Myron remembered the first time he’d seen Win demonstrate his talent. They were freshmen in college. A group of large football players decided to shave Win’s blond locks because they didn’t like the way he looked. Five of them sneaked into Win’s room late at night—four to hold down his arms and legs and one to carry the razor and shaving cream.

Simply put, the football team had a poor season that year. Too many guys on the injured list.

Myron and Win finished up with light free sparring. Then they dropped to the mat and performed one hundred push-ups on their fists—Win counting out loud in Korean. That done, they sat again for meditation, this time lasting fifteen minutes.

“Barro,” Win said.

Both men opened their eyes.

“Feeling more focused?” Win asked. “Feeling the flow of energy? The balance?”

“Yes, Grasshopper. You want me to snatch the pebble from your hand now?”

Win moved from his lotus position into a full stance in one graceful, effortless move. “So,” he said, “have you reached any decisions?”

“Yes.” Myron struggled to stand in one motion, tipping from side to side as he ascended. “I’m going to tell Jessica everything.”

Chapter 7

Yellow stick-on phone messages swarmed Myron’s phone like locusts on a carcass. Myron peeled them away and shuffled through them. Nothing from Otto Burke or Larry Hanson or anyone in the Titans organization.

Not good.

He strapped on his headset telephone. He had resisted using one for a long time, figuring they were more suited for air traffic controllers than agents, but he quickly learned that an agent is but a fetus, his office a womb, his telephone an umbilical cord. It was easier with the headset. He could walk around; he could keep his hands free; he could forgo neck cramps from cradling a phone against his shoulder.

His first call was to the advertising director for BurgerCity, a new fast-food chain. They wanted to sign up Christian and were offering pretty good money, but Myron wasn’t sure about it. BurgerCity was only regional. A national chain might come up with a better offer. Sometimes the hardest part of the job was saying no. He’d discuss the pros and cons with Christian, let him make the final decision. In the end it was his name. His money.

Myron had already signed Christian to several very lucrative endorsement deals. Wheaties would have Christian’s likeness on cereal boxes starting in October. Diet Pepsi was coming up with some promotion involving Christian throwing a two-liter bottle on a perfect spiral to nubile women. Nike was developing a sweatsuit line and cleats known as the Steele Trap.

Christian stood to earn millions from endorsements, far more than he would make playing for the Titans, no matter how reasonable Otto Burke wanted to be. It was strange in a way. Fans grew agitated at the idea of a player trying to get the most out of his playing contract. They called him boorish, selfish, and egomaniacal when he demanded a great deal of money from a wealthy team owner—but they had no problem when he grabbed vault-loads from Pepsi or Nike or Wheaties for promoting products he’d probably never used or even liked. It made no sense. Christian would make more money for spending three days shooting a thirty-second hypocritical spot than he would for spending the season getting blindsided by drooling men with overactive pituitary glands—and that was how the fans wanted it.

No agent minded that setup. Most agents got between three and five percent of their players’ total negotiated salary (Myron took four percent), compared with twenty or twenty-five percent for all endorsement money. (Myron took fifteen percent—hey, he was new.) In other words, sign a million-dollar deal with a team, and the agent gets around forty grand. Sign him for a million-dollar commercial, and the agent can nab as much as a quarter mil.

Myron’s second call was to Ricky Lane, a running back for the New York Jets and a former college teammate of Christian’s. Ricky was one of his most important clients, and Myron was fairly certain it had been Ricky who’d convinced Christian to hire him in the first place.

“I have a kids’ camp appearance for you,” Myron began. “They’re paying five grand.”

“Sounds good,” Ricky said. “How long do I have to be there?”

“Couple hours. Do a little talk, sign a few autographs, that kind of thing.”

“When?”

“A week from Saturday.”

“What about that mall appearance?”

“That’s Sunday,” Myron said. “Livingston Mall. Morley’s Sporting Goods.” Ricky would get paid another five thousand dollars for sitting at a table for two hours and signing autographs.

“Cool.”

“You want me to send a limo to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll drive. You hear anything about next year’s contract yet?”

“We’re getting there, Ricky. Another week at the most. Listen, I want you to come in and see Win soon, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You in shape?”

“The best of my life,” Ricky said. “I want that starting job.”

“Keep working. And don’t forget to make that appointment with Win.”

“Will do. Later, Myron.”

“Yeah, later.”

The calls continued, one blurring into another. He returned calls from the press. They all wanted to know about a pending deal between the Titans and Christian. Myron politely no-commented. Occasionally it was good to use the media as leverage in negotiating, but not with Otto Burke. Matters were proceeding, he told them. An agreement could be expected at any time.

He then called Joe Norris, an old-time Yankee who appeared almost every weekend at a baseball card show. Joe made more in a month now than he had in an entire season in his heyday.

Next up was Linda Regal, a tennis pro who had just cracked the top ten. Linda was worried about aging, offended because a broadcaster had referred to her as a “familiar veteran.” Linda was almost twenty.

Eric Kramer, a UCLA senior and probable second round NFL draft pick, was in town. Myron managed to arrange a dinner with him. That meant Myron was a finalist—he and a zillion other agents. The competition was incredible. Example: There are twelve hundred NFL-authorized agents who court the two hundred college players who will be drafted in April. Something has to give. It’s usually ethics.

Myron called the New York Jets general manager, Sam Logan, to discuss Ricky Lane’s contract.

“The kid is in the best shape of his career,” Myron raved. He stood and paced. Myron had a large, fairly gorgeous office on Park Avenue between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It impressed people, and appearance was important in a business dominated by sleazeballs “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m telling you, Sam, the kid is Gayle Sayers all over again. It’s amazing, really.”