Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile Read Online Free Page B

with the air horn makes it official. Wake the fuck up. It’s time to hit—again.
    The next week we have a home game against the Kansas City Chiefs. I put on my wifebeater and go out to warm up early. I stand on the grass of Candlestick Park and feel fully immersed in my new profession. I look up to the spot where Ryan and I sat the previous year and smile to myself. I don’t get in the game until late in the fourth quarter. On my first play, I catch a slant from Brandon Doman for five yards. On the next play I catch another slant for 10 yards. Football is easy. Our drive stalls out. The game goes into overtime. On our first possession of overtime, Brandon throws an interception down the middle. The DB is dancing around and cutting back against the grain, trying to end the game on a walk-off interception return for a touchdown. He cuts back one too many times. I stick him under his chin and body-slam him. They kick a field goal on the next play and win the game. The next day we watch film and Stew dissects our performances. Stew’s favorite play from the game, besides T.O.’s freaky 71-yard touchdown, is my tackle in overtime. Receiver coaches love that shit.
    On the last day of camp in Stockton, the offensive linemen go out for dinner. As is customary, they get the rookies shitfaced. Ty comes back to the room like a tornado and plops down on the bed. John Engelberger is a veteran defensive end—a big, corn-fed bruiser, who likes hanging with us rookies. We sit around the room laughing. Ty is a funny man, even more so after too many tequila shots. After one of his jokes, he hiccups and reaches for the closest receptacle. It’s an empty water bottle. He attempts to vomit into it but instead creates a suction. It sprays out the sides of his mouth and all over the room.
    —Ty! C’mon!
    —Shut up, Rapper !
    I had mistakenly told my teammates about my hip-hop aspirations, and now they tease me relentlessly. At least we can laugh. Training camp is over. That night I lie awake in bed and listen to the last of the partying linemen run wild underneath our window. They have found a golf cart and turned the campus into their own personal bumper car playground. I fall asleep a better man. The next day we pack up our dorm rooms and go back to the 49ers facility.
    We’re back to a regular schedule, done every day by five instead of ten. On one of our nights off I go to a movie with some friends and see Mooch outside the theater with his family. We talk for a few minutes. I meet his kids. He says see you tomorrow. The next day he approaches me as I’m standing on the sideline with ice on my shoulder.
    —How’s that shoulder?
    —Ah, it’s okay.
    —You know, Nate. You’ve had a good camp. But you’re hurt. I appreciate you toughing it out. And I’d love to keep you on the practice squad. But practice squad players need to be healthy, they need to be able to practice , you know what I mean?
    —Yeah, I know what you mean, Coach.
    A few days later I’m stopped as I walk through the locker room. An assistant tells me to come upstairs, and bring my playbook. My days as a 49er are over, it’s obvious—only formalities remain. I saw this moment coming in slow motion ever since I slipped on the wet grass and my shoulder went pop. I am a broken machine. On the way out the door GM Terry Donahue tells me that if I get healthy they’ll sign me back the next season. I know I have Bill to thank for that gesture. He is serving as a consultant for the Niners.
    I go home and move back in with my parents. They have always been supportive of my football dreams, but we are not a football family. I’m the only athlete of all my siblings. My parents are schoolteachers. We live in a middle-class California neighborhood in a small one-story home. I spent my summer days as a child at the cabana club down the street. A lifeguarded pool is a great babysitter. My friends and I were fish. I swam competitively and played soccer, but I had my eye on