by Gare Joyce
32
* * *
I called our team doctor in L.A. He had served in his role for the last decade and worked with four general managers. He joked that his work was evenly divided between the GMs’ ulcer maintenance and the players’ STDs. There was a kernel of truth in that.
I told him I had a bunch of questions that would take a few minutes, maybe half an hour. I asked him if there was a good time to talk. He told me to call him back at 6 P.M., West Coast time. He was on the back nine at Torrey Pines and should be home in time for dinner.
I called at the appointed hour. He picked up on the first ring. I filled him in on what I knew of Mays’s medical history. The sequence of the mono, the shoulder injury, and relapse. I told him that I didn’t have Mays’s charts but I’d ask Ollie Buckhold for copies of them, routine stuff with top draftees. He was probably making copies already anyway.
“A relapse from mono isn’t the usual thing we see. Lingering effects of it, sure. The likelihood is that he played with it for a while before he was diagnosed and he came back too early, which exacerbated the effects. Shutting him down for more than a couple of months seems a little extreme, but I guess they might want to err on the side of caution the second time out. And with the shoulder injury, again, I could see them saying that even minimal risks of reinjury in the short term weren’t worth it.”
I told him the facts as Mays had laid them out. He gave me the thumbnail read of them.
The vitamins? “No vitamin treatment for mono other than taking the usual multivitamin.”
Samples? “Lots of companies give out samples to specialists, but vitamins to a cardiologist, I can’t see it. He’d be given something a lot closer to his practice, if anything at all.”
Three times a day with one pill and then one pill a day for the duration? “Loading of a drug is standard treatment with a lot of meds. It’s common enough with antibiotics, though not for a week and indefinitely thereafter. It’s the protocol with other drugs, too. I’ve never heard of it with vitamins, but there’s a lot of quackery out there and unfortunately many in the medical profession aren’t immune.”
Feeling lousy after loading them but better later on? “Never heard of it with vitamins, but as I said, I don’t subscribe to alternative-health holistic journals, such as they are. If he was taking eye of newt or St. John’s wort or something, maybe he did have a reaction.”
Treadmill test? “Reasonable measure to take as a precaution if he was reporting shortness of breath.”
Imaging? “Well, that’s a little more extreme but again, as a precaution, if the technology is available and you’re not worried about incurring cost, sure.”
Seeing a cardiologist in Peterborough rather than a GP in Toronto? “A GP should be able to handle a case of mono. That’s the sort of thing a GP is for. I can’t diagnose motives but I would guess that his family might have been unhappy with their GP … maybe he missed the mono symptoms in the first place.”
Our team physician’s bedside manner is a beatific calm, something that a golf pro walks with through life off the course. He comes by it honestly. He’s a four handicap.
33
* * *
A chill blew over my relationship with Hunts. He didn’t call for a few days after the combine. My calls went straight to voicemail. I messaged him about setting up a meeting with the Mayses. No reply. I went into our database and posted my impressions of the interview with Mays but left out the medical stuff we’d discussed. Normally Hunts would be on the phone to me five minutes after he read it. Nothing.
I hadn’t read the papers for days. I went to my bookmarks of the columnists and beat writers at the L.A. papers and the silent treatment started to make sense: The drumbeat had started for a new GM in L.A. Everyone in the media was taking it up. Everyone was speculating about candidates and, yeah, Grant Tomlin’s name was always in the mix, placed there, no doubt, by Grant Tomlin.
If it was just stress, Hunts would be on the phone to me. It wasn’t just stress. No, to his mind it was betrayal. He thought I was out there talking to other teams, trying to line up another job in case he got axed. He might have thought that I already had a handshake deal in place with another team. That sort of thing is done all the time all around the league. I had thought about looking around, but anyone in my position would. Hunts wasn’t thinking that I had considered it. He thought I had already booked my ticket out of Dodge.
Maybe he heard a bad rumour or someone was yanking his chain. Maybe he thought that the private interview with Mays at the combine was so out of the ordinary that it meant something was up. It wasn’t something that we were ever going to discuss. We were going to get over it by not talking about it.
34
* * *
A week after the combine there was a knock at the door. I presumed it was Sandy. She was the only one who would know my ritual comings and goings. It wasn’t. It was a large Italian gentleman dressed like he was going to a wedding or a funeral.
“Brad, Mr. Visicale has sent me to pick you up for a meeting.”
“I’m supposed to …”
“It’s very important to Mr. Visicale that you see him today.” Mr. Visicale was going to get his way. I suppose he always does. I went along peacefully.
CASA VISICALE WAS a spread that was once owned by Jack Kent Cooke. It looked like it had been decorated by a guy from Little Italy who’d worked in construction. That was exactly what Mr. Visicale used to do before he enjoyed his business success and others suffered from it. The major differences between his childhood home and his million-dollar crib were: (a) Those were originals, not copies, on the wall; and (b) The plastic was off the sofa and people were allowed to sit in the living room.
