Cover-up (5 page)

“I wanted to be prepared if things worked out,” he said. “The NFL PR office had your photo already, so it was pretty easy to get it done quickly.”

He pointed at the credential around Stevie's neck. “That will get you a lot of places,” he said. “Ours will get you almost anyplace—including being able to come and go back here without checking in at reception or anything like that.”

Stevie was putting the new credential around his neck when McManus stood up and put his hand out. “I'm looking forward to this, Steve,” he said. “I have two goals: one, for people to say I'm a genius for signing you up for the week, and two—more important—for you to tell me when the week's over that you're glad you did it.”

Stevie stood and shook his hand. “I'll try to make you happy you did it too, Mr. McManus,” he said.

“Everyone who works for me calls me Sean,” McManus said. “Go on and get out there. You are about to witness the greatest media circus of your young life.”

As soon as he walked through the revolving doors that led to the field area, Stevie knew McManus wasn't exaggerating. He had been in the Superdome in New Orleans, but the new Hoosier Dome—negotiations to stick a corporate name on the building were apparently still ongoing—made the Superdome look like a high school gym.

Stevie had read that it seated 82,000 people, but there were so many corporate boxes about a third of the way up in the stands that the upper deck appeared to be above several clouds. There was a wide expanse of turf between the first row of seats and the field. They were cleverly raised high enough so that spectators could see over the heads of the players on the sidelines. But even in the front row, fans were pretty far from the action. And in the upper deck? Stevie wasn't sure if they could even see one of the JumboTron screens. The place was
massive.

It was also, he noticed, kind of cold out on the field. He knew the game-day temperature would be seventy-two degrees inside, but that would be with 82,000 people in the place. Now, with a couple thousand people milling around on the field and no one in the stands, it was considerably cooler. Since only a few of the lights were turned on, the floor of the Dome felt almost bleak. It was chilly and overcast—not much different from the weather outside.

Everywhere Stevie looked there were people with microphones, tape recorders, and TV cameras. He had done some research when he thought he was going to be doing a daily TV show from the Super Bowl, and he knew that the NFL credentialed more than 2,000 media members for the game. Doing the math, Stevie realized that meant there were about forty media members for each of the fifty-three players from each team. The numbers got a little worse when you figured that only forty-five of the fifty-three players on the roster would actually be in uniform for the game.

Platforms had been set up for some of the Ravens' bigger names—Coach Brian Billick; Ray Lewis, the star linebacker; Steve McNair, the starting quarterback; and Todd Heap, the tight end. Other players were in roped-off areas while some others—the nonstars—were seated at tables with name cards in front of them. Stevie was trying to figure out exactly where he should start when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Why, Stevie Thomas, look at you with not one but
two
credentials. You
really
are a star!”

It was, predictably, Susan Carol. Only she wasn't alone. In fact, she had what amounted to an entourage. There was a cameraman, a guy carrying sound equipment, someone he didn't recognize in a suit, a makeup woman, a couple of large men he guessed were bodyguards of some sort, and, walking with a young woman he guessed was
another
PR person, someone who could only be Jamie Whitsitt. He was about six feet tall, and had sandy blond hair, blue eyes that Stevie figured most girls would consider dreamy, and a bored look on his face.

Turning to face Susan Carol and company, Stevie smiled. “At least I work alone,” he said.

She twirled his CBS credential to get a better look and laughed. “Not if you're working for these guys, you won't be,” she said. “I guess you said yes.”

“They made me an offer I couldn't refuse,” he said. “I don't start till tomorrow, though.”

“Susan Carol, I'm sorry, but we need to get you guys to work here,” the suit said.

“Right,” Susan Carol said. She turned toward Whitsitt and said, “Jamie, I want to introduce you to my friend Steve Thomas.”

Whitsitt didn't look all that eager to meet Stevie, but he walked over, hand extended. “Hey, dude, no hard feelings, I hope,” he said.

At least, Stevie thought, he knows who he replaced. “None where you're concerned,” Stevie said, accepting the handshake. “Just make sure you're nice to Susan Carol.”

