His comment made the man wonder why his young owner seemed to be venting his dissatisfaction so openly. "What do you mean by that?" He questioned, more like demanded an answer, but he received a smile.
"It's simple, he is not you," Xavier responded with the same calm smile, but his eyes remained steady. "Let me ask you how long it would have taken you to whip the current New England into shape?"
Belichick didn't answer immediately; his blue eyes studied Xavier with an unreadable intensity. The room had gone quiet—even Rex had stopped flipping through his binder. "Two years," Belichick said finally, his voice flat and certain. "Maybe three to compete for a championship. Their roster has talent, but it's undisciplined. Soft in critical areas."
"Exactly," Xavier said, leaning forward with his palms on the table. "Romeo's a brilliant defensive mind—nobody's questioning that. But he's a notch below you, and being your disciple for a decade following your philosophy instead of creating his own. Now, when something goes wrong next year, he will ask himself what Belichick would do instead of what I should do, which will lead to problems."
"You're saying..."
"Yes, their draft pick is valuable if what I'm expecting to happen comes about and they implode mid-season." Xavier clarified to the rest of the room. "I'm suggesting a 1st round pick swap for next year, but we need something attractive to make Scott Pioli bite at the deal. How do you feel about giving up Wayne Chrebe?"
Nathan's expression shifted from curious to contemplative. He pulled off his reading glasses, cleaning them with the edge of his shirt—a tell Xavier had learned meant his grandfather was working through multiple scenarios simultaneously. "Wayne Chrebet is a good slot receiver who has become a fan favourite. Good hands, knows how to find soft spots in coverage, tough as nails." He paused. "Also, thirty years old, coming off a season where he missed four games with a foot injury."
"But still productive when healthy," Xavier countered. "Sixty-six catches, over eight hundred yards. For a team like New England that desperately needs weapons for Bledsoe, he's a proven commodity who knows how to work in traffic."
Charlie Weis, the offensive coordinator, sat forward, arms crossed. "You want to trade away one of our few reliable receivers so we can gamble on New England imploding? That's risky, boss."
"I know that's why I'm presenting the suggestion," Xavier stated. Chrebet's value to us versus his value to them is different. "We're rebuilding—by the time we're competitive, he'll be thirty-two, thirty-three. But to New England? He's an immediate contributor who can help stabilise their offence while they figure out their identity under a new head coach."
Belichick finally spoke, his voice neutral, but he was clearly intrigued. "What's the full trade package you're proposing?"
"Since we are planning to strengthen our defence in this draft, shouldn't we get a veteran who can teach the new guys the ropes?" Xavier straightened. "Wayne Chrebet and our 2001 first-round pick to New England in exchange for someone, like Willie McGinest and their 2001 first-round pick. Both sides get what they need and bet that the other side has a worse performance next year."
The room went quiet again. Nathan's eyes narrowed as he ran the numbers. "You're betting that New England finishes poorly enough next year that their first-rounder is valuable. That's a significant risk."
"It's a risk, but that's what the draft is: a calculated gamble." He retorted before walking to the back to take his seat, no longer interfering with their work. "It's just a thought, since most in the leagues think of us as suckers, we might as well offer them a deal."
Nathan stood, moving to the window to watch the college scenery in silence whilst the rest of the coaching staff discussed the proposal. On the screen, the ESPN broadcast continued in silence as they discussed the pros and cons of the deal. "I'll make the offer, let's see if they bite first." Nathan finally announced after having made up his mind to end the discussion.
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New York Tigers – 2000 Draft Picks:
Round 1, Pick 13 (via Tampa Bay)
Round 1, Pick 18 (original)
Round 1, Pick 27 (via Tampa Bay)
Round 2, Pick 44 (original)
Round 3, Pick 76 (original)
Round 4, Pick 107 (original)
Round 5, Pick 138 (original)
Round 6, Pick 177 (original)
Round 7, Pick 214 (original)
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~~~
[11:55 AM, 15th April 2000, Madison Square Garden, New York City]
The famed arena was unrecognisable. The basketball court had been replaced with a massive stage, draped in NFL colours and logos. Rows of tables were arranged for each team's representatives, nameplates gleaming under the bright lights. Behind them, tiered seating held thousands of fans—a sea of jerseys representing every franchise, signs waving, cheers echoing off the rafters.
