First And Ten: Going Deep by Emily Embree Page A

I'm sure you have heard he's stubborn, and sometimes just
    down right mean—a pain in the ass, to put it frankly. But the man knows
    how to install discipline and the fundamental concepts that lay the
    foundation for any team that hopes to be a playoff contender, two core
    concepts this franchise has been woefully lacking in the past years.”
    “I see,” I said, though I really didn't. While I could peruse some football sites on the web to become more educated, I frowned at the thought. I didn't need to know anything about football to counsel players
    with relationship problems if that was what he wanted to hire me for.
    “I had to fight him to get the QB I wanted in the draft this year. We
    had two first picks, so I grabbed the LB he wanted, in exchange to draft
    the QB I wanted.”
    “I am not sure how I can help you, Mr Gershwin,” I frowned.
    “It's Jerry. You're going to be around for awhile, so feel right at home
    to call your boss by his first name. The Sharks are one big family. Maybe
    not so happy at times, but a family.”
    I was? I seriously doubted that. “Mr G—I mean Jerry—what exactly
    do wish to hire me for?”
    “Megan, I just paid a multi-million dollar bonus to the quarterback
    who is going to revive this franchise. He has the arm, the talent, the brains
    to be a superstar in this league. There is only one problem. How shall I
    say this—he..uh—has displayed a problem in his mental makeup that has
    us worried.”
    “Didn't you screen him before you drafted him?” I blurted out. That
    was a lot of money to be handing a guy who—
    “We did our homework. He led his college team to a title, he
    demonstrated great leadership on and off the field—then he came here,
    and well, let's just say—the problems started. Coach Parmeal wants to cut
    him. Says he's not adapting to the pros and he'll never be anything but a
    clipboard holder.”
    “Isn't that a little premature? You have quite an investment in him.
    Don't they recommend rookies, and especially quarterback's, sit the bench
    for the first year and adjust?” Football may not have interested me, but I
    remembered some case studies on the subject and the accompanying news
    articles.
    “I am not going to cut him,” Jerry shook his head. “But I want you to
    help him adjust. Whatever his problem is, you need to fix him.”
    For a moment I sat there stunned, wondering who was crazy. Jerry?
    This quarterback, or me? While I was sure the money from this could
    have kept me solvent for several years, I was out of my league, here. I
    was swimming with the big boys, the sharks of professional football—and
    I wasn't real fond of the idea of swimming with fish that could eat you.
    “Jerry, I specialize in family relationships, especially marriage issues. I'm
    not a sport's psychologist. I can recommend one, but I'm sure with your
    team's resources, you can find a more qualified one to hire—There is Dr.
    Phillips. He has appeared on TV and has written several books...”
    “Oh no, we have to keep this private and in-house. If word got out, not
    only would I and the Shark organization look like fools, it would give
    Coach Parmeal an excuse to walk since he didn't want him in the first
    place. I can't have that. We have to fix him.”
    “Jerry, I'm not qualified, and I—” I didn't want to be the scapegoat for
    the entire city of Miami when I screwed up their promising quarterback—
    or the reason the storied coach walked.
    “I didn't just pick you off a list, I checked your qualifications, called
    the U and asked your professors about you. Dr. Harris thought you could
    handle this, and if you have problems, he'll backstop you. So what do you
    say? I know you need the money. I'm ready to offer you a retainer of
    twenty thousand dollars, and will pay you five hundred dollars an hour for
    your time. And if this goes well, I may just hire you as permanent member of our staff. So what do you say?”
    “I don't know,” the money sounded