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Thomas
Sixty-Seven
I HAD ONE MOREgood cry about my brother Thomas.
In that time, I gave up waiting to hear from Bobby Erlich. I took a quick shower, repaired my face as best I could, got into the same dress I’d worn the day I’d been introduced as the managing owner of the Wolves.
At THEBlvd Privé, an extension of the Wilshire’s garden restaurant, there were two bar setups and white-jacketed waiters serving appetizers. By the time I got to the reception, it seemed like most of the other owners were already in attendance.
“It’s just a meet and greet,” Bobby Erlich had said. “Just make nice with the other boys and girls, and please don’t punch anybody.”
I told him I would be on my best behavior, and he said, “Low bar.”
I got myself a white wine and sat down at a table alone, seeing heads turn in my direction as I did. I pretended to wave at someone. Then I smiled and waved in the other direction, also at nobody. I saw Joel Abrams, the commissioner, in deep conversation with a man I knew was Lew Wyatt, the owner of the Rams. Cissy Meriweather, who had inherited the Seahawks after her husband died, was with them.
I saw Kevin Penders, the league’s only Black owner, having bought the Arizona Cardinals two years ago. I even managed a totally fake smile as I gave another wave to A. J. Frost, the owner of the Patriots, when I saw him staring at me. Frost, I knew, was pushing eighty. But he looked pretty good for his age—white hair worn long, somehow carrying off a skinny dark suit and black sneakers. A.J. was the chairman of the ownership committee and had been the one who’d led the charge against me after the pictures of my naked butt ended up in theTribune.Bobby Erlich said I’d be fine with him as long as I didn’t make any sudden moves.
I got up and walked straight across the courtyard while he was still standing by himself and stuck out my hand. He shook it reluctantly, as if afraid one of the photographers wandering around might turn us into a photo op.
“Jenny Wolf,” I said.
“I feel as if I know all about you, even if we’ve never met,” he said before quickly adding, “Sorry about your brother.”
“So am I.”
He had a martini in his left hand, I noticed. My father had once told me that if you wanted to get any business done with A. J. Frost it was best to get it done early in the day, before he got into the gin.
“I’m not going to stand here and lie to you, young lady. You’re not going to have a very good week.”
“I’ve had worse,” I said. “But thanks for calling me young, Mr. Frost.”
“It’s not too late for you to call this off. Just withdraw your formal application and hand the team back to your brother and we can all move on.”
“I keep telling people,” I said. “I actually said this to Oprah Winfrey tonight. Joe Wolf didn’t raise me to be a quitter.”
“I’m asking you to stop because it will be for the good of the league.”
“And you know something?” I said, smiling at him. “I honestly believe thatyoubelieve that.”
Then I said, “You ought to check out the interview. It’s not half bad.”
“I’ll be out to dinner.”
“Same.”
We moved away from each other, like boxers retreating to neutral corners. I said hello to Sam Zorn of the Dolphins, who’d been one of my father’s best friends among the owners. I said hello to Karen Hooper, who owned the biggest real estate company in Los Angeles and had used part of her personal fortune to buy the Denver Broncos.
“If you ask me, we could use another girl in the old boys’ club,” she said.
“I keep thinking of a line my father liked to use. I feel like the whole world’s a tuxedo and I’m a pair of brown shoes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But you volunteered. I was drafted.”
“I just thought it was about time a woman used her own damn money to get one of these teams,” Karen Hooper said.
I smiled. “Your truth is a little different from mine.”
