by BILL BARTON
The call came at 2:37 a.m. Rosella heard her niece's hysterical voice on the other end of the line, giving her a jumble of information: Bruce was hurt bad, almost killed. A police officer had come by their apartment, making his rounds, and driven them to County Hospital. She was calling from the emergency room, and come fast, Bruce was bad.
It took some coaxing on Rosella's part to get Sabrina to turn in her boyfriend as they sat in the emergency room waiting for the doctors to put the finishing touches on repairing the damage to Bruce.
"I tried to protect him," Sabrina kept repeating, but it was unclear whom she was trying to protect until she had calmed down enough to tell Rosella, Dewayne, and the police officer what had happened. Her effort to keep Bruce from attacking her boyfriend had saved Tyler the pain of a blow from the bat, but had brought unholy destruction upon her brother, something she thought she could prevent if she had just kept Tyler out of Bruce's range. But Tyler had proven too formidable.
The judge's head tilted back against his chair, signaling that if he had to listen much longer, he would have to take a nap. He listened to Bonita make her final plea to keep custody of her children, but he had witnessed too much harm under her care. Her drug addiction had impaired her ability to be a mother, and to listen to her own children testify to that fact was a knife in his own heart.
From his place on the bench, he could view the plaintiff's mother constantly wipe the flow of tears from her eyes, while the father's eyes were vacant, looking away at anything other than the scene before him. He did not blame them for their conflicting reactions as they listened to the demoralizing history of a lost branch of their family that reappeared without warning to overwhelm them.
He observed Rosella's distraught face as she dug her nails into Dewayne's hand, and held onto Sabrina's arm with her other hand. Her husband had his free arm draped over her nephew's shoulder, his fingers lightly tapping the bare skin between Bruce's shirtsleeve and the cast that went from his wrist to above the elbow.
He watched Bruce, who kept his eyes focused on the images of baseball bats he had doodled onto this new cast. The healing for the rest of his wounds-the fractured skull, the busted eardrum, the concussion, the black eyes, the one broken rib, and numerous bruises-had accelerated because of his youth.
As the story unfolded, the judge acknowledged the one benefit to come from this painful mayhem. Bruce had played the role of protector and removed the evil that had leached into his family. Tyler would spend the rest of his life as a juvenile behind bars, wearing a wardrobe of orange and not given the rehabilitation opportunities to become a productive member of society until he turned eighteen.
The judge kept his poker-face expression through Bonita's impassioned arguments and promises to reform. How many times had he seen a family united in this way by one member's destructive behavior? He could not recount the number of times this type of case had appeared before his bench, and he was thankful that this time he did not have to separate the children or place them in foster care. He would see them removed from a squalid and dangerous environment and given the care and protection they had never received. He was impatient to pronounce his verdict.
He brought down his gavel with a hard snap of his wrist. The ruling was final. Bonita would go to a court-ordered rehab program, and after six months, if she proved a model citizen, showed a consistently drug-free bloodstream, and gained some level of steady employment, he might consider reuniting her with her children.
But Bonita did not make a good first impression on the judge with the new beginning he had offered. Instead of thanking his Honor for the prospect of redemption, she castigated him for separating her from her children, accusing him of practicing the evils of slavery. Then she turned on her family, condemning them all to eternal damnation.
The judge did not hesitate. The restraining order was instantaneous, and it took two bailiffs to hustle her out of the courtroom. When the sound of Bonita's curses became a faint echo, the judge stood behind his bench and dismissed the court. He looked at the family and whispered brief words of encouragement before disappearing into his chambers.
The judge had concurred with Franklin and Joella that they should take the children to their home and try to establish some level of normalcy. They would regroup after a few days and figure out where they would go from here.
Dewayne and Rosella followed her parents back to their home in the Hollywood Hills.
"They have no idea where they're going, do they?" Dewayne said.
Rosella had to smile at the culture shock that awaited her niece and nephew.
"Maybe now is the time we ought to be more intentional with those kids"
"What are you saying?" Rosella asked.
"I don't know. What am I saying? It scares me to think about it ... us just starting out, making our own family."
Dewayne patted Rosella's belly, and she held his hand there for its soothing touch.
"Once I'm drafted, we'll get settled in that city, and maybe we can get a big house. I don't know what we'd have to do legally, but..."
Rosella reached over and touched her husband's lips with her fingers. The man she loved never ceased to amaze her.
"We'll talk to the kids. See what they think."
The only two people in the green room not talking on cell phones and BlackBerrys were Dewayne and Rosella. The conversants paced the room, wildly gesticulating, enveloping the couple in a forest of bizarre creatures and technological sound. They sat at a table for two, eating brunch from the mounds of food provided for this elite group of college football players and their agents for the first day of the draft. Rosella's appetite was beginning to return, although she ate at a snail's pace, allowing time for each bite to register whether it would dissolve into nutrition or create havoc.
