Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile (4 page)

—Free Pepsi Blue! Like to try a sample?

—Sure.

—It tastes like fizzy Nyquil.

—Sorry.

Justin breaks free from his Pepsi duties and comes with me to the zoo. We check in at the will-call desk and I get my lanyard. It says I play for the San Francisco 49ers. I’m funneled into a line where I walk the red carpet like a plank, photographers looking at me confused but still snapping away. A face lifted man from
Entertainment Tonight
interviews me. We both wonder why. Inside the party I’m formally introduced to pro sports high society. It has a strange, seductive sheen. The women are beautiful. The men are powerful. Everyone is horny.

The next night we go to the Playboy party near Balboa Park with girls we had met at Leigh’s zoo party. They told us to come along: that we’ll find a way in. But we have no tickets and are not on the list. It’s a gorgeous starry night. Attempts to squeeze past distracted security thugs are easily thwarted. The bouncers are on their game. This is their Super Bowl, too. We need actual tickets. Luckily I run into a girl whom I had met outside a club the previous night. There had been a rowdy mob trying to get in and she was pinned against a barricade. I pushed back against the mob and gave her some breathing room. Her name is Sasha.

Sasha has an extra ticket to the party, she says. It’s for her sister but she’s not going to make it. Here, take it. Now we need one ticket. I walk to the will-call desk.

—Hi, there, how are—

—Are you on the list?

—Yeah, should be.

—What’s your last name?

—Jackson.

She flips through the stapled pages and runs her finger down a long, tight list. She stops her finger.

—Tom?

—Yep, that’s me.

She hands me my ticket. Sorry, Tom. You’ve probably been to a hundred of these things, anyway. Inside the palace doors are the excesses of the industry; sports and entertainment collide in a puff of sex. Justin and I walk around and giggle. There are naked girls in body paint, celebrities, free drinks and free food and everyone laughing a little too loudly. I’ll remember these girls forever. One of them ends up in a cab with us after the party. She has olive skin and dark hair. She speaks clearly. Smells of black orchids. Wears loose-fitting linen. Her earrings are dream-catchers. Her aura is magenta. We drive across the Coronado Bridge and drop her off at her resort hotel. I never see her again, but I smell her every time the wind whispers,
Mary
.

A few weeks later the Niners hire Dennis Erickson as Mooch’s replacement. Although he had a few losing seasons, Mooch did his best to carry on the Niner tradition. He ran the same offense. He often referred to our forefathers. He kept counsel with the elders. He was Bay Area through and through. Erickson has none of that. He brings his own brand and the 49er brand blows away in the wind.

I keep reminding myself: Joe Montana was here. Jerry Rice. John Taylor. Brent Jones. Ronnie Lott. Roger Craig. Steve Young. Dwight Clark. Tom Rathman. Eddie D. Everyone was here. But I have to put my face right up against the glass trophy case to remember they ever existed in this building. Who are these people who call themselves 49ers? Not the 49ers I know.

Part of my disappointment with this new brand of football (a new system of offense, new terminology, new schedule, and new coaches) is that it’s bumped me even further down the depth chart. I’m getting no reps. When Mooch was around, I often saw Bill Walsh on the sidelines at practice. He would offer me an encouraging word after a nice play, a nod or a pat on the back. But I rarely see him down there anymore. It’s just me and my fellow long-shot receivers, blowing dandelions and chasing down the safety on backside run plays. As a receiver, it doesn’t just matter if you get in the game; it matters what plays are called when you’re in. The veterans get all of the good pass plays. When they get tired we go in for a few run plays or screen passes. Once they catch their breath we’re back behind the huddle picking our butts.

On a typical training camp day in mid-August, I’m suited up, helmet in hand, walking through the double doors out onto the practice field for our afternoon practice. One of the quality control coaches taps me on the shoulder and tells me that Bill wants to talk to me in his office.

—Bill?

—Yeah. He’s waiting for you.

What could he possibly want to talk about?

I throw my helmet in my locker and walk upstairs. My cleats clack on the linoleum. Heads look up from desks in cubicles to see what beast this way comes. Bill’s door is open and he’s sitting at his desk. Behind him is a window that looks out the south end of the building. There are framed pictures of his family around the office, and papers stacked neatly on his desk.

—Come in, Nate. Sit down.

I sit. I’m trying to peek at the papers. I wonder if any of them have to do with me. What is it that Bill Walsh reads all day up here?

