by Mark Bowden
“No,” said Antone, without apology or explanation.
An old college buddy called up and asked Antone to buy him a car. Just like that.
Another wanted two hundred dollars.
“Just two hundred dollars,” he pleaded. “What’s two hundred dollars to you?”
What was Antone supposed to say? He couldn’t say he didn’t have it.
“Is it going to be two hundred a week, two hundred a month, or what?” he asked.
“Just two hundred, that’s it.”
Antone asked, with disgust, “If I give you the money, are we still friends? If I don’t give you the money, are we still friends?”
One of his best college friends had a decent entry-level job with an auditing firm in Atlanta, making about $35,000 a year. Antone called him just to say hello.
“You’re big-time now, you’re really big-time now,” the guy kept saying.
“What do you mean?” asked Antone.
“You’re too big to talk to me now.”
Antone knew the guy was just joking, but, in another sense, he wasn’t. It poisoned the whole conversation, introduced an issue that, as far as Antone was concerned, wasn’t even there.
He hardly even calls home anymore. He gave all his brothers and sisters a gift of several thousand dollars when he signed, and now they all come to him for advice, treat him like some kind of father figure—he’s the youngest! He knows that no matter how well they do for the rest of their lives, unless they hit the lottery, they’ll never catch up to him. It’s awkward. When Antone and Carrie vacation in Hawaii in the off-season, should they send a postcard home, or is that rubbing it in their faces? He’s worked hard for his success, harder than most people realize. He feels he’s earned his money. Still, he feels guilty.
But that’s not the worst of it for Antone. What’s worse is what happens out on the field.
The Megapick is thrown in at right tackle his rookie year with the weight of the entire franchise strapped to his broad backside. He’s less a sacrificial offering than a sack pass for the NFL’s left-side rushers, gift-wrapped in an Eagles uniform with the number 78 on his back so that the fans in the stands and at home watching TV can more easily track his travails. The Eagles yield 20.5 sacks to left-side defensive ends and outside linebackers that season, which is almost half the team’s conference-leading total. It’s on-the-job training, complete with stop-action, slow-motion analysis and critical commentary on regional and frequently national TV. These guys he’s trying to block in the NFL are nothing at all like the opponents he faced in the Southeast Conference.
The worst was his fifth game, against Washington, on ABC’s national telecast “Monday Night Football.” Daisy and Milton and all of Antone’s family and friends from Fort Valley, millions of home viewers, including just about everyone he’s ever known, were watching as Barbecue Tony lined up to do battle with Pro Bowl defensive end Charles Mann. And it was the most exorbitant whacking they’ll ever see. In a 23—0 Eagles loss, Antone turned in what just might be the worst performance by a pro player ever documented on network TV.
Boy, did they document it.
On the Eagles’ second offensive series, Antone was called for holding Mann, a loss of five yards. On the next play, Mann just bulled him over backward; Antone hung on as he toppled, pulling Mann over with him, and was called again for holding.
“That’s the daily double for Antone Davis!” said Al Michaels (close-up on frowning Antone).
On the very next play, Mann beat Antone and sacked Jimmy Mac.
“What a start for the rookie!” said Michaels.
“Remember last time how Mann went inside and overpowered him?” explained Dan Dierdorf excitedly (they show the play now again in slo-mo, camera isolated on Antone and Mann). “This time, like all great defensive ends, he goes with a change-up and goes upfield and beats Davis around the corner!”
On the Eagles’ next possession, Antone let Mann blow right past him and chase Jimbo off the field—the quarterback twisted his knee on this play and wound up missing the remainder of this game and the next two (an absence that prompted the quarterback debacle that ultimately doomed the ’91 season).
“Again, Charles Mann just came in unheeded, just unimpeded,” said Dierdorf. “McMahon just had to get out of the pocket. He had no choice.”
(Close-up of Jimbo screaming at Antone and the rest of the offensive line in front of the bench.)
