[revrew]

As the dawn broke on our next season, the sun rose into a heavy cloudbank. Our future was fuzzy, and there wasn't a single ray of hope shining through.

I had hired a cap manager and several accountants to crunch some serious projections and numbers for me. They brought back to me several scenarios for the upcoming season. The worst case scenario placed me at being broke before we even got to the draft. The best case scenario demanded I refuse to renegotiate anyone, I fail to sign a single free agent (unless he would come in without a signing bonus), and I not sign any of our draft picks. Under that scenario, I wouldn't bounce the first check until the second week of the preseason.

Any way I looked at it, I couldn't make my one million suffice as enough capital to run this team. My days as controlling the Rebels, I thought, were over.

In despair, I slinked into a down-covered bed and slept for two days. The local Winn Dixie ran out of chocolate. I know; I bought it all. If I was half the good ol' boy Jeffrey Davis was, I would have drowned myself in bourbon. But under doctor's orders, I had long ago abandoned the booze, and I was forced to drown in decaf.

The first evidence that the fog was lifting came from a surprise source. On day 3 of my bout with suicidal tendencies, I got a call from Keaton Graves. He wanted to offer me some information, he said, that would help my cause.

"And you would help me because..."

"Because I rather enjoyed being around football. And because Jeffrey Davis fired me."

"And I should believe you, of all people, because..."

"Fair enough." Graves chuckled. "I think the information I have for you would convince you easily enough that my loyalty to Davis has been dissolved. Meet me for lunch in an hour."

"You'd better make it dinner in six," I said. It would have taken me at least an hour to remember what I had done with my razor.