Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile (19 page)

—Okay, guys. We know what we have to do. We’ve had a great week of practice, but it’s time to do it out there on the field. Leave it all out there. Do it for the guy next to you. Look after each other and execute, for sixty minutes, and we’ll be just fine. Let’s go get it done.

Then Coach also drops to a knee and grabs the hands of the men on either side of him. We are all locked in a chain.

—Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, the Power, the Glory, forever and ever, amen.

Goddamn right amen.

T
he fireworks explode and we stampede through the mouth of the inflatable Broncos helmet and into the open air, lined on either side by shiny, smooth cheerleaders. Their hair bounces with an enthusiasm unfakeable and their skin glistens in the sunshine unmistakable. Game day in Denver is beautiful for many reasons. The cheerleaders are one of them. Their teeth are as white as the Rocky Mountain snow and their chaps hug perfectly the contours their job demands.

I run through their lane and hear the crinkling of their pompoms and smell their sweet perfumes mingling with the acrid smoke of pyrotechnics. I look skyward to the upper-deck seats, now fully packed and bubbling. Mile-high magic. The first few times I ran through the tunnel on game day, I was taken aback. We didn’t have any cheerleaders at Menlo and our stands held five hundred people. Denver sells out every game—each and every game.

We take off our helmets for the national anthem and stand in a line to count the ways America is awesome. One, two, three . . . there are thirty-two cheerleaders in all. By the time I picture my life with each of them, the harmonized tune reaches its crescendo and the four fighter jets in formation come thrusting into view over the south end zone. The jets rip over the stadium ahead of their own sound, buzzing the white horse erected atop the Jumbotron in the south end zone and passing over the bubble of human energy, charging it further with the delayed roar of military turbo engines that buttress the final note of the anthem, carrying it into the distance with the jet fumes of America. Home of the brave. Whatever this is, it feels important.

O
ur captains take the field at the fifty-yard line for the coin toss. I don’t pay attention. I’m pacing back and forth on the sidelines, smacking shoulder pads and head-butting. It doesn’t matter who wins the toss. Heads or tails, I’m on the field for the first play.

—Kickoff!! Let’s go! Kickoff team, bring it up!

We lost the toss. All ten of us, minus Paul Ernster, our kicker, who is kicking blades of grass off in the distance, bring it up tight around Scotty O’Brien, our special teams coach.

—Okay, guys. We know who they are. We know what they do. Watch their right return. And be ready for the double team on the fives. Keep your head up and pay attention to who is blocking you. They’ll tip their hand. Avoid the block, stack him, and stay in your lane. Maintain it, fellas. And get down the fucking field! We’re going deep middle, okay? Deep middle. Broncos on three: one-two-three!

—Broncos!

The huddle pops and we jog onto the field. Ten of us with one job: tackle the ball. The speakers are blasting our opening kickoff song by AC/DC, and the crowd is screaming. Not only have we waited all week for this moment, going through the rigmarole of practice and meetings, but so have the fans, going through the rigmarole of American life. This is for all of us.

I jog and take my place on the kickoff line and look up into the rafters. I see every face. I feel every breath. I’m the R3 on the kickoff team. The numbering system starts at the kicker. The first man to his right is the R5, then the R4, R3, R2, and R1. To his left, it’s the L5 down to the L1. Paul counts off his steps, takes his three deep breaths, and puts his right hand up in the air. He pauses, drops his hand, and starts his approach. When he crosses my line of sight, I start mine. We all cross the thirty-yard line in lockstep with the pop of the ball off his foot and the explosion of the crowd.

And, zip. The portal closes over my head.

I hear myself breathing. And I hear my shoulder pads, plastic on plastic, echoing through the enclosed dome of my helmet. It’s the hum of a high-performance vehicle on race day, purring in unison with the other nine muscle cars ripping down the runway, intending to flatten some silly rabbit. In our way are ten other vehicles: Ferraris and Mercedes and F-150s, diversified to throw off our assault. They have six Mercedes spread out directly in front of us, fifteen yards away.

