by Scott Pratt
“It’s your turn now,” he said to Jarvis.
Jarvis was hesitant. “I don’t know, Billy. Really, I just came to watch. Needed to get away from all the Knoxville hype for a couple hours.”
“I thought you liked hype.”
“I do, but I’ve had enough this week. I’m just ready to play.”
“Sounds like the best receiver in the country has some butterflies.”
“Always. But don’t tell anybody.”
“Right now is a good time to work out some stress on those targets.”
“Guns don’t lower stress for me,” Jarvis said. “The sound reminds me of growing up in the projects. And all these black targets make me nervous.”
“I thought you said you used to be one.”
“Still am.”
The men shared a laugh. Jarvis relented and stepped into the firing stall. He took a deep breath, spread his stance, gripped the pistol with both hands and slowly raised his long arms until they were level with the target.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Three bullet holes above the neck.
“I thought you said you weren’t good with guns,” Billy said.
“I said I didn’t like guns, but I learned how to use them.”
Billy was impressed as Jarvis emptied the magazine and turned to walk away.
“Pretty good shooting,” Billy said. “You know that may come in handy some day. You need to be able to protect yourself. We all do.”
Jarvis stopped and looked Billy in the eye. Suddenly, he was dead serious.
“Is that why you brought me here? Let me tell you something. I’ve always tried to protect myself and the people around me. But I couldn’t protect them all, whether I had a gun or not. I’ve seen enough dying. You know that.”
“Easy now. I’m just concerned about some of the people still in your life. It starts with your mother.”
“What about her?”
“I think getting involved with Sonny Bradley and those guys in New Orleans is a huge mistake. They’re trouble. She seems more interested in getting a cut of the action than doing what’s best for you.”
“I really don’t want her up here this weekend,” Jarvis said. “It’s a distraction I don’t need. At the same time, she’s my mother whether I like it or not. I feel like I should try to make her life better if I can.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying. I just don’t want you to get sucked into something that’s not of your own making.” Billy smiled and punched Jarvis playfully on the shoulder. “You’re a great kid, and a hell of a football player. Show everybody on Saturday.”
“That’s the plan,” Jarvis said as his agent put his earmuffs back on and walked back into the stall.
Chapter Twelve
The game-day setting in Knoxville was unique in the football world, with the dozens of vessels of all shapes and sizes that made up the Vol Navy squeezed together in one massive flotilla along the north bank of the Tennessee River. It was a short walk across Neyland Drive to the heart of the action.
Some of the UT legends, like Peyton Manning and Jason Witten, used to come down and mingle after games. Those were glorious times indeed.
Billy circled the developing scene in his party boat, a sparkling white sixty-footer with Agent Orange painted in a flashy font across the back. The boat was the kind of craft built for the long haul – inboard-outboard drive, spacious sundeck on top, two staterooms and all the amenities down below – and wasn’t bad in the short run either.
After Billy acquired it in a sweet deal with Rachel’s father a couple of years ago, it didn’t take long to figure out that a comfortable thirty-minute ride by water sure beat sitting in his Escalade in the throes of game-day traffic. Now it was a ritual.
Today there were Alabama fans on the river, too, and they were easy to spot. They made sure of that with their little red flags flapping in the breeze.
“I’m already tired of seeing that damn A,” Billy said as he scanned the floating neighborhood for a place to set up shop.
He’d been coming to these games for as long as he could remember, though not in such grand style. His father was a season-ticket holder and they would make the twenty-five-mile drive from Sevierville with his brother, John, year after year. They’d grab a burger down on the Strip, line the Vol Walk to Neyland Stadium, visit the Rock, soak up the rich tradition all along the way. Most of the time the Vols won and they went home happy.
Alabama week always had a special vibe. Fans felt it as soon as they rolled into town.
Franklin Beckett still talked to Billy about his memories of doing battle with Bear Bryant’s teams. He’d speak of sitting behind the end zone and watching the old coach in the checkered houndstooth hat lean on the goalpost during warm-ups, directly in the eye of the storm with his players moving crisply all around him. The UT fans would yell to try to get the Bear’s attention, but the living legend never seemed to notice.
His teams would then go out and pound the ball up and down the field, like an army unleashed.
The Crimson Tide was always tough to beat, and today would be no different, even with Jarvis Thompson wearing the orange. The Vols were a two-touchdown underdog at home.
Billy eased the houseboat into the mix and found a spot to tie off. “Feels like a lucky day,” he said to Rachel.
The Vol Navy was massing along the shore, for better or worse, and he knew many of the regulars. A steady stream of them would cross his deck over the next several hours.
There was a special camaraderie here, forged by the relentless flow of the river and decades of sharing the travails on the football field across the street. Sadly, there had been a lot more bad times than good in recent years. The national championship was a distant memory now, and winning seasons were getting hard to come by. Morale was drifting, even if the tailgating, or sailgating, was as fine as ever.
“So you’re feeling lucky?” Rachel said. “Maybe that’s a good sign.”
