Flea Flicker

by David Chill

  “Always,” I agreed. “So, are you going to keep me standing on your doorstep Fili, or do I get an invite inside?”

  “In,” he said, moving his enormous body aside for me to pass by.

  Fili Snuka was a Samoan kid I had helped recruit out of nearby Lomita, a blue-collar suburb in the nearby South Bay. Fili got injured on the first day of fall practice his freshman year, tore up his knee and sat out the season. That happened to be my last season in coaching, but I still followed his career. He rehabbed from the injury and went on to star for the next two years, playing defensive tackle. He always struck me as mean as a junkyard dog on the football field, but sweet as pie off of it.

  “How’s the knee holding up?” I asked.

  “Good as new,” he smiled. “No problems.”

  “You got lucky,” I told him, tossing a crumpled can of Bud Light off of a gray vinyl couch and gingerly sitting down. “I got the same injury right after my senior year. They didn’t have the procedures back then to fix it quickly. You were up and getting strong again within a month.”

  “I know. Life must have been tough way back in your day.”

  I gave Fili a playful punch on the shoulder. I don’t think he felt it, but my knuckles started to tingle a bit.

  “So, look,” I said. “You know I have a new career now. Private investigator.”

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “I heard. That’s great.”

  “It has its moments.”

  “Okay. What are you investigating?”

  “Well,” I said slowly, looking across a living room filled with a hodge-podge of magazines, dirty sweatshirts, footballs, and four cases of Gatorade stacked up. A 60” flat screen was hung on the wall. “I’m actually looking into you guys. The incident.”

  “Oh,” he replied, leaning back as his face grew serious. “Yeah. I guess about what happened here. That guy who broke in.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. Me and a couple of the guys came home from practice and we hear a weird noise in Patrick’s room. So we go in there. We see some dude trying to crawl out the window, we grab him by the belt and yank him back in. We pin him down and see he’s got a bag with a bunch of our stuff in it. Laptops, a Blu-Ray player, couple of rings. Guy had Patrick’s ring from winning the state championship when he was in high school. We searched his pockets and he had some cash. We took that back, too.”

  “Was it yours?”

  “Could have been,” he shrugged.

  I didn’t like hearing that. Cash was something you could rarely pin on a burglary suspect. There was no good way to prove the money didn’t belong to the burglar. The irony here was that removing the money from the burglar’s pockets could be construed as a felony as well.

  “And what happened next? I take it you didn’t call 9-1-1.”

  “Nope. We have our own rules for thieves.”

  “Your own rules?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Kind of. Somebody takes something of ours, we take something of theirs. And then a little more, you know. Just to show them crime don’t pay.”

  “Uh, where did you get this, Fili? Doesn’t sound like any Samoan law I’ve ever heard of. Or anyone else’s law, either.”

  “Rule of the house,” he said. “We sort of made it up as we went.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Go on.”

  “That’s pretty much it. We roughed him up a little and then threw him into the street.”

  “Roughed him up a little? How little?”

  “Smacked him around. Hey, Coach B, you’re not going to the police with this? You haven’t turned into a rat, have you?”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “No, Fili. I’m not going to the police. I’m still part of the Trojan family. You know the saying, you’re a Bruin for four years and a Trojan for life. But that’s not why. The cops wouldn’t take my word over the word of five USC football players who have friends in high places. And I understand the police have talked to you.”

  “Yeah, that dope went to the cops. At first they laughed it off, a burglary suspect claiming assault. But then he talked to a reporter. The media posted something, but it got buried quick. You’re right about friends in high places. The police came by and took a report, though.”

  “And you told them … ?”

  “Pretty much what I told you. Except for the rule of the house.”

  “And when they asked how the guy got assaulted?”

  Fili shrugged again. “We said he started fighting with us once we caught him. We were just defending ourselves, trying to get our stuff back. Hey why is this a big deal to you?”

