The Franchise

by Patrick Jones

  What was wrong with Frank?

  FIVE

  August 16 (Thursday p.m.)

  “But why give a higher score to a guy who sacks a quarterback based on the number of defensive backs?” asked Frank while I punched in numbers.

  “If I’ve got fewer men on the defensive line, then the guy who sacks the QB is golden. It’s all about strategy based on probability.”

  I typed away. A moment later, I hit the enter key. “A sack with two defensive backs, in the current season, the odds are 1 in 40. With three defensive backs, 1 in 180, and throw in another D-back, now we’re talking 1 in 320. That’s why he gets a higher score in my system. I’ll bet he sacks more QBs than BK does fries any given Sunday.”

  Frank laughed, but I didn’t join in. I was too tired. It was almost five o’clock. We’d been at it more than four hours, but Frank looked as though he could go on like this for days.

  Roxanne joined us on the porch, carrying a small box. It wasn’t leftovers, because there weren’t any: Frank and I had done serious damage to the chicken. “Dad, why did you order more?”

  When Frank saw the box, he sprinted toward it like a loose ball. He reached for it, but she held on, staring him down. Frank wrenched it from her hands.

  “Waynan, you never let me down!” shouted Frank, smiling as he held the box.

  “Dad, you know how much I hate this,” said Roxanne. Whatever was in the box obviously upset her.

  Frank placed a big hand on her shoulder. “Honey, it’ll be okay.”

  “It’s not the answer.” Roxanne turned her back and walked away. Before hitting the door, she yelled over her shoulder. “Latrell, let’s get out of here. I’ll show you the town.”

  I don’t know why, but whatever happened on the porch between Roxanne and her dad kept me from being shy around her. I guess I’d figured anyone with a dad in the NFL got the smooth ride, but I was getting the sense her life was anything but.

  I packed my gear and thanked Frank for the meal, and Roxanne and I took off in the clunker.

  Roxanne was quiet. She drove while I surfed the radio and watched the scenery.

  After a while, she drove by a beach and outdoor park packed with people. In the park, a group of people surrounded folks dressed as clowns. Some clowns juggled; one breathed fire. I had to speak up. “Man, you put a firebreathin’ clown in my neighborhood, and either the cops or the gangs would be on him so fast.”

  That did it. Roxanne laughed so hard, I thought she might get into an accident. She pulled into the nearest parking space so we could watch.

  I didn’t know where to go in the conversation, so I waited for her to speak.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she cried.

  I had to say something. “What’s the matter? Was it the box?”

  “It’s not just the box, it’s everything. It is so hard.” She wiped her eyes and started talking really fast about her dad and his forgetfulness. “He had so many hits to the head and concussions throughout his career, the doctor says his brain is damaged.” I remembered helping him find his glasses. But I’d also spent four incredible hours with him, talking about stats and my system. How damaged could it be?

  “He seemed fine on the porch.”

  “The doctor said if something interests him, he’s okay, and football’s been his life.” She wiped her eyes. “I drive because he always gets lost. He rarely sleeps. He has no short-term memory. He’s on good behavior now, but his mood is all over the place. I could go on.”

  “Then what was in the box?” I asked.

  “They’re pills that he says help him. He gets them from Waynan, a former player who sends them to players all over the country.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked.

  “But the pills won’t help,” said Roxanne. “The brain damage is permanent.”

  I thought for a moment. “Maybe the team can help, the Stars. Or the Ravens. I bet if Mr. Milliken knew—”

  “They know, but they don’t care.” Roxanne looked at me. She reached over to touch my face and smiled. “You really are just an intern.”

  Her long fingers lingered on my skin even as she made fun of me.

  “The team is a lot like my dad,” Roxanne said, now all serious.

  “How’s that?”

  She looked away from me. “Both have no short-term memory.”

  SIX

  August 20 (Monday)

  “Latrell Baker?” I raised my hand, my black hand in the sea of white guys that was the internship class at Excaliber Academy. The teacher, Mr. Casey, a white guy with a blond soul patch and thick, wire-rim glasses, continued with announcements.

  “On Mondays and Fridays, you’ll normally work full-time in your internships,” said Mr. Casey. “The other days, you’ll attend regular classes. You’ll all be in the same class, unless you’re being tutored.” I ducked my head. I was going to get to know the academy tutors pretty well. My grades were like the slope of a mountain: all As in math at the top, Ds in everything else at the bottom.

  “Today, you’ll each give a brief presentation on your internship,” Mr. Casey explained. “From time to time, you’ll be asked to give us an update, and in mid-October, you’ll bring in someone from your work assignment to speak to the class. Everyone understand?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Now, let’s begin. We’ll go alphabetically, starting with Rashem Albert. Mr. Albert?”

  One of the few other black kids stood up. He stared at the floor, coughed, and stared down again, like he was afraid the floor would move. Rashem talked like his audience was the white tiles beneath him.

  “Mr. Albert, please come to the front of the class, and speak up!” Mr. Casey said. “These are you peers. You have nothing to fear. This is a great opportunity to practice your presentation skills.”

