One Last Kickoff

Chapter One

If I’d paid more attention, I might have seen it coming. But I didn’t and that got me kicked in the face on the second day of the NFL draft.

The phone was ringing as Claire and I came in the door. I picked it up to string of rapid-fire questions.

“So what does it mean? Are you done? Will you demand a trade? Do you think he can beat you out? Can you re-negotiate? Did you see it coming? What have you got for me, Matt? I’m on deadline.”

He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, but I recognized Ken Munch of the Indianapolis Star. When Ken spoke, he left his interviewee gasping for breath and looking for a place to jump in. He wrote the same way.

“Uh, Ken,” I said, when he took a breath, “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, man,” he answered. “I’m talking about Dinsmore from Purdue.”

“Who?”

“Clay Dinsmore. Your second-round pick. Weren’t you watching the draft?”

“Not really,” I said. “I saw the first round. We took that big guy from Arizona.”

“Why weren’t you watching tonight?”

“We went out to dinner, then a play.”

I missed Ken’s reply. Claire grabbed my shoulder, turned me to face her, and made a slashing motion across her throat. She’d worked my cell phone and her face said she’d heard something.

“I have to call you back, Kenny,” I said and clicked off.

“Call Charlie,” she said, referring to my agent. “But first we need to see this.”

Claire turned on the TV to ESPN. They covered the draft live, but it was over for the day when we tuned in. I’d watched the first round last night.

The Colts took linemen first most years, unless a franchise player was available. And whatever happened, the screaming heads would analyze, rehash, and pick apart for another three weeks. It only took a few minutes before one of the analysts came around to us—the Colts.

“A bit of a shocker,” he said. “The Colts use their second pick for a place-kicker, when they still have a great one. What do you make of it, Jerry?” The talkers continued, but I stopped paying attention.

Oh, God! I thought. This is what Munch meant.

I’m sure my face showed complete shock, but I saw something different on Claire’s face. Anger, I thought.

“What’s going on?” She asked. “What are they doing to us?” She looked directly at me. I didn’t know if she was asking this rhetorically or expecting an answer I didn’t have.

“Uh, I… Uh,” The words wouldn’t come. Good God! My team just drafted someone to replace me, and I hadn’t seen a single clue. What did I miss?

When last season ended with our playoff loss, the coaches, team officials, and even the owner wished me well for the off-season and said they looked forward to seeing me at training camp. Even after cleaning out my locker for the year I felt it was just temporary. I’d be back. I always was.

Besides, the owner was my friend. He’d have given me a heads up.

The phone rang again, jolting me out of my state. By the time I picked up, I’d figured out what to say to Ken.

“I don’t have a comment for you Ken,” I said, “I’ll let you know what I think after I’ve considered the situation.”

There was a rumbling laugh from the other end of the line.

“I couldn’t care less what you think right now.” It wasn’t Ken.

It was Lanny.

Chapter Two

Lanny Brezinski was my friend, mentor, and confidant, and the biggest reason I had my current job.

“I guess you’ve heard,” he went on.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled and then spoke a bit more clearly, “Jeez, Lanny, I don’t know… this is happening too fast”

“Aw, hell, General,” Lanny said, “they’ve probably been planning this for months. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Not so much,” I said. “It’s the off-season. I try not to think about football until camp starts.”

“Looks like you better start,” Lanny responded, “But we’ll deal with it. Don’t decide anything tonight. Don’t answer the phone, either. Get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I said. Claire looked at me puzzled.

Not that she could be any more confused than I was.

Lanny went on, “Yep, tomorrow. I’m coming over there. We’ll have dinner brought in and we’ll figure this out. By the way, can I stay the night at your place?”

I chuckled. This was Lanny—always brutal and direct. If you were thick-skinned, he could really help you get through life, football, and just about anything he had an opinion on, which included most things. If you were thin-skinned, God help you, because Lanny wouldn’t.

If you were lucky, he’d ignore you, but if you weren’t—well, you were in for a very rough ride, as many of his players found over the years. He was always honest, sometimes tactless and usually two or three steps ahead of you.

He probably had this all figured out for me.

I didn’t ask why he wanted to stay over. He was always welcome.

“Five o’clock okay?” he asked.

“Uh, sure,” I answered. He hung up quickly. This was my old friend at his best, barreling in to help me figure things out and getting a free dinner and a bed for the night while he was at it. He never said what he wanted for dinner.

I told Claire what Lanny said. She nodded, and then told me to call Ken Munch back.

I did and gave him my “No comment”. If I hadn’t, Ken would call every five minutes until his 2:00 a.m. deadline, getting meaner and crankier. Ken liked to finish his column early so he could go home and relax.

Some players messed with him by stalling and ducking until the last minute, but not often. Ken always had the last word. The pen may or may not be mightier than the sword, but it is most certainly mightier than the shoulder pad.

After I hung up, I saw Claire still had questions, though I didn’t have any answers or ideas.

“What’s going on?” She asked again, “What does this mean for us?”

“I don’t know, babe,” I said.