The Rookie on the Doorstep

Malcolm Brox sailed into the end zone, untouched, for his fifteenth touchdown in just the tenth game of his rookie season with the Cleveland Browns. As soon as the official confirmed the score, Malcolm jogged over, waited for him to lower his arms, and handed him the ball. It never occurred to him to throw the ball into the stands or slam it on the turf, nor did it occur to him to dance or gesture toward his rival’s bench. The play was over.

The score put the Browns on top to stay in an eventual 27-20 victory over the Steelers.

As he headed back to the sidelines, Malcolm accepted congratulations from his downfield teammates. Then, as he’d done after each of his previous fourteen trips past the plane of his opponent’s goal line, he sought out each of his offensive linemen and thanked them personally for clearing the path.

With a record of 8-2, the Browns were enjoying their best season since re-joining the NFL in 1999 and Malcolm was a big part of their resurgence. A former schoolboy star at Vincent Chamberlain Memorial, a little known high school located in one of Cleveland’s middle class suburbs, Malcolm flew under recruiter’s radars calibrated to pick up the movements of athlete’s from the state’s scholastic power brokers such as Massillon and Canton McKinley. As a result, he accepted a scholarship to Youngstown State where he was part of three straight NCAA Division I FCS playoff teams, and, as a senior All-American, a national runner-up.

Still, pro scouts and draft gurus like ESPN’s Mel Kiper weren’t rating Malcolm any higher than 15th among draft-eligible running backs, sighting his size – 5’-9” 188 lbs – and lack of exposure to big-time competition as negatives. So in the 3rd round, with his name still on the board, the hometown Browns selected him with the 67th overall pick. Rumor has it that Browns owner Wendell Goodrich called GM Horace Winfield personally saying that if Malcolm Brox slid past them one more time there’d be a different man representing the team at next year’s draft.

Aside from odds makers, fantasy buffs, and a few local writers who’d followed Malcolm in high school and college, not much attention was paid to the Browns and their young star over the first three months of the season. It wasn’t until that week-ten victory over division rival Pittsburgh that the 1st-place Browns and their league-leading scorer began getting noticed outside the state of Ohio.

The tipping point came following the game when someone with real journalistic clout decided to inquire about Malcolm’s consistently understated post-touchdown ritual.

Sylvester Wheaton had been covering sports for The Cleveland Plain Dealer for more than four decades and as he headed toward Malcolm’s locker, his only regret was that he’d let pessimistic sentiment override his journalistic instincts; Malcolm Brox was a bona fide star with a story that needed to be told.

Wheaton was 69 years old; a throwback right down to his corduroy suit jacket and plaid fedora. He never bothered taking notes and refused to stand elbow to elbow with microphone thrusting colleagues spewing clichés as if they were questions. Wheaton did his job hands-free, one on one, and athletes knew they’d be afforded fairness when dealing with him. He was also a diehard Browns fan.

Malcolm was sitting by his locker when Wheaton approached, but stood and put a t-shirt on over his muscular torso out of respect. He could never understand why athletes couldn’t wait until the locker room was cleared before getting undressed.

The men shook hands.

“Sorry I’m late,” the elder man said.

Malcolm frowned, a slight flush colored his light brown cheeks.

“Late?” he said. “Did we have an appointment?”

“No, son. I should have come to see you months ago. I’m an old man, seen a lot of heartache when it comes to the Browns; Red Right 88 in 1980, Elway for the rest of that decade, Modell in the 90’s. I guess I just couldn’t trust what I was seeing was real; the Browns in 1st place, headed for the playoffs, a rookie running back leading the NFL in scoring. But, you son, are for real. Everyone’s going to write about those things I mentioned, but what I want to know is, why chase down offensive linemen every time you score a touchdown?”

It was a simple question; the only kind Wheaton asked. He never piggybacked a follow-up like so many hacks trying to lead their subjects where they wanted them to go. Experience had taught Wheaton that a simplistic approach always yielded the most interesting and surprising results.

Malcolm looked around the room at his teammates, then back at his questioner.

“Think of it as a delivery,” he said.

Wheaton waited, showing nothing.

“The touchdowns,” Malcolm said, “They’re like a delivery. My father worked 37 years as a letter carrier in Stansfield Heights. He started back when it wasn’t easy for a minority to get a job like that. We lived just over the line in Proctor. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t Stansfield Heights either. One morning, I was about 7 or 8 years-old, he comes into my room, wakes me up, and says, ‘You’re not going to school today, you’re coming to work with me.’ Well, I just about shot out of bed and he says, ‘This is no field trip. You’re going learn something today.’ He took me around and introduced me to as many of his coworkers as time would allow before we headed out on his route. I met truck drivers, registry clerks, and custodians. He explained what each of them did and how important their job was. He wanted me to understand that it wasn’t just the people who did what he did that got the mail delivered. He just happened to be the guy who showed up on the doorstep with the package. And on the walk home, he told me how every Christmas he shared a percentage of his tips with the coworkers who weren’t on the doorstep getting the credit.”

Wheaton nodded, knowing there was more.

