And, hey, I’m not the only true believer in the league who feels this way about LeCharles and his program. One of the guys I work out with Shawn Lauvao says he’ll do pretty much anything LeCharles says at this point. Shawn’s attitude is: “If he told me to run through a wall because it would make me a better player, I’d say, ‘Okay, which wall?’”
I finished that first March session feeling better than ever, and I immediately signed up for the July camp. In between sessions I stuck hard to my new diet. I remember thinking my body was being reshaped. My musculature felt different, looked different. I felt different. I headed to the Chiefs’ training camp feeling—knowing, really—that I had optimized my body to reach a new level of play. I felt like I had made the best investment in my career, and I’m guessing most guys who come to work with LeCharles feel that way. I know I felt like a total world-beater. I was stoked and ready to become a starter again. The big question in my mind was whether the Chiefs would give me an opportunity to shine.
* * *
While I was down in Arizona, a blog at Sports Illustrated asked me to contribute ten random facts about being a Jewish athlete. I wrote about a bunch of the things I’ve already mentioned on here, like my kosher status and my passion for latkes. I threw in the fact that neither my agent nor my financial advisor are Jewish. I also mentioned that people are sometimes shocked to discover I don’t miss Santa Claus or Christmas trees. As I said in my list: “How can you miss something you never had?”
Since the whole idea of the list struck me as a little odd, I decided to have a little fun. “There is a lack of Jewish groupies. Where are all the tall Jewish blond women?”
I was kidding, of course. Tall Jewish blondes are something of a rarity. And the idea that there are groupies for offensive linemen is laughable. As a group, offensive linemen generally don’t have the typical looks of your average leading man, and we don’t have the fan base, either.
Sadly.
Of course there was a blond woman that had made a huge impression on me. And even though I was joking about groupies, Meridith was still very much on my mind.
* * *
I went back to Kansas City for off-season training and quickly realized that even if the Chiefs didn’t make me a starter there was another upside to being in Kansas City, at least from a culinary perspective. The barbecue there was out of this world.
When people ask me about North Carolina barbecue, I have to confess that I’m not a huge fan. That’s because Carolina barbecue, or at least the eastern style you get around Charlotte, is vinegar-based. I’m not a huge fan of vinegary barbecue. I don’t like the sharp, acidic flavor. I prefer sweeter, tomato-based barbecue sauces, and the Kansas City sauce hits the spot for me. There’s a small chain there that is just world-class—Fiorella’s Jack Stack Barbecue. I would go there twice a week and load up on barbecue beef ribs, which are flavored with a dry rub and dowsed in the restaurant’s signature tomato-and-ketchup-based sauce. I was blown away every time I ate there. And I’m not the only one; I recently discovered that Zagat named it America’s top barbecue restaurant. I know there’s a lot of Texas barbecue out there that I’ve yet to try, but so far Jack Stack gets my vote as the best I’ve ever had.
* * *
It is always a plus when you come to a new team and you are in shape. It’s even better when you show up in the best shape of your life. From my perspective, I had the best camp of my career. I didn’t quite crack the starting lineup, but I felt like I had shown my coaches, the two Andys—Coach Reid and our offensive line coach Andy Heck—what I could do, and they liked what they saw.
My hunch turned out to be right. The season opened and even though I wasn’t slated to start, our right guard Jon Asamoah got hurt, so I was his replacement. Two weeks later, our left guard Jeff Allen got hurt in the second half, so I finished that game and started week 4 at left guard. Then, after the middle of the season, our right guard Jon got hurt again. The coach put me in and the stars, as they say, aligned.
In football there are a number of axioms that are 100 percent true. Here are three: One man’s injury is another man’s opportunity; timing is everything; and never underestimate luck. But you make your own luck by being ready for your opportunity. And this was exactly the case for me. When I got my chance, I was still in great shape and I played my heart out and took care of business on the field. It was perfect timing. Just as important, our team was winning the games I was in, which was lucky for me. So the coaches just left me in there, and that inspired me to work and prepare even harder. I had done so much work to get back to being a starter—almost three years had passed since my success with Carolina—there was no way I was going to let it go.
We finished the season 11–5 and I got to start my first playoff game against the Indianapolis Colts. And what a game it was. We put the wild in wild card with a playoff game of historic proportions—just a crazy, explosive, high-scoring game. About as close as you can get to collegiate shootout, now that I think about it. I mean, really, how often do you see a game end 45-44 in the NFL? Or one where the teams combine to gain 1,049 total yards? That number is a postseason record, by the way; we gained 513, and Indianapolis went for 536. (Actually, that once-in-a-lifetime experience has happened twice now; I played in the Giants epic 2015 shootout against New Orleans that ended 52-49, the third-highest scoring game in NFL history. The offenses combined for 1,030 total yards.)
It was just an exhausting, exhilarating game. I’m stoked to have been part of that. But being on the losing side and setting a record nobody wants—eight consecutive playoff losses in a row for the Chiefs—was an ending I wish I could rewrite.
* * *
Speaking of endings getting rewritten, Kansas City was also the place where Meridith and I reunited.