Sly passed by their table as he worked his phone and poked at Dewayne or stole a piece of fruit off his plate. Once he even kissed the unsuspecting Rosella on her cheek, then dodged the swipe of her fork as he continued without pause his latest fast-talking with whatever general manager from whatever NFL team he was conversing with at the time.
Since the combines, the discussions with agents had been polite and short, but the interviews with representatives from over half the teams in the league had been long and often tedious. Dewayne wanted Rosella present at each interview, which had been difficult to schedule, what with their final semester at school, her job, her time helping her parents with Sabrina and Bruce, and her recurring nausea. Most interviews took place in Los Angeles, but a few were flyaways and Dewayne had to go without her.
All morning leading up to the live broadcast of the draft from Radio City Music Hall, All Sports Network featured interviews and highlights of the leading contenders of those who would be chosen by a team in the first round. Of those players, the network had invited the top ten prospects to attend the draft live. Dewayne and Rosella had considered all the information and knowledge gained from the multiple team interviews, and discussed the situation with Franklin, Joella, Cherie-and even Sabrina and Bruce, who said to take the team that would pay the most.
That issue was the most disturbing to Dewayne. How would he react to the imminent offer of millions of dollars? How would it change him? He called Cherie and asked his mother's advice.
"I'd apply it to my debts as far as it would go," she said with a chuckle, and then told him the same thing she said the day she put him on the bus for Los Angeles four years ago. She trusted his judgment, and she'd pray for him. "If you didn't have character before money comes to you, then you won't be able to buy character no matter how much you get."
He had no idea where he would fall in the order of the draft, he had no idea what he might become the instant he became a wealthy man, he had no idea how much his life might change, but he and Rosella had finally placed the matter in God's hands and were at peace.
Next to the oversized clock on the wall was a digital time clock, ticking off the minutes like a rocket countdown until the draf
t began. Dewayne checked his watch against the official time. It would not be long. Each team had set up a war room back at its facilities in each city with a representative at Radio City who would hand the name of the player to the commissioner to announce on national television when the two parties reached an agreement.
Once the clock started, each team would have fifteen minutes to announce its choice. During the critical opening round, every team would contact its first choice to avoid an embarrassing and costly mistake, should that player object to playing for that franchise.
At their island table for two, Dewayne and Rosella had remained aloof from all the preshow phone activity as players and teams tested each other to determine the level of commitment. It all boiled down to the financial: How much would a team invest in a player? How much would it take for a player to become a member of an organization?
What Dewayne wanted to hear was the passion in the coach's voice more than any astronomical monetary lure.
"So it won't come as a shock, Mr. First Pick ... that would be me, of course ... will be asking for a forty-million-dollar fiveyear deal with a twenty-million-dollar signing bonus," Sly said, making one of his sorties by their table between phone calls.
"Your deal ... chump change, my man," Dewayne said while buttering his toast.
Sly shook his head, disbelief written across his face. "Maybe you are on drugs after all"
"It's all about the endorsements. They can last longer than your football career, and the best thing about them-they are injury free" Dewayne took a bite of his toast.
Sly's BlackBerry started to vibrate, and he backed away from the table before he answered the call.
The Houston Stars had been a championship favorite two years ago, until the salary cap purge killed them. The first of this two-year rebuilding effort had put them near the bottom; this second year the bottom was where they were. When Dewayne's cell phone rang, he looked up at the official clock and saw that the blinking digital lights were at zero. The draft had begun, and he was speaking to George Gyra, the head coach of the Stars.
"Dewayne, we're on the clock, and we'd like to name you as our first pick"
Dewayne glimpsed "Mr. First Pick" and could not help the grin. He then reached over and took Rosella's hand. Her strength was vital.
"Coach Gyra, I'm honored that you would name me the first pick of the draft for this year. I'd love to play for you, sir, and the Houston Stars. When we spoke a month ago, you impressed me with your vision for the team and your passion:"
"I want to win, Dewayne. Don't ever doubt that. I want the championship, and with your help we can build a winning team. You're a difference maker, and I intend to give you every opportunity to get into the end zone. But more important, I want you and Rosella and your future child to feel as if you are being welcomed by family. We want you in Houston"
Dewayne had not anticipated such an impassioned speech, but it was enough.
"You want to live in Houston, baby?" he asked, squeezing Rosella's hand. She responded with a kiss on his hand and a beaming countenance.
"Coach Gyra, by the official clock here in the green room, we still have twelve minutes left and I don't want to waste your time, so let's talk the terms of the contract"
"I don't normally handle that, Dewayne, and we've got plenty of time for-"
"Sir, I want you to sleep well tonight. I know you're in the war room with the staff and the GM"
"We're all here"
"Put me on speakerphone, please. Let me speak with Mr. Thomas"
Rosella removed the dirty breakfast dishes as Dewayne pulled some papers out of his coat pocket and spread them on the table. He stole a look over at Sly and saw him in a heated debate with his agent. Through the phone, Dewayne could hear the Stars' war room becoming quieter by the second.
