Eat My Schwartz

by Geoff Schwartz

  A few weeks earlier Geoff had been interviewed on the radio and talked about Houston, who had recorded 7.5 sacks in the first three games of the season. “If you make a mistake, he’s going to beat you,” Geoff said, “and even if you (don’t), he still can beat you.”

  He was right. I didn’t really make a mistake during our battle. True, Houston got by me, eventually, but I tied him up for a reasonable amount of time.

  I think fans almost always see sacks as the lineman’s fault, and that is often the case. But the rarely spoken truth is that giving up sacks can sometimes be a team effort, too, and sometimes a lot of responsibility rests on the quarterback.

  On that particular sack, I think it took just over three seconds for Houston to get to our QB Jason Campbell, who was subbing for Brandon Wheedon. According to some research I’ve read, most sacks take place within 2.7 and 2.8 seconds of the snap. So—and this is no surprise—the quicker a quarterback passes, the less time there is for a sack to happen. Any quarterback who holds on to the ball for longer than three seconds is putting himself at risk of a sack. Receivers who don’t break quickly and make it to daylight on their route are also adding to the risk factor. I’m not putting this sack on Jason—he was out there busting his butt, making split-second decisions as he drops back and goes through his progressions. I’m just trying to put things in perspective. A decision to hold on to the ball for a split second can be the difference between success and failure—that is, my success and failure, and the whole offensive unit’s success and failure—on the football field.

  If there was any silver lining to that sack in K.C., it’s that we wound up pinning the ball on the Chiefs’ 2-yard line. As for the overall game, Kansas City came out hot and scored on their first 3 possessions. We fought back, but could never close the gap and lost 23-17.

  So I guess I lost the first ever Schwartz Bowl. Not that I’m competitive or anything.

  Right after the game, I met up with Geoff at midfield and we ran down to the end zone where our parents, Meridith, and Deryk were waiting for us. My dad says it was one of the most moving moments he and my mother had ever experienced in all the years of watching us: to be down there on the field seeing their two huge football-playing sons wearing different jerseys with smiles on their faces running toward us. And thinking, These are our sons.

  I’m a grown man, but I’m also still a son. You know what never gets old? Hearing that your parents are proud of your achievements.

  Geoff had arranged for a bunch of photographers to be on hand, so we all posed for pictures in various configurations.

  Not surprisingly, given the outcome, Geoff’s smile might be slightly bigger than mine. But only by a little.

  10

  THE BRUNCH OF INFAMY

  Geoff

  “Are you going on a honeymoon?”

  It was my agent, Deryk Gilmore, calling me just days before my wedding.

  “No, Deryk,” I said, well aware that free agency was about to start the Tuesday after our Saturday wedding. “We figure we should stay put.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay,” he said. “I think it’s going to be wild next week.”

  “All right,” I said, hanging up and trying to stay cool.

  It was impossible not to be excited. I had gone through the free-agency process for three straight off-seasons. But this was the first year I was regarded as a high-value free agent, so I was thrilled to hear those words: “Wild next week.”

  * * *

  The craziness wasn’t just about football. I’d been looking forward to Saturday, March 8, 2014, my wedding day. I was marrying the love of my life in front of countless friends and family. Meridith had been amazing through these very tough months, and now she and I were ready to tie the knot; the date had been set months and months ago. It was going to be the biggest day of my life.

  But now, thanks to new NFL rules, the big day had just got even bigger. March 8 was the day I was going to see if all my years of hard work and dedication to football were going to pay off in a big way.

  Under league rules, unrestricted free agents like me can sign as soon at the league year starts officially, which is on March 11 at 4 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. But under the new collective bargaining agreement, there was a seventy-two-hour window of allowed communication between teams and agents before the floodgates opened. For these three days, the agents are quite busy. This is where they earn their money.

  The seventy-two-hour window happened to open on March 8 at 9 a.m. on the West Coast—right in the middle of my parents’ pre-wedding out-of-town guest brunch.

  Talk about perfect timing, huh?

