Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile Read Online Free
Author: Nate Jackson
to system. Some of the best athletes on the planet could never learn the NFL language, so they never got on the field.
Minicamps end in late June. We have a month-long break before training camp starts. I can hardly wait to get back on the field. I go into the facility and work out by myself. I shadowbox in the steam room. I stare into the mirror and flex my muscles. I’m ready.
Training camp is in Stockton, California, on the campus of the University of the Pacific. On the day we report, I drive my green 1996 Honda Civic to the campus and pull into the players’ parking lot, sliding in between a Mercedes and a BMW. I check into the dorms and get my room assignment. I’m on the third floor in the rookie hall. My roommate is a center from Miami named Ty Wise. We are both free agents, both long shots. The fear of the unknown is almost crippling. It takes my breath away. I want to get the pads on and get on the field right away. Enough with all of the talking! But the NFL, it turns out, is mostly talking. I sit at attention while head coach Steve Mariucci (we call him Mooch) sets the scene for us in the auditorium-style classroom. Tomorrow we hit. Get ready.
On the morning of our first practice, I lie awake in my squeaky metal twin bed listening to Ty snore as the light creeps through the blinds. At six thirty I hear the sound that will soon attach itself to my football dreams. It’s a sound that is linked to hope, to sweat, to pain, to glory. It’s a sweet sound. It’s the sound of the devil. At six thirty on the dot, a coffee-drunk assistant walks through the dorm halls and lets the air horn blow. Wake the fuck up. It’s time to hit.
Practices are open to the public. I walk onto the field with my helmet in my hand and the stands erupt. What a welcome, I think. Bay Area kid makes good. Yeah, it’s a great story. I glance to my left. There is T.O., and our starting quarterback, Jeff Garcia, walking beside me. They probably think the cheering is for them.
From day one I become aware of a powerful dynamic within each position group. We are all competing against each other for roster spots. We are sword fighting. There are five veteran receivers and five of us rookie free agents. Teams usually only keep five wide receivers on the roster. We all know this. And we know that in order to make the team, one of us has to unseat a proven NFL veteran. That means taking advantage of precious few opportunities. For those of us at the bottom of the depth chart, the reps are harder to come by. Some guys get discouraged. Others hang on to the coaching clichés. “Don’t count your reps. Make your reps count.” This is the ominous base note to the training camp death song. No one talks about it but we hear it loud and clear. Half of us will be gone by the end of the month.
Adding to the reverb of the death knell is my shitty left shoulder. I dislocated it twice in college and the Niner doctors spotted it during the pre-minicamp physical to which every player must submit.
IMPRESSION: This 22-year-old right-hand dominant running back [ sic ] from Menlo College has a history of two prior left-shoulder dislocations. He is currently asymptomatic. The patient was seen and examined with Dr. Dillingham. At this point he will be graded 4–5. Dr. Dillingham and head trainer Lindsy McLean will have him sign a waiver.
I had to sign the waiver to get on the field. Now if I hurt the shoulder again, they can cut me with no liability. A week into training camp I slip on the wet grass making an in-cut, a 90-degree break toward the middle of the field. I drop my hand to the ground to stop my fall and my shoulder pops out of the front of the socket. It feels, strangely, like my head is on backward. While I lie on the turf Lindsy McLean, the head trainer, arrives to slide it back in. Of the two dislocations I had in college, one slid back in easily, the other didn’t. The opposing team’s trainer had her foot on my chest and was pulling on my
Minicamps end in late June. We have a month-long break before training camp starts. I can hardly wait to get back on the field. I go into the facility and work out by myself. I shadowbox in the steam room. I stare into the mirror and flex my muscles. I’m ready.
Training camp is in Stockton, California, on the campus of the University of the Pacific. On the day we report, I drive my green 1996 Honda Civic to the campus and pull into the players’ parking lot, sliding in between a Mercedes and a BMW. I check into the dorms and get my room assignment. I’m on the third floor in the rookie hall. My roommate is a center from Miami named Ty Wise. We are both free agents, both long shots. The fear of the unknown is almost crippling. It takes my breath away. I want to get the pads on and get on the field right away. Enough with all of the talking! But the NFL, it turns out, is mostly talking. I sit at attention while head coach Steve Mariucci (we call him Mooch) sets the scene for us in the auditorium-style classroom. Tomorrow we hit. Get ready.
On the morning of our first practice, I lie awake in my squeaky metal twin bed listening to Ty snore as the light creeps through the blinds. At six thirty I hear the sound that will soon attach itself to my football dreams. It’s a sound that is linked to hope, to sweat, to pain, to glory. It’s a sweet sound. It’s the sound of the devil. At six thirty on the dot, a coffee-drunk assistant walks through the dorm halls and lets the air horn blow. Wake the fuck up. It’s time to hit.
Practices are open to the public. I walk onto the field with my helmet in my hand and the stands erupt. What a welcome, I think. Bay Area kid makes good. Yeah, it’s a great story. I glance to my left. There is T.O., and our starting quarterback, Jeff Garcia, walking beside me. They probably think the cheering is for them.
From day one I become aware of a powerful dynamic within each position group. We are all competing against each other for roster spots. We are sword fighting. There are five veteran receivers and five of us rookie free agents. Teams usually only keep five wide receivers on the roster. We all know this. And we know that in order to make the team, one of us has to unseat a proven NFL veteran. That means taking advantage of precious few opportunities. For those of us at the bottom of the depth chart, the reps are harder to come by. Some guys get discouraged. Others hang on to the coaching clichés. “Don’t count your reps. Make your reps count.” This is the ominous base note to the training camp death song. No one talks about it but we hear it loud and clear. Half of us will be gone by the end of the month.
Adding to the reverb of the death knell is my shitty left shoulder. I dislocated it twice in college and the Niner doctors spotted it during the pre-minicamp physical to which every player must submit.
IMPRESSION: This 22-year-old right-hand dominant running back [ sic ] from Menlo College has a history of two prior left-shoulder dislocations. He is currently asymptomatic. The patient was seen and examined with Dr. Dillingham. At this point he will be graded 4–5. Dr. Dillingham and head trainer Lindsy McLean will have him sign a waiver.
I had to sign the waiver to get on the field. Now if I hurt the shoulder again, they can cut me with no liability. A week into training camp I slip on the wet grass making an in-cut, a 90-degree break toward the middle of the field. I drop my hand to the ground to stop my fall and my shoulder pops out of the front of the socket. It feels, strangely, like my head is on backward. While I lie on the turf Lindsy McLean, the head trainer, arrives to slide it back in. Of the two dislocations I had in college, one slid back in easily, the other didn’t. The opposing team’s trainer had her foot on my chest and was pulling on my
Readers choose
Allison van Diepen
Shane Jones
Allie Ritch
Gilbert Sorrentino
Jill Shalvis
Stacey Lynn Rhodes
Allison Hobbs
Nova