After I signed with Kansas City and finished my first session with LeCharles, I felt, as I’ve said, amazing. I was feeling confident about my body and about the situation with the Chiefs, which was a younger locker room that offered a better opportunity to play than I’d had in Minnesota. Meridith and I had kept in touch. We still loved each other, but it was clear we had work to do, and we couldn’t do it if we were far apart.
I called up Meridith and laid it on the line. “I’m moving to Kansas City. If we’re going to make this work, we have to be together. You have to move to Kansas City.”
I knew I was asking a lot. Meridith was about to finish nursing school. She had been applying for nursing jobs in Charlotte, where her friends and family were. She was excited about having a career. And because I had signed a one-year deal, I was asking her to put that part of her life on hold. All for me, yeah, but also for us.
We had more conversations. I told her how good I felt. How much more confident I was and how I felt like there was at least a chance K.C. might turn into a long-term situation.
I also told her how much I wanted to be with her.
Together we decided to go all in. She flew to Kansas City and we set up house. We discovered that Kansas City has an active wives’ club. Tammy Reid, the wife of head coach Andy Reid, is fantastic at creating a sense of community. She invites the significant others of the Chiefs’ players to her house, organizes volunteer opportunities, and everybody gets to know one another. She creates a community.
And even though Meridith knew full well that we might not even be in town the following season, she made an effort to meet other people and form friendships. I really admired Meridith for putting herself out there because by now the one thing she knew about a life in football is that, unless you are a big star, you are likely to move around a lot, so friendships can be fleeting. Every once in a while, she’d jet back over to Charlotte to touch base with her family and friends, but I guess the whole K.C. thing wasn’t feeling too bad because about halfway through the season we were sitting on the couch one night, and Meridith looks at me and says, “Let’s get married this spring.”
I was a little surprised. But I was blown away, too. I thought about how
much we’d been through together: the ups and downs of my career and my health; Meridith’s surviving nursing school, which was a rigorous program. We’d been together, we’d been separated. We both knew together was better. I said, “Let’s do it!”
We called our wedding planner and got the ball rolling for a California wedding in March. I guess this wedding story isn’t really romantic—no surprise rings or elaborate Jumbotron proposals. But in a way, given all our tough times, it felt more romantic than ever. After all the ups and downs, we had endured and grown closer together. I couldn’t imagine not being with Meridith.
Then, just when I thought the romantic bliss couldn’t get any higher, a second major development surfaced during our stay in Kansas City that drove it off the charts.
Meridith was pregnant, and we were both absolutely—what’s the right word here?—thrilled? Overjoyed? Out of our heads?
The honest answer is: all of the above.
And maybe a little terrified, too!
Schwartz Bowl
Geoff
There was one other major event that happened in Kansas City, although incredibly the media failed to pick up on its importance.
What am I talking about? The first ever—and so far only—Schwartz Bowl took place October 27, 2013, at Arrowhead Stadium, in Kansas City.
Okay, obviously it wasn’t a major national story, but it was huge to us. Mitch and I never see each other during the season. From August to December, we are tied to our jobs and our teams. So when the Browns came to Kansas City, it marked the second time since before Mitch left for college in 2007—seven years!—that we had seen each other during the season. The only other time was back in 2010, when Mitch’s season finished early and he was able to fly out in late December when the Panthers were taking on Arizona.
Naturally I was completely pumped for what was a very special occasion. Our parents were there, and my uncle Fred flew in, too. I’ll let Mitch tell you about our dinner, but it was just great having him in town. We both got to the field early and hung out and then I met some of Mitch’s pals on the offensive line, which was great since I’d been watching them all for the last three seasons.
When I watch Mitch play, I get nervous. Seriously, I’m more nervous for him than I ever am for myself when I go out to play.
I’m sure it’s the same for him. (Right, Mitch? Right?) I just want him to excel. So the Schwartz Bowl posed some potentially awkward problems.
As soon as we found out about the game, we both agreed that we wouldn’t discuss any of our respective team’s preparations. We’re professionals. We’re brothers. But our teammates are sort of brothers as well. So game and strategy discussion was off-limits.
Plus, we’ve both watched enough film in our lives to understand how to prepare. Since I wasn’t starting at the time, I was assigned to the scout team during practice. That meant that I was playing my own brother, which is kind of a mind-bender in and of itself. Really, the guy I was going against—our all-pro sack machine Justin Houston—should have thanked me because I probably know Mitch’s game better than anyone else in the league. I was the perfect scout.
But it turned out Justin was concerned I’d give away his best moves to my brother.
I said, “Justin, are you kidding me?” It was the tenth game of the year and Houston had been making headlines all season as a defensive monster. All his best pass rush moves were on tape for the entire league to study. I don’t know if he was kidding, but I thought it was pretty funny.
Just because you’re competitive doesn’t mean you’re not paranoid.
At any rate, during the week I told everyone—my teammates, my coaches, I probably even told Justin—“I want us to win, no question. But I am not rooting for my brother to get beat.” I thought that was honest and showed all my loyalties in the right place.
