Agent with a death wish
Special to Page 2
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Agent with a death wish Special to Page 2 | ||||
| Editor's Note: When we got to work today, we found another e-mail from that bartending, skateboarding buddy of ours in California. We decided to pass it along again. A word of warning: always wear a helmet.
Chapter Nine ... in which our hero gets an agent. 
Once in a while as a bartender, you get a customer, as soon as he's gone you need a drink. I had him tonight at Lore's.
He's a sports attorney. One of the biggest -- Daryl Andrews. He walks in, and it's obvious he's out to make a night of it. He's riding Belvedere Vodka in the Kentucky Derby. Maybe I would be too if I'd just been fired. That afternoon.
Andrews is listing some of his accomplishments for me while I pour. Not just some of the athletes he's represented, but some of the ways he's marketed them: The benefit golf tournament they throw every year, hosted by the last pick in the NFL draft (Frank Sesno, that reporter from CNN, wouldn't miss being there). Getting Jackie Joyner Kersee an endorsement deal on sand pits. And Andrews is about this far from lifting off the ground on his best idea of all: the senior seniors golf tour. What happens when some of today's great players on the seniors circuit get a little past their prime, Andrews explains. What are you going to do, just turn a player like Kermit Zarley out to pasture?
"These are still players with huge name recognition," Andrews says. "Fox Sports West has already locked up the TV rights. So what if the golfers need help getting out of their carts? We can cut away to a commercial -- it's perfect -- and come back by the time they reach the ball."
I say, "Why not the senior, senior senior golf tour? Kind of the great-great-grandparents of David Duval and Nick Faldo going head to head."
"You got it," he smiles, training an index finger at me and firing it like a pistol. "Hit me with one more, Wheeler."
So I do. Andrews specializes in problem clients. Clients with mega potential but who are clearly mentally unbalanced, capable of shooting a cop and taking hostages on the way home from practice. Guys who are manic-depressives or suicidal. Guys who are known drug abusers, but who are needed by teams because they are good enough to keep their fan base solid.
"Teams will overlook a lot of things," he tells me. He tucks his thumbs under his lapels. He wants me to get a load of his suit. I figure each of his lapels is worth about what I just paid for my car.
"You're looking at the master of Stricklanditis," he says, referring to one of his favorites, that Wizards guard who ought to have an anti-weave device installed in his car's steering column. "You get a guy a great contract, guaranteed salary. Say the guy dies. Who knows why? He destroys his liver with steroids. He likes to party Sunday night after the game. The party includes a few of his homeys. They want to impress him with the good stuff they can score. He goes out for a drive in the hood. Somebody's got a little payback to settle, pops off a shotgun through the window. See what I'm saying?"
"You bet on clients like that?" I ask.
"That was my A-list," he says. "Most agents want clients who win -- but I go for clients who want to win and die. Hopefully, for me, before their contracts expire. That way I'm still billing their estate for my services, but since the client's dead he can't tell me to stop providing them or ever ask me for anything. It's very lucrative."
I'm trying hard to keep up with Andrews' business model -- "So if it's such a good practice, why did your partners dust you?" I ask.
"Jealousy," he snorts.
Andrews explains his client list got too good. He was representing the top 10 dead athletes in America. Guys whose Porsches had spun out or overturned. Or who took one anti-inflammatory drug too many before running full court and drying from some heart abnormality Andrews made sure he never revealed to the athlete.
"I'm making millions representing guys who were planted and not raising a finger," he says, "while my partners are busting ass, hooked up to a phone and having to talk all day and solve bullcrap problems. This afternoon they claimed to have some ethical problem with it."
Andrews starts laughing at the thought of that. In fact, the whole bar does.
Andrews drains his fourth Vodka to calm himself down.
"Let me tell you something, Wheeler," he says, "this is America. Even an athlete who's dead is entitled to representation."
That's when I clear my throat.
"I'm looking to die," I say. "I mean, what I do, extreme sports, taping extreme sports, stuff like that, I've got a damn good shot at killing myself or being shot. And I need an agent to help me move up to the next level. Maybe a helmet endorsement. Or my own signature videocamera, or, who knows, my own brand of blood clotting factor."
With some people you need a ton of papers and legalese to make a deal. But with the real top dudes, all of that crap isn't necessary.
With someone like Daryl Andrews, all it takes is a handshake and you know you're locked in with the best.
We clasp hands.
He tells me he is going to take care of me.
Just like that, I get myself my first agent. Which, believe me, in this Xtreme world, is getting more and more important.
As I watch Andrews wobble off, I start thinking to myself how I'm going to tell my buddy Puker. And my girlfriend Janine down in Del Mar.
I can't help wondering to myself, though: Did Andrews take me on because he's into what I do? Or did he just take me on because he expects me to die. Or maybe even is going to arrange it.
That's when I figure I'll take a small drink myself.
To celebrate. |
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