  “My client,” I said, “is a high-profile agent. He thinks the NFL may get wind of this.”

  “Shit,” Fili said.

  His face started looking concerned, and he had every right to be nervous. The league has a different set of rules than the rest of the world. And there are no legal processes to go through, no opportunities for a well-connected SC alum to help fix things. The league is judge, jury, and executioner. If a player gets suspended, he can appeal the decision, but unfortunately, in the NFL, the people ruling on appeals are the same ones handing down the initial punishment. It’s not fair, but the league never implied it was.

  “The NFL is tired of players getting into trouble. They want the players to have a better image, that the teams aren’t just employing a bunch of thugs.”

  “That’s bad,” he said. “I’m planning to go pro after the Rose Bowl. Trying to get things lined up.”

  I looked at him. “You’re technically a redshirt sophomore. You’ve got two more years of eligibility. You can leave school now, but it’s not always the best plan. Even if nothing comes of these allegations, you may have a tough road to go down. If you’re not a high draft pick, pro teams aren’t going to give you a long look.”

  Fili nodded. “Yeah. But my parents could use the money. Dad’s been sick. Out of work for a while. My uncle’s a paralegal, he’s going to represent me.”

  “Why your uncle?” I asked.

  “Don’t know anyone else. But he says he knows all about contracts and stuff. Good to keep it in the family. He’s got my best interests at heart.”

  I didn’t want to tell Fili that family was the worst possible representation he could have, short of hiring a rapper to be his agent. There have been countless stories of kids being swindled by family members who come off as well-meaning, but had their own interests lurking beneath the surface. In too many cases, the player is seen as a cash machine for someone looking to take advantage of an unsuspecting kid, barely out of his teens. And while there are some well-meaning family members who sincerely want what’s best for the kid, they’re not professional sports agents. They often get swamped by the process, negotiating bad deals, or not prepping the player for what’s in store when he’s evaluated at the Combine, or the rigors of an NFL training camp.

  “Okay. Look, you need to think this through. Not just about whether you should go pro, but everything. Does your uncle have a plan for you? Does he have an idea when you’ll probably be drafted? How much money you should ask for up front, guaranteed money, signing bonuses. Not to mention where you might fit in best, and how to present yourself when teams interview you. All of that is bigger than you might imagine. If that’s even what you should be doing now.”

  “I don’t know. It seems as if you can make money, you might as well do it. Football careers are short.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “All too well. What about Patrick? Is he going pro?”

  “Maybe. He’s getting a lot of pressure from agents. They say this is the year for quarterbacks. Lots of teams are looking for good young talent right now. Patrick’s one of the best. Maybe even the best player overall. If he waits a year, he might miss out on all the gold.”

  “You think he’s ready? You play with him every day in practice.”

  “Not sure,” Fili admitted. “There are times he can pull rabbits out of a hat. Make plays when nothing’s
there. He’s got this gift, man. He can create stuff on the fly. Know what I mean?”

  I knew, indeed. Patrick could quickly process the whole scene of constantly moving pieces and fit things together in an instant. He could find the one open receiver on a crowded field. And he had the physical gifts to scramble around until the precise moment he needed to release the ball. On top of that, he could usually put the ball in a receiver’s hands without breaking their stride.

  “I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ that’s going to start your next sentence,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “But his head may not be in the game.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t love football. I mean, it’s not like he hates it or anything. To him it’s just something fun to do. There are times, though, when I think he’d rather be surfing or snowboarding or something else. That seems to be his passion. Too bad. Those sports don’t pay much.”

  “What do you think Patrick’s going to do?”

  “Don’t know. Patrick says he’ll decide after the Rose Bowl. Talk it over with his family. But it’s not like they have any more insight. His dad’s a carpenter and his mom’s an artist. They don’t know a lot about the game. I think they’re a little shocked at all the attention he’s been getting. He was on the cover of Sports Illustrated last month. When you’re a first-year starter, that’s a huge deal. Heck, it’s a huge deal for anyone.”