In the Green Room, separated from the main stage by heavy curtains and security, the top prospects sat with their families. All twenty invited players were dressed immaculately—sharp suits, polished shoes, nervous energy barely contained. Courtney Brown, the presumed number one pick, sat with his mother, his massive frame somehow looking composed despite the pressure.
LaVar Arrington lounged nearby, projecting confidence, while Chris Samuels, the offensive tackle from Alabama, kept checking his watch. Among the quarterbacks, Chad Pennington sat with his family, his easy smile betraying none of the tension he must have felt. Brian Urlacher, the linebacker from New Mexico, kept his expression neutral, but his knee bounced constantly under the table.
[11:59]
Xavier checked his watch—11:59 AM. The draft would begin in one minute. On the projection screen, the ESPN broadcast showed Commissioner Paul Trueman emerging from backstage at Madison Square Garden. The crowd erupted—thousands of fans on their feet, cheering, waving signs.
The camera panned across the Green Room one last time, capturing the nervous faces of twenty young men whose lives were about to change forever. "Here we go," Thomas Dimitroff muttered, settling into his seat with a fresh cup of coffee.
The phone bank sat silent—three dedicated lines, each labelled clearly: LEAGUE OFFICE, TRADES, EMERGENCY. Nobody moved. The entire war room seemed to hold its breath. On screen, Trueman reached the podium, adjusting the microphone with a bit of swagger. His silver hair caught the lights as he smiled—a politician's smile, warm but calculated.
"Good afternoon, everyone," Trueman's voice boomed through the arena, amplified by the sound system. "Welcome to Madison Square Garden for the 2000 NFL Draft!"
The crowd roared. Signs bobbed up and down. Camera flashes popped like champagne bubbles. Xavier felt his heart rate kick up a notch. This was it. Months of preparation, thousands of hours of film study, countless debates and arguments—all coming down to the next six hours.
"Before we begin," Trueman continued, raising his hands to quiet the crowd, "I want to thank all the young men in our Green Room today. Twenty exceptional athletes, twenty incredible stories. No matter when you hear your name called, you should be proud. You've earned your place here."
Polite applause rippled through the arena. "Now," Trueman said, his smile widening, "with the first pick in the 2000 NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns are on the clock."
A digital timer appeared on the massive screens flanking the stage: 15:00. The countdown had begun.
~~~
[12:01 PM, 15th April 2000, Madison Square Garden, New York City - Green Room]
In the Green Room, Courtney Brown sat, straightening his burgundy suit jacket. His mother squeezed his hand, tears already forming in her eyes. The cameras found him immediately, projecting his image onto the screens for the entire arena to see. He looked calm—unnaturally so for someone about to have their childhood dream realised on national television. But his hands, clasped in front of him, trembled slightly.
On stage, Trueman opened the envelope handed to him by an NFL official. He didn't even need to read it—everyone knew what it said. But protocol was protocol. "With the first pick in the 2000 National Football League Draft," Trueman announced, pausing for dramatic effect, "the Cleveland Browns select... Courtney Brown, defensive end, out of Penn State University!"
The arena exploded. Browns fans in the crowd—easily identifiable by their orange and brown jerseys—went berserk, screaming and hugging strangers. The ESPN cameras caught Courtney embracing his mother, his composure finally cracking as emotion overwhelmed him. He made his way toward the stage, shaking hands with league officials, posing with Trueman, holding up the Browns jersey with his name across the back: BROWN, 99.
"No surprises there," Mel Kiper said on the broadcast, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise. "Courtney Brown is a generational pass rusher. Cleveland got this one right." The timer reset: 15:00.
"The Washington Redskins are now on the clock," Trueman announced.
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To Be Continued...