—Well, I’ll get right to it. We’ve traded you to Denver. As you know, you’ve been stuck down at the bottom of the depth chart. I asked Coach Erickson if you were going to make the team here. He said no. So I asked his permission to make a few calls on your behalf. I called Denver and Mike Shanahan was interested. He’s a great coach. You’ll get a fair shot there. I can promise you that. I think this is exactly what you need, Nate. You okay with all of this?

—Yeah, of course.

—I know it’s a lot to take in right now but you’ll be fine. Your flight leaves in three hours. You better get going. Good luck, Nate.

I thank him for everything, we shake hands, and I’m out the door. I change out of my 49ers gear in the empty locker room and leave. My teammates will come back after practice and my locker will be cleaned out. I will never see them again without a helmet on.

Two hours later I’m at the airport with a duffel bag. I am meat, traded to the highest bidder: the only bidder. Fine, I’ll be your meat. I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Just give me a helmet.

2

My Life as Randy Moss

(2003)

I
arrive at Denver International Airport and am greeted by a driver holding a piece of paper with my name on it. I sit in the backseat and look out the window as he narrates the passing landscape.

—You can’t see it now but directly ahead of us are the Rocky Mountains. Beautiful sight when it starts snowing. Usually get our first snow in late September or early October. As you can see, downtown’s over thataway.

He points across the passenger seat with his gloved hand.

—But we’re headed south of that to Dove Valley. That’s where Broncos headquarters are. Boy, Denver is Broncos crazy, I tell ya. I’m not a Broncos fan myself. No offense. Everyone takes football so seriously around here.

—Huh.

—No idea why they built the airport so far away. Kinda makes you feel like you’re landing in the middle of the prairie, doesn’t it? And I gotta drive up and back and up and back, all day long, forty minutes each way. Anyway, it could be worse, I guess. You see that building?

—Yeah.

—We call that the ‘Sore Thumb’ building.

—Why’s that?

—Because it sticks out like a sore thumb.

We exit the freeway at the Sore Thumb building and go east on Arapahoe Road. It is lined with car dealerships, all bearing the licensed name of Denver’s golden child: John Elway Ford, John Elway Toyota, John Elway Honda, etc.

—Wow, you were right. They really do love their Broncos.

—You have no idea.

He drops me off at the Holiday Inn, right up the street from the Broncos facility. I check into my room and look at the clock: it’s just after eleven. I sit down on the bed. I am chasing my dream alone.

Nine hours later I sit in my new locker fiddling with my equipment. The Denver Broncos locker room buzzes around me. I am summoned into the training room where I have a brief physical exam with Steve Antonopulos, aka “Greek,” the Broncos head trainer, whom I’ll come to know as a sometimes not-grumpy bald man with a walrusy mustache. He scribbles his findings and files it with my already growing medical chart: “Physical examination demonstrates a left shoulder that appears stable on exam today after arthroscopic stabilization and some minimal achilles tendinosis. His plan therefore will be for routine foot care, continue shoulder strengthening exercises and treatment as needed. Continue anti-inflammatory medications and treatment in the training room for his left achilles tendon.”

I’m given jersey number 14: standard-issue training camp receiver number. The eighties numbers go to active receivers and tight ends. The rest of us get numbers in the teens—the leftovers, basically. I jog out onto the field for morning practice and my new teammates look at me and do a double take. Last night number 14 was a short black guy. Today he is a tall white guy.

Before practice starts I meet my new position coach. Steve Watson, aka “Blade,” was a star receiver for the Broncos in the 1980s. He played his entire nine-year career in Denver. Blade is tall and lean with a full head of dark hair and a friendly disposition. Some old-time football players hobble through life and look like they’re about to take a knee at any minute. But Blade’s still springy and spry. He welcomes me with a handshake and a smile and offers a few words of encouragement. On my way out to the field I meet Coach Shanahan, too. I’m obviously nervous. He’s a small man but outsized, with a presence as big as the Rockies. I stammer through a greeting, thank him for the chance, and take a deep breath. I’m going to need all the oxygen I can get.

Halfway through practice I stand on my own with my helmet in my hand, trying to catch my breath after a series of scout team plays. A voice startles me.

—You’ll get used to it. It’ll take a few weeks but you’ll get used to it. No one realizes how bad the altitude change is until they get here. I’m Mike.

Mike Leach: the team’s long snapper and a backup tight end, a New Jersey kid and a standout tight end and punter at William & Mary. Coaches often say that the more you can do, the better. Mike took that to heart and learned how to throw a two-handed spiral backward, between his legs, while looking upside down. Thirteen years later and he still has a job in the NFL.

