A Bad Start

By late summer, the Angels had taken their preseason troubles to Minneapolis. Inside the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, Champ Bailey finally gave them something to cheer about.

"Intercepted! Bailey gets up in front of the receiver and takes it away! That's Cunningham's second turnover!"

Randall Cunningham moved toward the cornerback's return lane, but Bailey was already past him. One of the fastest men in the rookie class was not going to let an aging quarterback catch him from behind.

The Vikings fans were less forgiving.

"Get him out of there!"

"He can't even move the ball against these guys. What is Dennis Green waiting for?"

"If they want anything like last season, they'd better find another quarterback."

"Last season? With Cunningham playing like this, forget the playoffs. Get Callahan up here."

"Callahan hasn't played a down all summer. He left his own camp to chase some model around London. Don't count on him doing much either."

Most of the complaints stayed with Minnesota's quarterback. A few reached Nolan, standing on the visitors' sideline.

The Vikings had scored 556 points the year before. Their regular season had ended 15-1. It ought to have bought Cunningham more patience than this, but football did not offer much credit for work already done.

The salary cap saw to that. Every club had to choose where its money would go, and a veteran whose play slipped could become an expense the team could no longer justify. A starter in January might be fighting for a job in August. The draft helped keep the talent moving, and fortunes could change almost as quickly as the rosters did. A champion could miss the playoffs the next year. A last-place team could find itself playing for the title.

Dynasties survived only as long as someone kept rebuilding them. The comfortable idea of a great player spending his whole career with one club belonged elsewhere.

Cunningham was living with that pressure now. Last year's numbers would not stop his coach from watching every bad throw. If the decline continued, the bench would follow. At best, a veteran kept his job long enough to collect the season's guaranteed pay. At worst, he was looking for work before the games that counted even began. Cunningham had already stepped away from football once. Nolan doubted he wanted to be pushed toward the exit again.

He watched the quarterback walk off with his head down and his hands on his hips. An opponent who had worried him last season suddenly looked vulnerable. Nolan wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or uneasy.

He had pressure of his own. Since his return from England, every paper seemed to have discovered the same story: the Angels' quarterback had abandoned training camp to see a model in London. Michael Ovitz had called him personally. Nolan had explained that the agency needed his attention, that he had shortened the trip, and that he was back with the team.

'Shit. If I was going to get this much grief anyway, I should've stayed longer.'

At least the photographers had failed to identify Gisele. Her hat and glasses, the overcast light, and their hurried retreat had left the papers with a poor photograph and plenty of guesses. Someone had dubbed her Model X. Gisele appeared on the resulting lists, but no one had a clear picture that settled the question.

"You want the third quarter?" Reid asked.

Nolan looked at the scoreboard. Near the end of the first half, Minnesota led 21-3. The Angels had managed the same miserable three points they had scored against Tampa Bay. The Vikings had reached twenty-one even faster.

"No. Let the new guys work. Quarterback included."

If the first loss had taught them something, he could live with another uncomfortable afternoon. Putting himself in to rescue them would tell the staff very little about the players competing for jobs behind him.

Mike Quinn was jogging onto the field. He was one of more than a dozen players recruited outside the draft, many of them reserves released by other clubs and recommended through Holmgren's contacts. Nolan knew him from Dallas. Quinn had been at Cowboys camp when Nolan arrived the previous year, then had spent much of the season on the practice squad, repeatedly facing him in training.

Quinn drew a breath, called for the snap, and set himself to throw.

The defensive end arrived before he could do it. Quinn turned out of the pocket, tripped over his own feet, and fell without anyone touching him.

Laughter came down from the seats. Nolan covered his face. A year of practice against him had apparently taught Quinn how to get worse with confidence.

At halftime, Holmgren worked his way through the offense in the locker room. Running backs, linemen, quarterback: no one escaped.

"Quinn, if somebody puts together a tape of the worst plays in this league, your first half is going on it."

Bailey made the mistake of smiling.

"Something funny?" Rhodes asked. "You think that interception erases everything else? Seven times they challenged you, you won four. We gave up at least sixty yards on your side."

The smile vanished.

"At least I didn't eat the turf," Bailey muttered.

"Let's work out how to move the ball," Reid said, opening his thick playbook before either coordinator could start another argument. "The posts and corners aren't getting us anywhere. We'll shorten it up. Donald runs the hitch, the slot takes his defender toward the flat. Give Quinn something he can throw before the pocket disappears."

Holmgren turned on Desmond Clark.

"And you. I don't want to see that end shove you aside again. Didn't you eat today? Or did you spend last night out on the town? My granddaughter could hold a block longer."

"I played receiver at Wake Forest," Clark said quietly.

It wasn't much of an excuse, but it explained why he did not yet have a tight end's build. Holmgren caught his chin and forced him to look up. Clark flinched before the coach released him.

"I don't care what they called you in college. If you want to keep this job and propose to that girlfriend of yours, get your weight where it needs to be."