Whitsitt grinned. “I don't think that will be too painful, huh, dude?”

Stevie wondered if Whitsitt could complete a sentence without the word
dude
. He was tempted to keep the conversation going to find out, but the suit was frowning and the PR person was waving at someone upfield to get their attention.

“Gotta go, kids,” the PR guy said, unwilling or unable to look at or acknowledge Stevie.

“Hey, nice talking to you too,” Stevie said to the PR guy and the suit, who looked at him blankly and started walking.

“I'll talk to you later,” Susan Carol said quietly.

“Oh yeah, absolutely, dude,” Stevie said.

She half made a face at him. “He's not a bad guy.”

That surprised—and disappointed—Stevie. “Yeah, he's great. But, dude, are you sure English is his native language?”

“Don't be mean, Stevie,” she said. “This isn't his fault and he really
is
nice.”

Stevie watched her jogging to catch up with her posse. All of a sudden, surrounded by several thousand people, he felt entirely alone.

5:
FIRST AND TEN

“
STEVIE! HEY, STEVIE
!
Earth to Stevie!”

The third time Bobby Kelleher called his name, Stevie caught on that someone was trying to get his attention. He had been staring down the field where Susan Carol and Whitsitt were being set up next to one another, each holding a microphone with two cameras trained on them. He was thinking that they looked like the perfect teenage couple: she with long brown hair and a dazzling smile, he an inch or two taller with wavy hair, bright blue eyes, and a charming crooked grin.

“You still with us?” Kelleher asked as Stevie turned around when he approached from behind.

“Huh? Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just trying to, you know, figure out what I want to do.”

Kelleher looked down the field in the direction Stevie had been staring and smiled.

“Kinda sucks seeing her with the rock star, doesn't it?”

Stevie shook his head. “I can handle that. It's just that…”

“What?” Kelleher asked.

“I think she likes him. How in the world can she like him? The guy calls everyone dude!”

Kelleher gave him a sympathetic smile and put his arm around his shoulder. “Listen to me, Stevie,” he said. “Susan Carol is about as smart and mature as any fourteen-year-old girl you're going to meet, but she's still a fourteen-year-old girl. You can't blame her for being a little bit starry-eyed around a teen idol.”

“She's smarter than that,” Stevie said.

“Of course she is. And she'll come to her senses very soon. Try to be patient with her.”

Stevie smiled. “Easy for you to say.”

“True,” Kelleher said.

Stevie took a deep breath and gathered himself. “Okay, I'm just not going to think about it for now. I'm ready to get to work.”

“Good,” Kelleher said. “Follow me.”

Kelleher led Stevie across the field, zigzagging through various clusters of media members and around roped-off areas and platforms with stars on them. When they reached the far sideline, he pointed at a guy wearing a purple Ravens sweatshirt who was opening a large box that appeared to have footballs inside.

“There's your guy for today,” Kelleher said.

“An equipment guy?” Stevie said. He had expected to do a story on an obscure player—maybe the long-kick snapper from one of the teams—but not on someone who dealt with uniforms and footballs.

“That's Darin Kerns,” Kelleher said. “He's from Summit, New Jersey. Played high school football there. Wide receiver.”

“And this is a story because?”

“Oh, come on, Stevie, think for a minute. I know you're up on stuff like this.”

Stevie was stumped. Even worse, he knew that if Susan Carol had been there, she would have picked up on why Darin Kerns's being from Summit, New Jersey, was significant.

“I give up,” he said, shaking his head in frustration.

“Who is going to be the most watched player in this game?” Kelleher said.

“That's easy,” Stevie said. “Eddie Brennan.” Brennan was the quarterback for the Dreams, who had emerged during the season as the league's MVP and—as Susan Carol had once called him on the show—MEB: Most Eligible Bachelor. He was on the cover of glamour magazines, sports magazines, and newsmagazines, and was featured as frequently on
Access Hollywood
as on
SportsCenter.

“And Eddie Brennan went to college where?”

