Connors plopped into a large chair. The wheels attached to its legs squeaked. He threw his feet onto the corner of his desk.
Jack moved with hesitation. He moved a box that was on the chair across from Connors and sat.
“New jerseys,” Connors said.
“In the box?”
“Where else would they be?”
“I thought we had our uniforms for this year.”
Connors lifted up a red plastic cup. “We do. That’s for next year. Prototypes. They look like shit to me, but I don’t get a vote. And it won’t be your problem. You’ll be somewhere else by then.” He punctuated the thought by spitting a dark stream over the white rim.
“How long have you been doing that?” Jack said.
Connors put his free hand on his stomach. “Today? A couple hours. All-time, I’d say thirty years.”
“Don’t you worry about getting cancer?”
Connors spat again. “There’s more important shit on my list of concerns.”
“How many of those concerns could kill you?”
Connors put the cup on the desk. “More than you’d realize. One is stress. This job has plenty of it. And it ain’t just winning and losing. I have to make decisions. Big ones. Decisions that affect the team, the coaches, the players. During games. After games. Before the games start, I’ve got to figure out my lineup.”
Jack nodded. “Best eleven play.”
“Exactly,” Connors said. “And I think you’re one of the best eleven.”
Jack’s shoulders loosened. He tried not to smile. He wished he had the comment on tape.
“I was a little worried after spring ball,” Jack said.
“You had reason to be.”
“Gordon is pretty good.”
Connors spat again. “Gordon is very good. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My first decision of fall practice is that Gordon will be our QB1.”
“You just said I’m one of the best eleven.”
“You are,” Connors said.
“But I won’t be the starting quarterback.”
“I just said Gordon will be.”
“He just got here,” Jack said.
“Did you know that, in 1957, Jim Brown was the MVP of the entire league?”
“I didn’t,” Jack said. “How does that apply to me and Gordon?”
“It was Jim Brown’s first year. He showed up, and it was clear right away to everybody he was different than the rest of them.”
“I’ve seen some of his highlights,” Jack said. “Everybody else looked smaller and slower.”
Connors lurched forward in the chair. “That’s not my point, Jack. Gordon has something special. Just like Jim Brown did. It’s obvious. I don’t care if he’s been here four weeks or four years or four minutes. I have to win games, and I think he’s the quarterback who best helps me do it.”
“So how am I still one of the best eleven if he’ll be the quarterback?”
“You are one of the best eleven.”
“But not the quarterback.”
“But still one of the best eleven. Be proud of that. I know your folks would be, God rest their souls.”
Jack rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “So what are you going to do, have two quarterbacks on the field?”
“Yes. But one of them is going to be playing receiver.”
Jack jerked his hands away. “You’re shitting me.”
“I’m truthing you. You’ve got the size and the speed. You can catch anything. I’ve seen how you handle bad snaps in practice. You’re just not processing the way we need you to.”
“I need a little time, that’s all.”
“I don’t have time to wait.”
Jack didn’t say anything. He sat there and stared at the box of jerseys.
“So we’re settled on it?” Connors said.
“What if I don’t want to change positions?”
“You’ll be third on the depth chart, behind Thompson.”
“Thompson? That’s a fucking insult, Coach.”
Connors stood up. He pointed at the top of his desk. “Do you see any poker chips?”
“Poker chips?”
“This ain’t no game. I’ve made the decision. Our wideouts can’t get separation from a one-legged duck. You’re better than any of them, without ever running a single route.”
“I just—it’s always been my dream to play quarterback in the NFL.”
“You know why they call them dreams, Jack? Because they’re only true when you’re asleep. This is your wakeup call. If you want to have a future in this sport, your future will be at receiver. Which means you need to put quarterback in the past. Starting now.”
