He’ll go in the first round, I’ll make damn sure of that, but whether or not it’s to the Kodiak’s I can’t be a hundred percent sure. I’ve done all I can to make it happen and with the trade with the Miner’s in place, I have a lot of hope that it will, but I’m not dumb enough to bank on the Kodiak’s alone. I tell Trey I’m getting safety nets into place, but I downplay how important I think they are. Precautions only, that’s what I tell him. I’m thorough. He knows that.
Meanwhile I’m gathering them like a squirrel looking for nuts to get her through the winter, banking them like my life depends on it because Trey’s actually does and that matters to me more than anything else. I’ve been talking to the Ravens. The Seahawks. The Browns. I flew out to Cincinnati yesterday to take a meeting with the GM. I have the head coach from the Vikings flying in tomorrow to talk business. He’s bringing his kids, all six of them. I scored them all day passes to Disneyland, no lines. No waiting. There’s a box in the corner of my office with mouse ears already embroidered with their names because I do my research. I do my job.
I’m busting my ass talking to every team with a first round pick and a quarterback that could use an update. Endless research, endless phone calls and e-mails and repeating myself over and over again. Laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. Complimenting careers that are in the toilet. Constant assurances that Trey’s hand is strong, totally healed. Hours of overtime, late nights and early days to accommodate east coast time zones. All of it to make good on the promise I made to him at the Combine and the promise I made to myself four years ago.
And all of it will go on my dad’s books.
Whether he’ll give me credit for it and start taking me seriously as an agent, I don’t know. I won’t know until it’s done, but whatever happens to me, I’m proud of Trey. I’m proud of what he’s accomplished, what we’ll accomplish together in two weeks, and even if he’s the only person in the world who acknowledges how hard I worked for him, it’ll all be worth it to me. He is worth it to me.
My main line rings on my desk, shrill like a siren. Brad has them programmed that way to keep us quick on answering the phones. All of them but his.
I recognize the number on the caller ID, smiling immediately.
“Demarcus Sawyer, how are you?” I answer affectionately.
“I’m fucking cold, Sly,” he answers harshly. “It’s snowing. Is it snowing in Los Angeles?”
“It never snows in Los Angeles.”
“It never stops in Ottawa.”
“That’s not true. I heard there’s a week in August that’s very nice.”
“You’re hilarious,” he replies dully. “You should quit as my agent and start doing stand up.”
“Who says I don’t already? Did you not catch my show at the Apollo?”
Demarcus laughs. “I would pay to see your skinny ass in the Apollo. Tell me when. I’ll buy my ticket today.”
“You’ll be the first to hear about it when it happens. In the meantime, what can I do for you, D? Do you need me to send you some gloves? A puffy coat?”
“I need you to get me the fuck out of here.”
“I’m working on it.”
“That’s what you say every time I call.”
“And every time it’s true. Shake ups are happening with the Draft coming up. If teams can’t get what they need from the rookies, they’ll start looking elsewhere and I’ll be there with your highlight reel in my hand and your name on my lips, I promise you that.”
He’s silent for a long time, but I don’t push. We have this same conversation every few weeks. I hate doing it because I know he’s unhappy and I want to do whatever I can to get him to a better place, but I can’t sell what no one is shopping for.
Demarcus is one of those unfortunate stories about a talented kid who went undrafted out of college. He was a ‘dud’ according to Brad, a sign that he thought would pay off but ended up pulling only fifty thousand a year in the Canadian Football League. Unwilling to cut him loose until he’d earned back as much of the marketing advance as he could, Brad handed him off to me. He was my first client and I managed to get him bumped up to sixty-five thousand last year, but I haven’t been able to bring him home. He wants to keep playing football but no one in the States wants him to play for them. It’s a sad story, but a common one in this business. There are only so many teams, only so many positions, and every year fresh players enter the mix looking for a slot. Like I told Trey, the Draft is drama. It’s not a guarantee of anything. Just because you’re in it doesn’t mean you’re going to be a millionaire.
“I know, I know,” Demarcus mutters quietly, his attitude downshifting. “You’re doing right by me, I know that.”
“Why don’t you come home? Fly back to Florida, spend some time in the sun with your family, and I’ll come out to meet with you after the Draft. We’ll talk strategy.”
“What’s up? You don’t want to fly up here to Canada?”
“No, I do not. I will buy your ticket to get you to Florida if it means I don’t have to go to Canada.”
I can hear him chuckling softly. “Yeah, I hear that. I can’t get my girl to come up here either.”