roxanne. Then came Frank. With shoulders that went on forever, he turned sideways to get through the door. I think he was pretty proud of the fact, too. He looked back at the doorway, laughed, then turned to class, stomped his big foot forward, and growled. It was classic Frank. If folks only knew what a teddy bear he truly was.
Mr. Casey jumped up from his desk. “Well, Latrell, I see you brought your internship guests for the day.” He seemed impressed and maybe little afraid.
“This is Franchise Foley,” I said, “and this is his daughter, Roxanne. She’s here to watch, really. Frank’s my guest.”
When I said Frank’s name, a couple of guys clapped. I knew that filled Frank’s heart.
Roxanne took a seat in the back of the room, but finding a seat for Frank was another matter. He tried one of the classroom chairs but was just too big for it. That’s when Mr. Casey took the seat from behind his desk and wheeled it over. “Here, take mine.”
With Frank seated in front of the class, I spoke. “Of course, you all know my internship has been with the L.A. Stars.” I thought for a moment. “First and foremost, the Stars are a business, so I don’t want you to think it’s been all glamorous and whatnot. In fact, the most I’ve learned about the game of football, I learned from this man here.”
Frank leaned forward and held his hand up, showing everyone his Super Bowl rings. “You know how hard you have to work to get one of these?” he asked. “Daily workouts. Endless film sessions. Living in the weight room. I’ve played football for so long, I can’t even remember it all. But there’s a reason for that.”
Frank paused. I looked at Roxanne. She sat at a desk, her chin in her palm.
“You see, I can’t remember much at all anymore,” Frank confessed in a hushed tone.
I looked at the students. They seemed puzzled.
Most every student nodded.
“I’ve had so many concussions, I’ve taken so many hits, the doctors say my brain has these small holes in it.” Frank held up his big hands and formed circles with his fingers. “They told me the name of the disease, but I can’t even remember that!” He laughed aloud.
I’d had no idea Frank was going to say this. I looked over at Mr. Casey. He looked as puzzled as I did.
Frank leaned in toward the students like he’d done against the offensive line for seventeen years. “If you love football, just remember me. You want to keep playing? Just know there are risks. But I guess that’s true of whatever you do. Follow your dreams, make smart choices, and don’t give up the best part of yourself, because if you do—”
The room grew silent for the longest time. I looked at Roxanne. She had pulled a tissue from her purse and was wiping her eyes. Frank also looked at his daughter. “If you do, those dreams might turn into nightmares for the people you love.”
I put my hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Thank you, Frank.” I started to clap. Then, the teacher clapped, and the clapping grew louder as other students joined in. Then, everyone stood, and the clapping grew even louder. Once again, Frank had earned the respect and the roar of the crowd.
TWENTY-TWO
October 17 (Wednesday p.m.)
“Latrell, I’m very disappointed.” Milliken sat at his desk. I stood in front of him. I guess this was what an old-fashioned firing squad was like, except I hadn’t been blindfolded first. “Not only did you not help with Frank like I told you to, but taking him to class was inappropriate. Taking him to class so he could talk publicly about his health problems was insane.”
“Why did you ask me to help fire him?”
Milliken scowled. “I didn’t ask you, I told you. Failing to do so is insubordination, which is a fireable offense. I might have let it slide, but to take him to class and subject him to the humiliation—”