They are the return team’s first line of defense. As the R3, I keep my eye on the two directly in front of me. They’re the most likely to try to block me. Every man on the kickoff return team has a specific blocking assignment, instructed to block a specific man. Some guys disguise who they’re assigned to engage. But most don’t.

As I run down the field no one is looking at me. The two men I’m watching dip inside. One of them goes to help his buddy on a double team of our R5, just like Scotty O said they would. The other sizes up and attempts to block Cecil, who is next to me. I have a clear path to the wedge, which is a group of three linemen holding hands and trying to clear a path for the returner. They’re the F-150s: nearly one thousand pounds of meat coming downhill. Go ahead, try to stop them. It’s your job, after all.

The R1 is the safety, the last line of defense, so he stays a few steps behind us. If the wedge comes free to me and the R2, and all the other guys get blocked, then the R2 and I must eat up the wedge and spill the returner outside into the arms of the R1. The returner has an upback, often a running back, who stands deep with him and leads him up through the wedge. But often, as is the case here and now, there is backside pressure from the kickoff team that forces the upback to bail out on the return and seal off the backside from pursuing coverage men.

The returner is on his own.

The R2 and I must take out three linemen and spill the returner outside and into the arms of our R1.

But Cecil easily avoids the block from the frontline guy and makes it down the field a step before me. He attacks the inside edge of the wedge and forces the linemen to honor his presence. The inside lineman jumps out to him. The outside lineman jumps out to the R2. That leaves me on the middle lineman and he’s discombobulated and off balance and the wedge has collapsed. I give him a hard jab step inside and rip through with my inside arm, squirting into the hole and directly into the path of the returner.

I tackle him at the twenty-seven-yard line. First down Jags.

A
fter a defensive stand near midfield, we get the ball back near our own twenty-yard line. A first-down pass loses two yards. Then I enter the game in our two-tight-end package called Tiger. Jay lifts his foot and I come across the formation in motion, settle, and start to lean. I’ve timed up the motions with Jay’s cadence perfectly in practice. He usually snaps the ball as soon as I get to my spot.

But this time: no snap. Jay’s looking at the defense, which is shifting and trying to confuse him. I’m leaning too much. I have to hold on with the tiniest proprioceptive muscles in my feet and hope he’ll snap it before I take a step forward. Otherwise I’ll get a flag.

Leaning, leaning, leaning.

—Set
hut
!

He snaps the ball and I run my corner route and turn to look for the ball. He throws it to the opposite side, to D.G., who ran the same route on the other side, and who catches the ball for a 34-yard gain before being pushed out of bounds. Yes! I look around for a flag.

Fuck.

—Illegal procedure, number eighty-one offense. Five-yard penalty. Repeat second down.

We punt two plays later.

I come to the sideline knowing I blew it, that I killed the whole team’s momentum. We’d just stopped them on defense, forced a punt, and completed a 34-yard pass on second down. That’s a great start. I ruined it single-handedly.

The first quarter ends scoreless. Broncos fans don’t like scoreless. They’re not used to it. They get restless when we don’t score, even when it’s a close game. They boo third-down incompletions. They want blood.

The first blood drawn in the game is by the Jags. They score a second quarter touchdown and line up for the kickoff. I’m on the front line, second man in from the right. Scotty O calls a middle return. The R3 is my man. The numbering system is the same as the opening kickoff except flipped. Looking at the kicker from where we stand, the R5 is directly to his right, the L5 to his left.

The more special teams I play, the more it slows down in my head. This allows me to be craftier. On kickoff return, that craft means not looking at the man I am blocking. After seeing the ball kicked, I turn and sprint back twenty-five yards at an angle, stacking the pursuit of the R4, the man inside the R3. I stare the R4 in the eyeballs so he thinks I’m coming for him. But I’m really looking at the R3 out of my periphery. (I wasn’t always so crafty. I used to stare down my man the whole time, which meant he was prepared for the collision and tried to run through the back of my skull. I had to adapt, simply to save my brain.) Then, at the very last minute, with the R4 within steps of me, I plant my inside foot hard and explode past him and hit his buddy under the chin. He doesn’t see me until it is too late. Now he’s going to have to watch that on film tomorrow in front of all of his friends. Anyway, it was a touchback. No harm done.