“Harvard,” Stevie said, knowing that was partly why Brennan was such a media darling. He had been drafted by the Dreams in the seventh round prior to their first season—presumably to hold a clipboard and upgrade the team's IQ. But he had become a starter in his second season and a true star in this, his third season, leading the Dreams on their unlikely Super Bowl run.

“And he went to high school where?” Kelleher said.

Finally
it hit Stevie. “Summit High School in Summit, New Jersey. Let me guess—this guy played with him.”

“Didn't just play with him. Was his number one receiver and, apparently, one of the main reasons Harvard recruited him.”

“And no one else knows this story?”

“I think some of the Baltimore guys probably do. Brian Billick mentioned it to me when I was talking to the Ravens during the off-week, but I haven't seen anyone write about it yet. Coach Billick introduced me to him, and Darin said he'd be happy to talk this week. I'll introduce you.”

They walked over to Kerns, who was now opening another box. “Darin, how are you?” Kelleher said.

Kerns looked confused for a moment, then recognition flickered in his eyes. “Hey, how are you?” he said, shaking hands with Kelleher. “Bobby Kelleher, right?”

He turned quickly to Stevie. “And I know who you are,” he said. “I watched your show. It was entertaining. Smart stuff. I'm really sorry….”

“It's okay,” Stevie said, accepting his handshake. “I'm here, and I've got plenty to do.”

“Including, I hope,” Kelleher said, “interviewing you.”

Kerns smiled. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. “I just have to get some of my guys to store this stuff in the locker room and check on a couple other things. Can you wait about ten minutes?”

“Of course,” Stevie said. “Should I wait for you here?”

Kerns glanced around. “Nah, why don't you walk back to the locker room with me. It'll be quieter there.”

That was fine with Stevie. He and Kelleher agreed to meet near the goalpost closer to the locker room at 10:30, which was when the Ravens were scheduled to leave and the Dreams were supposed to arrive. That gave Stevie almost an hour to interview Darin Kerns, learn his way around “backstage,” and then see if he could think of a way to get close enough to Eddie Brennan to get a quote from him on his old high school buddy. That, Stevie realized, would be the hard part, since Brennan would be in high demand from the media while he was on the field.

For now, though, he'd concentrate on the interview at hand. He followed Kerns up the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. When they reached the hallway, a yellow-jacketed security guard put a hand up to stop Stevie.

“No media back here today,” he said. “Field only.”

Kerns was about to say something when the guard put his hand down. “Oh, wait, you've got a CBS credential. You're fine.”

Stevie almost wanted to tell the guard that CBS was media just like everyone else, but he knew that wasn't the case. For one thing, CBS was
paying
to televise the game as part of its multibillion-dollar deal with the NFL. For another, he knew from his own brief experiences that
TV
was a magic word in the English language.

“Where
did
you get the CBS badge?” Kerns asked as they walked down a long hallway filled with signs directing people to locker rooms and holding areas and elevators and the field.

“They want me to do some work for them this week,” he said. “Right now, I'm working for the
Washington Herald,
but I'm going to do some CBS stuff too.”

“Good for you,” Kerns said. “Sure made our lives easier just now.”

They finally reached a door that had a huge sign on it that said
BALTIMORE RAVENS—AFC CHAMPIONS
. Stevie followed Kerns inside and was stunned by the size of the locker room. It fanned out in both directions from the doorway. There were at least a dozen men wearing Ravens purple working in different parts of the massive room.

“Biggest locker rooms in the world,” Kerns said, seeing the look on Stevie's face. “You could comfortably get a hundred lockers in here with lots of open space. We only need forty-five. There's a separate room in the back for the coaches that's almost as big as our
player
locker room back in Baltimore.”

He led Stevie to an office that was clearly his headquarters for the week. “We'll practice over at IUPUI this week, but I'll be back and forth setting things up here,” he said, plopping down and offering Stevie a seat.

“What's IUPUI?”

Kerns laughed. “Sorry. It's Indiana University/Purdue University–Indianapolis. It's a huge commuter school run by Indiana and Purdue together and it has fantastic athletic facilities. We got lucky they put us there because it's right downtown. The Dreams have to schlep to some high school in the suburbs and they're not happy. Meeker is already screaming to the commissioner's office that the league wants us to win.”

