Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile (9 page)

A few days later I say goodbye to Alina and start to pack up my room. It’s our last week in Düsseldorf. We are 3-6 as a team. At the end of the week we check out of the Relexa Hotel for good. I say goodbye to the friends I have made: hotel employees, cooks, Markus, stadium workers, marketing people, the Internet café guy, the gyro guy, the bratwurst guy: poof. Gone forever. I’m getting used to that.

We board a train to Amsterdam.

Adam is hurt so I get my first start of the season. It’s a full German circle. All of the pain and rehabbing and traveling and practicing brings me here to Holland, running out of the tunnel as the starting receiver for the Rhein Fire in the last game of a losing season. Does it matter? Is anyone watching?

We lose the game and finish 3-7, second to last place. I have 100 yards receiving and feel solid on the field for the first time in months. After the final whistle some of us stand on the field and chat. Football players are shuffled around leagues and teams constantly. I always have a friend or two on the other team. Plus the Broncos allocated guys to other teams, too. A few of my buddies play for the Admirals. We share stories about the season. See you back in Denver! Back in the locker room, Pete puts a cap on our season.

—Guys, bring it up. Take a knee. Bring it in close. Listen guys, I know this season didn’t work out how we had hoped, but I’m proud of everyone in this room. Hell, I know what kind of players you guys are. We couldn’t catch a break this season but you guys never complained and you worked your tails off every day. And I appreciate all of it. Shit, sometimes hard work isn’t enough. Sometimes things don’t go your way. I just hope you guys enjoyed the experience as much as I did. Either way, we’ll all remember this forever and I wish you guys luck in the NFL or wherever you end up. If there’s anything any of us coaches can do to help, please ask us. I’ve got nothing but good things to say about every one of you guys. You hear me? I mean it. Now let’s break it down before I lose it. C’mon, bring it in tight.

We stand up and bring it in close for a breakdown. Coach puts his hand in the air and we stack ours on top of it. Win or lose, this is the most honest moment for a football team.

—Fire on three. One! Two! Three!

—
Fire!

Ashes.

W
e sit in the locker room, slowly removing our Fire gear for the last time, talking and thinking and stuck between sentimentality and a powerful relief. We shower and get in line for our exit physicals. At the front of the line I’m greeted by an old friend.

—Hey, I know you!

—Mayfield! They made you come all the way out here for this?

—Let’s not talk about that, Nate. Great game. You looked good out there. How’s it feelin’?

—Man, it’s pretty good. I can’t complain.

—You’re not just sayin’ that?

—No, I’m serious. It held up great.

—And what about that pinkie? Let’s have a look. That thing may never be right. You okay with that?

—Yeah, I’m okay with it. I’ve got nein more.

—Well all right then. Good luck to you, Nate. You’re gonna do just fine. I’m not worried about you at all.

—Thanks, Mayfield. You’re one of the good ones.

—Don’t tell anybody.

I have a clean bill of health. The journey is almost over. But first we have a night to ourselves in Amsterdam. And I want to put a cap on the season, too.

Those of us poor bastards with wives and girlfriends wander through the red-light district like gawkers at a zoo. We look into the weed cafés, the bars, and the brothels and I gauge the reactions of my friends. They want no part. So instead we go back to the hotel and stay true to our ideas of love. I watch a naked ping-pong match on television and fall asleep.

The next morning, some of my adventuresome teammates stumble onto the bus, eyes like pennies, smelling of the industries that I denied myself. I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose as they walk past me on the bus. That will have to do.

The bus revs up and it’s time to go home. I mill around the Amsterdam airport and talk with a few players from the Admirals while we wait for our respective flights. Life is weird, we agree. It’s a tough road ahead for all of us. We agree on that, too. If we were in NFL Europe at all, we are long shots in the NFL. Yet there’s an unmistakable optimism. We’ve just been through something rarefied together. And we are all better for it. How, we don’t know yet. We’re tired and anxious to get home. But there’s a new look in our eye that won’t go away.

A football dream is easy to spot. Turn on
SportsCenter
and they’ll show you what it looks like. Tom Brady’s life. Peyton Manning’s life. Fairy tales. Storybooks. The football dream I had as a child unfolded much differently. But it has still unfolded. Every crease and every line, ever grunt and every pop, I’m playing the game I love. The grass is still green, the hits still hurt, and the ball in flight is still the most beautiful sight I know. I will chase it to the ends of the earth.

