[h2]49ers' draft pick Crabtree following in Singletary's footsteps[/h2]
Posted by
Dan Brown on September 2nd, 2009 at 11:09 pm | Categorized as
Uncategorized
It's a familiar story:
A super-cocky kid from a Texas school thinks he should have gone higher in the draft. Even though the kid slips, he demands the big bucks anyway - and refuses to show up for work until the team forks it over.
Michael Crabtree? Sure.
But his future 49ers boss did it first.
Mike Singletary was the Michael Crabtree of 1981. He went 38th overall in the draft out of Baylor but demanded a contract based on his talent rather than his actual slot.
"I wanted first-round money whether I had been drafted in the second or sixth round,'' he wrote in his 1986 autobiography. "To me, that meant three years of $120,000. Well, during the summer of 1981, I got Jim Finks' offer: $22,000 for one year. 'It's just a ploy,'' a friend told me, a tactic; but tactic or not, I wouldn't sign."
I'm reading
"Calling the Shots,"[/b] co-authored by Arment Keteyian, as well as Singletary's two other books, for an upcoming story. When I came across the chapter detailing Singletary's own Crab-iness, I raced for my laptop to start hammering out this blog.
Singletary had already discussed his contract difficulties earlier in training camp, while explaining why he doesn't harbor any ill will toward Crabtree.
But I had no idea just how much Mike and Michael had in common until coming across the details in his book.
So here, straight from "Calling the Shots" is the story of Singletary's contract saga. (Just replace the words "Mel Owens" with "Darrius Heyward-Bey" in order to modernize the story.)
# # #
Jim Parmer, a Chicago scout, visited me. "Singletary," he said, "I've looked at your films, and you're just what we need in Chicago. I like your style, and you're pretty rugged." I said, "Well, what do you think?" He said, "First or second round, we're going to be looking for you." "Don't wait for the second round,'' I told Parmer. "I'm not going to be there."
Parmer concluded the conversation by telling me it was between me and an offensive tackle. Before he left I made sure he knew where I stood. "Don't wait for the second round,'' I insisted. "I'm not going to be there. And remember just one thing: If you do draft me, I'm going to be the greatest linebacker in history. That's the greatest of all time. Don't forget it."
That may sound conceited, but I honestly wasn't thinking about second round or second best. I expressed that feeling to ever club that called me. When draft day arrived, however, my confidence cracked. …
… When Los Angeles selected Mel Owens of Michigan, a 6-2, 224-pound linebacker, I stopped caring.
Mel Owens? I barely heard the rest of the round … Dennis Smith. Mark Nichols. John Harty. I could have gone in the 100th round. It didn't matter now. I wasn't going to play. I was a victim of some conspiracy, beaten by a cold computerized game.
In the next chapter, Singletary details his negotiations …
Instead of one of the hotshot agents, I chose an Oriental kind from Abilene named Jim Bob Bird to represent me. I told Jim Bob during my junior year I wanted his help; I trusted him and I felt that he was intelligent enough to handle my negotiations.
Jim Bob was smart enough, all right, but I quickly discovered his inexperience really hurt. Naturally, I was his first client, and he was pitted against Bears general manager Jim Finks, who had a well-deserved reputation for being a very classy guy but a hard-nosed, bottom-line negotiator.
We had trouble right off the bat. I wanted first-round money, whether I had been drafted in the second or sixth round. To me, that meant three years of $120,000. Well during the summer of 1981, I got Fink's offer: $22,000 for one year. "It's just a ploy,'' a friend told me, a tactic; but tactic or not, I wouldn't sign."
I forced Finks to come to Houston … Well, the meeting didn't last long. Jim Bob was trying to drive a hard bargain, but I could see dead-end signs straight ahead. Finally, I got mad. "If you can't get me these numbers, than just forget it,'' I said, walking out.
Well, Jim Bob couldn't get them, and in retrospect, it was silly and foolish for me to even ask him to try.
One last scene from the book - a section Crabtree might want to read - explains what happens after Singletary signs and reports to camp after missing the first three days.
On my first day as a Bear, head coach Neill Armstrong introduced himself by ordering me to do grass drills, "up-downs,'' in the mud. Yet it did nothing to remove the chip on my shoulder, the one I'd set up there after being snubbed in the draft.
… After I finished the up-downs, I was breathing hard as I ran over to the defensive huddle, where I noticed a short, stubby fat coach wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and a Bears cap. He looked like a farmer, not a football coach. "Hey, 50,'' he said, "let's see if you're in shape. Run some gassers. Sideline to sideline, over and back, over and back, and make sure your feet touch the line." He watched me endure this torture for about five minutes. He couldn't contain his glee. "Ah, yeah, you fat little rascal,'' he cried. "You're out of shape. You're nothing, 50, nothing; just a short little fat guy."
Welcome to the world of Buddy Ryan.
I got crabtree signing before the first game.