"Dewayne, it's Sam Thomas," the general manager said. He waved his arm above his head to settle the last of the noise. "We don't need to talk contract now, do we? That could take months, and we've got less than twelve minutes"
"That's why I'm going to make it easy. What was last year's number one contract worth?"
A staff member had the figures in front of him and handed the numbers to Sam.
"It was a six-year deal," Thomas said. "Twenty million salary, signing bonus ... twenty million, and with incentives it tops out just over fifty million:"
"Every team takes a chance on a player, and I'm honored you're taking a chance by making me the first pick" Dewayne's voice came across the speakerphone loud and clear. "So let's take it slow. Instead of six years, let's make it three. Instead of fifty million in salary, let's make it ten. You pay two point five million as a signing bonus and two point five for the next three years. If you want to extend it, put a clause in there at your option that after three years we can repeat the same numbers. This should free up salary cap money to keep most of your older, more experienced players, bring in some of the other new ones you want, and start building the winning team everyone wants"
No one had moved while Dewayne laid out his terms. Only the GM's assistant had the presence of mind to jot down the numbers. Everyone else had turned from the speakerphone to gape at Sam. The room was silent.
"Mr. Thomas?"
"We're here. We're here. We're just a little confused. This is unusual. Don't you have an agent?"
"My wife and I don't feel that's necessary at this point"
To be sure Sam Thomas heard the correct figures, he repeated the numbers Dewayne had quoted him, and then looked at Gyra and the other staff members for any reason not to accept this deal. There was no dissent, only bewildered expressions.
"Dewayne, I believe we are all in agreement on the principal terms;" Thomas said. "But it will still take some time to get the contract ready and have you and your lawyers look it over before it's signed"
"Just write the contract based on the wording your first pick signed last year," Dewayne said. "Change the numbers and the name, and we're good to go"
"We can do that" Thomas began snapping his fingers and pointing to the lawyers to get to work.
"Sir, if it's all right with you, I'd like to walk into the studio, shake hands with the commissioner, and hold up a Stars jersey as soon as your rep gives him the word"
"He is about to get the word even as we speak"
Sam Thomas and Coach Gyra looked at each other, stunned by this good fortune. It was all they could do to restrain themselves from cheering like wild fans.
Dewayne directed Rosella's attention to a monitor. The camera had zeroed in on the Stars' envoy seated at his desk, talking on the phone, and writing on his notepad.
Dewayne covered the mouthpiece of his phone and whispered, "That's my name he's writing"
"It's done then?" Rosella asked, and Dewayne nodded his head. He could not help but enjoy causing such consternation back in Houston, but it was all for a good cause. He and Rosella had planned this for some time. It was a concept that would rumble through the sports world like constant aftershocks for who knew how long. The best way to effect change was not necessarily to start small.
"Mr. Thomas, I'd like to do something a bit unusual," Dewayne said.
"More unusual than the deal we've just struck?"
"Yes, sir. I'd like your permission to announce our deal on national television"
A period of silence followed. Rosella and Dewayne watched as the Stars' delegate stepped away from his desk and made his way toward the podium where the commissioner waited to receive him.
"This is a first" The general manager sounded as if he was talking more to himself than to Dewayne.
"So's my deal," Dewayne said. "I'm the first draft pick. I'd like to shake things up, maybe set a precedent. I'm part of a team, and I want people to hear that message"
"How soon can you get to Kennedy airport?"
"We need to pack and check out of our hotel. About three hours tops."
On screen, the commissioner shook hands with the Stars' delegate and turned the podium
over to him.
The hustle and flow in the green room stopped. A pause came in the frantic deliberations. Everyone pressed in closer to the monitors, all eyes watching, all ears tuned, except Sly. He was looking around the room to see who still might be talking. His eyes widened when he saw his best friend with his cell phone to his ear.
"We will have the company jet pick you up and fly you and your wife back to Houston for a press conference and signing all before the six o'clock news. Keep your phone handy. I'll have someone on this end get back with you to give you the flight details and what private hangar we arrange for you to meet our plane"
Dewayne and Rosella rose from the table and began to walk hand in hand out of the green room. Sly caught up with them at the exit just as the commissioner announced that Dewayne Jobe was the number one draft pick. Voices in the green room erupted. Dewayne had his cell phone cocked to his ear as they moved past Sly.
"Cat got your tongue, baby?" Rosella said, and she patted Sly's cheek as they breezed out the door and into the backstage area of the Music Hall.
"Make them pay, my man," Sly said, shouting above the noise in the green room. "Make them pay."
Dewayne paused beside his friend and swung his cell phone behind his back. "It's not about making them pay, it's about getting paid. It's a process, baby, and what I'm about to do is going to make me the richest man in pro football. Watch and learn"
Dewayne slapped Sly's shoulder and proceeded out of the green room.
Rosella stopped at the edge of the stage and stood beside the first row of stage seating for VIPs. Dewayne was ushered down the aisle between the thirty-two desks, one for each team, toward the podium, his cell phone still plugged into his ear.
"I'll have your contract ready when you arrive in Houston;" Sam Thomas said. "Make the announcement and then get to the airport"