  “Sorry,” Rashem mumbled, then walked slowly to the front of the class. I could tell that, like me, he felt odd wearing the uniform—blue slacks, white shirt, and red sweater.

  Rashem started to talk, but I tuned him out as I thought about what I would say. Would I say how I really felt? I work for a terrible football team and for a guy who doesn’t listen to me. The only guy who will listen loses the hat on his head, and I feel like a charity case. Or would I lie and say everything was fine?

  “Latrell Baker.” It was just like Rashem and I were in the movies, sending the two brothers out to die first.

  I walked slowly to the front of the room, my hands in my pockets to hide that they were shaking.

  “I’m Latrell Baker, from DC, and my internship is with the L.A. Stars football team and—”

  Immediately, words like “wow,” “cool,” “great,” and “dang” bounced around the room

  “Do you get to meet the players?” someone asked.

  “Do you go to practices and watch films and all that stuff?” asked another.

  The questions came at me fast like a blitz.

  When I sat down, I felt like I’d passed some test.

  SEVEN

  August 30 (Thursday) Final Preseason Game

  “What was that?!!!” Schultz stomped his feet like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum. He shouted at two guys on the field who pretended not to hear him: a defensive back and safety who were supposed to guard a league-leading receiver for the Seahawks. During the play, the two had pulled right as though headed to a barbecue on the Seahawks’ sideline. Meanwhile, the receiver pulled left, caught the pass, and took twenty untouched strides for a TD.

  One touchdown might not mean much, but that was number six for Seattle. All we had on the board was a field goal from the Stars’ kicker, whose name I couldn’t pronounce.

  I’d watched the first half from the GM box, but Milliken let me watch from the sideline during the second. I stood far away from the action: hands in my pockets, laptop in my backpack, and my good ideas buried like a sacked quarterback.

  After a middle linebacker, Johnson, missed a tackle, Schultz screamed at F
rank. Frank stood, taking the verbal hits like he used to take the physical hits. Schultz tossed his clipboard at Frank’s feet. For a second, the two former teammates stared at each other the way they once did opposing linemen.

  “I started my first business in high school.” Milliken stood in the middle of the locker room, which had gone graveyard quiet. He’d asked me to attend what he said would be a motivational speech to the team. It was my first time in the players’ sanctuary.

  I stood in back, next to Frank. His arms were crossed, and his eyes had this almost blank stare. If they’d used my system, we’d be eating cake or celebrating however teams celebrate. Instead, Milliken was chewing out the team.

  “I sold that business, made enough to put me through law school. Hard work, dedication, and a vision, that’s what it takes!” Milliken raised his voice, but he never really shouted. “I didn’t see any of that on the field today. You’re not earning your salaries. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t tear up your contracts, send you to the unemployment office, and pick up fifty-three new guys for opening day!”

  The room went stone silent. Head Coach Allen said nothing. Finally, Schultz walked up and took over while Milliken carried his angry stare to the locker room door. “Guys, we’ve got work to do and not much time left,” Schultz said softly.

  Then Maxwell, the offensive coordinator, rallied the troops, followed by Allen. So far in the preseason, Allen had spent most of his time talking to the press, but not to players.

  I looked at Milliken. He had Frank fixed with a hard stare, which was unusual. From what I observed, everyone ignored Frank but me.

  Milliken then started for the hallway, motioning me to follow. As I did, I felt nervous. The closer we got to the season, the less time he had for me. He didn’t care about my system, or about me. I was dead weight. Or so I thought.

  In the empty hallway, Milliken poked my chest. “You’ve got a new assignment: Frank. Latrell, your job is to see he doesn’t embarrass us.”

  I shook my head slowly, trying to show I took this first real assignment seriously. “How do I do that?”

  Milliken turned his back and answered his phone, but not my question.

  EIGHT

  September 3 (Monday)

  Roxanne picked me up in the clunker. I told her I wanted to help out with the meal, but I didn’t say a thing about Milliken telling me to look after her dad.

  When we stopped at a store, she said they needed soda and paper plates. I spent my last ten dollars, hoping Mom would send money at the end of the week.

  “Dad really likes you,” Roxanne said as she drove to her house. “How many times did the two of you talk on the phone this weekend?”

  “I lost count.” It was pushing it, but I said it anyway. While my specialty was defense, I knew advancing the ball meant you had to take chances. “Well, I really like your dad—and his daughter.”

  She smiled and gave my hand a quick squeeze. It wasn’t much, but given my track record with girls, it felt like I’d made ten touchdowns in row.

  It was a repeat of my last trip to Frank’s home. Once dinner was over, Roxanne went inside while Frank and I talked football on the back porch.

  “The linebackers aren’t blitzing at the right time or in the right places,” I said. I’d given up explaining my system to him because he kept asking the same questions. I needed to somehow make it simpler. “It’s not all Schultz’s fault. Johnson’s too slow to react and too—”

  Frank interrupted. “Listen, don’t say anything bad about Johnson. He’s like a son to me.”

  I paused for a moment. Just the other day, I’d heard Milliken on the phone, talking about trading Johnson. Frank saw the team as a family; Milliken saw dollar signs and bottom lines.

  “If you have video from the last game, I can show you how my system works,” I said.