On the next Eagles’ possession, Redskins lineman Fred Stokes sacked replacement quarterback Pat Ryan for another eight-yard loss. Who was the culprit? (Slo-mo replay of Stokes running right past Antone.)
“It’s been a long night already for Antone Davis, the rookie right tackle,” said Dierdorf, chuckling (close-up on a scowling Antone). “Antone Davis just gives him the corner … that’s just poor technique.”
Consider that just one or two big plays on “Monday Night Football,” the one game each week that everybody who watches football sees—most important, other players and coaches from around the league—is enough to elevate a player to stardom. A night like Antone’s, with all the commentary and slo-mo replays? It was enough to destroy his reputation for good.
Out on the field, Mann never said a word to the rookie. Antone had heard coaches in pregame meetings whetting the appetite of a pass rusher matched against an inferior opponent: You’re going to have a field day with this guy. Well, that night Charles Mann was having a field day with him. Throughout, the rookie was haunted by images of his family and friends watching him on TV. His teammates offered him little solace—most of them didn’t like him much or resented his salary. Mann would blow him away, line up for the next play, and blow him away again. Every time Antone jogged back out on the field for a new offensive series, he asked himself, What are you running for? In a hurry to get your ass kicked again?
The second half began with another holding call on the rookie, who had now become the broadcast’s primary subplot.
“Did you see what Antone Davis did to Charles Mann?” asked Dierdorf (slo-mo replay to make sure everybody did). “I mean, we’re dealing with a major league mugging [close-up again on fuming Antone, hands on giant hips]. Antone Davis, the big rookie right tackle, is having an unbelievable tough night.” (Laughter in the booth as they replayed the holding call again.)
“This has to be so frustrating for the rookie first-round draft pick out of Tennessee,” said Michaels, who, you could tell, was starting to feel sorry for Antone.
(Close-up on Charles Mann.)
“We’ve see him physically overwhelm Davis and we’ve seen him beat Davis around the corner,” said Dierdorf.
On the next play, Mann again eluded Antone’s block and nearly sacked Ryan in the end zone for a safety.
“Charles Mann again!” shouted Dierdorf. “The time he went over the top of Antone Davis and almost got the sack!”
(Close-up on confused and angry-looking Antone.)
“Antone, it’ll get better,” said Dierdorf, addressing the pathetic image on the screen. “You’re a rookie and it’s going to take a while.”
On the next series, another holding call.
“I don’t even want to say who that’s on,” said Dierdorf.
“How about a hint,” said Michaels.
(Close-up on distressed Antone, brow knotted inside the gridwork of his face mask.)
“It’s been tough enough,” said Dierdorf.
“That’s why he gets paid the big bucks, right?” said Michaels.
“He got some big bucks. Number-one draft choice. High one at that. Antone Davis continues to learn.”
When the game ended, Antone half expected Mann to search him out on the field and thank him. He figured he’d just helped get the Redskin’s star in the Pro Bowl for the fourth time; the least Mann could do was run out and shake hands.
Then he had to sit through the embarrassing game tapes with his teammates the next day. Antone figured, what was he supposed to do? Cry? Apologize? So instea
d of wilting with shame as the tape replayed his public disgrace, Antone made jokes about it. He used the one about “The least he could have done is come over and shake my hand.” Antone saw it as leading the laughs on himself, but his teammates saw it differently. This was their livelihood on the line here. Why was the rookie laughing? He got his ass kicked on national TV, helped blow an important game, lost Jimmy Mac, maybe the season, and he thought it was funny?
Antone’s sad-sack personality didn’t help either. After the third game of that season—the Eagles had just drummed the Cowboys 24-0, so the boys were feeling pretty good—Antone was in the shower with tattooed, ponytailed Dennis McKnight, a nine-year NFL veteran. Antone sighed and reflected wistfully, “Man, I’m glad I’m not going to have to play as long as you have.”
“What?” asked McKnight, not believing his ears.
“With my bonus and everything, I’m gonna finish out my four years and that’s it,” Antone said. “I ain’t gonna play this damn game for that long.”