Three flights and twenty hours later, I’m back in Denver. A Broncos staffer picks me up from the airport and takes me straight to the doctor’s office for an evening physical. We have minicamp practice the next day. I pass the physical and am back in my number 14 in the morning, shaking off the jet lag and reintroducing myself to all things Broncos, no things Fire. Be flexible.

4

Grid-Irony

(2004)

I
t takes a village to raise a jock.

I arrive in Denver to a new group of guys. Along with Champ Bailey, we’ve signed another future Hall of Fame defensive back: John Lynch, fortifying an already solid defense. It doesn’t take long to realize that their reputations are well deserved. Champ’s calm and collected: patient and deadly. He makes it look easy on the field, never sweaty or out of breath. John’s an assassin on the grass and an ambassador in the locker room. He gets along with everyone, upstairs and downstairs. Our veteran leadership is fully formed on both sides of the ball.

In addition to our new free agents, there’s our new draft class.

We all sit together in the theater-style auditorium for training camp’s introductory meeting. The seats are full—every one of them—with the eighty-plus players allotted for training camp rosters. Seated in the front of the room behind the podium in folding chairs are the various departments of the franchise, at least a hundred people. They squirm in their seats as we stare them down. We aren’t used to having civilians in this room. They have a peculiar look to them: so small, so delicate. One by one, Coach calls up the designated spokesman for each department.

General Manager Ted Sundquist takes the podium first and introduces his scouting department. We don’t see these guys often. And they don’t see anything but football. They’re overweight and underfucked. Sometimes they stand around and watch practice but mostly they are regional scouts scattered around the country, in charge of gathering information on college prospects. I sit in my chair and glare at one of the scouts named Bobby, hoping he’ll notice me noticing him. His father is also a scout. I didn’t know who Bobby was until I got back from Europe. My old Menlo coach Dave Muir is coaching at Idaho State now, and Bobby came to campus to scout one of their players for the upcoming draft. When Dave asked Bobby about me, Bobby chuckled and said I wasn’t worth a shit: the number five receiver at best, probably won’t make the team. Dave is feisty and very loyal. He told Bobby to go fuck himself. I knew Bobby knew I knew. I tried to get him to look in my eyes but he wouldn’t. I always find it funny when a scout says a professional athlete is a piece of shit. By his own standards, he must be a Mount Kilimanjaro–size pile of shit.

The message from Ted: not only are your coaches watching every move you make, but so are we.

Greek takes the podium next and introduces his assistants: Corey and Scott. Then he gives his spiel about player health, which amounts to an emphasis on punctuality for treatment sessions. Report your injuries and treat them like a good boy. Oh, and there is a once-a-year drug test.

—If you can’t pass it then you’re either stupid or you have a drug problem. Either one, you need help.

Then Dr. Boublik, our team orthopedist. He looks like a doctor, slight guy with brown hair, and gives a brief overview of injury treatment protocol. Dr. Boublik has a measured, precise tone. He says that he and his partner, Dr. Schlegel, are here to provide us with “the best-quality care” and to make sure “we get healthy and get back on the field in a safe and timely manner.” He speaks in the platitudes consistent with his profession, speaking to mandolescents about injuries they aren’t meant to understand.

I glance around at my teammates. They all have that vacant football meeting look on their faces. They are watching the man who is speaking but they don’t hear a word he says.

Our public relations director, Jim Saccomono, is next, a middle-aged man with a flair for the dramatic. The look on his face suggests that he’s thought of a great joke about you but he’s decided not to tell it. He introduces his assistants, Paul, Dave, and Patrick. All of them are fiercely loyal to the Broncos brand and are excellent communicators, in charge of brokering the often strained relations between the media and the players. They are also very nice people.

So is Chris Valenti, aka “Flip,” our equipment manager. Managing the equipment of an NFL team is a massive undertaking. Flip has three full-time assistants: Kenny, Harry, and Jason. They are some of the hardest workers in the building. Tennis shoes, cleats, sandals, socks, shorts, girdles, jockstraps, knee pads, thigh pads, practice pants, game pants, sweats, T-shirts, practice jerseys, game jerseys, gloves, elbow pads, sweatshirts, hats, beanies, jackets, wrist bands, rib pads, shoulder pads, neck rolls, chin straps, mouthpieces, face masks, and the tip of the spear: the helmet. Not only do they give us this equipment, they also keep it clean and shiny. Every single tool of the trade goes through Flip and his boys. Even sunflower seeds. They’re good friends to have.

