Free Fantasy League by Mike Lupica Page B

Warren’s office in a private elevator, the office one level below his suite, a whole wall of windows behind his desk looking down at the field.
    There were two men standing at the windows with their backs to the office, watching practice.
    â€œMr. Warren,” Carlos said, “your guest is here.”
    Joe Warren’s sweater was a light blue today, but other than that he looked the same as he had at the house the day before the opener. The younger guy standing next to him, Charlie knew right away, was Matt Warren, the Bulldogs’ general manager.
    Mr. Warren’s son. Anna’s uncle.
    And the guy most local sports fans, at least the loudest ones, thought was responsible for the team being as bad as it had been since its first season, whether they’d just won the first game of this season or not.
    â€œCharlie,” Matt Warren said, coming around his dad’s desk to shake Charlie’s hand. “Good to see you.”
    They’d met briefly in Mr. Warren’s suite during the Panthers preseason game, Matt just stopping in for a few minutes.
    â€œNice to see you again, Mr. Warren.”
    â€œCall me Matt. My dad’s the Mr. Warren in the family.”
    â€œSee how they treat you when you’re as old as Sunset Boulevard?” Joe Warren said.
    His son said, “We’re just standing here wondering if the team we’re looking at can get to 2–0 against the Ravens.”
    â€œWe’ve never done that,” Charlie said. “Started 2–0.”
    Matt Warren raised his eyebrows and said, “You weren’t joking about this kid. He knows his stuff.”
    â€œI do believe I might have mentioned that in passing,” Joe Warren said, winking at Charlie.
    â€œTell me about it,” Matt said. “Charlie, my dad spends more time these days talking football with you than he actually does talking football with me.”
    â€œI guess I’m as lucky as you are,” Charlie said. “Getting to talk football with him, I mean.”
    â€œYoung people make old people feel less old,” Joe Warren said. “Sometimes the younger the better.”
    Joe Warren motioned Charlie to come around the desk and stand with them at the windows. There were players and coaches all over the field, the players in full pads, offense scrimmaging against the defense, Matt Warren explaining to Charlie how they’d changed the rules in the last few years, the NFL reducing the number of full-contact practices. A lot of it had to do with the attention brought to concussions and brain injuries, but the players’ association had bargained for it, Matt Warren said, thinking it might lengthen careers.
    All of which Charlie knew, but he wasn’t going to tell Matt Warren that.
    On the field Tom Pinkett threw a bullet pass over the middle, then floated a deep ball just over the hands of defensive back Ray Milner—Charlie knew who it was before he saw the number—and into the hands of the best wide receiver out of all the ones Matt Warren had drafted, Harrison Mays.
    â€œI have to admit,” Matt Warren said, “I never thought the old guy would throw like he did last Sunday ever again, at least not in a real game.” Shook his head and said, “Most yards he’s thrown for in ten years.”
    This time, Charlie couldn’t help himself, didn’t hold back what he already knew.
    â€œActually,” he said to Matt Warren, “he had that one game three years ago when he came off the bench for the Titans and went crazy and ended up throwing for more than that.”
    Matt Warren turned and smiled at Charlie. The kind of smile you got from your parents—or your parent—when they were trying to be patient with you without coming out and telling you that you’d just said something that was dumber than hamsters.
    â€œNot for three-fifty,” Matt said.
    â€œThree ninety-two,” Charlie said.
    He was a guest here,