—Hey. I’m Nate.

—Nice to meet you. Just get in last night?

—Yeah.

—Man they got rid of that guy quick. You’ll like it here, though. Coach takes good care of us. Let me know if you have any questions about anything. I know how it is arriving in the middle of camp.

A
fter practice the media want to talk to me. Strange. The 49ers media didn’t care about the bottom of the roster. The Denver media, I’ll learn, care about the whole team.

Adam Schefter, Denver’s number one Broncos antagonist, sidles up to me.

—Now, do you know about the history of your number?

—My number? Fourteen?

—Yes.

—No.

—Well, the last two guys to wear it didn’t turn out so good around here. Some think it’s cursed. Are you concerned about that?

—I am now.

Not only did last night’s number 14 disappear like a ghost in the night, but the guy who wore it before him was a dirty word in Denver: Brian Griese. Griese took over for John Elway after Elway won two Super Bowls, dropped the mic at the fifty-yard line, and galloped into the sunset on a white horse. His residue still shines on all things Denver. His name is everywhere: in the newspapers, on the backs of children, on the lips of every talk radio personality in the area, and, of course, on car dealerships. In the three years since he retired, the Broncos have struggled to find his replacement. How do you replace a legend? You don’t. But in the NFL, you fucking better! Griese didn’t measure up so it was off with his head. Before it stopped rolling, Coach Shanahan signed highly esteemed free agent Jake Plummer, who arrived from Arizona in the off-season. My neophytic opinion after day one is that the locker room has obviously accepted him. Plummer’s the guy, part of the crew: no seams or cracks. I want to be a part of it, too.

I change into my new Broncos sweats and realize what was missing in San Francisco. The guys here are enjoying their work. The locker room is lively and loose. Everyone is friends: white guys, black guys, all guys. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was Mike Shanahan’s doing. He brought in good personalities, not just good football players. Shannon Sharpe, All-Pro tight end (whom Shanahan had converted from receiver) is a boisterous locker room presence and a beast on the field. His voice carries through the locker room and the laughs follow in his wake.

And the leadership gives every meeting a purpose. In my position group alone are Rod Smith and Ed McCaffrey: two Pro Bowl receivers nearing the end of their careers. The Niners had veteran guys, too. Terrell Owens was an All-Pro and surefire Hall of Famer. But I hardly heard a peep out of him while I was there. Rod’s vocal. He is thirty-three years old, six feet tall, and two hundred pounds. He is the consummate professional and he thrives on sharing his knowledge—from coming out of a break on a comeback route, to coming out of a club before the cops come out. He considers it a sin to keep anything inside if he thinks it can improve his team. If he ever notices us doing something wrong, he’ll pull us aside and give it to us straight. I decide I’ll learn how to be a pro from watching Rod.

B
ut I don’t have much time to make an impression: It’s already mid-August. Camp’s winding down. But I feel fresh and energized. Training camp inevitably becomes mundane and guys get sluggish going through the same routine every day. Changing up the scenery has given me a spark that I know I can use to my advantage.

After a few weeks of good practice, my life in professional football comes down to the last preseason game, at home, against the Seattle Seahawks. The atmosphere at [Insert Corporate Logo Here] Field is impressive, especially compared to dilapidated Candlestick Park. The stadium is full and intimate, the weather crisp and clear. The cheerleaders lithe and sexy. The hot dogs wafting sweet and wonderful all around us.

I play special teams and, on a kickoff, make a tackle, tripping up a returner who was about to bust through the wedge untouched. Then in the fourth quarter I’m wide open in the end zone on offense. Danny Kanell, the backup QB, throws me a high ball. I leap, but it slips off my gloveless fingertips. A defender jumps on top of my body and lands on my shoulder as I reach for the elusive ball in vain. Lucky for me it’s my good shoulder. Now it’s my bad shoulder, my second bad shoulder. But already I don’t care about my body. It was the only ball that came my way and I didn’t catch it. I’m the only receiver who doesn’t wear gloves. I have never needed them before. But the altitude in Denver makes the ball slicker, drier, and faster through the air. I decide after the game that if I make the team, I will spring for a pair.

