2:39 pm Dec. 27, 20113
He was too excited to break into the salsa dance immediately.
Victor Cruz had just authored the longest play from scrimmage in Giants history, another in a long line of astounding plays he has made since he first appeared in a Giants uniform last season.
After running 99 yards, he staggered into a crow-hop and fired the ball against the back retaining wall of the field, which in this “road” game for the Giants, was adorned with Jets colors. Then he composed himself to perform his unique end-zone celebration.
Most touchdown celebrations take the form of in-your-face punctuation, like Ahmad Bradshaw’s leaping, turn-around spike, and Brandon Jacobs’ graphic hip-swivel. Cruz throws all this to the wind: His neck and head protrude one way and his ass protrudes the other, as his feet move and his pelvis swivels in rhythm to something old-timey and tropical, something as far removed from 80,000 fans in an ultra-modern coliseum on a 35-degree day as possible.
The transformation from football player to salsero only lasted a few beats. Bradshaw, having caught up with Cruz, locked helmets with him and then whapped him on the head. Other Giants soon joined the party.
He hadn't merely turned the game around. Victor Cruz, who wasn’t recruited by any big-time schools or drafted by any N.F.L. team, a guy who came into last year’s training camp facing steep odds even to make the team, had just broken the Giants’ franchise record for most receiving yards in a season.
CRUZ LOOKED EXHAUSTED WHEN I CAUGHT up to him in front of his locker at the Giants' practice facility last Thursday.
The day before, Cruz had caused a stir when he, speaking of the Jets' superstar cornerback Darrelle Revis, said that teams “aren’t scared of him anymore.” (He later claimed that his “words were twisted.”)
That Thursday morning, Cruz had done a radio interview on the "Boomer and Carton" show on WFAN. Then he had to endure a Tom Coughlin-run practice before a game that could have ended the Giants' season, not to mention Coughlin’s career.
Cruz knew that after talking to me, he would have to face a pack of reporters who would try to draw out another soundbite for their “war of words” stories between the Giants and Jets. After that, he would have to do an interview with a multimedia reporter for Giants.com. And after that, he would have to do an interview with ESPN radio.
Cruz was a natural candidate to provide grist for the back-and-forth, because he'd already become part of the Giants-Jets rivalry. In last year's preseason game between the teams, Cruz, a little-known free agent from the small-time football program of the University of Massachusetts, had gone off. He made three touchdown catches, including a spectacular one-handed grab. Meaningless as it was, the game was on Monday Night Football, which prompted LeBron James to tweet about it. Rex Ryan’s reaction to Cruz was caught by HBO’s “Hard Knocks.”
“I don’t know who number 3 is, but holy shit!” Ryan told Coughlin during the post-game handshake between coaches, about a player who was so low on the totem pole that he wasn’t even given a proper receiver’s number.
So Cruz was tired, and our time was limited, and I knew I wouldn't be able to ask him about all the things I wanted to hear him talk about: his upbringing in high-crime Paterson, N.J., which he ultimately survived but whose temptations he wasn’t immune to (“I had my times where I would rebel and would be out and about,” he told the Daily News earlier this year); his complicated relationship with his father, who is believed to have committed suicide four years ago; his near-misses at the University of Massachusetts, where he was kicked out for a 1.7 G.P.A. and then given a supposed last chance by the school before being suspended from the football team and then reinstated again.
Given yet another last chance, Cruz was here, in the Giants’ locker room, and not back in the impoverished, drug-riddled Fourth Ward of Paterson. The Fourth Ward is the most notorious of the long-struggling city’s six wards. Jobs for under-educated minorities are hard to come by, let alone full-time ones that pay a living wage.
I tried to draw Cruz out with something his godfather and AAU basketball coach Jimmy Salmons told me about him: that Cruz’s roller-coaster experiences have rendered him “not afraid of the moment.”
That would certainly explain a lot about a receiver who lacks size and game-breaking speed, but seems to tap into an emergency reserve of willpower when the ball is in the air. From the moment Giants fans were introduced to him in the second half of a preseason game against the Jets last year, when he exploded, Cruz has seized his opportunities.
In response, Cruz limited himself to sports cliche: “Whenever the big moment seems to arrive, I want to make the big play," he said. "I want to be the one to propel our team to the next level."
He was more effusive on the subject of his high school coach, Benjie Wimberly, a kind of surrogate father figure to scores of Paterson kids who, like Cruz, grew up in single-parent homes.
“He was one of the first guys who believed in me playing football and believed in my talent and skill, and I still speak with him every day," Cruz said. "He texts me before every game, and he was, you know, very influential in my athletic career as well as my personal life."
I remembered Cruz being more effervescent and eager when I spoke to him last year for a feature on the Giants receiving corps. Back then, he had a sly smile on his face as I asked him to describe, in one word, his fellow receivers (e.g. Mario Manningham: “Jokester”).
It was consistent with a quality that Wimberly described to me this way: “He was that guy when he walked into a room or a locker room, he really lit the place up. He has that smile, he has that confidence, that swagger to him, that makes people attracted to him.”
A minute after I started talking to Cruz, a pack of beat reporters formed a semi-circle around us. Tape recorders and microphones were extended into Cruz’s face, which was illuminated by the unnatural yellow glare of several cameras.
“What do you think of some of their players calling it ‘Jet-Life Stadium?’” a reporter asked.