“You aren’t going to make it four years with an attitude like that,” said McKnight. It was enough to make a guy pissed off. Not counting the million-dollar bonus, Antone was making about $62,000 per game (McKnight, after his nine seasons, was pulling in about $16,000). The least the fat-ass rookie could do was keep his ennui to himself.
Antone wasn’t about to get any sympathy, partly because of the money thing, partly because of his attitude, but largely because, as his line mates saw it, he refused to work at the game. All of the veterans on the line—Ron Heller, Mike Schad, Dave Alexander, McKnight— put in long hours in the weight room to keep their big bodies from going slack, but not Antone. He whined every week about his knee or elbow or back being too sore. Rob Selby, the team’s third-round draft pick from Auburn, while less visible to the public (he wasn’t a starter), was having just as hard a time playing at the pro level as Antone, but, boy, did Selby ever work at it. He’d be in the weight room early every morning and in the classroom late every evening. Out on the practice field he had a million questions, and he volunteered for every chance to work at his game. When Selby screwed up, in practice or in a game, he got so angry that his round pink face inside his helmet looked as if it were about to blow out the earholes. But Antone didn’t ask questions, and tended to shrug and joke about his failures. Veterans like Ron and Dave had to take extra reps with the scout squad because Antone refused to honor the long tradition of rookies handling the extra practice load. Antone seemed to feel they were dumping the extra load on him because he was black.
“Antone, get in there, you’ve got to take the reps,” Ron would say.
“Why don’t you give a brother a break?”
“Listen, brother, it’s got nothing to do with that. You get your ass in there and pay your dues.”
“No,” Antone would say, and just walk away, as if to say, You think they’re paying me millions to run with the scout team?
When the offensive line coach would remind Antone to take his playbook home for some extra study, the Megapick would snicker.The other linemen could admire Antone’s natural ability, the way he was so light-footed and quick despite that huge frame, but they could also see he was playing like shit. Yet the kid was apparently convinced, what with his millions and megastatus, that all he had to do to get better was show up. And nothing bad that happened to him seemed to disabuse him of that notion. Even after Charles Mann turned him into a human turnstile, he was still impressed with himself!
What they didn’t understand was that laughing about his failures was Antone’s way of coping—he was feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable, so he pretended not to care. But his teammates just saw the smirk. Through his rookie season Antone became more and more isolated and brooding. He had the furtive eyes of a man looking for some way out.
Antone then made things worse. He did what many frustrated and angry pro football players do; he turned on the Pack. And not without reason. From day one they’d been feasting on his hide.
Antone was dubbed the “Tennessee Turnstile” and the “Saloon Door.” One writer suggested he might as well be wearing a “green light as a green helmet.”
After the Redskins game, the Philadelphia Daily News’ sports columnist Bill Conlin wrote, “Antone Davis not only won the ears, tails and an autographed Sonny Jorgensen cocktail napkin last night, the Eagles rookie right offensive tackle has been invited to lead next year’s running of the bulls in Pamplona.”
Assessing Davis’s performance later that year and returning to the bull theme, Conlin gibed, “When confronted with the NFC East’s premier pass rushers, the mammoth rookie right tackle should have been issued a red cape … nah, cancel that. It would have been too tough to hold and execute a Veronica at the same time.”
Philadelphia Inquirer writer Ron Reid noted pointedly (and correctly) after one atrocious outing that “Antone Davis allowed more sacks than Herschel Walker had yards.”
After that particular preseason game, Antone strode right into the den of the beast, the pressroom in West Chester, and asked the Eagles’ PR director, Ron Howard, to show him his press clippings— something players never did. It was considered bad form ever to admit that you had read a newspaper article, although there wasn’t a player on the team unaware of the smallest slight in the lowest paragraphs in the sports pages of even the most obscure tabloid. With the Pack quietly working away on deadlines at desks around the room’s perimeter, the sounds of their laptop computers madly clicking, Antone plopped his leviathan bulk onto a worn sofa and silently tortured himself with the neatly stapled stack of notices, the ones with all the clever nicknames, and afterward harrumphed that he would henceforth not be responding to questions from the press.
