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"I don't want to talk about it," he said.
"You're suspending me indefinitely and you don't want to talk about it? You don't want to tell me why?"
"I told you I don't want to talk about it."
I was so mad I had tears in my eyes. I was ready to go at it with Alex right there. But for some reason—I'm glad of it, whatever it was—I turned around and walked out.
Suspended. My name was being blackened all over the place and I didn't even know why. All kinds of rumors were circulating. They had me throwing my helmet through a window, throwing matches at people in the locker room, even smoking under my helmet on the field. A friend of mine called from Milwaukee and said the reporters out there were saying I had gotten into a fist fight and punched out Alex. Incredible.
It was two weeks before I found out why I had been suspended and—sure enough—there wasn't any reason for it. It stemmed from a team meeting. We had lost five straight, and Alex started talking about people with bad attitudes.
"You're one, Wright. You really think you're king, don't you? You really don't care what happens to the New York Giants, do you?"
I said, "No, that's not right."
But Wellington, who was at the meeting, only heard me say, "No." He didn't hear the rest of the sentence, or at least he said he didn't. And that's why I was suspended—because Wellington thought I said, no, I didn't care what happened to the New York Giants.
I had a meeting with Wellington, and he started telling me he didn't understand why my attitude was like it was. Then he told me Rosey Grier used to lie down in meetings and sleep. I said, "I never fell asleep in a meeting." He said, "No, but you know what I mean." I said, "No, I don't. Tell me what you mean."