“I’m feeling sort of lucky,” Billy said. “It’ll probably last until we get to the stadium and see those crimson helmets, so let me enjoy it while I can.”
Rachel had gotten up early that morning and was already in the spirit of things. Wearing a tight orange top with Vol-uptuous splashed seductively in white sequins across the front, she was working on her second tequila sunrise as she surveyed the festivities.
“Cool scene,” she said. “Too bad the team isn’t as good as the party.”
“Used to be,” Billy said. “A lot of people have already forgotten the championship years. Now it seems like we’re just gluttons for punishment.”
Rachel laughed. “Or just gluttons in general.”
The text messages had been dinging in all morning. Billy’s clients, even the basketball and baseball players, weren’t going to miss an opportunity to dish out some grief in advance on game day.
His phone rang again. It was Darius Stevens, the Kansas City Chiefs safety. Billy had been waiting for that one; Stevens was an Alabama grad and never failed to call and place a little wager on the Tide.
“I’ll give you a touchdown,” he said.
“Give me two and I’ll take it,” Billy said. “For a hundred bucks.”
They settled on twelve points and the agent turned to some quick business.
“I hear Jamal Avery may not be able to go tomorrow,” he said. “That’s a great opportunity for you to get into the lineup and really show your stuff. Play well and they may not be able to get you out. We’ll be in a strong position at the end of the season.”
Most of Billy’s clients could stand to improve their bargaining position. It wasn’t a star-studded group with lots of guaranteed money in their contracts. In fact, only about half were currently starters on their teams, and in the NFL – where players can be cut in the blink of an eye – the work was already tenuous enough.
&n
bsp; Billy turned on the satellite TV, sat back on the couch and popped the top on a cold Heineken.
There was another call, and this one he didn’t want to take. The 850 area code was the Florida panhandle. He knew it was Jarvis’s mother, probably with a new cell number, and that was always bad news.
chapter thirteen
Clarise Thompson had been blessed and cursed. Blessed to have a son like Jarvis, who was strong enough to overcome all odds, and cursed by most everything else in her wretched life.
The prospects of her boy becoming a shining star in the NFL had put the whole mess in a new perspective as he prepared to make the jump. Jarvis was the family’s savior, or at least Clarise’s.
Just hearing that voice again made Billy’s temperature rise.
“Hello, Billy,” she said. “I was just checking to make sure everything is all right up there. Is Jarvis ready to play? What time is the game?”
The fact she didn’t know when the biggest game of the season started came as no surprise to Billy. He didn’t expect much from a pathetic alcoholic whose main concern always was the next drink, or the next hit from a crack pipe. She was alone now, and her addictions had only gotten worse in the years since Jarvis left home. Billy was surprised she even knew what day it was.
“It’s at three-thirty, Clarise, and I’m guessing Jarvis is ready to play. I don’t usually talk to him on the morning of games. I’m sure I’ll see him later. Is there anything else?”
“No, just tell him I called.” And with that she was gone.
She and Billy had never agreed on much of anything when it came to her youngest son. Knowing she had been pushing Jarvis to sign with another agent, right here at the end of his college career, after all Billy had done for the kid, was just a new, contentious chapter in the making.
There was certainly plenty of money at stake all around. The receiver’s four-year rookie contract and a hefty signing bonus could top thirty million dollars, not to mention the potential endorsement revenue. And the income would only grow as Jarvis’s immense talent and personality were put on full display.
Billy knew Sonny Bradley had been in Autumn just a week ago to make his latest pitch to Clarise and was sure a nice payoff had been promised if she could pry her son away. Jarvis had also mentioned that Bradley arrived with flowers, chocolates and a big bottle of Early Times, Clarise’s beverage of choice. The man had done his homework.
Billy trusted his instincts about the family. He knew the days of listening to his mother had largely passed for Jarvis. And the kid never had much of a relationship with his father, who drifted in and out from the start. Last time they spoke about it, Jarvis wasn’t even sure where Charles was. The one thing they all knew was wherever Charles was, trouble was not far behind.
For the most part, Billy was the stabilizing force in Jarvis’s life, and it had been that way for a while.
The agent flipped his phone down beside him on the couch and looked out across the water. Game day in Knoxville. The Vol Navy continued to strengthen and the anticipation built.
“You feeling it?” Billy said.
Rachel looked at him curiously. “Feeling what?”
“Never mind. Let’s get ready to go over to the stadium, visit for a bit with some of our friends. I know they’ll want to see you.”
Now that he knew Clarise wouldn’t be around, Billy could breathe a little easier. Too bad his team couldn’t.
chapter fourteen
It was getting late on the third Saturday in October, and the unexpected drama in Neyland Stadium was gripping the Vols and their legion of rabid fans.
Roll Damn Tide?
Not so fast.
Billy blended into the shimmering sea of orange, taking the occasional sip of Jack Daniel’s from a tarnished flask with a Power T engraved on the side, a relic of his college days. He stared intently through binoculars as he sized up the considerable talent on the field.