It was the only house on Old Post Road where families used a basement kitchen and ate there on a Formica table. The large gentleman who had knocked on my door took me downstairs, where we found Mr. Visicale sitting at that table with a cold espresso and a copy of Corriere Canadese.
“Take a seat, Brad,” Mr. Visicale said, putting his tiny cup back on its saucer.
I had been given no more details on the ride up. The driver volunteered only what he’d told me at my door: His employer wanted to see me.
“Brad, I’m gonna be upfront,” Visicale said. “I’m gonna buy this Peterborough team. Not a matter of if I can. It’s gonna get done.”
I wasn’t about to express any opposition. I didn’t want to say that I didn’t give a shit what he did. And I didn’t want to ask why he cared to let me in on this. He probably figured these out, though.
“I’ll be direct,” he said. “It’s my nature. I’m a businessman and I’ve done well because I get good people and treat them honourably …”
He looked over at the 250 pounds of prosciutto standing to his right and nodded.
“… and I want you to come work for me.”
“As what” came to mind but not to my tongue.
“I had my son here pick you up on the recommendation of Nick Gucciarde.”
Two things again came to mind: (a) His son had put on a lot of weight since he played for Windsor a few years back and was almost unrecognizable behind the sunglasses he wore, even in the basement. (b) Gooch owed me no favours from that season we spent together in Hershey near the end and hadn’t done me any by putting in a good word with the continually investigated, often charged, but never convicted Visicale, who lists his occupation as plumber. Gooch had gone on from a career as Hershey’s stone-handed winger to coach in the juniors and minor pro leagues. Only at this point was I putting it together that at every stop along the way Gooch happened to coach one of the Visicale boys. I was getting an idea that this wasn’t exactly a coincidence but the by-product of a few guys getting their doors knocked.
“Brad, I’d like to bring you in as coach in Peterborough when I take control of the team. Nick will be general manager and he said that you were someone he could work with. I’m not interested in someone who has coached a team in the O. I
think they have a way of doing business and I have mine. There’s usually no getting people to change and that’s even more true of junior coaches. Nick understands how I like to do things, and he thinks you would be great for a team that I want to be the best junior franchise in Canada. It will be the best.”
Anything less than certainty didn’t last any longer than a breath for Don Visicale.
“I’m under contract to L.A., Mr. Visicale.”
True as far as it went. I was under contract to scout for the team until July 1. That’s when scouts’ deals expire. Some get two-year deals, some even longer. I wasn’t lucky on that count. Hunts could give me only a year. It came down from upstairs.
“I’m sure the team will understand,” he said.
“I don’t know that they’d stand in my way. And, of course, I might get fired. Happens.”
“Yes, shit does happen, Brad. I heard all about the situation in L.A. And you might be looking for work. I come to you with something that you should take into consideration. I think you could do better with our company than you would in L.A., unless you have aspirations to coach or be a general manager with one of the big clubs. And I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that one day we will buy one of those franchises. In that event you and Nick would, of course, be strongly considered for top roles.”
“Mr. Visicale, I promise you that I will think about it. I’m a loyal type of guy, a team guy, and my boss is not just my boss but an old teammate and maybe my closest friend. I can’t walk out on him right now with the draft coming like Christmas.”
“I respect that. I think we could become friends. Good friends.” The son nodded. I took that as a cue that I should nod too. “Anyone going into the Peterborough job has a tough act to follow. What were you planning to do if Coach Hanratty were still around?”
“He’s not.”
“He didn’t want the team sold. He had a pretty good gig there.”
“He was a fool, to tell you the truth. It’s one thing to remember the past and another thing to live in it.”
“How did he feel about the franchise being sold?”
I played dumb. It was easy. I knew he had said the sale would be made over his dead body, a tragically and almost comically prophetic statement.
“He told me that he thought his coaching days were about over,” he said. “He told me he was interested in staying on in some sort of smaller capacity, something suitable for his age. In a word, Brad, I bought him. He was not in my way.”
I wasn’t for sale, at least not yet. On the drive home I kept trying to come up with a way to extricate myself from this jam. The son finally piped up.
“I think you’d be good in that old coach’s place,” he said.
He was probably talking about the place behind the Peterborough bench. Of course, the place might be the spot in the parking lot if things ever went sideways in any friendship with Don Visicale.
35
* * *
I messaged William Mays Sr. and asked to come out to their spread. Wednesday. Tuesday Junior had an appointment up in Peterborough. Senior would send a car for me. I was going to insist on driving myself but reconsidered. I couldn’t imagine pulling up in the Mays driveway and parking the Rusty Beemer next to the Lamborghini or vintage Porsche or one of the other collectors’ rides. There’s only so much humbling I can stand and I don’t actively seek it out.
The driver walked me to the door. He punched in the security code. Before going inside, I took a quick look around the grounds. A security camera above the front door. Cameras high up in the corners of the courtyard. There were more cameras and angles of the action than you’d find in the arena for game seven of the Cup finals. I’m sure the coach house was converted into some sort of production studio. The driver walked me into the foyer. While we waited for my host, I looked for more discreetly positioned cameras. When I saw one near the top of the spiral staircase I gave a little wave. Should have brought my Hi Mom! sign.