Then Ken, the video director, takes the podium. Every practice is filmed from two angles: the sideline and the end zone. The two angles are spliced together back-to-back. With the advancement of computer technology, the viewing of film has become very specialized. Ken and his staff are at the forefront. Any game played by any team in any year can be pulled up in an instant, with ungodly permutations of specific plays.

—Hey, Ken, could you make me a DVD with every one of Randy Moss’s red-zone pass plays from week four to week eight of 2001?

—Sure thing, Nate. Come by later today and we’ll have that for you.

The only thing we can’t do is take home DVDs of our own practices: just in case they fall into the wrong hands.

Then our head strength coach, Rich Tuten, who strongly resembles Sergeant Slaughter without the hat. Rich stands barrel-chested at the podium and unfolds a piece of paper, eliciting snickers from the gallery. He introduces Greg Saporta, his assistant. Greg’s also known as “Crime,” as in McGruff the Crime Dog, for his aggressively strict eye on the off-season conditioning program. Crime’s head is freshly shaved with a straight razor. He smiles only if he absolutely has to. Then Rich lists the players who have earned a perfect attendance record during the off-season conditioning program. Rod’s name is read for the twelfth straight season. He’s Rich’s model student—he wasn’t drafted coming out of college, and he spent his first year on the practice squad. Bobby must have thought he was a piece of shit.

Then Coach introduces local TV personality Reggie Rivers. Reggie was a Broncos running back in the 1990s who now works for CBS, the main Broncos affiliate. Reggie takes the podium and sums up the local media. The
Rocky Mountain News
and the
Denver Post
are competing newspapers. He rattles off the names of the competing television and radio stations. All of them, he says, are running the same stories and trying to find ways to set themselves apart. His presentation amounts to a list of dos and don’ts when dealing with these hacks. He cues up a film and shows us examples. Do say: We’re taking this thing one game at a time and we’ll see what happens. Don’t say: Man, I really would like to go home and eat a heroin sandwich.

T
he next morning we’re back into the crush of training camp and Champ’s giving us fits. With pads on, his physical dominance is on full display. He’s an excellent cover corner. He’s in his physical prime. He’s smart and tough. But where he excels the most is on the line of scrimmage. We can’t get off his press. He jams us at the line as soon as the ball is snapped. But I love it, because I know that there’s no one in the world better than Champ. Hence the name.

I’m in good football shape from being in Germany. My body feels fine. My knee’s healed. My pinkie’s crooked, but oh well. The only thing bothering me, except for the typical early training camp agony, are the terrible blisters that Champ is indirectly causing to bubble on my feet. All of the friction and combustive energy I push through my body comes out through the balls of my feet and my big toe. After the first day of camp, my feet are hamburger meat. They get worse and worse with every practice, until the pads are down to the bright red flesh. Before every practice I jump up on the training table and our trainer Corey jellies, gauzes, and wraps my feet the best he can. It doesn’t do much. Every step feels like I’m walking on hot coals. By the time practice ends, the toes of my socks are soaked red. Every night, I limp into the meeting room and fall back into my chair. We sit in a cluster near Blade on the right side of the room.

An average night of film goes like this:

—Now look at Rod here, you guys. See how he sets him up?

Rod has a head-up corner and is split wide to the right. His route’s a slant. He gives a quick head fake off the ball, pushes up the field three hard steps, stops on a dime, and undercuts Champ, swimming him by with his left arm and breaking toward the middle of the field. Pass complete.

Slo-mo, rewind, slo-mo, rewind, slo-mo, rewind: ad infinitum as Gary Kubiak, our offensive coordinator, talks about the play. Kube, as we call him, is an easygoing Texas native and a former NFL quarterback who played behind John Elway for his entire career. He’s already won three Super Bowls as a coach. He finds success wherever he goes, and he runs our offense day to day.