Who might be persuaded to come his way?
As always, Jarvis was exceptional. He had already scored two early touchdowns – one that covered fifty-three yards and was ESPN highlight material, and another on a fade where he outmuscled the defensive back in the corner of the checkerboard end zone. He was headed toward double figures in catches.
The Autumn Blaze sure looked like a receiver poised for greatness at the next level. He was carrying his team.
The Vols were up 17-14 and driving again early in the fourth quarter when Jarvis broke free over the middle. Quarterback Stan Holsten hit him in stride and the play went the distance, forty-two yards. UT led by ten and the frenzy grew.
Alabama answered in typical fashion, hammering its way downfield for a short touchdown run by Fred Taylor. Again, the difference was a field goal. If its vaunted defense held, the mighty Crimson Tide could drive for the winning score at the end.
Most in the nervous crowd were certainly bracing for that. A decade of Alabama dominance had a way of shaping expectations.
But it didn’t happen.
Facing a third-and-eight deep in his own territory, Holsten whipped a quick pass in the flat to Jarvis, who juked the first defender and broke toward the sideline. The Alabama safety had the angle, but Jarvis turned on the jets and easily shed the desperate grab at his shoulder pads at the first-down marker. One more quick cut and he was on his way. Eighty yards.
The Vols led again by two scores with just three minutes left, and the roar reverberated through all of college football. Number one was going down in Knoxville.
The huge throng, more than a hundred thousand strong, was deliriously happy. Thousands poured onto the field to celebrate as the clock expired, and Jarvis was quickly engulfed. As teammates paraded him around on their shoulders, the hero pointed up into the pulsating stands. Billy pointed back, for what it was worth.
For the day, Jarvis had twelve catches for two hundred thirty-six yards and four touchdowns, the best game of his career.
Billy took a long swig from his flask, turned to Rachel and shook his head in amazement. The noise was still deafening.
“Rocky Top!” he yelled.
She just smiled and pointed at her top. Voluptuous and, for the moment, a jubilant UT fan.
Reality would set in later for the home team. It was four-and-three on the season and would still have to fight to become bowl eligible. Coach Jack Stratton was still on the hot seat; his job likely hung in the balance of the last five games.
But tonight, with the epic upset in hand, Vol Nation would party hardy.
As an alleged fool who had again dared to take his alma mater and the points, Billy was prepared to buy drinks – lots of drinks – for his Alabama buddies down on the Strip that night. For once he’d be on the receiving end.
In the grand scheme of things, it was just another frenetic football weekend in SEC country, another chance for the agent to make connections and spread the gospel. The league was a fertile proving ground, and the most proven player of all belonged to him.
“Let’s go back down to the river,” Billy said as he shuffled to the exit with Rachel. “We’ll grill that chicken and then hit the town for a little while. It’s gonna be crazy.”
“Are you sure your Tuscaloosa friends will show up?” Rachel said. “I’m guessing they’re taking this kind of hard.”
“Show up? Hell, they better show up and be men about it. We finally won, and I’m thirsty.”
“What about Jarvis?”
“I’m sure he’ll be the center of attention for the next few hours. This is his day, maybe the best day ever for a UT receiver. I don’t know what his plans are, but we’ll touch base with him before we head to the house.”
Billy smiled and took another celebratory sip from the flask.
“Maybe we’ll have some time to ourselves later,” he said. “Right now, let’s just enjoy this.”
chapter fifteen
The End Zone was one of the popular joints along the six-block stretch of Cumberland Avenue known as the Strip, and it was filling up fast with rejoicing UT students. They were a resilient bunch that had learned over the last few years not to let losses get them down for long. No telling what kind of charge a signature win like this would put in them, but the bar’s employees were bracing for a raucous night. The intensity showed on their faces.
Billy used to spend a lot of time here during his college days, between those bursts of academic focus, and he kept coming back. The food and drink were good, and the scenery was always interesting. Football was beaming in from everywhere on the big plasma TVs as he and Rachel sat down for drinks with a couple of the Alabama faithful. The visitors showed up, true to their word, but some others did not. Losing was too great a shock to their systems.
Billy got to know the two men sitting across from him when he was in law school and now saw them out on the SEC trail from time to time while he was scouting various players. He usually dreaded their visits to Knoxville, especially when he was picking up the tab. Not tonight. This was his time to crow – and to drink for free.
“Well, I guess you’re due to stumble into a win against us every decade or so,” said the normally boisterous one in the crimson baseball cap.
“You have to admit, we looked pretty good out there today,” Billy said. “There was no stumbling into anything.”
“I will give you this: Jarvis Thompson is one hell of a player. If there’s a better one out there in college football right now, I don’t know who it is. With those hands and his size, he kind of reminds me of our man Julio Jones. And he’s definitely faster. I’ll be glad to see him playing on Sundays next year.”
“So will I,” Billy said. “So will I.”
“Seems like a pretty classy kid, too. I like the way he handles himself. An agent’s dream, right?”
