THE PRINTED WORD:
ROSENHAUS, BY THE BOOK

The Rosenhaus' have a plan for your success. It's good, but it also feels like their success. That, however, is very real.

by Chris Sprow

(Ed's Note: When we spoke with Drew Rosenhaus last week, among one of the deals he was working on was a new contract for Plaxico Burress. "It has to get done," he said. "It will get done." Wednesday, Burress signed a five year extension for $35 million, with $11 million guaranteed. On cue, Burress dominated last night.)

Drew Rosenhaus is off the plane, through the gate, down the terminal, out to curbside pickup, and still talking. You can hear each stage of the process in the background through his phone.

"I think I could be an NFL GM, absolutely," he explains. Not un-prompted, mind you. He was asked if he could handle it. "I know as much about the game, the players, the negotiating process and the salary cap as anybody. Of course, I never could. Not with my conflicts of interest, and with all my representation of players…"

Well, Drew, we didn't mean now.

Now, however, is the only time the older of the brothers Rosenhaus knows. This is both apparent in his sense of immediacy, and because he handles the financial aspirations of people who have to be in the "now" because "tomorrow" in the NFL is a gift. This is the best time to get him on the phone, it seems. No game. No negotiation. No flight. And still the click of missed calls silently punctuates the conversation.

The first 52 pages of the new book Next Question, An NFL Super Agent's Game Plan for Business and Success, (Berkley, $24.95) by Drew and Jason Rosenhaus is a sprawling explanation of the negotiations—some would say fiasco—that took a wide receiver named Terrell Owens from the Philadelphia Eagles to the Dallas Cowboys. The explanation is Drew's in the co-authored book.

"By becoming a Dallas Cowboy and busting the Eagles contract, even after the fines and forfeitures, Terrell profited by a staggering $9 million," he writes to finish the chapter. "Ladies and gentleman, I rest my case."

The case, rested or not, does not close after the two chapters that encompass all things Terrell. The book is itself a case. It's a case for their success, not so much a game plan for yours. But it's a very good book, full of stories told passionately and quickly, which is how Drew operates. It feels typed between phone calls, a need to just "get this on paper" so real business could be attended to. It's not writerly. It's authentic.

On Tuesday, the New York Times published a piece about the success of a competing agency in attracting talent. You can imagine copies pinned to every door of Rosenhaus Sports Representation. Not that they need the inspiration. From the moment Rosenhaus became a licensed agent at age 22 in 1989, his zeal was a fixture. It didn't need a spur to be unleashed. The book talks about it.

This other agency has locked down a ton of recent top picks. Rosenhaus recalls his first in the book—Marvin Jones, a LB out of Florida State. Jones also needed a place to train and stay.

"Yeah, we did end up sleeping in my parents place, that way Marvin could have our apartment until we got a deal done and he could afford something of his own," says Rosenhaus. That was then—humble beginnings out of Duke law, going back to Miami willing to sign someone, anyone. He and his brother, together but solo.

These days, Drew calls 102 different NFL players his clients, and it's been 11 years since he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated, gleefully basking in the cover slogan: "The most hated man in football." Now he writes, "Too often in the NFL, deals don't get done because egos get involved and the atmosphere turns nasty." He also talks about regrets. When, years ago, Drew bragged about a good contract to the local Miami paper, he angered the GM. "(The situation) is something I regret," he writes. "I have since learned to promote contracts as beneficial to both sides."

Promotion is important in their line of work. The book is one and it's loaded with stories—good ones. The intricate details of how the team landed Jeremy Shockey is just the Jerry Maguire scenario you love to believe in. When Drew essentially becomes a GM for a night and talks Dan Snyder into the deal for Clinton Portis it destroys what any newspaper account could explain. Being fired and re-hired by Ray Lewis about ten times in a week is part fascinating, part sick comedy. An explanation of the epic "phone call seen round the world" between Drew and Willis McGahee at the 2004 draft—McGahee was a foot away and waiting for the real phone call—is stuff of agent fairy tales, and angst. And there are the losses. Being fired; the reality of daily injuries to clients; the late night phone call that your client, Sean Taylor, is dying, the later one that he should live, and the final one that he's died; are all contained.

He has a guiding, odd love for the virtue of Charlie Bucket.You know the story, but Drew needs a page plus to tell his version. He concludes: "By being a good kid, Charlie proves he has a pure heart and wins the contest. He wins everything he ever dreamed of…and so every time I sign a player I either call (Jason) or text him, 'And so shines a good deed in a weary world.'"

The writing isn't great, but it never feels like writing. It feels like telling. The interviews you'll transcribe from Rosenhaus and the words on the books pages look the same.

Midway through the 275 pages, Drew discusses a peculiar passion. He has a guiding, odd love for the virtue of Charlie Bucket, who ultimately eschews the diabolical Slugworth and hands Willy Wonka back the priceless Everlasting Gobstopper. You know the story, but Drew needs a page plus to tell his version.

He concludes: "By being a good kid, Charlie proves he has a pure heart and wins the contest. He wins everything he ever dreamed of…and so every time I sign a player I either call (Jason) or text him, 'And so shines a good deed in a weary world.'"

Drew and Jason's real good deed, of course, is the well-being of their clients. That's it. Other deeds matter little in comparison, including the ones other agents, GM's and owners might call back-handed or manipulative. The book itself feels like a deed. It's a pitch—a story sure, but a pitch—to potential clients. The "game plan" in the title is really meant for a college junior or senior, ready to cash in, ready for someone tireless to secure their future.

You're putting it on the line, it says. You're misunderstood. Let them hate us. Let me stand in your driveway and take the heat. All that matters is the end. We'll handle the now.

"I don't want to be a villain," Drew writes. "I want to be a good guy, like Batman, Conan, Bruce Lee, and Rocky."

He is dead serious.

What's it like to sit across the table and negotiate with a guy who sees himself as Batman, Conan … Rocky, and believes—deeply—in the virtue of Charlie Bucket?

There are people in the NFL who know.

And they should write a book.

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