“Great to see you, Brad,” Senior said. He handed me a copy of The Seven Keys of Turning Maybes into Wills™. He’d inscribed it: “To Brad, Let Key #8 for L.A. be Billy.” Cute. Junior wore number eight for Peterborough. William Sr. had scrawled his name at the bottom of the title page and all I could make out was a stretched-out M.
“Come on with me,” he said. He struck me as a guy who liked to walk people through his house with a commentary like a museum guide. He talked up his collection of artwork. I feigned interest. He talked about buying the paintings at auctions and dropped dollar signs in there. This meant nothing to me but explained the presence of the security cameras.
I followed him out to his backyard. He stretched back on a chaise lounge. I sat up at the foot of mine, feeling like I could have used something with a hard back. My ass was too low, my knees were at a tight angle, and Arthur said hello.
“I think your son is a great player,” I said. “Don’t get me wrong. I can see him being a major player in the league for a long time …”
“Cigar?”
“No thanks. But the thing is, I don’t like seeing kids in the league at eighteen. It’s too young for anyone except the ones who are really physically mature. If we draft Billy, I can see him coming to our training camp but going back to Peterborough for one more season before coming up to the big club. We’re looking at signing Billy in June or July after next season.”
“I think Billy will play for you next year.”
Too typical. After thousands of drives to the arenas with their kids’ hockey bags in the trunk, after thousands of hours standing in arenas where their coffees go bone cold in ten minutes, parents start thinking in millions when their kids are a step or two away from the league.
“If he didn’t miss as many games as he did this year, I might agree with you. But I think he needs to be thicker through the shoulders and lower body. The contact he’s going to see in the league, it’s different from what he’s ever experienced. We don’t want to put him in a position where he’s in danger of getting really injured.”
“Brad, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I’m going to manage …”
The Oh No Moment in Bad Hockey Parenting was upon us. “… Billy’s career using the same principles that I’ve put into play with my own enterprises. Start with a Vision, one of the Seven Keys. Everything starts with a vision, and a vision starts with knowledge and imagination …”
My vision was escape as soon as possible, safe in the knowledge that the Franchise Prospect had the ultimate Father Who Tests a General Manager’s Soul.
“… What we have to look at is who Billy will be, not who he was this season or is today, but who he will be. I know Billy, in some ways better than I know myself. That’s the knowledge that I possess and I alone. The imagination is to see things as they may be. That’s the theme in Seven Keys™. Maybes to Will Bes.
And you must act upon things as they may be to make them come to fruition. The team that drafts Billy is not drafting Billy for what he has done but who he will be. That’s a big difference. After we sign …”
My aching head, he was in the dreaded First-Person Plural. “… with the team that drafts Billy, he’ll go to training camp and he will make the roster and he will be a contender for the Rookie of the Year.”
His son hadn’t played a game in the league and already this guy was trying to find a place to hang his son’s plaque at the Hall of Fame. I tried to jump in. I shouldn’t have bothered.
“I think a team would have to see Billy perform in training camp before they would have a vision with a contract in it. Unless he makes the team coming out of training camp, a team would probably hold off doing a contract at least until next winter.”
Fire, meet gasoline.
“Brad, I don’t mean to sound didactic, but the fact is Billy will be offered a contract this summer, he will go to training camp, he will play on the top two lines of the team that drafts him and signs him. That’s our vision. And part of the Seven Keys™ is Eliminatin
g Obstacles. We’ll eliminate any team that does not intend or in fact commit to negotiating a contract in good faith with Billy this summer. I want to make that clear to you. And another of the Seven Keys™ is Achieving Opportunity and Minimizing Risk …”
I was going to ask if those should be two Keys but bit my lip. “Training camp with a contract is an opportunity. Training camp without a contract is a significant risk. We’re not intending Billy to go to a training camp without a contract in his hands. I want you and your team to understand that we are unequivocal in our position. We think it would be best for all involved that we’re dealing with a team that shares our vision and commits to eliminating obstacles and minimizing risk.”
Senior went through five more chapters of the Seven Keys™ as they were going to apply to Junior’s career. I drifted off. I looked over at a cast-iron statue by the pool. Something along the lines of Rodin. It captured a young man holding a scroll. I tried to have a vision of Junior holding a contract drawn up by L.A. lawyers. I figured there was a better chance of the kid in the statue autographing the scroll than there was of Billy Mays signing a contract with us this summer.
36
* * *
I got a call from Harley Hackenbush. He had my number from the call I made about old man Mays’s days in P’boro.
Hackenbush said he was on the junior beat again. Temporarily, I guess. The kid who was covering the team was having back surgery and would be stretched out for at least a couple of months. Hackenbush had to write up a story on the likelihood of Mays going in the top five of the draft and the possibility that he’d play in the league at age eighteen rather than heading back for another year of junior.
“The l-ll-league’s gain would be our l-ll-loss,” Hackenbush said.
