Page 3 of Dirty News
When my agent, Larry Finkelstein’s, name lit up my cell, I was skeptical. Since hiring him a few months back, he’d only come up with shit offers. I needed more than he’d given me. But we had a contract for one year, so I answered the call, ready to shoot down his idea. “You’ve gotDuke.”
His nasally tone filled my ear. “Duke. Hey, man, how’s it goin’ on this fine Mondaymorning?”
My shoulder ached, my knee throbbed, and I hadn’t had my coffee or the Aleve that wasn’t as all-day-strong as it promised—but at least it was half-a-day-strong, so I took a couple each day to combat thepain.
“It’s going, Larry. What ya got for me?” Rubbing my forehead, I got ready to hear some lameshit.
So far, he’d come up with a role as a singer in a Broadway play about washed up athletes who couldn’t find shit to do after retiring. That one hit a little too close to home forme.
Larry also had some goofy auto sales commercials he thought I’d be the bomb at. I’d refused. He’d asked me if I thought it was beneath me, and I’d told him, hell, yeah, it was! I didn’t want to just rely on my past—I wanted things that would challengeme.
“You said you took journalism in college, right?” I could hear him tapping a pencil on his littledesk.
“Yeah.” Steam came off the cup of coffee I’d poured myself to help me handle a Monday morning call withLarry.
“With your background as a linebacker with the New York Jets, I think I can score you an interview with this network that’s hiring fresh faces right now. It’s called WOLF, and it’s owned by some rich guy named Artimus Wolfe. Have ya heard ofthis?”
“Now, how would I hear about this, Larry?” Shit, the man had noodles in his head where brains should be. “And an interview to do what,exactly?”
“They need anchors and other things for their newscasts, which are going to be done locally.” He coughed and sneezed in his usual way. His allergies always seemed to be kicking up. “Oh, these damn allergies are bothering me again.” The sound of him blowing his nose filled myear.
Sorude!
“Anchors, huh?” I liked the sound ofthat.
Duke Cofield, anchor for WOLF news. Yeah, that’llwork.
I’d been struggling since ending my football career. Drafted right out of college at LSU in my home state of Louisiana, the Jets had taken me and made me a star athlete. At twenty-two, I’d been making the big bucks, raking in dough as a linebacker for a major footballclub.
Everything was roses the first few years. Injuries weren’t a worry back then. When I turned twenty-five, I sustained my first injury. One rough tackle—a brutal blow to my left shoulder—that broke more things in it than I knew were there, had me on my way to my very first surgicalprocedure.
The next year saw my knee blowing out. One more surgery had me out for the remainder of that season. At twenty-eight, a rougher than necessary tackle not only broke three of my ribs, but punctured my right lung with one of those of those broken ribs. Another surgery to repair that meant more time not being able toplay.
On a good note, the San Francisco 49er who made that tackle was cited for unnecessary roughness. My mother said that should’ve made me happy. Funny how it didn’t atall.
The Jets kept me on, letting me play the next season. And that year was a great one—no injuries at all. I felt like the old me was back and better than ever. And things kept going well, up until I turned thirty-one.
Some years my early September birthday would coincide with the first game of the season. And my thirty-first birthday was one of those seasons. My family filled the stands at the home game at MetLife Stadium. A big birthday party was already planned. Coach Bowles graciously offered his home for the bigbash.
The first half was great. We were winning. The second half saw us losing our twenty-point lead. As can happen, my team became desperate and played a lot harder than we usually would in a firstgame.
Somehow, I ended up taking a tumble that left me with a pretty bad concussion. A broken left arm and two broken fingers on my right hand added to one shitshow of an injury. Bleeding on my brain required them going in to release the pressure, and that surgery gave me a blood clotsomehow.
My mother begged me to stop playing. She fell on her knees and cried like a baby, asking me to please retire. My body hurt like hell anyways, and watching my mother cry was something I just couldn’t take. So, I did what she had asked, telling the coach that I’d like to retire. He took it well, even told me he understoodcompletely.
The years of playing had my bank accounts looking pretty damn good. I could afford to relax for a while. But that proved to be boring. Once I healed, I wanted to do something. I was thirty-two, not eighty-two, afterall.
Hiring an agent to get some type of television job or something like that sounded like the thing to do. And here Larry was, finally giving me something I could sink my teethinto.
I’d majored in journalism at LSU. I could be anewsman.
“Yeah, there are anchor positions and other ones too. I was thinking you might want to jump on any of the sportscaster positions too.” Larry sniffled. “So, should I set itup?”
“Yeah, I think you should. I think this is just what I’ve been looking for. You know what? I thought you were useless, Larry, but you’ve gone and done something pretty good. Good job.” With a sip of hot coffee, my day began to lookbrighter.
“I’ll text you the time and address as soon as I set it up, Duke. Good luck, man.” He hung up, and I put the phonedown.
Making my way to the bathroom, I looked at my reflection. My beard had grown out, making me look a little on the straggly side. My hair needed to be cut too. “Time to make an appointment to get myself lookingpresentable.”