I only played seven or eight snaps in the Schwartz Bowl, which was the only bummer. But it meant I could watch from the sidelines like a big brother. For every play, I had two goals: I wanted the Chiefs defense to do a great job, and I wanted Mitch to hold his own. That was the optimum outcome from my perspective.
During the entire day, there was one moment that stung a little. There was a play—I’m sure Mitch will mention it in his section—where he didn’t fare too well and a couple of guys on the Chiefs defensive squad came over to get high-fives from me. Of course, they would never have done that if Mitch wasn’t my brother. I’m sure they thought it was all in good fun.
I just ignored them. I also thought for a moment about Howie Long’s two kids: defensive end Chris and his brother Kyle, who plays offensive tackle. Those guys actually have to face off against each other on the field—something that will never happen with Mitch and me. That’s got to be tough on the whole family. I can’t imagine what constitutes a good outcome for those guys. Probably just a tie where nobody gets hurt.
Mitch
The Schwartz Bowl wasn’t just the first time Geoff and I played on opposite sides of the field. As my brother told reporters at the time, since the Horween brothers always played on the same team, our encounter also marked the first time Jewish brothers had ever played against each other in an NFL game. Somehow I doubt this feat will earn us a place as groundbreaking sports heroes. We’re not exactly enduring the obstacles and barriers that Jackie Robinson triumphed over.
But it was a great event for both of us. Our parents flew in, and so did our uncle Fred and our agent Deryk. I think Geoff’s pal Duke Manyweather was there, too. The night before the game we went to Geoff’s favorite Kansas City restaurant Fiorella’s Jack Stack Barbecue, which was just humming. A bunch of my teammates also showed up to the restaurant, including our QB Brandon Weeden. The food was as advertised—delicious ribs. I’m with Geoff when it comes to barbecue sauces. I don’t like ’em too sweet, but tomato-based sauces have it all over vinegar-based ones.
And because I’m such a giving individual, I ordered four racks of ribs to bring back to my offensive line buddies at the hotel.
My dad has any number of stories about epic eat-a-thons in which I’m the star. Most of them were when I was much younger and involved going to all-you-can-eat restaurants. And some of them, as you might expect, involve epic bouts of indigestion. I’ll spare you the details. This time, even though Geoff ordered us a ton of food, I was careful not to overeat. I was going up against a Kansas City team that was undefeated, and the outside linebacker Justin Houston, who was my responsibility, was in the middle of having a tremendous season.
My parents were thrilled about the game. “All Schwartz, all the time,” my dad remarked.
“We should have put that on the T-shirts,” my mom said.
“The Schwartz Bowl,” Geoff said.
“Now that’s a T-shirt!”
We all cracked up.
“It would help if people actually knew who we were,” I deadpanned.
“The fans know!” my dad said.
“You need a Twitter feed,” Geoff said to me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Speaking of T-shirts, we have the perfect outfits for tomorrow,” my dad said.
“Are you going to wear all white?” Meridith asked.
“Close. Livie has designed something totally spectacular.”
“We don’t play favorites.” My mom laughed.
“Are you nervous?” Meridith asked me.
“Not really. I think I’ll be okay. I guess maybe the TV announcers will be talking about us.”
“You should let them know about the Schwartz Bowl.”
“I’m sure they will figure it out,” I said, glad not to continue a discussion of my nerves. The Chiefs were 7 and 0. I was a little nervous. But I also thought I could handle the pressure.
* * *
The next day, while we were getting ready for the game, our parents got decked out in their tailor-made T-shirts. In this case, our mom was the tailor, and she might have outdone those “Fat kids livin’ a dream” shirts she made for Geoff. Sh
e had ordered two shirts from Kansas City and two from Cleveland, cut them in half, and sewed them back together, so that the front and back of each shirt was split down the center. One side was yellow for Kansas City, the other side was brown for Cleveland. The back of each shirt had the name Schwartz, but half the letters were in the colors of the Chiefs, and the other half were in the colors of the Browns. The Browns side of the shirt had my number on the sleeve, while the other sleeve had Geoff’s number.
It was the ultimate Schwartz Bowl item.
Before the game, Uncle Fred and my dad walked around the parking lot to see the tailgating going on. My dad’s T-shirt was a magnet for attention. Fans would high-five him when they saw the Kansas City side, and start yelling, “Get out of here!” and booing when they saw the Cleveland side.
But when they finally saw both sides, the tailgaters would say, “Hey, what’s going on here? There’s got to be a backstory.”
My uncle and father would explain the connection and get a swarm of high fives.
Everybody loved the shirts.
* * *
I was right about the game and being all right.
Until the fourth quarter.
We were down by six points, with just over ten minutes left, when Justin Houston finally got by me and to the quarterback.
For three quarters I had pretty much neutralized the all-pro linebacker. In fact, up until that point, Houston hadn’t made a single tackle or had an assist the entire game. But then, on 1st and 19 (we’d had a penalty on the previous play), Houston busted out on an outside move but then started bull-rushing at me. I met his first two moves, but was leaning the wrong way when the third one came, and he got by me.
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