"The incentives work both ways," Rhodes added. "Get to the weight in your contract, whether that means gaining or losing, and the bonus is there."

He looked around the room.

"Miss it, and we still have conditioning to do. I'm not inventing a fine the union won't allow. By the time we're finished, you'll wish money was the problem."

The room went quiet. Between them, the two coordinators had found a way to make everybody nervous.

In the second half, Quinn took the snap and held his ground as the rush reached him. He threw from an awkward angle just before the hit.

The slot receiver pulled two defenders toward the sideline. Driver drove a few yards upfield, stopped, and turned back. Clark fought to keep the end from getting through in time. The ball reached Driver, and the play that had existed as arrows in Reid's book finally worked on the field.

"A clean completion, and the Angels are moving! That looked like a different offense. They've got it down to the thirty!"

Nolan stayed on the sideline, but the offense put together several useful possessions. The staff's adjustments were beginning to show. Minnesota still won 27-17. It was a loss, but not another 30-3 embarrassment.

There was something to build on. Nolan needed to remember that.

Holmgren and Reid headed for the locker room with grim expressions and immediately began arguing about the cut list. Nolan stayed outside, slapping hands with the players as they came off.

Two preseason games had given the staff enough film to begin reducing the camp roster. Roughly a quarter of the players would be gone over the coming week. Another round of cuts would follow the last two games, leaving the roster they would carry into the season.

"Jason, you've done good work at corner," Nolan said later in the office. "But Bailey's going to play, and you've seen how crowded that position is. We aren't keeping you. I'm sorry."

Jason Suttle sat across the desk without answering.

"There are still a couple of weeks before the season. Another team may have a place for you, or a practice-squad opening."

Encourage the player. Explain the decision. Point him toward another chance. Nolan understood the process. That did not make saying it easier.

The coaches should have been handling these meetings, but Reid and Holmgren had spent three days fighting over the names. Nolan had taken the job to keep the argument from getting worse. Now he had to finish it without letting every difficult meeting become another negotiation.

His expression shifted despite himself. He had expected more from this veteran.

Suttle noticed. He had been out of work for six months, he said. He could play free safety. He could take a reserve spot. He would work on special teams. Whatever they needed.

"The staff and I have made the decision," Nolan said. "Someone outside will help you collect your things. Leave your playbook with him."

Suttle gave a small, strained smile. His mouth moved as if he might try again. Then he stood and left without offering his hand.

"Jason."

He stopped at the door.

"How many are still waiting?"

"Nine."

After he left, Nolan waited before calling the next man in. He picked up the phone instead.

Grace arrived a little later in a suit, coming straight from Katherine's office.

"We were talking about the merchandise licenses," she said, settling into the chair across from him.

"That's where the players sit while I cut them."

She looked at his face and reconsidered the visit.

"Right. I'll let you get back to it."

"I've got other work waiting too," Nolan said. "Someone has to see how the cheer squad's getting on."

The basement had become a dance studio, with a mirrored wall and enough space for the squad to rehearse. Eight women were working through the halftime routine in fitted practice clothes. A Britney song had replaced the Mariah Carey track they had used before.

Nolan watched for a while. McKenna had met everyone, and her easy manner had helped her settle in. She and Kelsey were getting along well. For a group assembled in such a hurry, the squad was beginning to look like a unit.

"You're going to get this league's attention," he told them. "The rest of the country, too."

Not long after he left, Kelsey's phone rang.

...

The Angels lost their remaining two preseason games. Nolan played in neither.

Dallas, their opponent in the opener, had been busy. In the season Nolan's arrival had already changed, the Cowboys made another departure from the future he remembered: Jerry Jones brought Ryan Leaf over from San Diego a year after the Chargers had drafted him second overall.

Leaf's first season had disappointed. His relationship with fans had deteriorated, and trouble surrounding his shoulder and his place at camp had deepened the rift. Jerry saw a player whose draft position still promised more than his price demanded. He persuaded both sides to accept a move and brought Leaf to Dallas to fill Nolan's vacancy.

"However you look at it, that's a good deal," Jerry said, watching his team practice. "Callahan thinks he won that Super Bowl by himself. Without our players, he wouldn't have made it to the fourth quarter."

"The Angels lost all four preseason games," Stephen said. "He didn't even go in. Maybe he knows he can't fix it. He can stay mysterious as long as he stays on the sideline. We won all four."

"And that's not even the best part."

Jerry turned. "What else?"

Bad news about Nolan was becoming almost as satisfying as good news about Dallas.

"Their camp turnout was below expectations. They couldn't even draw what San Diego did. Our fans aren't following him to the Angels, and California isn't exactly lining up for him. Not much of an upgrade over Leaf, is he?"

Stephen looked thoroughly pleased with the comparison.

"I want to see his face when he loses in Dallas," Jerry said. "I'm going to be there."

He would stand on the sideline for the opener. When it was over, he intended to shake Nolan's hand himself.