“You see, Mr Wheaton, I’m the guy on the doorstep holding the package. I’ve watched plenty of football on TV. I know who the camera’s on. I may as well be holding it. And I make it my business to get that camera aimed at the people who got me to the doorstep. They do some real nasty business clearing a path so I can get there. They deserve as much credit as I do. Even more, if you ask me.”

Malcolm paused. A hint of a smile appeared on his face.

Wheaton broke his silence.

“What is it, son?”

“I was just thinking about that day, those big houses up in those hills. I remember climbing this one set of stairs, they seemed to go up forever, and I started thinking, he does this every day; in the rain, the snow, the heat, always on the outside, always looking up. And it was like he could read my thoughts because he said, ‘Don’t go resenting these people in these nice houses, son. They’ve always treated me well. You look them in the eye when you speak to them. It shows you respect them and that you’re worthy of their respect.’ What I remember most, though, was that wherever we walked, he always made sure he was between me and the traffic. Not once did I feel unprotected. And now my teammates are doing the same thing. How lucky can a guy get?”

Indeed, Wheaton thought, How lucky, indeed. He’d only asked two questions, but he had his story.

The next day, the Plain Dealer ran the story about Malcolm on the front page of the sports section. The wire services quickly picked up on it and suddenly the Browns public relations office was being inundated with requests for time with the rookie phenom. Even Letterman called to schedule an appearance.

As the Browns closed in on their first division title since 1989, and Malcolm was making a serious bid to be the first player since Earl Campbell in 1978 to win both rookie of the year and MVP in the same season, reporters began flooding the area in front of his locker after games. He stood patiently and answered their questions, charming them with the occasional anecdote. He deflected praise, crediting his parents and coaches, and he insisted that statistics were not important, that they only told part of the story. And whenever possible, he pointed toward his teammates, reminding the writers that they all had a story to tell.

But many of them did not want their stories told. They appreciated young Malcolm occupying the spotlight so they could remain somewhat anonymous and go about their post-game business quietly. And then there were the few who resented his popularity. Even as they accepted his praise, something they had never received from any veteran running back, they couldn’t stand to see Malcolm attracting so much attention.

The season ended in a hard-fought loss to New England in the AFC championship game. Malcolm was as gracious in defeat as he had been in victory, but the fickle media was already getting bored with the well-mannered, articulate star. Honor and stability were not major themes on Sportscenter. Several reporters had gravitated toward Jesse Harper, the third-person wide receiver, and others went looking for reaction from Dennis Plankton, the face-painting linebacker with the speeding tickets and late-hit habit. All of which was fine with Malcolm, he knew the least important things in life were temporary.

Two months later, in a most unorthodox move, Wendell Goodrich invited Malcolm to his home to discuss a contract extension. The house was enormous, with Doric columns and manicured topiary that impressed even in late winter. Goodrich was what you call super-rich. He made his fortune in broadcasting; The Browns were like a hobby acquired to fuel his competitive side.

Malcolm didn’t have an agent. He showed up at the owner’s house with another man to assist in negotiations. Goodrich greeted both of his guests warmly and the three of them sat down and worked things out amicably over lunch.

As a third-round pick, Malcolm had been paid well, but not as well as the best rookie since Gale Sayers deserved to be.

“What about the salary cap?” Malcolm asked. “You’re going to need some room to go after free agents.”

“Let me worry about that,” Goodrich said. He was tall and lanky, in his mid-70’s, with silver hair and long unruly eyebrows. “Is there anything we haven’t covered?”

Malcolm looked at the man who’d come with him. The man nodded.

“There’s just one thing,” Malcolm said. “That incentive clause, the one where I get a bonus for every touchdown I score?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like that money to be divided equally between the other ten guys on the field at the time of the score.”

“A unique request, but I think we can arrange it.”

“And Mr Goodrich? I don’t want them to know where the money came from. In fact, I don’t want anyone to know. Not the press. Not the league. Just the three of us here today.”

“The league might be a problem, but we’ll figure something out. It’s all in the language of the contract.”

When the meeting broke up, Goodrich saw his guests to the door. His wife joined him on the porch as he watched them drive away in Malcolm’s modest Acura sedan. She was wife number three and a good twenty years younger than Goodrich.

“Who was that man with your star running back?” she said. “He looked so familiar.”

“He should,” Goodrich said, “You probably didn’t recognize him out of uniform. That’s Sidney Brox, our mailman for the last eighteen years.”

“Why was he here?”

“Wisdom.”

She looked up at him, a question forming on her cosmetically amended forehead.

“He’s a wise man,” he said. “He once gave me some of the best advice of my life.”

“And what would that be?”

“Two years ago, he told me I’d be a fool if I passed up an opportunity to draft his son.”

One day, in early April, Malcolm walked down to the post office to greet his father on his final day of work. Another thing the new contract allowed Malcolm to do was buy his parents a new home not far from Wendell Goodrich in Stansfield Heights. It wasn’t exactly on the hill, but it wasn’t at the bottom either.

“Come on Pop, I want to show you your retirement present.”

As they approached the house, Malcolm noticed an old station wagon out front and a figure standing by the “Sold” sign on the front lawn. The plaid fedora could only belong to one man.

