On the sandy shores of the Coney Island Channel, under the shadow of the Parachute Jump, a group of elite athletes fight for one more shot at the NFL. And in that same shadow, one man looks to build a professional football farm system the NFL simply can't do without.
The Man
On an artificial turf baseball field, under the shadow of the Parachute Jump - a red, sky-piercing spire of metal that was, on this particular night, shouting congratulations to the World Series-bound New York Mets - 100 or so yards from the frigid, lapping waters of the North Atlantic, a contingent of elite athletes, many the product of venerated college programs, some one-time draftees, others former priority free agents, all still NFL hopefuls, look to eke out another season, another drive, another handful of snaps, one more chance, one more opportunity, to call themselves a professional football player.
And here, on the outskirts of Brooklyn's Coney Island, a man - lithe, bald, intense, prowling the sidelines like an apex predator pursuing its next meal - looks to build a way station, a bridge between the tenuously connected worlds of the amateur and pro games, to develop a farm system, which the NFL's 32 owners - and their money - simply won't, ultimately can't, ignore.
With his second season at the helm of the fledgling league coming to a close, the man remains on the search for answers, desperately seeking handholds, hugging the increasingly slick rock wall in front of him with his body and clinging tight to the vision that first brought him out onto this ledge, seemingly willing with his mind the precipitous drop below his feet to disappear.