  “Is Patrick here now? Can I talk to him.”

  “Nah. He’s probably in class. Or with his girlfriend. He spends a lot of his time with her.”

  “Okay,” I said, and then I asked him the bulls-eye question. “What was Patrick’s involvement in that incident here?”

  Fili paused for a moment. “Like I told the cops. We were all here. Just protecting what’s ours.”

  Chapter 7

  I checked my voice mail as I walked back to my Pathfinder. There was a brief message from Cliff Roper, who managed to be both demanding and condescending in the five seconds it took him to admonish me for not solving his problem, and for taking my sweet time about calling him with an update. Since I didn’t have anything to tell him, I didn’t bother calling him back. Another call had come in from a number I didn’t recognize, but the prefix told me it was from El Segundo. It turned out to be Anthony Riddleman of the Chargers, returning my call. I phoned him right back and he agreed to meet for lunch. When your team has missed the playoffs and lost more games than it’s won, no one cares if you take an hour or two off in the middle of the day. Especially if it’s on what is supposedly your day off.

  In the NFL there are some basic scheduling rules. The team stays in a hotel on Saturday night, even if the Sunday game is at home. On Monday, the team comes in for meetings and players get treatment for injuries, which most of them have, especially by the tail end of the season. Tuesday is the day off, Wednesday and Thursday are for breaking down game film, and engaging in full scrimmages. Friday and Saturday are lighter practices. The only exception for this is that coaches normally don’t take Tuesdays off. Big-time coaching is a 24-7 business, and it’s not for everyone. I continued to feel good that I hadn’t followed Johnny Cleary to Chicago to help him coach the Bears.

  I met Anthony Riddleman at Paul Martin’s, an elegant restaurant along Rosecrans in the South Bay. This was a redeveloped corridor of El Segundo that was far removed from where the Chargers’ middle school practice field stood. A long strip of commercial real estate had been constructed a few years ago, with business parks and twenty-story office buildings cutting through a swath of what once was a sleepy venue. Before all the development, most people just used Rosecrans to navigate into the much nicer Manhattan Beach. Along Rosecrans, several cheap, run-down strip malls had now evolved into plush, upscale strip malls. The liquor stores, barbers and check cashing services were all gone, replaced by high-end bakeries, trendy grocery stores, and an Old Navy.

  The hostess led me to Anthony Riddleman’s table, where he was already seated and working his iPhone. He motioned me to sit and I sat. After a few wordless minutes, he completed whatever important text he was composing and looked up.

  “You must be Burnside,” he said, reaching over and shaking my hand.

  “I am, indeed. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “No problem. Hannah told me she had hired you this weekend when Tyler didn’t make it home. Terrible thing. I couldn’t have been more shocked when the police arrested him. Just stunning. Never in a million years could I have ever thought something like this would happen.”

  Anthony Riddleman was in his mid-thirties, slim, with a receding blond hairline. He wore a blue golf shirt and shorts, even though it was barely 55 degrees outside. This was not uncommon for people who grew up in warm-weather climates. Even when the temperature plummeted, there was almost a sense of stubborn denial. Whether they were in Florida or California, their attire fit what the climate ought to be, not necessarily what it was.

  “You’ve known Tyler since Miami,” I started.

  “Yeah, college. We were teammates, technically competing for the same job, but for backup QB. Miami was loaded a few years ago. Tyler and I were both good quarterbacks, but neither of us was a great QB. That’s what it took to be a starter there. At least back in the day.”

  “You guys became friends.”

  “More like drinking buddies,” he laughed. “I used to tell Ty we had the greatest gig in the world. Free tuition, full ride, get to play football with our friends every day during the fall, and we had the best seats in the house to watch big-time college games. But he didn’t take sitting on the bench very well.”