  * * *

  If my three consecutive years of free agency had taught me anything, it was that the NFL is a business. I was trying to get value, and teams were trying to get me at a value. Most often, those two positions don’t align properly. It’s something that’s always hard to accept, but nothing that I can’t get over. What becomes a drag during the process is the waiting. When I packed up my possessions at the end of the season after a team exit meeting in Kansas City, I knew all too well that it would be a long waiting game until March.

  But unlike those years in Charlotte and Minneapolis, when I was injured and not at full strength, this year things were different. I wasn’t a second-tier free agent, signing a week after free agency started, I was a player who had fought his way into the starting rotation and stayed there as we made the playoffs. I was holding out hope that the Chiefs felt I was a player they wanted to keep, but I had to wait until at least late February to get an idea.

  While agents and teams cross paths at the various college all-star games, they don’t talk free-agent business much. First off, it’s not legal. And second, it’s too early in the process. Teams evaluate themselves first before turning their attention to free agency. But when the rookie combine arrives—that’s the time your agent might get the first real indication of the level of interest out there.

  Because I was still the property of the Chiefs, Deryk could talk directly and openly with them. He did, and the conversation wasn’t pretty. We were not on the same page. Not even close. I got the distinct feeling my time in K.C. was up. I was disappointed, but I started to mentally prepare to move for the third off-season to a new city. I called my landlord and told her I needed to ship home the remaining items at my place.

  As conversations with Deryk continued in the days following, he informed me that the Chiefs still had “interest.” That was all. Just interest. I had no idea what that meant. Interest in me starting? Interest in me backing up? It drove me nuts. It was all I could think about for days. That’s why I was so excited when Deryk called to let me know that things “will get wild.”

  He had a gut feeling. I liked it.

  I was staying at my parents’ house for the few days leading up to my wedding. So when they decided to throw a brunch for out-of-town guests the morning of the big day, I was invited by default. My parents set up a traditional Jewish spread: bagels, lox, smoked white fish, cream cheese, potato salad, and coleslaw, and the required garnishes like tomatoes and onions. For most Jewish American families the bagel has become the centerpiece of brunch, and it sure is at my parents’ place. It anchors the entire meal. It defines it. This is both a great and dangerous thing. Great, because these delicious flavored breads—from onion to garlic to salt to egg to pumpernickel—are perfect vessels for a slew of appetizing spreads. Everyone has their favorite combination: white fish on an everything bagel, cream cheese and avocado on a sesame, peanut butter and honey on a cinnamon raisin. But bagels are dangerous—especially to someone like me, with a slow metabolism, because they are silent carb bombs. I suppose there may be denser breads out there—I’ve had some heavy and tasty German brown breads—but there aren’t many.

  Guests started arriving, and we were all enjoying breakfast—although I was trying not to nosh too much—in the kitchen and the dining room. I knew 9 a.m. was coming up, but in all the commotion duri
ng breakfast, I forgot to look at the clock. Luckily my agent was there with two cell phones on him, batteries fully charged.

  The first call came in at 9 a.m. and 30 seconds. A representative from the New York Giants was on the line. Deryk ran into the living room to take the call. Five minutes later, he asked me to join him there. While we were discussing the Giants’ phone call, the Rams called. Then other teams rang. This continued for an hour. Eventually, I left Deryk to it and headed back to the party.

  Between the wedding just hours away and all the interest and intrigue, I wasn’t the best conversationalist that morning.

  At about 10:15 a.m., Deryk called me back into the living room. It was now me, my brother, my dad, and Uncle Fred sitting in the living room while the party was in full swing. None of the guests had any idea what was going on. They were all discussing the wedding, sharing stories, enjoying the beautiful morning, and the delicious salty synergy of cream cheese and lox on an everything bagel.

  Meridith didn’t know, either. She was doing what every bride does on her wedding day, getting her hair and makeup done and preparing for the big event at her hotel.

  Deryk suggested we write down all the teams that had shown interest. We decided to rank the teams 1 to 7 based on a list of criteria: money, location, coaching staff, ability to win, state income tax, ease of living, etc. In my mind, it was all about the money, so I disregarded most of the other criteria and sequenced by money. I’d waited so long for this opportunity, and I’d fought so hard to get back into playing shape and dominating the game. My first thought was: let’s get the most money possible just to show everyone who doubted me.