We get the ball and start driving. A few first downs and we’re into the red zone. Then we’re down at the one-yard line.

—Jumbo! Jumbo!

That’s our three-tight-end, two-running-backs package. I jog onto the field and take my place in the huddle.

—Okay, here we go.

Jay glances at me.

—Tight Left, Disco Motion, blah blah blah, on one, on one, ready, break!

I walk to my spot and get down in my three-point stance.

—Blue twenty-two.

He lifts his foot and sends me in motion. I rock back onto my feet lazily, trying to lull my man-to-man defender to sleep as I pass. Then I pivot and come back, equally lazily. The point is to make him think I’m doing a return motion and ending up in the same spot I started, so I can block a front-side run play. So don’t look him in the eye. Make him think you aren’t doing shit. Make him think you’re blocking. Make him think you’re
bored.
So much of offensive football is lying with your body, getting the defender to think you are going somewhere you aren’t. Tell a story with your movements: a bloody lie! After my return motion, I turn on a dime and explode down the line of scrimmage back in the direction I was originally going.

—Blue twenty-two, set
hut
!

Jay snaps the ball quickly as I cross the ass of the guard. Stud cornerback Rashean Mathis is covering me. He catches on to the play and starts sprinting down the line of scrimmage behind his linebackers, who are hugged up on the asses of the defensive line. I’m sprinting, too. I feel slow: slow-footed, slow motion. The years have caught up to me. It’s going to be close. Mathis has a good angle on me. Jay fires it down the line at the front pylon, which is my “aiming point.” Either it will be a touchdown or an interception returned 99 yards for the Jaguars’ own score. I reach out for the ball. So does Mathis. But he’s one step late. The ball sinks into my fingertips and I squeeze it into my body.

T
ouchdown.

Five fucking years.

It’s our first score of the game. The crowd goes wild—I think. The portal closes again and I can’t hear anything. Total silence in my head. There were times over the years when the crowd was so loud I could hear my future children crying. But not this time. The kiddies are sound asleep. I spread my arms out like the wings of an airplane and soar around the back of the end zone smiling.

I circle back toward my teammates. D.G. comes to greet me first and we jump into the air and bump hips. I hold the ball tight in my right hand. Then I remember my family. By chance, I’ve scored in the end zone where they are sitting, a few rows back in the friends and family section, right along the goal line. I caught the ball on the pylon fifty feet in front of them. I look up to them and point. My father is smiling. My mother is crying. So is Aunt Marsha. Uncle Bruce, who has made the trip from Australia, is smiling and pointing at my mother saying, “That’s his mom!” My parents have seen me score a million times in my life, on a million different fields and courts and swimming pools. Is this any different for them? Maybe. Is it different for me? Not really.

I walk to the sideline with the ball in my hand, absorbing the smacks and head slaps from my friends. They knew how bad I wanted that ball. They all want it just as bad. Some will get it. Most won’t. I hand the ball to Flip.

—Nice catch, Nate.

He takes the ball and puts it into one of the trunks for safekeeping. He’ll give it to me later. I take a swig of water. The extra point is good. I walk to the other thirty-yard line to take my place on the kickoff team.

The train rolls on.

A
fter showering and changing, I throw my playbook in the playbook bin and fill up my bag with waters and Gatorades from the fridge. Then I walk through the double doors and out into the cavernous inner-stadium area where the buses pull in. Friends and family gather there to wait for us. Fresh off my first ever touchdown, I walk out and instantly see my father, then my mother, then Aunt Marsha and Uncle Bruce standing there as proud as can be.

We lost the game 23–14. But for a mother, the score doesn’t matter so much. My mom has three criteria that she uses to judge a game. One, did I stay healthy? Two, was I happy with my performance? Three, did we win? Moms are ahead of the curve. The NFL is momless.

Up above our heads in the stands, the loss is all that matters. But down here outside the locker room, there is little to indicate the outcome of the game. Everyone’s happy. If you are standing down here at all, you’ve already won.