  Frank liked the idea. Not as much as me, though. I knew the only way to review plays was in the living room, the same room where Roxanne sat.

  I followed Frank into the living room, then put in the DVD. Frank took a seat in a big lounge chair, leaving only the couch. I smiled before sitting down next to Roxanne.

  After the opening kickoff, I paused the video while Frank reviewed the first play. “Look at their offensive line. It’s obvious they’re gonna rush, probably a sweep to the strong side. But we were set up for the pass play,” he said.

  I showed him my laptop, which predicted the same play. “The only problem with my system is that it doesn’t work if the offense chooses unexpected plays—or if nobody listens.”

  Frank glanced at the laptop. “There’s another problem. There are endless variations in defensive positioning, some so subtle that someone who never played—like yourself—couldn’t imagine. It could be as simple as the position of the center’s foot, and no computer knows that.”

  I wasn’t insulted. Instead, I was intrigued. “Can you show me?”

  Frank looked around for something to write on. He went to the kitchen and came back with a stack of the paper plates and a pen he used to sign autographs. He set up a TV tray and drew the play like he’d been doing it since birth. He held the plate up. “That’s how everyone should have been positioned. That’s a winning defense, the Franchise Foley way.”

  I glanced at Roxanne, and she gave me a look I’d rarely seen from her. A smile, big and beautiful. Frank’s expression was different, too, not one of confusion, but of total concentration.

  Within an hour, there were maybe a dozen paper plates on the floor.

  Two hours later, thirty plates with amazing NFL plays were strewn about the living room.

  At midnight, there were so many plates on the floor you couldn’t see carpet.

  It was late. Roxanne still had to drive me to the dorm.

  In the clunker, she spoke. “You’re good for my dad.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I hope so.”

  “That’s why I like you.” She squeezed my hand again. I felt a rush.

  Part of me wanted to kiss her, but I thought she might shy away, thought she might play the Franchise Foley school of defense.

  I thought I knew football, but Frank had taught me I still had a lot to learn. And I’d be happy to visit his house and sit on the couch with his daughter as often as he asked.

  NINE

  September 4 (Tuesday)

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Milliken?” I asked. He hardly ever called me to his office alone, so I figured I must have screwed up. But then I’d been given so little to do, it wasn’t like there was much I could screw up.

  “Sit down, Latrell.” I did as I was told. He stood, sighed, looked at his phone. “Do you know how many kids would kill for the opportunity you’ve been given?”

  I wanted to tell him I wasn’t given anything, I earned it, but I let it go. “I know people in class are jealous.”

  “Then why did I hear that you disrespected your internship in class today?”

  I shrunk in my chair. “I didn’t mean anything by it. We have to give updates every once in a while, and I just told everyone I hadn’t done much.”

  Head shake, phone look, and a sigh. “If you have a problem, you come to me. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” I let the chair swallow me. “If you give me a chance to show you my—”

  “Here’s what I want—” he started, but stopped as soon as his phone rang. A minute later he began again. “Your model is all about predicting the right moves based on what’s happened in the past, so I have another assignment for you.”

  I sat up. “This game is the perfect matchup for us with their weak running attack—” I began.

  I got the headshake-phone-stare-and-sigh combo platter. “Not that, Latrell. I want to you gather data from other teams, crunch the numbers, then tell me how we should respond.”

  “Okay, I won’t let you down. But I know defense best, and with Frank’s help, I could—”

  “Research the concessions for each team. Find out what they charge for things li
ke beer, hot dogs, and nachos, and then tell me what we should charge,” Milliken said. “Then, find out if there’s a connection between concession profits and team wins. My guess is that when teams are losing, the fans eat and drink more to distract them. Can you do this for me?”

  I was in shock. I’d left my home to come to L.A. to research the price of beer and nachos. Worse, I knew he had to have marketing and sales people in the organization who already did this crap. He was giving me busywork. There were about a hundred things I wanted to scream, but only two words left my lips, the ones I knew Milliken wanted to hear. “Yes, sir.”

  TEN

  September 9 (Sunday) Phoenix Cardinals

  “They should’ve blitzed on second and ten against this team,” I whispered, but even if I shouted, Milliken wouldn’t have heard. He was carrying on three conversations, none with me. One in person with his head scout in the booth, one over the phone, and one with someone on the sidelines. And he was tweeting the game live.

  Milliken pushed the scout to one side. “You watch college football, Latrell?” he asked.

  “Not much.” I lowered my laptop screen. One window ran defense. The other calculated the price point for fans who ordered extra jalapenos on their nachos.

  “Next week, I want you to watch the Ohio State–Michigan State game. Watch it with Frank.”

  “I can definitely do that.” Frank was an All-American from Michigan State.

  “I’d like to ditch Johnson and his long-term contract, and both teams have linebackers I’d like to draft next year,” he continued. It was the first time I’d had Milliken’s full attention, probably because of the carnage on the field behind him. Over his shoulder, I saw the score change: another six, make it seven, for the Cardinals. “Henderson here, my head scout,” he said, pointing, “he likes the Buckeye kid, but I hear good things about the MSU kid.”