  Thankfully, my dad interjected, reminding me that I’ve never made decisions in my life solely based on money. He was right. Earlier Mitch mentioned how my dad was even-keeled as our Little League coach, and here he was, levelheaded as ever. So I rearranged the list. By 11 a.m., my head was spinning. I couldn’t focus anymore. I told Deryk we were done with this for now. He headed back to the hotel, and I prepared to get married.

  * * *

  The ceremony was beautiful. It was everything I had imagined it would be. Actually, it was more. Really, it was something out of a movie. The traditional Jewish ceremony was held on a terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Shutters on the Beach, which is the classic hotel in Santa Monica. As the rabbi led us through the ceremony, I remember thinking that Meridith—who always looks beautiful—was stunning, lit up by the gorgeous evening sunset.

  After the wedding, my new bride and I ran off to take photos. Then we headed to cocktail hour. I kept thinking, not only was I married to the most gorgeous blonde with a knockout smile, but if all went well, all my hard work—work Meridith and I had endured together—was about to pay off. What a wedding gift. I went to find Deryk to see where we stood. He winked at me and said, “We are good.” We had talked about numbers for weeks, so I knew what “We are good” meant. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I could truly enjoy the wedding.

  And, man, did I ever enjoy it! The wedding dinner was a sit-down, waiter service affair, with everyone decked out in cocktail attire. My brother also gave an amazing toast. He completely roasted me. It was a five-alarm meltdown on my entire life: everything from our dogs, to my Twitter posts, to the cat, to my body. I had no idea he had that in him.

  Fueled by an open bar, we all did the Hora—the Jewish folk dance where everyone holds hands or locks arms and dances in a circle. The highlight of the Hora at a wedding comes when the bride and groom are lifted up on chairs, and the Hora goes on around them, with everyone clapping and cheering. I had a blast up there in my chair. With all my buddies from the Oregon offensive line hoisting me up and down, I wasn’t too worried about falling. Meridith wasn’t either, although there is a picture where the casual observer might think she was terrified. Being in the chair in the Hora is a lot like riding a roller coaster: it’s a little scary and a lot of fun.

  The best part of the night was the last hour. All my parents’ pals left, and the crowd on the dance floor was all our closest friends, all dancing. We switched music from Motown to Top 40 and rocked out. People had their shirts off, drinks were flowing. It was crazy. As Meridith and I joked: you know it’s a good party when the wedding planners are cutting loose on the dance floor.

  * * *

  It was almost 4 p.m. on March 11, the earliest time a free agent is allowed to sign with a team. Over the last three days, my agent Deryk had been negotiating with teams, filling me in once a day. I didn’t need to know all the details of every offer—I was a newlywed, after all—just the ones that fit our criteria. By noon, I had two offers on the table, one from the Giants and one from the Rams. We discussed how to proceed, making sure we were on the same page. Around 2:30 p.m. Deryk called and said, “Pack a bag. Be ready to fly somewhere tonight.” I packed and headed out to run some errands.

  In the middle of errand running I got the call. The Giants had made an offer we thought was great. I needed a minute to think it over. I told him I’d call him back. There was a lot to think about, weighing two teams and two cities against each other. I liked both organizations. New York was the media center of the world, and I’ve been interested in broadcasting and writing. But St. Louis is a mellow, far less expensive town with none of the quality-of-life problems—aka traffic nightmares and expensive real estate—of the Big Apple. In the end, I asked myself which team I might regret not going to. The answer, for me, was that the Rams just didn’t have the legacy that the New York Giants have—both recent, with two amazing Super Bowl wins, and historical. True, I have no memory of those ’50s teams that had Frank Gifford at running back and assistant coaches named Vince Lombardi and Tom Landry, and I never saw Lawrence Taylor in his prime. But just being able to drop those four names—and there are plenty others—that’s an incredible legacy right there.