“Mr Wheaton, what are you doing here?” Malcolm said.

“Real estate deals are part of the public record, son. I’ve been trying to track you down. Heard something about a new contract extension.”

“Oh, Mr Wheaton,” Malcolm said, “that’s no big deal. There’s no story there. Just a contract.”

“No story, huh? This is a pretty expensive house we’re standing in front of.”

“I bought it for my folks. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Wheaton, this is my father. Pop, this is Mr Wheaton.”

The two older men shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you Mr Brox.”

“Call me Sidney.”

“Sylvester Wheaton.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been reading your column for years. You’re the only civilized newspaperman left in Cleveland.”

“Tell that to my editor.”

“If he doesn’t know it by now, he’s as hopeless as a cross-eyed pool player.”

Wheaton smiled. “So, Malcolm, no comment on the new contract?”

“It’s just a contract, sir. I’m sure the details are available.”

“You know if there’s a story here, I’ll find it.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Where are you going to live?”

“I’ll be close by,” Malcolm said. “I’ve got a commitment to fulfill.”

And with that, Wheaton said his goodbyes and drove away.

“You think he’ll figure it out?” Malcolm said, as he watched the journalist disappear down the street. “About the incentive clause?”

“Probably. That’s what he does.”

“It certainly is. Come on Pop, let’s go tell Ma she needs to get ready to move.”

The two men walked toward their soon-to-be old neighborhood; Malcolm on the outside, between his father and the traffic.

A Life Lesson Learned at the Stop & Shop

(As first appeared in Newsweek 10/15/2007)
I was obsessive about managing my time, until a small act of kindness slowed me down.

It's noon on a Wednesday; I've got plenty to do, but I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store first. I have determined that it will take 30 minutes to complete the errand. I pride myself on efficiency, and will do everything in my power to meet my goal. You see, I live with this absurd notion that it is possible for me to "own" my time.

I get out of my car and glide through the Stop & Shop's sliding doors. I tuck my sunglasses into my jacket pocket, and scoop up a shopping basket without breaking stride. While my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting, I notice a frustrated man struggling to separate two shopping carts that have been wedged together. Good luck, pal.

I stop by the deli first, the only potential speed bump in my meticulously choreographed routine. There are a few people ahead of me, but with two employees slicing away behind the counter, this shouldn't take long. I draw a number, wait my turn, approve the thickness of the initial slice of turkey, and decline the invitation to sample it. I'm moving away from the counter as the clerk hands over my half-pound package; I reach back and collect it as if it were a relay-race baton and scurry off in the opposite direction.

I'm making good time: no need to check my watch—my internal clock is unfailingly accurate.I'm coasting along on cruise control, heading for the pet aisle, when I notice an elderly couple looking at laundry detergent at the end of the aisle, their cart obstructing access. They shuffle coupons while looking back and forth between their shopping list and the merchandise. I stop a few feet behind them and begin shifting foot to foot. They're comparing the merits of Tide versus Wisk while computing some complex mathematical formula involving sale prices, triple-value coupons and fluid ounces. They decide against the detergent. I watch them as they walk off, completely oblivious to me. Unbelievable.

After picking up a carton of litter-box liners, I head to the dairy section and toss a couple of containers of yogurt into my basket without slowing down. I realize I'm still on schedule when, up ahead, I see the elderly couple stalled out in front of the dairy chest. Here we go again. The man has most of his upper torso in the cooler; he's passing half-gallon containers of milk to the woman. She squints, shakes her head, and hands them back to him. They're checking expiration dates. I can see the exact brand of milk I want, but I can't get to it. Finally, the man hands the woman an acceptable selection. She makes a mark on her list, and they slip away without acknowledging me. Clueless.

I pick up a six-pack of Powerade on my way to the checkout area. I search the lighted signs for an express lane and don't see one. A regular lane is open to my right. As I prepare to unload my basket, I find that the lane is not unoccupied. The elderly couple had been camouflaged by the candy and magazine racks. I'd probably laugh if this were happening to someone else. The woman is rechecking each item against her list as the man places them on the conveyer belt. I lean back and inspect the other checkout lines to see if there is a better option. The woman looks at me, then at my basket, and whispers something to the man. He turns around and, in a gentle, friendly voice, says, "Hey, why don't you go ahead of us? You've only got a few things." His carefree manner catches me off guard. He sounds as if he's got all the time in the world, and he's offering me a little piece of it. I feel the sort of shame that comes when someone does something nice for you after you've said something nasty behind his back.

"That's OK," I say, trying to match his casual tone. "I'm in no hurry."

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you."I look down at my shoes; I feel self-conscious and petty.

The man loads the last of their items on the belt and places a divider behind their order. I thank him. He nods and smiles. The woman is watching the checkout girl to make sure no mistakes are made. I have an urge to go forward and bag their groceries for them. Their time is precious, too—more precious than mine.

I pull into my driveway and check the clock on my dash: 12:35. I missed my goal by five minutes. I know that the five minutes were well spent observing the kind elderly couple in front of me after they had offered me their place in line. Five minutes: a small price to pay for discovering that only those who are giving of their time have ever owned it in the first place.