I have agreed to this meeting because the man in my passenger seat has sworn that our only goal is to urge the wide receiver not to declare for the draft this year. We’re in my car because letting him drive might make him think he’s in charge. Plus, if anything doesn’t play out as promised, I will be free to go and leave his ass behind.
“You are absolutely certain that we have no motive other than what’s best for this player at this time?” I ask for what may be the hundredth time.
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“And if I had a stack of bibles in the back seat for you to swear on?” I press.
“I would be impressed that you own a stack and carry them with you. But the bibles aren’t necessary. You are a damned hard sell, Jazmine Miller. I never thought you of all people would need this much convincing.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re an intelligent, highly educated former athlete and successful sports agent whose personal history is a perfect example of why it’s important to have an education to fall back on in the event of injury.”
I can’t argue with this answer, either. Which is kind of disappointing. I do enjoy a good argument. Especially, I am discovering, with Richard Hanson. “I’m assuming there’s a reason we didn’t ask them to come to the office?”
“Yes. Yvonne has a lot on her plate already, and I didn’t want to ask her to have to come to us. Plus, we’re not going to be saying anything Isaiah is going to want to hear. I’d rather not bring him into the office under what might feel like false pretenses.”
I make no comment, but I’m almost surprised by how carefully he seems to have thought this out. There’ve always been so many rumors and stories about his ability to outmaneuver other agents or strike better deals or opportunities for his clients that I’ve always ascribed his success to underhanded tactics and a willingness to cross the line to get what he wants. But maybe that’s just sour grapes on my part.
Yvonne Booker’s home is in a neighborhood called Bedford Pine in the Old Fourth Ward, an area that’s become increasingly popular as the BeltLine—built on what was once old railroad track—has begun to link city parks and neighborhoods in the southwest corridor of Atlanta. It’s not far from Collier Heights, where I grew up and where my parents still live. The tennis court I first learned to play on is maybe ten minutes from there.
I pull into the driveway of a 1950s brick ranch-style house with a small picket-fenced garden in the front. Two massive cherry trees are just beginning to blossom. A basketball hoop hangs above the double garage door.
Isaiah answers the door and invites us in. He’s a nice-looking young man of twenty with a shaved head and a wiry, streamlined body that is built for speed. His aunt, who is built a lot like her nephew, is waiting in the living room, which has been recently vacuumed and cleaned within an inch of its life. I can’t quite pin down her age, but I’m thinking late fifties to early sixties.
“Thank you for coming out to see us.” Yvonne Booker shakes both our hands before inviting us to sit, side by side, on a floral chintz sofa.
A pitcher of iced tea and what look and smell like homemade chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven sit on the coffee table. “May I offer you a glass of tea and a cookie?”
“Thank you. That would be great.” I learned long ago to never turn down offered food or drink. Especially not something someone has taken the time to bake for you.
“Richard?”
“Absolutely, thank you.”
She nods and pours tea and passes the plate of cookies while I try not to look surprised at Rich Hanson’s manners. She and Isaiah sit in chairs directly across from us. She does not invite us to call her Yvonne.
There is silence while we sip our tea and take bites of the cookies, which are truly heavenly and well worth the calories.
“Thank you for seeing us, Miz Booker,” Rich begins. “As you know, I’ve watched Isaiah play, and I think he’s got a bright future ahead of him.”
“Yes,” she replies, her eyes on Rich Hanson’s face. “I’m very proud of my nephew. He’s always been a good boy and has grown into a fine young man. Earned himself a college scholarship. In another year, he’ll have a degree. I’m not keen on anyone trying to talk him into doing anything that might jeopardize that.”
I barely breathe while I wait to see whether Rich will keep his word or reveal some less noble agenda. I brace as he smiles and leans forward. Relief courses through me as he says, “I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I believe it would be a big mistake for him to declare for the draft as a junior. He’s not ready, and there’s no reason to rush things.”
Yvonne’s face reflects only mild surprise and something else I can’t quite make out. Her nephew’s is mottled with shock and anger.
“What?” Isaiah glares at us. Whatever he was expecting, this is not it. “Then what in hell are you doing here? Grant Peters at AMI told me I can make good money if I go high enough in the draft this year,” Isaiah sputters. “And I think it’s time I pay back some of what my aunt has done for me.”
“Oh, Isaiah,” his aunt sighs. “I did not work two jobs all these years for you to leave college before you graduate.”
“I know what’s going on here,” Isaiah says, his gaze, and fury, focused on Rich. “You’re just here to make sure I don’t compete with your boy Ellis Cosgrove; he’s a client of yours, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Hanson says smoothly. “And you are not in his league right now. But you will be.”
“That’s not what Grant Peters says.”
“Have you researched Grant Peters? Read about what’s happened to most of the athletes he’s signed?” Rich asks.
Isaiah’s chin juts forward in anger. His body is tight, as if he’s holding himself back.
“Because Grant Peters is all about grabbing up low-lying fruit. Selling young talent that hasn’t ripened yet for ten cents on the dollar. What he is not about is fertilizing and pruning and watering and helping the fruit get bigger and stronger.”
“I don’t care about all this fruit shit. I am not fruit! That is a damned stupid example.”
I’m actually enjoying watching Rich Hanson get swatted around. Except of course for the ways in which Isaiah reminds me of Maya. All headstrong and sure of her talent, with no idea of how easily it can all be smashed to pieces. Or yanked away.
“I’m talking about the fact that there is no reason to rush this, Isaiah,” Rich continues calmly. “Juran will be gone next year, and you will be starting every game. People that matter will know who you are and what you can do. Teams will be fighting over you. You will be invited to the Combine and not some small pro day. If you go now, some team will pick you up just to have you around, and you’ll get a pittance compared to what you could command next year. Plus, if you wait, you’ll have a degree to fall back on.”