Stevie smiled. Don Meeker—better known in NFL circles as Little Donny—was the Dreams' owner. He had a reputation for being short, insecure, and a bully—but he was very rich. He was the first owner in history to pay a billion dollars for a sports team—that had been the Dreams' expansion fee when they joined the league. But even that was a small percentage of the wealth Don Meeker had amassed by buying and selling telemarketing firms. Stevie remembered Tamara had once written: “Don Meeker is the most successful cold caller in history.”

“So why
did
you guys get IUPUI?” Stevie said, slowing down to make sure he got all the letters right.

“That's what's so funny about it,” Kerns said. “It was a blind draw they held last summer at the owners meetings. Li'l Donny himself pulled ‘Watsonville'—that's the name of the high school—out of a hat for the NFC long before anyone thought the Dreams had a chance of being here. Actually, I know the Dreams' equipment guy, and he says it's a great facility. It's just a little out of the way. The players and coaches don't really care, but Li'l Donny does like to be angry about things.”

Stevie was soaking in all the background information but figured it was time to get started on Kerns's relationship with Eddie Brennan. Kerns reached behind him into a refrigerator and offered Stevie a bottle of water, which he accepted. Then, for most of thirty minutes, he talked about Brennan—giving Stevie anecdotes that would easily have filled three stories.

“He's smart, he's a great athlete, and most women get weak-kneed when he walks into a room. You want to hate him but you can't. He's been the captain of every team he's ever played on, and he's a real team player. Plus, he's got a great sense of humor.”

Stevie asked Kerns about his playing days with Brennan. Kerns leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“What you have to understand is that Eddie really was the star,” Kerns said. “I was okay, a decent enough receiver, but I was never fast enough that anyone in Division One was going to recruit me seriously.”

“Not even Harvard?”

Kerns laughed. “Harvard? You need grades to get into Harvard even if you're a football player. I got lucky and got a scholarship to Fordham—which plays okay football and is a good school but a far cry from Harvard. But when I was with Eddie, I was a star—he was so good at finding receivers and putting the ball right on the money that all you had to do was be okay and people thought you were Terrell Owens.” He paused. “That's on the field, not off it,” he added.

Stevie asked if he had a favorite memory. “Oh yeah, that's easy,” Kerns said. “It was in the state championship game against Newark Catholic. We were down 10–6 in a pouring rain with four seconds left, and Eddie threw me a perfect ball in the corner of the end zone—to this day I swear I don't know how he gripped it to throw it that well—and I couldn't hold on. It was like trying to catch a seal. So we had time for one last play from the four-yard line. Everyone knew we would throw, we had no running game, but how was anyone going to catch the ball?

“We called time-out, and our coach was talking about running some kind of double reverse. He thought we'd surprise them, but I'm thinking there's no way we're going to be able to make two handoffs
and
get our footing
and
get around the corner. So, going back to the huddle, I said to Eddie, ‘Let's run E-D Special.' He looked at me like I was nuts.”

“What was ‘E-D Special'?” Stevie asked.

Kerns smiled. “Eddie-Darin Special,” he said, grinning. “It was a play he and I first came up with in peewee football when we were ten. Absolute trick play. You don't even tell the other nine guys! You call a pass play in the huddle. Everyone—I mean everyone—thinks it's a pass. Quarterback goes back and everyone is blocking to keep the pass rushers to the outside. One receiver—me—takes a step as if to go out in the pattern, then turns and goes straight to the middle of the field because
you know
there's going to be one blitzer coming straight up the middle to try to get to the quarterback. He blocks the blitzer just as the quarterback fakes a pass, pulls the ball down, and runs straight up the middle with the ball. Quarterback-draw play.”

“Did it work?”

“Yup. I got the blitzer, and Eddie walked into the end zone completely untouched. We're all jumping up and down and celebrating, and our coach is out there screaming, ‘What the hell was that? What are you guys doing running some school-yard play with the state championship at stake?!' And Eddie just said, ‘Yup—and that school-yard play just won you the state championship, Coach.'”