It made matters worse. Shutting up seemed a natural and intelligent reflex, but in dealing with the Pack, as Antone would learn, it was a tactical error. So long as a player was still stopping to answer questions, the Pack had an incentive to accord him at least a measure of decency. But when he stopped talking—screw him.
A TV reporter stopped Antone the next day as he emerged from the cafeteria.
“Antone, you got a second?”
“No, I don’t,” the big tackle said. “I’m not talking.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t have anything to say right now.”
“Well, you talked last year and you didn’t have anything to say then.”
But the Saints game, game one of Antone’s second season, ends on an up note, that acrobatic game-saving block to spring Byars. Never mind that the rest of the game has been the usual string of embarrassments. The Saints’ superb pass rushers, Rickey Jackson and Wayne Martin, had spun the big tackle every which way.
Antone ends the game responsible for three of the six times the Saints sacked Randall. After the game, he sits brooding before his locker enveloped in a dark cloud. At this point, no one dares disturb him. He can just picture what horrific press clippings this new season will bring.
Only, in the next day’s newspaper, Antone is the hero! One headline actually reads:
DAVIS & CO. GET IT DONE!
Antone is shocked. He had a horrible game. One nice block at the end of a dismal outing, and he’s suddenly point man for the whole team?
“There you have it,” says one of his coaches. “Proof positive the assholes don’t know what they’re talking about.”
ANDRE WATERS’S ordinarily robust spirits are even gustier than usual after the opening win. He had made a diving interception, a wonderfully good sign, interceptions being serendipitous enough to be considered acts of God. Andre remembers the long dry spell of ’90 when he was being tested or had somehow fallen out of divine favor and not one pass fell into his hands.
“Hey, Eric, who’d I say was gonna get the first interception?” he asks Eric Allen in the next locker.
“Eeeh,” groans Eric, who returned to the locker room just three days before the game with his $1.3 million contract in hand, the last piece of Bud’s de
fensive puzzle to fall in place. His teammates had clapped and cheered on his return, feeling fully invincible once more, chanting, “Hammer time! Hammer time!”
“See? Y’all didn’t believe me!” says Andre. “I tol’ y’all I was gettin’ the first interception and y’all be laughin’ at me.”
“That’ll be your only one, too,” teases Eric.
“Y’all be jus’ laughin’ at me.”
Andre is the last of his teammates to have seen Jerome alive. They had gone jet-skiing in Tampa. Jerome had a souped-up wave runner that could go faster than everybody else’s, of course, and he would take off on the thing without a flotation vest—of course. Andre’s last vivid memory of his friend was watching him wipe out spectacularly in the bay, his mammoth black body spread-eagle, flying through the air, head over keester, and then having a moment of panic remembering that Jerome wasn’t wearing a vest—only to see his wide grin pop up and hear his high-pitched laugh come rolling out across the water.
“J’rome, man, you get hurt, you messin’ with my money!” Andre scolded him.
Weeks later Jerome was dead, and that joking concern for his importance to their chances (and wallets) was real. Shaking his head now, pulling off gear before his locker, shouting to be heard in the din, Andre offers an impromptu, heartfelt State of the Team Address to stray members of the Pack:
“I think that everybody thought that last year the defense was a hoax, and that, especially now with the loss of Jerome Brown, we wouldn’t be the same. We might not finish one across-the-board, but I guarantee you, if we continue to play the way we been playin’, we can finish near the top. … I mean, we wanted to get this game, we wanted to get the first one, we want to get to the Super Bowl, you know? We dedicate this season … first, all of these people in here, dedicate everything they do to the Good Lord up above. Secondly, Jerome. We want to take them one at a time. We got one down, we got fifteen more to go. We want to go all the way to Pasadena and win it all for Jerome, you know? I know he’s somewhere up there smiling. Maybe he got that first down for us when we needed it.”