T
hat night we go out and get hammered. I’m with Ashley Lelie and Charlie Adams—two fellow receivers—and Kyle Johnson, a fullback. Ashley is a first-round draft pick and a lanky speedster from the University of Hawaii who doesn’t take anything very seriously. Charlie is a record-breaking receiver from Hofstra, a friendly, outgoing guy, always upbeat, always smiling. Wherever we go, everyone always knows Charlie. Kyle is from New Jersey and went to Syracuse. He is a thick, powerful, thoughtful man: a philosopher in a warrior’s body. He detonates the dumb-jock stereotype with ease. I like my new friends already. It’s my first real night out in Denver and it’s raining the wavy hard rain of Colorado summer storms. I have a new girlfriend back in California whom I met in the summer. Her name is Alina. We are very excited about each other. We talk on the phone, a lot. We will make it work, regardless of where I am. That was our vow.

But it will prove difficult. The world is ours in Denver. I learn that very quickly. There’s never reason to worry: Drink up, young stallion. And keep your wallet in your pocket. Your money is no good in this city. Your dick, however, is another story. Keep that thing ready. You never know when you’ll need it.

The next morning I sit on my hotel bed watching the phone. Coach said to be ready for a call between eight and twelve. That’s when they’d be doing the cutting. I don’t know what to expect. I’ve practiced hard, made some good catches, played well on special teams. But it’s all happened so fast. My phone rings shortly after nine. My gig is up. Time to go back to California and move on, sell insurance, and have sad sex with my girl. But General Manager Ted Sundquist is on the phone saying in fact that I’m not being cut loose. They want me on the practice squad. I clear waivers—the twenty-four-hour period that I’m able to be picked up by another team—then I go upstairs to Ted’s office to sign my contract: $4,350 a week. He congratulates me with a handshake. Ted is a former fullback at the Air Force Academy who worked his way up the scouting ladder in Denver. His hair is exquisitely coiffed and he knows it. He was promoted to GM by owner Pat Bowlen two years ago. Ted has an amiable, genuine way about him. I like this Denver place. And now I have a bona fide job in the NFL. Look, Ma, I’m a Denver Bronco.

On Tuesday, our first day off of the regular season, I buy a new Denali. It’s a foolish purchase but I can’t help myself. I could picture it with my eyes closed as soon as I signed my contract. I love the Denali’s angles, the chrome grill. I love the idea that I can buy a giant luxurious machine with only my football skills.

Still, practice squad players have less job security than anyone on the team. They are shuffled around constantly. If someone on the active roster gets hurt, the scrambling and rearranging often squirts a practice squad guy onto the streets. But I had no vehicle, not even my green Civic, and when I looked around at the players’ parking lot, I glimpsed the spoils, at minimum, that my talent might afford me. No point in saving every penny. Might as well try to keep up with the Joneses, just this once. And the Denali does make me feel like I have accomplished something. It gives me a tangible reminder of my hard work. Every morning when I jump onto the soft leather seat and turn over that sweet engine, I tell myself that I better have a great day at practice or I won’t be making the payments. I’ll be “workin’ a nine-to-five with a thirty minute,” just like our special teams coach Ronnie Bradford says will happen to us if we keep fucking up the plays.

L
ater that week Rod holds a money meeting for rookies. Rod loves money. He loves making it and seeing it grow. He loves talking about it and he has a wealth of knowledge about everything monetary. All you have to do is ask him a question, sit back, and listen. During the meeting, Rod is stressing the importance of paying attention to what things actually cost. He says that we often have a skewed perspective of the money we are spending because all we are doing is signing our names. Well, he says, if you buy a $50,000 car, it’s not just your signature. This, he says, is what you’re spending. He reaches into a small black bag and produces five stacks of wrapped cash, ten grand apiece. He drops them on the table with a plop. So that’s what fifty grand sounds like. This is the year that the meaning of money will change for me, forever.

T
here are five of us on the practice squad. Our obligations are simple: practice hard. The NFL workweek starts on Wednesday and ends on game day, with an adjustable Monday schedule and nothing at all on Tuesday. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are really all that matter for a practice squad player because those are the days we practice.

My job is to run the opposing team’s plays during the week leading up to the game. An assistant coach pores through our opponent’s game film and draws up every one of their plays on large cards. He color-codes each skill position and writes the jersey number of each player inside the colored dot that indicates where he lines up. There’s no memorizing of plays, no learning of concepts. Just find your colored dot and copy it, shmuck. All week I’m the same dot.

Practice squad players don’t travel with the team. It’s a strange feeling watching the games on television after the week of practice. I’m a part of the team all week. An important part of the team, too. I prepare our defense to dominate. The better I play, the better they play. I want to make it harder on them in practice than it will be on Sundays. When our DBs play well, I pat myself on the back. When they don’t, I take it personally.