[11:25 AM, 15th April 2000, Tigers HQ, Hofstra University, Hempstead, N.Y]
Xavier sat behind his desk, steam curling from the mug of coffee in his hand. The morning sun streamed through the window, casting golden light across the organised chaos of his office—draft boards propped against the wall, scouting reports stacked in neat piles, and a yellow legal pad covered in his grandfather's handwriting.
Outside his door, the headquarters hummed with barely controlled frenzy. Phones rang constantly, voices overlapped in hurried conversation, and the rhythmic click of keyboards provided a steady backdrop. Every available staff member was fielding calls—reporters fishing for leaks, agents lobbying for their clients, other teams making last-minute trade inquiries.
"No comment," he heard someone say firmly down the hall. "Yes, we're aware of the speculation. No, I can't confirm that. You'll have to wait like everyone else."
Xavier smiled faintly, taking another sip. Draft day had a particular energy that was a mixture of electric, anxious, and expectant. Months of preparation, thousands of hours of film study, countless debates, all coming down to a handful of decisions made in real-time. He was experiencing it for the first time, and he was honestly quite excited to see what would happen tonight.
On the wall-mounted television, ESPN's NFL Draft Day Special was in full swing. The screen showed the exterior of Madison Square Garden, where the draft would take place in just over thirty minutes, making the dreams of 254 players come true. Crowds of fans in various team jerseys milled about outside, holding signs and cheering for cameras.
The broadcast cut to the studio, where Chris Berman sat flanked by Mel Kiper Jr and Ron Jaworski. All three wore sharp suits and expressions of barely contained enthusiasm. "Welcome back to ESPN's coverage of the 2000 NFL Draft," Berman said, his voice carrying that signature boom. "We are less than an hour away from Commissioner Trueman taking that stage, and gentlemen, this draft is loaded with storylines."
"Absolutely, Chris," Kiper jumped in, his trademark slicked-back hair not moving despite his animated gestures. "You've got the Browns at number one with what should be a slam-dunk pick. You've got quarterback-needy teams scattered throughout the top fifteen. And then you've got the wild card—the New York Tigers."
"Ah, yes," Jaworski said with a knowing grin. "Xavier James and company. The most talked-about franchise this offseason, and for good reason. New ownership, massive roster turnover, and now sitting with three first-round picks courtesy of that Keyshawn Johnson trade."
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The screen displayed the Tigers' draft position:
Pick 13 (from Tampa Bay via Keyshawn trade)
Pick 18 (original)
Pick 27 (from Tampa Bay via Keyshawn trade)
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"Three first-rounders," Berman repeated, shaking his head. "That's a haul. But here's the question—what are they doing with them?"
"Well," Kiper said, pulling out his notes, "the Tigers have been very active in their pre-draft visits. They brought in twenty-five prospects for private workouts."
"Twenty-five quarterbacks," Jaworski corrected, his eyebrows raised. "That's unprecedented, Chris. Every single visit was a signal caller."
"So the question becomes," Berman said, leaning forward, "do they take one early? Do they wait? And who are they targeting?"
The screen shifted to show headshots of the top quarterback prospects:
* Chad Pennington, Marshall
* Giovanni Carmazzi, Hofstra
* Chris Redman, Louisville
* Tee Martin, Tennessee
* Marc Bulger, West Virginia
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"Pennington's the consensus top QB," Kiper said confidently. "Smart, accurate, great leadership. If the Tigers want him, they'll probably have to move up from twelve. But they aren't the only team desperate for a quarterback."
"But here's the thing," Jaworski interjected, tapping his pen against his notepad. "Nathan Stewart, their new GM, is a football lifer. Coached at the collegiate and NFL levels for decades. He's not going to panic and reach for a quarterback just because the media says they need one. He's going to draft the best player available and build through the trenches."
"That's the smart play," Berman agreed. "But when you've got a twenty-year-old owner who just spent seven hundred million dollars on a franchise and rumours of a stadium and state-of-the-art facilities, there's pressure to make a splash."
"Speaking of splashes," Kiper said, shuffling his papers, "let's talk about who goes number one. Cleveland's on the clock, and unless something dramatic happens, they're taking Courtney Brown, defensive end out of Penn State." The screen showed highlights of Brown—a physical specimen destroying offensive linemen, bending around the edge with terrifying speed and power.
"No-brainer," Jaworski said. "Brown's the best pure pass rusher in this draft. Cleveland needs help everywhere, but you can't go wrong with an elite edge defender."
