Read Online Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson - Free Book Online
Authors: Nate Jackson
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front of Mayfield. He’s a husky middle-aged man, clean-shaven with graying hair and a fierce twinkle in his eye. He looks at my file.
—All right, Mr. Nate, says here you had a shoulder operation last year.
—A year and a half ago.
—How’s it feeling?
—Great, it’s great.
—Well show me then. Can you do some push-ups?
—Really?
—Yes, sir. Really.
I drop and do ten push-ups.
—Good. Can you give me a little clap at the top of it?
I do two with a clap. He scribbles some notes.
—Well, all right, Nate. You look healthy to me. Good luck over there.
We shake hands.
—Don’t let me see you again until the exit physical.
H ead coach Pete Kuharchek has our ear.
—You guys have a great opportunity. Some of you are already on NFL teams. Some of you are trying to get on NFL teams. But we’re all here now. And there are some damn good football players in this room, guys. We have a lot of talent, the best talent in this league. But it’s up to you to make the most of it. Things are going to be different over there, guys. Okay? You are going to have to adjust. If you’re expecting everything to be like the NFL, you’re going to be disappointed. Keep an open mind, guys, and roll with the punches. The football part will be exactly what you’re used to. Everything else, well, we simply don’t have the budget, okay? Our motto is: Be flexible. Okay? Be . . . flexible.
The 2004 Rhein Fire sit at attention, watching our new coach dig into his opening monologue. Bent forward at the neck, his spine is a taut bow ready to fire an arrow at whoever might pursue him, a shot that would snap him into a posture two inches taller. He stalks his ten feet of real estate at the front of the room and shakes his head almost imperceptibly with each point of emphasis, his lower lip weighed down by a pond of saliva formed by the angle of the bow. Pete is a veteran coach who’s never been on an NFL sideline. He has, however, taken the Rhein Fire to back-to-back championship games. They lost both times.
—Practice is going to be physical, guys. We’re going to hit each other. We’re going to be violent. We are going to bully people out there. And it starts with training camp. There’s no way around it. We are going to work our asses off while we’re here. I promise you, none of these teams are going to outwork us. We’ll be in Germany before we know it. But right now we have work to get done. So bring your hard hat and your lunch pail to work every day, men. This isn’t a vacation.
Great. Pete wants us to kill each other.
Practice is at a high school in Clearwater Beach. From our hotel it’s a forty-minute drive across the 60, a toothpick bridge suspended over the crystal waters of the Gulf of Mexico. To make sure we are all frothing at the mouth to hit someone, Coach splits up the offense and defense for the first few days of practice. We practice the plays on our own, by ourselves, with no defense. They do the same on their end. It is boring and gets us all riled up. Football players are conditioned for violence. We are at home in the melee. We may have moments of quiet reservation and doubt when lying on our living room couches, but on the field we are pulled toward the mayhem. The feel of the helmet and shoulder pads, the sound of the whistle, the taste of the mouthpiece, the smell of grass and sweat: sacraments for bloodshed.
But the only interaction we have with the defense is in the locker room and on the bus, and since we aren’t getting to know each other on the field, the locker room and bus are quiet. We are strangers. On the day we are to finally practice as a team, the tension is high. Our sacraments have been dangled in front of our noses but we’ve been kept in cages. Just before they unlock the doors everybody is talking shit to each other from across the field. It feels like we are going to brawl.
The first thing we do is a passing drill called seven-on-seven that is designed to work on pass
—All right, Mr. Nate, says here you had a shoulder operation last year.
—A year and a half ago.
—How’s it feeling?
—Great, it’s great.
—Well show me then. Can you do some push-ups?
—Really?
—Yes, sir. Really.
I drop and do ten push-ups.
—Good. Can you give me a little clap at the top of it?
I do two with a clap. He scribbles some notes.
—Well, all right, Nate. You look healthy to me. Good luck over there.
We shake hands.
—Don’t let me see you again until the exit physical.
H ead coach Pete Kuharchek has our ear.
—You guys have a great opportunity. Some of you are already on NFL teams. Some of you are trying to get on NFL teams. But we’re all here now. And there are some damn good football players in this room, guys. We have a lot of talent, the best talent in this league. But it’s up to you to make the most of it. Things are going to be different over there, guys. Okay? You are going to have to adjust. If you’re expecting everything to be like the NFL, you’re going to be disappointed. Keep an open mind, guys, and roll with the punches. The football part will be exactly what you’re used to. Everything else, well, we simply don’t have the budget, okay? Our motto is: Be flexible. Okay? Be . . . flexible.
The 2004 Rhein Fire sit at attention, watching our new coach dig into his opening monologue. Bent forward at the neck, his spine is a taut bow ready to fire an arrow at whoever might pursue him, a shot that would snap him into a posture two inches taller. He stalks his ten feet of real estate at the front of the room and shakes his head almost imperceptibly with each point of emphasis, his lower lip weighed down by a pond of saliva formed by the angle of the bow. Pete is a veteran coach who’s never been on an NFL sideline. He has, however, taken the Rhein Fire to back-to-back championship games. They lost both times.
—Practice is going to be physical, guys. We’re going to hit each other. We’re going to be violent. We are going to bully people out there. And it starts with training camp. There’s no way around it. We are going to work our asses off while we’re here. I promise you, none of these teams are going to outwork us. We’ll be in Germany before we know it. But right now we have work to get done. So bring your hard hat and your lunch pail to work every day, men. This isn’t a vacation.
Great. Pete wants us to kill each other.
Practice is at a high school in Clearwater Beach. From our hotel it’s a forty-minute drive across the 60, a toothpick bridge suspended over the crystal waters of the Gulf of Mexico. To make sure we are all frothing at the mouth to hit someone, Coach splits up the offense and defense for the first few days of practice. We practice the plays on our own, by ourselves, with no defense. They do the same on their end. It is boring and gets us all riled up. Football players are conditioned for violence. We are at home in the melee. We may have moments of quiet reservation and doubt when lying on our living room couches, but on the field we are pulled toward the mayhem. The feel of the helmet and shoulder pads, the sound of the whistle, the taste of the mouthpiece, the smell of grass and sweat: sacraments for bloodshed.
But the only interaction we have with the defense is in the locker room and on the bus, and since we aren’t getting to know each other on the field, the locker room and bus are quiet. We are strangers. On the day we are to finally practice as a team, the tension is high. Our sacraments have been dangled in front of our noses but we’ve been kept in cages. Just before they unlock the doors everybody is talking shit to each other from across the field. It feels like we are going to brawl.
The first thing we do is a passing drill called seven-on-seven that is designed to work on pass
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