  “And you did?” I asked a little suspiciously. At elite programs like Miami, the coaches liked to recruit players who lived to compete. Coaches want to create an atmosphere where everyone is pushed toward their limit, to give a full-throttle performance, knowing if they slack off there’s a guy right behind them on the depth chart who is more than eager to move up.

  “Look, I was a pretty good high school quarterback. Grew up in Boca. Great place, South Florida. I got offered by Miami. Dream come true, right? But the first day of practice, I saw this other QB and knew I couldn’t play at his level. Our starter, Chris Lacava, he could throw the ball farther than I could, and it got there a half-second faster.”

  “Tough to go through that. But you had to know, even back then, there’s more to playing quarterback than just arm strength.”

  “Sure. But Chris had the whole package: big arm, accuracy, speed. Was a bright guy, too. I could have transferred to a smaller school and played, but hey, I had a good deal at Miami. And I made the most of it. I studied Chris hard, saw what it took for him to be great. Best way to become a future coach is to watch good players, break down a lot of film, carry the clipboard during games, and see how the coaches call what plays when.”

  “Smart. That what Tyler did, too?” I asked.

  “Eventually. He was frustrated at first. Thought he should have gotten more of a shot at starting. Couldn’t see the bigger picture, but he’s a hyper-competitive guy. Likes to win at everything. He’d even beat his daughter at Candyland. I had to remind him you’re supposed to let your kids win when they’re little.”

  I absently looked across the restaurant. What Anthony described was not uncommon with athletes. Coaches in youth leagues would channel their inner Vince Lombardi and teach kids that awful bromide, that winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing. I once had a middle school coach tell me that losing was worse than death because you had to live with being a loser. There were clearly some very ignorant people involved in youth coaching, and it took years for me to unlearn some of their more grotesque lessons.

  “And what happened with Tyler?” I asked. “I’m aware of the drinking, but you know the reality, coaching is a pressure cooker and a lot of coaches drink. And there are high-functioning alcoholics in many fields. Tyler was only with the Chargers for one season. Most coaches get at least a couple of years to prove themselv
es.”

  “Do you know much about science?” he asked. “Study it in college?”

  I shook my head. I was much more interested in subjects like Psychology and English. My knowledge of real science was sorely limited, topping out when I was fifteen, getting the adolescent thrill of slipping a pack of Mentos into a two-liter bottle of Coke, stepping back, and watching it explode. For me, science didn’t get any better than that.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “Why?”

  “Pretty simple law of physics. For every action there’s a reaction. It’s like gravity. What goes up must come down. What goes up fast, comes down faster.”

  “You’re talking about Tyler’s career trajectory.”

  “Yup,” he said. “The boy wonder of coaching football. He was 29 when he became the youngest coach in NFL history. Pretty sure he was the youngest coach to get fired, too.”

  “High risk, high reward. But most people only think about the thrill of victory, not picking up the pieces if you fail,” I said, and then I thought of something. “How come that didn’t happen to you? You’re still there.”

  Riddleman smiled. “I pace myself. I know my limitations. I want to be a head coach one day, but I want to be ready for it. I also didn’t have the opportunities Tyler had. Helped that his father was a coach and paved the way. But Tyler jumped at every opportunity, and he moved up the coaching ladder fast. Too fast. He wasn’t ready to handle the intangibles. Like coaching NFL players who were actually older than he was. And they knew more about how to play their position. That’s a tough one. Tyler struggled having to coach older players.”

  “Okay. You’re a young coach. How do you do work effectively with grizzled veterans?” I asked.

  “I don’t try and be their superior, I let the guys know I’m there to help them. It’s a little manipulative, but it works. Look, I’m two years older than our starting quarterback, so I’m not about to tell Ray Streams how to throw a football. But I can point out tendencies he has, like sometimes he locks onto a cornerback for a split second too long when he’s backpedaling. Telegraphs where the play’s going. I treat Ray as an equal, and he responds to it. Tyler had to act like the big boss. Didn’t fly.”