A FEW HOURS EARLIER, WIMBERLY AND I HAD DRIVEN BY CRUZ'S childhood home. The houses were shabby, sure, but not exactly shelled out. Like most inner-city neighborhoods whose reputations precede them, the Fourth Ward seemed surprisingly normal. There are horror stories about crime and drugs in these neighborhoods, but in the middle of the day, they look like most other ones: places where people get up in the morning and go to work.
“It’s pretty quiet right now,” Wimberly told me. “But at night…” he paused. “It gets pretty lively.”
Wimberly was giving me a tour of Paterson, where he has lived his whole life, save for four years of college. He is a compact, in-shape black man in his 40s. He spoke knowledgeably and engagingly about Paterson, with an easy-going and sure-footed demeanor. He was the longtime coach at Paterson Catholic, an athletic powerhouse that won seven state championships during his tenure. But the school, from which former N.B.A. player Tim Thomas graduated, closed after the 2010 school year.
When it did, it became one of ten Catholic schools in Paterson to close in the past three years. The diocese—which covers all of Passaic, Morris, and Sussex Counties—is still reeling from a $5 million settlement in 2005 from a lawsuit brought by 27 victims of sexual abuse. There are now zero Catholic high schools in Paterson, further burdening a public school system that has for the last 20 years endured the indignity of being under state control.
Wimberly was for a long time the head of the city’s recreation department: Between that post and the coaching job, he had built up his share of capital around town. Last year, he ran for City Council, and won. Then, last month, he won an election to become the area's state assemblyman.
We passed by a corner with an abandoned lot and several old men standing around.
“We’re getting right here to the worst of the worst,” Wimberly said.
In our phone conversation two days before, Wimberly had used euphemistic political phrases like “economically disadvantaged” to describe the Fourth Ward. But now he was being more direct.
“Drugs is our biggest thing: drug sales, a lot of open-air drug situations,” he said.
In a city whose median household income of $34,000 is less than half of that of New Jersey as a whole, and whose per-capita income is $15,000, there are plenty of factors pushing people into drugs. Paterson has also become something of a drug-transit hub for large-scale dealers pushing product west into Pennsylvania and to points south.
“And it doesn’t count that last year we laid off 125 cops just to beat the budget,” Wimberly said. “Which is just at total oxymoron. I mean, you figure, how the hell can a city like Paterson lay off one cop, better yet 125? But basically, we were given an ultimatum from the governor that you meet the budget or you don’t get the transitional aide.”
Two years ago, Paterson’s leaders considered a nighttime curfew in the wake of a spate of shootings. The story made national news, and Wimberly, who did not hold elected office at the time, seemed a little embarrassed about it.
“It was a heat-of-the-moment thing, and then it kind of went away,” he said, adding, "Besides, we don’t even have the policing to do it."
Paterson has an $8 million budget deficit this year, which means that its after-school and recreational programs have not been running since September. There are private organizations that provide these programs—the Boys and Girls Club, the YMCA—but no publicly funded programs. Wimberly, as recreation director, has scratched together a few activities.
“Football, I did volunteers," he said. "Basketball we’re doing now with volunteers. We have an after-school program where I have a grant, so we have staff for that. But it’s crazy. It’s unbelievable. It’s like a Molotov cocktail here."
"I mean, I don’t wanna make it a partisan thing, a Democrat-Republican thing," continued Wimberly, a Democrat. "But there’s a blatant disregard for the inner city.”
Two days later, at the game on Saturday, Fox cameras trained on New Jersey governor Chris Christie. Fox analyst Tony Siragusa, a Florham Park resident and former N.F.L. player who is active in Republican politics, took the opportunity to switch his expertise from football to politics.
“Unbelievable. He just went after everybody,” he said glowingly, as if describing a no-nonsense coach who used piss and vinegar to turn around a team of underachievers. “He said, ‘Nope, this is how we’re gonna do it, we’re gonna do it my way, and if you don’t like it, too bad.’”
CRUZ IS GENEROUSLY LISTED AT SIX FEET, 204 POUNDS. He’s muscular, of course, but he’s not big at all, even by non-football standards. The fact that he is life-size contributes to his accessibility and consequent popularity: He really does look like a kid from Paterson. Giants fans know guys like this.
The old cliché goes that you can’t measure an athlete’s heart, and of course this applies to Cruz and his success. Small-school players who didn’t even get drafted don’t hold team records in their second year without trying really, really hard.
But just as applicable in Cruz’s case is that you can’t measure spatial acuity, anticipation, intuitiveness and creativity.
These attributes were on display during Saturday game, during which, as everyone knows, Cruz resuscitated a seemingly dead Giants team and possibly saved their season.
First was a 29-yard reception, with the Giants down 7-0 in the second quarter. The play came on a crucial third-and-11, without which the Giants would have had to settle for a long field goal attempt they had around a 50 percent chance of making. On the play, Cruz felt out a soft spot in the zone in front of Jets safety Brodney Pool, and hauled in Eli Manning’s pass. Sensing that Pool was coming from behind him even though his back was turned to him, Cruz pivoted around Pool to get into the open field. He did a little schoolyard juke to make cornerback Antonio Cromartie miss, getting to around the 10-yard-line before being engulfed by linebacker David Harris' tackle attempt, which he finally succumbed to at the 2-yard line.
The play silenced the pro-Jets crowd and sent Cruz into arm-flailing convulsions. “Lets go!” he screamed as his mouthpiece bobbed out of his mouth, as if trying to shake off the lethargy the entire Giants team had brought to the game.
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