"After that," Kiper continued, "it gets interesting. Washington at number two—are they taking LaVar Arrington, or do they go offensive tackle with Chris Samuels?"
"I'm hearing Arrington," Berman said. "Dan Snyder wants star power, and Arrington's got it in spades."
Xavier muted the television, the analysts' voices fading into background noise. He'd heard enough speculation. The truth was, nobody outside the core coaching group knew what they were planning. The staff in the building had a general idea based on the tasks received, but asied from his grandfather, no one knew the draft strategy.
So they could speculate all they want, but if even the owner didn't know, then all these media personalities, other teams, and scouts could only guess. That situation was exactly what he wanted, as he stressed information control above all. Since the league was basically asking franchises to gamble with their rosters, no one had the right to know beforehand except the head coach and the GM who would lead the franchise for the next few years.
A knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. "Come in."
Thomas Dimitroff stepped inside, clipboard in hand, looking equal parts exhausted and wired. The Director of College Scouting had probably slept three hours in the past forty-eight. "Morning, boss. Just wanted to give you a heads-up—Nathan's setting up the war room now. Says we should be ready to move in about twenty minutes."
"How's the mood?" Xavier asked, setting down his mug.
Dimitroff cracked a tired smile. "Tense. Excited. Rex is already talking trash about how he's going to 'steal someone's soul' with our picks. Belichick told him to shut up twice, but you know Rex."
Xavier chuckled. "Sounds about right. Everyone clear on the protocol?"
"Crystal," Dimitroff confirmed. "No leaks, no speculation outside the room, and all trade calls go through Nathan first. We've got three phones set up, dedicated lines to the league office, and a runner ready to deliver our picks if the phones go down."
"Good." Xavier stood, straightening his navy suit jacket. "Anything else I should know?"
"Yeah," Dimitroff said, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Buffalo called again. Third time this morning. They really want to move up to thirteen ."
Xavier's eyebrows rose. "What are they offering?"
"26 overall, their second-rounder, and a conditional fourth next year."
"That's it?" Xavier scoffed. "Tell them to call back when they're serious. Wait a moment, you reckon we could get a deal from New England?"
"Boss, I feel like every team in the league is looking to make a deal with us right now; it's as if they believe just because they make an offer, we will accept." Dimitroff scoffed, clearly annoyed at the situation. "But what would you want to trade this late?"
"Not much, but I don't believe that Romeo Crennel will have an easy time steering the ship as Belichick would have, so their 1st round pick is valuable." Yes, Xavier had figured out that they were set to replace his head coach without his intervention. "It would also force us to perform so we wouldn't give up a favourable pick, but we need an attractive enough trade to make them want it?"
"Let's go ask the GM and see what he thinks," he muttered to himself before directly getting up from his chair, grabbing his blazer as they walked to the door.
~~~
[11:35 AM, 15th April 2000, Tigers HQ, Hofstra University, Hempstead, N.Y]
Xavier and Dimitroff navigated the crowded hallway, weaving past scouts huddled over laptops and assistants rushing between offices with stacks of papers. The energy in the building had reached a fever pitch—every conversation was urgent, every phone call potentially consequential.
They arrived at the war room, which had been transformed from a standard conference room into a command centre. The long mahogany table was covered in colour-coded draft boards, binders organised by round, and multiple phones with dedicated lines. A large projection screen dominated the far wall, currently displaying the ESPN broadcast on mute.
Nathan Stewart stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed a sheet of trade scenarios. Patrick Belichick sat to his right, flipping through a binder of defensive prospects with Rex Ryan.
"Grandpa," Xavier called out, causing Nathan to look up. "Got a minute?"
"Always," Nathan said, setting down his papers. "What's on your mind?"
Xavier approached the table, Dimitroff hanging back by the door. "Buffalo's still sniffing around thirteen. Their offer's weak—twenty-six, a second, and a conditional fourth."
Nathan snorted. "That's insulting. They think we're desperate?"
"Apparently," Xavier said with a faint smile. "But that got me thinking about New England. What if we dangle Wayne Chrebet at them?"
Belichick's head came up slightly, the first sign of interest he'd shown. Nathan leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Keep talking."
"We were both rebuilding, but their rebuild was made harder by not getting Mr Belichick right," He said, motioning at the man, making the atmosphere a little awkward as the staff now knew that their commander had been ready to leave. "Romeo Crennel is a good coach, but he is too much like our Head Coach."
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To Be Continued...