Read Online Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nate Jackson
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plays only, without any linemen getting in the way. The defense plays coverage and tries to prevent the passes from being completed. But they don’t hit the receivers. They protect their vulnerable teammates.
On one of the first plays of seven-on-seven, I catch a pass across the middle, turn up field, three, four steps, and am cracked hard from the side by a safety. I pop up and look at Whiskey Pete. This is the moment that sets the precedent, the moment where coach says . . .
—What the fuck is that?! We don’t do that shit around here! You got it? Does everybody get it? Save that for game day. We’re on the same fucking team, guys. Protect each other!
But he just stands there watching us through his eyebrows, lip pond glistening. That’s what he wants. Well all right then. That’s what he’ll get.
The next hour and a half is a bloodbath. Bodies are flying and helmets are cracking in the Florida sunshine. Must . . . impress . . . the . . . coaches. Smack! The dreams of the father! Smack! The American dream! Crack! C’mon, boy ! Whammo!
Thirty minutes later, on a routine run play, I size up the strong safety for a block. He comes at me in kill mode. We meet solid: helmet to helmet and chest to chest. But also knee to knee. The bursa sac on my left knee bursts. Fluid rushes to cover my patella. He isn’t so lucky. He yelps and falls at my feet. Our best defensive player is done for the season with a torn ACL. Are you not entertained?
After the first practice, things settle down. Now we know each other. Next week, we practice against one of the other teams. Fresh meat. We are doing one-on-ones against their cornerbacks, and their receivers are doing one-on-ones against our cornerbacks. They run a route; we run a route. Pride is on the line. The shit-talking is constant.
Late in the drill, I line up to run a slant. A corner steps out to cover me. He squats inches from my face and mumbles something about handcuffs. He’s short, even for a defensive back, and his lowness to the ground forces me to lower my stance to improve my leverage. I shoot off the line and engage him with my hands, then push off and break to the inside, just in time to see the ball soar over my head. I feel a twinge in my pinkie and look down at it. It’s sticking out sideways and down toward my wrist at an acute angle. I hold it up in front of my face. Not much of a painful feeling. No feeling, really. I take off my glove. It looks much more real without the glove. I walk my pinkie over to the trainer.
—Mmmm. That’s dislocated, Nate. Here.
He grabs my pinkie and yanks. It slides back into place without a whisper. I reglove my hand, tape the pinkie to the ring finger, and I’m back to practice.
After practice, though, the finger isn’t acting like a reduced dislocation. It hurts. A lot. We X-ray it. It’s broken. The X-ray looks like someone has taken a ball-peen hammer to my finger. Shards of slivered bone surround a prominent shark-tooth fragment just below the second knuckle.
They decide to take a closer look at it in Birmingham. The next morning I fly to Alabama. The bursa sac in my knee, manageable at sea level, fills up with fluid on the airplane. I hobble in to see Mayfield.
—Nate! What the hell are you limping for? I thought it was your finger!
—It is, Mayfield. I’m just sore, that’s all.
—Shit, Nate. Who ain’t?!
They keep me there for four days. They are trying to figure out whether to operate. But there’s not much rehab to be done on a shattered pinkie. I spend most of my time wandering around the hospital and flirting with the HealthSouth receptionist. She’s a cute, brunette southern girl in business attire with eyes screaming “get me out of here.” At every door opening, every phone ringing, every new set of footsteps, she perks up and shoots her flare. She isn’t going to miss her chance.
On my last night in Birmingham we go to a movie together and talk. I talk about my girlfriend. She
On one of the first plays of seven-on-seven, I catch a pass across the middle, turn up field, three, four steps, and am cracked hard from the side by a safety. I pop up and look at Whiskey Pete. This is the moment that sets the precedent, the moment where coach says . . .
—What the fuck is that?! We don’t do that shit around here! You got it? Does everybody get it? Save that for game day. We’re on the same fucking team, guys. Protect each other!
But he just stands there watching us through his eyebrows, lip pond glistening. That’s what he wants. Well all right then. That’s what he’ll get.
The next hour and a half is a bloodbath. Bodies are flying and helmets are cracking in the Florida sunshine. Must . . . impress . . . the . . . coaches. Smack! The dreams of the father! Smack! The American dream! Crack! C’mon, boy ! Whammo!
Thirty minutes later, on a routine run play, I size up the strong safety for a block. He comes at me in kill mode. We meet solid: helmet to helmet and chest to chest. But also knee to knee. The bursa sac on my left knee bursts. Fluid rushes to cover my patella. He isn’t so lucky. He yelps and falls at my feet. Our best defensive player is done for the season with a torn ACL. Are you not entertained?
After the first practice, things settle down. Now we know each other. Next week, we practice against one of the other teams. Fresh meat. We are doing one-on-ones against their cornerbacks, and their receivers are doing one-on-ones against our cornerbacks. They run a route; we run a route. Pride is on the line. The shit-talking is constant.
Late in the drill, I line up to run a slant. A corner steps out to cover me. He squats inches from my face and mumbles something about handcuffs. He’s short, even for a defensive back, and his lowness to the ground forces me to lower my stance to improve my leverage. I shoot off the line and engage him with my hands, then push off and break to the inside, just in time to see the ball soar over my head. I feel a twinge in my pinkie and look down at it. It’s sticking out sideways and down toward my wrist at an acute angle. I hold it up in front of my face. Not much of a painful feeling. No feeling, really. I take off my glove. It looks much more real without the glove. I walk my pinkie over to the trainer.
—Mmmm. That’s dislocated, Nate. Here.
He grabs my pinkie and yanks. It slides back into place without a whisper. I reglove my hand, tape the pinkie to the ring finger, and I’m back to practice.
After practice, though, the finger isn’t acting like a reduced dislocation. It hurts. A lot. We X-ray it. It’s broken. The X-ray looks like someone has taken a ball-peen hammer to my finger. Shards of slivered bone surround a prominent shark-tooth fragment just below the second knuckle.
They decide to take a closer look at it in Birmingham. The next morning I fly to Alabama. The bursa sac in my knee, manageable at sea level, fills up with fluid on the airplane. I hobble in to see Mayfield.
—Nate! What the hell are you limping for? I thought it was your finger!
—It is, Mayfield. I’m just sore, that’s all.
—Shit, Nate. Who ain’t?!
They keep me there for four days. They are trying to figure out whether to operate. But there’s not much rehab to be done on a shattered pinkie. I spend most of my time wandering around the hospital and flirting with the HealthSouth receptionist. She’s a cute, brunette southern girl in business attire with eyes screaming “get me out of here.” At every door opening, every phone ringing, every new set of footsteps, she perks up and shoots her flare. She isn’t going to miss her chance.
On my last night in Birmingham we go to a movie together and talk. I talk about my girlfriend. She
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