  I had a quick chat with my Meridith, and then called Deryk back.

  We had a deal.

  About three minutes after 4 p.m., the official start of free agency, I was on the phone with the Giants about coordinating a flight to the Big Apple that night. We worked it out; I landed in New York City, and the offensive line coach Pat Flaherty—who has been running the line for the entire time Tom Coughlin has been the Giants’ head coach—picked me up. We headed to dinner and had a great time. The Giants’ commitment to excellence and to player development, which has helped the team to two Super Bowl victories since 2007, shined through as he talked about the team and the offensive line. I immediately knew I had made the right choice. Early the next morning, March 12, I headed to the hospital for my physical. In the past, I’ve had two-plus-hour physicals filled with X-rays, MRI exams, and the like. This physical, which was conducted by the same surgeon who fixed my hip impingements back when I was at Carolina, took all of five minutes. When you’re healthy, there’s not much to discuss. From there, we headed to the facility. I met the staff, took a tour, and grabbed some lunch.

  Time to make it official. This was the moment I’d dreamed about ever since I began playing football.

  I’d always seen those photos of the players signing their big contracts and had gotten super jealous. I knew if I stuck to the plan, kept my positive attitude, eventually I’d get to this point. So now it was my turn. I made sure to look in the mirror so my hair looked okay. I headed into the assistant GM’s office, and there on the table was my contract. I signed it.

  There was no photographer, but I didn’t care. It was done. All the stress, worry, anxiety … it was all gone. I had worked through three surgeries within thirteen months. I had devoted myself to rehab, I had gone to Arizona to sweat and work in the desert sun. I had endured the frustration of all the missed playing time, and all the GMs and coaches passing over me when I knew I could do the job.

  Now I could relax. I was a member of the New York Giants, a legendary team with a legendary coach in a great city. I could breathe and look forward to a limitless future.

  Then I exhaled, and I thoug
ht, “Man, that’s kind of funny. Looking forward to an amazing future is exactly what I’ve been doing in order to get here—I guess I’ll just have to keep it up.”

  TOUCHDOWN

  11

  GETTING SEASONED

  Mitch

  My third year through the league was definitely my favorite. It’s had the highest highs and the lowest lows. It began with something rare for me: an article during preseason training camp reporting I’d gotten into a skirmish during practice with a guy trying to make the team. The thing was, after we got into it, about half the guys joined in. What can I say? It was hot, and we were into the last days of practice.

  Coach Pettine chewed me out a bit, along with the rest of the team. He was right to, I guess. As he says: we’re all wearing the same uniform. It’s funny, coaches love it when there’s intensity during practice, but there’s a fine line between intensity and nasty aggression, and sometimes they get crossed and you have to defend yourself. Coaches, understandably, don’t like that. And so Coach made us all run sprints after that altercation, a rare punishment.

  Looking back on the whole chain of events, we had had a lot of fights throughout camp with zero repercussions. I think since we were getting close to the end of the season coach decided to punish us and set the tone that fighting was done with. And guess what? The message was received.

  But maybe the fiery spring camp was a good thing, because the Browns got off to our most successful start in over a decade, going 7 and 4.

  My favorite game was against our arch division rivals, the Cincinnati Bengals. It was a Thursday night game in Cincinnati, which is rough, because it’s a short week, and you really have to cram all the game planning into a short period of time. But, hey, both teams faced the same challenge. We started the game really well. Our linebacker Craig Robertson snagged an Andy Dalton pass and returned it to the Cincinnati 18-yard line. From there, the line controlled things from our first down with four straight running plays. On the fifth, Ben Tate went up the middle from 4 yards out for a touchdown. Of course, once you establish the ability to ground and pound, passing generally becomes that much easier. We got out to a nice lead and controlled the whole game. It was a really cool feeling. Toward the end of the game, most of the Bengals’ fans had filtered out while our fans remained, and they were cheering louder for the out-of-town team. It was huge: national TV and on the road. It was definitely the highlight of my tenure with the Browns, and it catapulted us to 6–4 at the time. Good enough for a first-place tie with the Steelers.