—Now, if he’s playing head-up on you like this you have to get him to move his feet or you’ve got no chance. Nice work, Rod. See how patient he is, guys? See how he makes him think he’s going deep? You’ve got to sell it, boys, especially against Champ. He’s seen all the tricks in the book. Great job, Rod.

The next play is a running play. Charlie and I are on the field. It’s to my side: 18 toss. I block the corner. The safety to my side makes the tackle.

—Great hustle on the backside, Charlie. Nate, who are you supposed to block on this play?

—Depends on the coverage.

—What coverage are they in here?

—Three.

—Yes, but it’s a Three Cloud: we call that Four.

—I thought Four was quarters.

—Some places it is but we call quarters Cover Eight. You should know that by now.

I clear my throat, say nothing.

—So if it were a regular Three on this play then the safety to your side would be deep middle and the strong safety would be down near the box over here.

He circles an area of the big screen with a laser pointer.

—Then you would be right, it would be Three, and you would block the corner just like you did. But that safety is down to your side. They rotated weak. It’s a Cover Four. So now what’s your rule?

—Push/crack.

—That’s right, push/crack. Push up the field at the cornerback then crack down on the strong safety as he comes up to fill the run. If he never comes up to stop the run or if the corner gets horny, you stay on the corner. But this crack-back can be a kill shot, boys, and the difference between a three-yard gain and a touchdown.

—What if they’re in Cover Four, er, Eight?

—Then you’ll stay on the corner, unless that safety is really cheating or shows blitz late and we don’t have time to check out of it. Then you
have
to get him or the play is toast. Same with Cover Two; keep an eye on that safety. But be careful because that corner has run responsibilities in Cover Two so if you leave him for the safety the corner might just come up and make the tackle. What you’ll have to watch for is that Cover Six: the quarter-quarter-half. That’s Cover Two on half the field and Quarters on the other half. But it really doesn’t make a shit what they do. Just watch that safety to your side and if he gets horny you block him. If not, stay on the corner.

—What about man coverage? Should I run him off or block him?

—If you know he’s in man you can outside release and run his ass down the sideline. But if he smells run then you gotta block his ass. Remember, if you guys can’t block, you won’t be on the field.

Rod chimed in.

—You know how to tell if they’re in man, right?

—Uh . . .

—First off it’s in their eyes. If they ain’t lookin’ at nobody but you, it’s probably man: especially if they’re up in your face. If it’s zone they’ll be looking in at the quarterback and looking inside at the other receivers. But be careful, sometimes they’ll be right up in your face breathing on you and you think it’s man, then they bail out right before the snap and drop into their coverage. You just gotta feel that.

—All right.

—But look, you see that tight end motion to the other side of the ball?

—Yeah.

—What happened when he motioned? What did the defense do?

—Nothing.

—Exactly. So what does that tell you?

—It’s zone.

—Yep. If it was man, whoever was covering him would’ve run with him, ’cause he’d have him in man coverage. But since no one moves, you know it’s zone.

—Exactly. That’s why we do those shifts and motions, boys. It ain’t just for the hell of it, all right? We’re trying to give you guys a pre-snap read so you know what’s coming. We’re trying to gain any advantage we can. Every little bit helps. Okay, next play.

On the movie screen, Ashley Lelie runs a comeback; twenty yards straight up the field and back downhill at a sharp angle toward the sidelines. Champ undercuts his route and bats down the ball like he was knocking an ice-cream cone out of Ashley’s hand.

Blade leans over to Ashley and whispers.

—On this comeback route, you’re really going to want to come
back
.

Blade’s dealing with what all former-players-turned-coaches deal with: explaining in words what they always knew how to do instinctively. We all know what Blade means. But Kube’s coach-speak is more refined. He takes it a few steps further.

—Ashley, you gotta come off the ball harder and
attack
his leverage. And get your full twenty-yard depth. Not eighteen, not nineteen—twenty. And keep your shoulders over your toes on your break. Don’t stand straight up and chop your feet at the top of your route like this. See, that’s when Champ reacted to your break, right when you started chopping your feet. And don’t veer off that straight line. See how you are veering off right here?

Laser pointer.

—No way that’ll work. Look at that. When you veer off like that, he knows you’re not coming inside anymore. Look at that. He read your ass like a book. And you gotta stick that inside foot in the ground at the top. Stick it in the ground!