Trust your agent and God, in that order.
That is Dave Bolt's First Law, and it ought to be engraved on the heart of every professional athlete seeking representation. Sure, we players' agents are fallible, but our judgment in money matters is infinitely superior to that of most athletes, believe me.
Jimmy Quinn didn't believe me, and he paid through the nose.
Jimmy was quarterback of the Indianapolis Racers, then in its second year as a National Football League expansion club. My handsome, rusty-haired, freckle-faced client, a former Ohio State star, had led his team into a place of contention in the Central Division and they were clinging to first place late in the season. He wasn't a spectacular quarterback, but he had poise and maturity far beyond his twenty-three years. His specialty was not making mistakes, a skill I'll trade for any three others you can name. He'd been intercepted four times the whole season. He knew how to throw the ball away, eat it, or take a rushing lineman's best shot while getting off a last-moment pass. If he stayed healthy, he was surely destined to become a biggie.
His call came in as I was downing the tail end of a pastrami-rye-light - mustard-hold-the-coleslaw - and a Coke in my office on a Monday afternoon in the third week of November. The Racers were scheduled to go against the Detroit Lions in Indianapolis on Monday Night Football that evening, with the revived second-place Lions bidding for a tie in the standings with the Racers. It was a game I wouldn't have missed for anything, and I'd been looking forward all day to settling down in front of a twenty-one-inch screen with some close friends that evening. The last thing I'd have predicted is that I'd be sitting in Racer Stadium watching it live, but that's what happened.
Jimmy's call took the form of a screen play. A friendly, open "Hi, Dave. How's things?"
"Hey, Jimmy! Things are just dandy. You up for the game?"
"Higher 'n a satellite. How'd you like to come out here and see us ream the Lions tonight? I can put you in the best seats in the house."
It was tempting, but I said, "Much as I'd love to, I've got some pressing appointments early tomorrow morning. I'm afraid I'll have to be a no-show. But I'll be watching - "
"Dave?" His voice had dropped in timbre from happy-go-lucky to grave, and here's where he delivered his screen pass. "Dave, I . I really need to see you."
"What's the matter, buddy?"
"A problem."
"Why don't you hit me with it over the phone?"
"I really can't."
"Can you give me a hint?"
"Mmm . no. No, I really can't."
"Serious?"
"I wouldn't trouble you this way if it wasn't serious. I'll pay your air fare."
"Shit, I don't care about that." I drummed my fingers on the desk and opened my appointment calendar. I was booked solid tomorrow morning - a breakfast with Alvin Dark, a midmorning meeting with Red Auerbach, and lunch with some people from Wilson Sporting Goods to discuss endorsements by some of my clients. Engagements not to be broken lightly. I said as much to Jimmy. As I had a critical and absolutely unbreakable meeting this afternoon, I wouldn't be able to get away until late, so I couldn't see Jimmy before the game. Meaning we'd have to get together afterwards, meaning I couldn't catch a flight back to New York till the following day. "Now, is it _that_ serious, Jimmy?"
"Uh . yes," he said, his voice cracking with nervousness.
"Okay, where do you want to get together?"
"There's a restaurant, Barber's, everyone knows where it is. I'll meet you there a little after midnight."
"Unless there's an overtime," I sighed.
"There's not going to be an overtime," he said confidently.
True to his word, Jimmy arranged for me to have the best seats in the newly completed stadium. Located in the second tier on the fifty-yard line, they obviously had been designated by the architect to be the focal point of the bitter winter wind that swept off the prairie and funneled through the open west end of the stadium. Even my forethought in bringing two sweaters, a mouton overcoat, a heavy wool scarf, a knit woolen hat, and a pint flask of Wild Turkey availed little to ward off the vicious chill of the Indiana night. They say that in cold weather a man's scrotum stretches tight in order to bring his balls closer to his warm body. Well, five minutes into the first quarter mine was stretched tighter than the skins on Buddy Rich's drums as my balls sought refuge somewhere in the region of my pancreas.
I will say, though, that the game did some to take my mind off the cold. Both the Lions and the Racers wanted to win something awful, and they came out popping. Greg Landry, the Lion's QB and for my money one of the best in the NFL, was never sharper, marching his reconstituted team - there'd been a purge of veterans after their last catastrophic season - up-field from their own twenty-eight-yard line deep into Racer territory on the strength of a purely passing offense which caught the Racers off balance. Not a single ground play did Landry essay until, with third down and five to go on the Racers' eighteen, he called a draw that caught the Racers' middle linebacker, Gene Harvey, on a blitz. The play went for thirteen yards, then Landry, after two fruitless attempts to crack the Racers' line with off-tackle plays, bootlegged the ball into the end zone without a finger being laid on him...