Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson Page B
Authors: Nate Jackson
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the one who warned me that I might be going. Nah, I thought. Not me. I’m going home in my Denali.
And I do go home in my Denali, but only for a few weeks. Yet it’s plenty of time to see that things have changed for me back in San Jose. All of my friends will drink for free tonight, here at our neighborhood bar, the same bar we’ve been coming to since we were teenagers. Now my money is no good here. Now the girls are lining up. Now people are offering me rides home. Now I’m a Denver Bronco.
Along with the newfound adulation comes a new responsibility: my urine no longer belongs to me. While I’m home I get a call on my cell phone from the Pee Man. I’m on the list. But I’m not in Denver. I’m at home with my family. That’s okay, he says, we have someone out there we can use. Northern California’s regional Pee Man meets me in a parking lot and follows me to my parents’ house. I introduce him to Mom and Dad on our way to the bathroom. I pee in a cup and hand it to him. He squats in the hallway and pours it into two sample cups. He caps each of them and seals them both in a box. I initial and sign everything and he leaves, nodding to my confused parents as he walks out the front door holding a box of my piss.
I’m allocated to the Rhein Fire in Düsseldorf, Germany. But our camp is in Tampa. We arrive in late February at our expansive hotel compound just outside of town.
Wide receiver Adam Herzing is my roommate. We know of each other from back home in San Jose. He’s a year younger than me. We went to the same middle school and rival high schools. We both went to Cal Poly and have the same agent—good ol’ Ryan Tollner. We’re both six foot three, white, and love Cheerios. But we had never met.
We become fast buddies, along with Greg Zolman, a six foot two lefty quarterback from Vanderbilt, whose room is across the hall. Greg and Adam know each other from time spent with the Colts. Greg shattered Vandy’s passing records and is now competing with NFL Europe golden child Chad Hutchinson, allocated by the Cowboys and serving as the poster boy for NFL Europe’s “Here’s a name you might recognize!” campaign. But everyone has a history. Everyone has expectations. Everyone’s name is recognizable somewhere.
Before we can practice, we have to go through physicals and introduction meetings. The first meeting is in a banquet hall and led by the commissioner of the league. Then, after a few more forgettable presentations, we are greeted by our German sensei, Markus. In his polished English, touched slightly with a Teutonic accent, he sets the terms.
—Ze food vill be different, ze langvich, ze transportation, ze customs, ze people. Everyzing vill be different. You muss know zat.
Yawn goes the crowd. But I’m intrigued. Sure, NFL Europe isn’t how I expected to spend my first off-season. And sure, the money is shit compared to the NFL. We’ll make $600 a week. But I’m headed to Europe to play the game I love.
After Markus finishes his spiel, we have our physicals: six teams’ worth of football players to inspect and all of them with a lifetime of injuries to identify and document. NFL Europe contracted HealthSouth, a medical group based in Birmingham, Alabama, to oversee all of the major bodily issues. Bumps and bruises will be treated by team trainers in Europe but anything more serious will get you a one-way ticket to Birmingham. HealthSouth’s head trainer is Mayfield Armstrong. I hear the voice before I see the man. As the long line of players approaches the door to the banquet room, Mayfield holds court inside. Gregarious but firmly pointed, he shouts instructions.
—C’mon, Jimmy! You wanna play professional football I’ma hafta see ya at least try to touch ya toes! Is that s’far’s you can go, big boy?
—Now I ain’t the smartest man alive, Julie, but it says here this man just came off an ACL surgery. Looks pretty good to me!
I get to the front of the line and sit down in
And I do go home in my Denali, but only for a few weeks. Yet it’s plenty of time to see that things have changed for me back in San Jose. All of my friends will drink for free tonight, here at our neighborhood bar, the same bar we’ve been coming to since we were teenagers. Now my money is no good here. Now the girls are lining up. Now people are offering me rides home. Now I’m a Denver Bronco.
Along with the newfound adulation comes a new responsibility: my urine no longer belongs to me. While I’m home I get a call on my cell phone from the Pee Man. I’m on the list. But I’m not in Denver. I’m at home with my family. That’s okay, he says, we have someone out there we can use. Northern California’s regional Pee Man meets me in a parking lot and follows me to my parents’ house. I introduce him to Mom and Dad on our way to the bathroom. I pee in a cup and hand it to him. He squats in the hallway and pours it into two sample cups. He caps each of them and seals them both in a box. I initial and sign everything and he leaves, nodding to my confused parents as he walks out the front door holding a box of my piss.
I’m allocated to the Rhein Fire in Düsseldorf, Germany. But our camp is in Tampa. We arrive in late February at our expansive hotel compound just outside of town.
Wide receiver Adam Herzing is my roommate. We know of each other from back home in San Jose. He’s a year younger than me. We went to the same middle school and rival high schools. We both went to Cal Poly and have the same agent—good ol’ Ryan Tollner. We’re both six foot three, white, and love Cheerios. But we had never met.
We become fast buddies, along with Greg Zolman, a six foot two lefty quarterback from Vanderbilt, whose room is across the hall. Greg and Adam know each other from time spent with the Colts. Greg shattered Vandy’s passing records and is now competing with NFL Europe golden child Chad Hutchinson, allocated by the Cowboys and serving as the poster boy for NFL Europe’s “Here’s a name you might recognize!” campaign. But everyone has a history. Everyone has expectations. Everyone’s name is recognizable somewhere.
Before we can practice, we have to go through physicals and introduction meetings. The first meeting is in a banquet hall and led by the commissioner of the league. Then, after a few more forgettable presentations, we are greeted by our German sensei, Markus. In his polished English, touched slightly with a Teutonic accent, he sets the terms.
—Ze food vill be different, ze langvich, ze transportation, ze customs, ze people. Everyzing vill be different. You muss know zat.
Yawn goes the crowd. But I’m intrigued. Sure, NFL Europe isn’t how I expected to spend my first off-season. And sure, the money is shit compared to the NFL. We’ll make $600 a week. But I’m headed to Europe to play the game I love.
After Markus finishes his spiel, we have our physicals: six teams’ worth of football players to inspect and all of them with a lifetime of injuries to identify and document. NFL Europe contracted HealthSouth, a medical group based in Birmingham, Alabama, to oversee all of the major bodily issues. Bumps and bruises will be treated by team trainers in Europe but anything more serious will get you a one-way ticket to Birmingham. HealthSouth’s head trainer is Mayfield Armstrong. I hear the voice before I see the man. As the long line of players approaches the door to the banquet room, Mayfield holds court inside. Gregarious but firmly pointed, he shouts instructions.
—C’mon, Jimmy! You wanna play professional football I’ma hafta see ya at least try to touch ya toes! Is that s’far’s you can go, big boy?
—Now I ain’t the smartest man alive, Julie, but it says here this man just came off an ACL surgery. Looks pretty good to me!
I get to the front of the line and sit down in
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