Read Online Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nate Jackson
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talks about her boyfriend. Both of us are unsure of whatever this is. Unsure of everything. She is starting to realize that she may never make it out of Birmingham. I’m starting to wonder if either of us should bother trying.
B efore I leave the next day, Mayfield makes me a pinkie splint.
—All right, Nate, now this should help. But it’s still gonna hurt. Shit, you know that. That ain’t nothin’ new. But I’m serious this time, Nate. Don’t let me see you back here. You got it?
—Yeah I got it, Mayfield. Thanks for the help.
I’m on the field for practice that afternoon with my pinkie splint and my knee brace, gimping from another flight-induced swelling. But I’m happy to be back with my teammates. Our receiver core is getting tight. Aside from Adam, there’s Shockmain Davis. Willie Quinnie. Chris Leiss. Bosley Allen. Jon Olinger.
The day after I get back from Birmingham, we have a scrimmage against the Amsterdam Admirals. I’m very tired in warm-ups. I feel out of shape from my four days in Alabama. My receiver coach doesn’t put me in until the end of the scrimmage. A few plays after I enter the game I catch a 60-yard touchdown from Greg on a blown Cover 2, nearly hyperventilating in the end zone. Well all right. Football is easy. Just throw me the ball.
A wide receiver can only catch what is thrown to him. And it’s never up to him. He must run his route and hope. My time spent in the NFL will be full of this hope. I will run every route with gusto, expecting to turn and see the ball spiraling toward me. But it will rarely happen. And with every route I run, beating the world-class athlete being paid to cover me, and being rewarded only by the defeated look in his eyes, a small piece of my football idealism will die. I want the ball. Always. An effortless harmony of quarterback and receiver is a beautiful thing. All is right in the world with Greg Zolman at the helm.
A few days later, after a month of training camp, we have our last team meeting before packing up and heading to Germany. Coach goes over everything again: Ze food, ze buses, and adapting to ze unknown. Then one of the few returning players from the previous year’s squad speaks up.
—Yeah, fellas, real quick. Just want to let y’all know, they ain’t got no Magnums over there so bring your own rubbers. And bring a lot. You don’t want to get caught up.
Advice well received by the team. This will be our Magnum Opus. Someone brings a duffel bag full. Ich bin ein Düsseldorfer.
A fter several long, cramped flights, layovers, and buses, we pull in to our new home in Düsseldorf. The Relexa Hotel. It’s a seven-story building on the outskirts of town. The hotel is nice and clean and we all have our own rooms. It’s the end of March. We have a week and a half to practice and get used to our surroundings before our first game.
A few days later there is a pep rally in the city’s main square. We pull up in our buses and parade onto a stage where Markus works the crowd of a few hundred into a polite frenzy. Frothy cups of good beer tilt at the slight angle of almost drunk and apparently happy. Their enthusiasm surprises me. I hadn’t expected the Germans to support the NFL’s attempt to make people love the other football. But from a dirty seed sprouts beauty. Someone hands me the microphone while we stand onstage. I do my best hype-man impersonation.
—Alo everybody! Are you all having a good time?!
—Ja! Ja!
—What’s that? I can’t hear you!
— Ja! Ja!
—All right! When I say ‘Rhein,’ you say ‘Fire’! Rhein!
—Fye-a!
—Rhein!
—Fye-a!
Then someone snatches the mike and it’s on to the next hype man. Then we are ushered offstage and back onto the buses, creeping through a throng of boisterous Germans who have gathered to wave us on.
Our first game is at home against the Cologne Centurions. The stadium is state-of-the-art, featuring a retractable roof and a field that can be rolled entirely outside so
B efore I leave the next day, Mayfield makes me a pinkie splint.
—All right, Nate, now this should help. But it’s still gonna hurt. Shit, you know that. That ain’t nothin’ new. But I’m serious this time, Nate. Don’t let me see you back here. You got it?
—Yeah I got it, Mayfield. Thanks for the help.
I’m on the field for practice that afternoon with my pinkie splint and my knee brace, gimping from another flight-induced swelling. But I’m happy to be back with my teammates. Our receiver core is getting tight. Aside from Adam, there’s Shockmain Davis. Willie Quinnie. Chris Leiss. Bosley Allen. Jon Olinger.
The day after I get back from Birmingham, we have a scrimmage against the Amsterdam Admirals. I’m very tired in warm-ups. I feel out of shape from my four days in Alabama. My receiver coach doesn’t put me in until the end of the scrimmage. A few plays after I enter the game I catch a 60-yard touchdown from Greg on a blown Cover 2, nearly hyperventilating in the end zone. Well all right. Football is easy. Just throw me the ball.
A wide receiver can only catch what is thrown to him. And it’s never up to him. He must run his route and hope. My time spent in the NFL will be full of this hope. I will run every route with gusto, expecting to turn and see the ball spiraling toward me. But it will rarely happen. And with every route I run, beating the world-class athlete being paid to cover me, and being rewarded only by the defeated look in his eyes, a small piece of my football idealism will die. I want the ball. Always. An effortless harmony of quarterback and receiver is a beautiful thing. All is right in the world with Greg Zolman at the helm.
A few days later, after a month of training camp, we have our last team meeting before packing up and heading to Germany. Coach goes over everything again: Ze food, ze buses, and adapting to ze unknown. Then one of the few returning players from the previous year’s squad speaks up.
—Yeah, fellas, real quick. Just want to let y’all know, they ain’t got no Magnums over there so bring your own rubbers. And bring a lot. You don’t want to get caught up.
Advice well received by the team. This will be our Magnum Opus. Someone brings a duffel bag full. Ich bin ein Düsseldorfer.
A fter several long, cramped flights, layovers, and buses, we pull in to our new home in Düsseldorf. The Relexa Hotel. It’s a seven-story building on the outskirts of town. The hotel is nice and clean and we all have our own rooms. It’s the end of March. We have a week and a half to practice and get used to our surroundings before our first game.
A few days later there is a pep rally in the city’s main square. We pull up in our buses and parade onto a stage where Markus works the crowd of a few hundred into a polite frenzy. Frothy cups of good beer tilt at the slight angle of almost drunk and apparently happy. Their enthusiasm surprises me. I hadn’t expected the Germans to support the NFL’s attempt to make people love the other football. But from a dirty seed sprouts beauty. Someone hands me the microphone while we stand onstage. I do my best hype-man impersonation.
—Alo everybody! Are you all having a good time?!
—Ja! Ja!
—What’s that? I can’t hear you!
— Ja! Ja!
—All right! When I say ‘Rhein,’ you say ‘Fire’! Rhein!
—Fye-a!
—Rhein!
—Fye-a!
Then someone snatches the mike and it’s on to the next hype man. Then we are ushered offstage and back onto the buses, creeping through a throng of boisterous Germans who have gathered to wave us on.
Our first game is at home against the Cologne Centurions. The stadium is state-of-the-art, featuring a retractable roof and a field that can be rolled entirely outside so
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